Brown Sunshine of Sawdust Valley by Marguerite Henry, Bonnie Shields Page A

the way I burst out of school at the 3:30 bell.
    For Mom’s sake, the first thing I’ll teach him is to pull a cart so she can deliver her homemade jams and jellies. And by the time he’s three, he’ll be our do-it-all horse. Wheeee! Tomorrow I’ll be
    Molly Moore
    Horse owner.
    P.S. Tomorrow night I’ll have LOTS to tell.

CHAPTER 3
HORSE SALE—LOWER BARN
    I t was the perfect autumn day in middle Tennessee—trees showing their colors, squirrels scampering off, their cheeks bulging with hickory nuts and persimmons. And along the dry roadsides ragweed flowers tossing their pollen to the wind.
    Molly’s father whipped out his handkerchief to cover a steam-whistle sneeze. In spite of his hay fever, he was in high spirits. A tall-built man, his red thatch of hair touched the roof of the pickup. He and Molly were barreling along the highway to Williamsport, leaving home and Sawdust Valley far behind.
    â€œFor six years I’ve wanted this day to happen,”he said. “But all good things take time.”
    Molly wanted to squeeze her father’s hand, but one was holding the wheel and the other clutched a wet handkerchief.
    â€œWill you care,” he asked, “whether the animal we can afford is a gelding or a mare?”
    â€œNot even if he’s a stallion, Pops,” Molly said.
    Her father’s laughter boomed through the truck. “You’re safe there, Punkin, we could never afford a stallion.”
    For the rest of the ride, they were lost in their own dreams. Molly saw herself riding her dashing young horse as they led a grand parade, while Pops pictured himself handing over the lead rope of a beautiful yearling to Molly on her tenth birthday.

    By the time they found a parking space and Molly had stumbled over tree roots and squawking chickens, the visiting auctioneer had taken his place opposite a tier of homemade bleachers. They were filled to the loft with city folk from Nashville and who knows where else. Sitting alongside were farmers, merchants, and folks from roundabout.
    The auctioneer lifted his bowler hat with a flourish and said, “Top o’ the mornin’, ladies and gentlemen.”
    Molly looked around. There was only one lady in the audience. She and Molly exchanged smiles.
    The auctioneer cupped one hand about his mouth.
    â€œBring in that strapping big colt,” he said in a whisper everyone could hear. From around the side of the barn, a tall boy stepped into the ring leading a frisky colt with a #1 slapped on his rump.As the boy turned the dancing colt to face the audience, Molly noticed that his whiskers were beaded white as if he’d just been nursing. She caught her breath at the golden-red newness of him.
    â€œNow this feller’s already been haltered, as you horse folk can tell; meet Numero Uno.”
    Molly leaned forward eagerly. It was all she could do to remain in her seat.
    â€œIf ’tweren’t due to problems of will-probating, the owners’d never sell a strapping fellow like this’un.”
    Molly nudged Pops. “The colt looked right at me. At me! ”

    â€œThis big little feller is outen a saddlebred mare and a Morgan sire. Who’ll start the bidding? At fifty dollars! Make it fifty!”
    Molly nudged her father again. “Can we afford him?”
    â€œOnly one way to find out. Ten dollars!” he offered.
    The auctioneer’s voice sneered. “Ten dollars?” he repeated, curling his lips. Suddenly his mood changed. His pace quickened, words slurred. “Who’ll make it fifty? Fifty . . . fifty?”
    â€œTwenty-five dollars,” piped a little old sunburned man.
    â€œPops, bid!”
    â€œTwenty-five, I’m bid. Twenty-five, I’m bid. Who’ll make it fifty?”
    â€œForty!” The woman’s voice.
    Pops let out one of his ragweed sneezes. The auctioneer smiled his approval, accepting the sneeze as a fifty-dollar