Caleb's Story by Patricia MacLachlan Page A

said Anna.
    â€œI never got to write letters,” complained Cassie.
    Papa smiled at her.
    â€œNo, you came much later.”
    â€œYou came during an early snowstorm,” I told Cassie, “with wind and snow and cold. I remember.”
    â€œWe all remember!” said Anna, laughing.
    â€œDid I come with letters?” asked Cassie.
    â€œNo,” said Anna. “But you can write letters to me in town.”
    â€œI will,” said Cassie, excited. “I will write you a hundred plus seven letters!”
    â€œHere, Caleb,” said Anna. She handed me some books.
    â€œWhat is this?” I asked.
    â€œMy journals,” said Anna. “And new ones. It is your job now.”
    â€œMine?! I’m not a writer like you, Anna,” I said.
    â€œYou’ll figure it out, Caleb. One page at a time.”
    â€œI can’t!”
    â€œEveryone’s not a writer, Caleb,” said Anna. “But everyone can write.”
    Sarah looked out of the kitchen window.
    â€œWhat is it, Sarah?” asked Papa.
    â€œI thought I saw something. Someone, maybe. Over there.”
    Papa looked out, too.
    â€œI don’t see anyone. But I do see the beginnings of snow. And the wind is picking up. Let’s go!”
    â€œSnow!” said Cassie. “And wind! Will someone be born?”
    Sarah and Papa laughed.
    â€œNot here,” Sarah said. “Not tonight.”
    We picked up Anna’s suitcase and packages and went out the door.
    â€œShe saw the man,” whispered Cassie.
    â€œCome on, Cass. There’s no man,” I said.
    I took Cassie’s hand and we went out where snow was coming down. Sarah looked worried.
    â€œAnna? I want you to be careful. There’s so much sickness.”
    â€œI know you worry about the influenza,” said Anna.
    â€œSo many are sick,” said Sarah, putting her arm around Anna. “So many have died. And you see the worst of it.”
    â€œI love working with Sam,” said Anna. “You told me once that it is important to do what you love.”
    â€œI said that, did I?” said Sarah.
    â€œYou did,” said Anna.
    â€œYou did,” said Cassie, making Sarah laugh.
    The snow was falling harder now, so that we couldn’t see the clouds anymore.
    â€œIt’s so early,” said Sarah, pulling her shawl around her shoulders. “It shouldn’t be snowing!”
    â€œThere are no rules for winter, Sarah,” teased Papa. “This is the prairie, remember? Sometimes winter comes early. If the snow is heavy, I’ll stay in town with Jess.”
    Sarah kissed Papa and Anna, and they climbed up in the wagon. Papa flicked the reins over Bess’s back, and the wagon began to move off. Snow began to cover the ground.
    â€œAnna!” I called suddenly.
    Anna turned. I ran after the wagon.
    â€œI’ll write about winter!” I shouted.
    Anna waved.
    I stood, watching Papa’s wagon wheels leave small tracks on the wet road. All around me was the soft surprising sound of snow falling. In the quiet, the prairie seemed larger than ever.
    Â 
    I’ll write about winter.
    And if I’m lucky, maybe something else will happen.

2
    T hat afternoon something happened. Something that gave me more than schoolwork and chores and weather to write about.
    Snow fell heavier during the morning, and I stayed home from school. It was hard to get home from school when there were storms. Once we had to stay all night in our schoolroom; sleeping close to the woodstove in our coats and hats and mittens; making our lunches last through the night; listening to the wind moaning around the corners of the school; listening to Mr. Willet, our teacher, snore.
    When the wind grew stronger, Sarah sent me out to bring in all the animals—sheep from the west meadow, the cattle, and two of the horses. Cassie helped me herd the sheep. The wind blew Cassie’s long hair loose from under her hat.
    â€œDo