uproarious.
Draped in horse harness, Father turned around in that way parents do when they are about to tell you they mean business. But Damon already was scampering up the ladder to the haymow. I thought it prudent to dash over and help Father heft the welter of leather onto the wall pegs. From what I had overheard before we left off Rose and Morrie at the Schrickers', he probably was nearing the limits of his tolerance for one day. His efforts to suggest the Big Ditch to Morrie as a logical site of employment had met polite but undentable resistance. "I find I rather like the solitude of a homestead workday," Morrie said, veteran of several such days. "George keeps coming up with chores for me to do on his mother's place; it's quite remarkable. And should you ever need a hand at anything that is too much for you, Oliver, I have two."
Father was weighing this when Rose burst out:
"Oh, Oliver? I have a favor to ask, the next time you go to town. It's about the dust."
That caused all the Millirons to look over our shoulders, back at the dray's billowing bridal train of dust that every conveyance in Montana dragged after it, seven months of the year. Dust was such a part of our life we had never heard anyone bother to comment on it.
"I take exception to dust," Rose said decisively.
Bewildered, Father cast another look at the chronic brown fogbank we were raising with every turn of the wagon wheels. "I don't quite see what I can do aboutâ"
"In the house, I mean. It would help with the housekeeping ever so much if dust didn't blow in all the time. The next time you're in town, couldn't you bring back some draft excluder?"
"Draft excluâ?" Even though Father liked to read a couple of pages of the dictionary every night for pleasure, it took him a few moments to work that out. "Do you by any chance mean 'weather stripping'?"
"I do, don't I. My poor husband always called it the other." We had not heard the late Mr. Llewellyn mentioned in the last day or two, but here he was again. "The Welsh have such a gift of gab, you know, andâwell, it runs in our blood, too, doesn't it, Morrie."
"Like dye," he vouched, and gave her arm one of those pats.
"Surely it would take you no time at all to tack some whatsit, weather stripping, around the doors and windows," Rose persisted to Father. "As I say, it would do wonders for the housekeeping." He knew he was caught; he couldn't be against wonders of housekeeping. Helpfully, Morrie asked how many windows and doors the house had, and given the number, he announced in a feat of lightning calculation that fifty yards of the stuff ought to dustproof our house.
Whoosh. A
cloud of hay cascaded down into the horse stall nearest Father and me, interrupting my reverie and making Father wince.
"Damon! Get a little of it in the manger, can't you?" Father looked in exasperation at the high-priced alfalfa mixed in with the horse manure on the floor of the stall. I was already on my way to the ladder by the time I heard him telling me, "Go up there and regulate the lunatic, while I water the horses."
"My turn," I informed Damon as I popped up into the haymow. Yielding the pitchfork and the field of battle to me, he flopped into the hay like someone keeling over backward into a swimming hole. He sprawled there, arms out, in sheer exuberance at our incredible luck lately, and I could not help grinning along with him as I carefully pitched hay down through the loft hole into the manger.
"Hah! Can you believe it?" he marveled, still unable to get over it. "Old Eddie, in there with the Holy Willies. You must have knocked him into Sunday with that haymaker."
"Damon, don't."
"Don't what? You play yourself down too much. One-Punch Milliron!" He pantomimed a roundhouse swing of such arc and ferocity it rolled him over in the hay. "I tell you, the look on old Eddie when you popped him. No wonder he raced like such a boob, he was still so surprisedâ"
The silence of the barnyard caught
Draped in horse harness, Father turned around in that way parents do when they are about to tell you they mean business. But Damon already was scampering up the ladder to the haymow. I thought it prudent to dash over and help Father heft the welter of leather onto the wall pegs. From what I had overheard before we left off Rose and Morrie at the Schrickers', he probably was nearing the limits of his tolerance for one day. His efforts to suggest the Big Ditch to Morrie as a logical site of employment had met polite but undentable resistance. "I find I rather like the solitude of a homestead workday," Morrie said, veteran of several such days. "George keeps coming up with chores for me to do on his mother's place; it's quite remarkable. And should you ever need a hand at anything that is too much for you, Oliver, I have two."
Father was weighing this when Rose burst out:
"Oh, Oliver? I have a favor to ask, the next time you go to town. It's about the dust."
That caused all the Millirons to look over our shoulders, back at the dray's billowing bridal train of dust that every conveyance in Montana dragged after it, seven months of the year. Dust was such a part of our life we had never heard anyone bother to comment on it.
"I take exception to dust," Rose said decisively.
Bewildered, Father cast another look at the chronic brown fogbank we were raising with every turn of the wagon wheels. "I don't quite see what I can do aboutâ"
"In the house, I mean. It would help with the housekeeping ever so much if dust didn't blow in all the time. The next time you're in town, couldn't you bring back some draft excluder?"
"Draft excluâ?" Even though Father liked to read a couple of pages of the dictionary every night for pleasure, it took him a few moments to work that out. "Do you by any chance mean 'weather stripping'?"
"I do, don't I. My poor husband always called it the other." We had not heard the late Mr. Llewellyn mentioned in the last day or two, but here he was again. "The Welsh have such a gift of gab, you know, andâwell, it runs in our blood, too, doesn't it, Morrie."
"Like dye," he vouched, and gave her arm one of those pats.
"Surely it would take you no time at all to tack some whatsit, weather stripping, around the doors and windows," Rose persisted to Father. "As I say, it would do wonders for the housekeeping." He knew he was caught; he couldn't be against wonders of housekeeping. Helpfully, Morrie asked how many windows and doors the house had, and given the number, he announced in a feat of lightning calculation that fifty yards of the stuff ought to dustproof our house.
Whoosh. A
cloud of hay cascaded down into the horse stall nearest Father and me, interrupting my reverie and making Father wince.
"Damon! Get a little of it in the manger, can't you?" Father looked in exasperation at the high-priced alfalfa mixed in with the horse manure on the floor of the stall. I was already on my way to the ladder by the time I heard him telling me, "Go up there and regulate the lunatic, while I water the horses."
"My turn," I informed Damon as I popped up into the haymow. Yielding the pitchfork and the field of battle to me, he flopped into the hay like someone keeling over backward into a swimming hole. He sprawled there, arms out, in sheer exuberance at our incredible luck lately, and I could not help grinning along with him as I carefully pitched hay down through the loft hole into the manger.
"Hah! Can you believe it?" he marveled, still unable to get over it. "Old Eddie, in there with the Holy Willies. You must have knocked him into Sunday with that haymaker."
"Damon, don't."
"Don't what? You play yourself down too much. One-Punch Milliron!" He pantomimed a roundhouse swing of such arc and ferocity it rolled him over in the hay. "I tell you, the look on old Eddie when you popped him. No wonder he raced like such a boob, he was still so surprisedâ"
The silence of the barnyard caught
Similar Books
