Caddie Woodlawn by Carol Ryrie Brink

quiet, asking nothing but protection. Theother children played I Spy around the barn and farmyard, their pleasure keenly edged by the nearness of danger. An exciting game became much more exciting when, on coming out of hiding, one felt that he might find himself face to face with a redskin instead of towheaded Maggie or gentle Sam.
    Mrs. Woodlawn was in her element. She loved a gathering of people, and one of her great griefs in Wisconsin was that she saw so few outside her own family. Now she had all the neighbors here, and could herself serve them beans such as none but she, outside of Boston, knew how to bake, and slices of turkey which had their proper due of praise at last. Happy in the necessity of the moment, she did not let her mind dwell on the danger from the Indians.
    Clara worked beside her mother, her thin cheeks red with excitement, her capable hands doing as much as a woman’s. Caddie helped, too, but, after she had broken a dish and spilled applesauce over the kitchen floor, her mother told her that she had better run and play, and Caddie ran. Flinging her arms over her head, she let out an Indian war whoop that set the whole farm in an uproar for a moment. Women screamed. Men ran for guns.
    â€œAw, it’s only Caddie,” said Tom, “letting off steam.”
    â€œPut a clothespin on her mouth,” suggested Warren.
    But Caddie did not need a clothespin now. The men with their guns looked too grim to risk another war whoop on them.
    The day wore slowly on, and nothing unusual happened. The children tired of their games and sat together in the barn, huddled in the hay for warmth, talking together in low voices.
    â€œYou ’member the time the sun got dark, eclipse Father called it, and we were so scared? We thought the world had come to an end, and we fell down on our faces. You ’member?”
    â€œYah. We saw a bear in a tree that day, too. Remember?”
    â€œGolly! Do you think the Indians’ll come tonight?”
    â€œMaybe they will.”
    â€œI don’t dast to go to sleep.”
    Their voices trailed off, lower and lower, almost to whispers.
    The night came, gray and quiet, slipping uneventfully into darkness. The February air had a hint of spring in it. Would the promise of spring ever be fulfilled for them? Or would the Indians come?
    Mr. Woodlawn’s calm voice sounded among the excited people. “I believe that we are safe,” he said. “I trust our Indians.”
    Caddie’s heart felt warm and secure again when she heard him speak. Tom and Robert Ireton went among the people, too, repeating Father’s words. But others were not so easily reassured.
    â€œIt’s well enough for you to talk, Robert Ireton,” cried one of the women who was holding a baby wrapped in her shawl. “If the Indians come, you young men can get away in a hurry. You haven’t any children or stock or goods to hold you back.”
    â€œLady,” said Robert in his rich Irish voice, “if the Indians come, sure, we young men will not be getting away in a hurry. We’ll be here by your sides and fighting to the finish.”
    Caddie heard him say it, and straightened her shoulders like his. She could be as proud of Robert Ireton as she was of Father.
    After dark, sentries were stationed about the farmhouse to keep watch during the night, and the women and children made their beds on the floor of the parlor, after the bedrooms were filled. No one undressed that night, and fires were kept burning in the kitchen and dining room for the men to warm by when they changed their sentry duty. Windows were shuttered and lanterns covered or shaded when carried outside. A deep silence settled over the farm. They did not wish to draw the Indians’ attention by needless noise or light.
    But the night passed as the day had passed and nothing fearful happened. The children awoke stiff and aching and rubbed the sleep out of their eyes, surprised to find