by Janette Oke
“I’ll git the team,” Clark was saying.
“But . . . but yer supper,” put in Marty. “Yer—”
“It’ll wait,” answered Clark, and his eyes asked Marty to understand.
She did understand. It was not for the small bird that Clark would take the trip to town. It was for the child whose heart was breaking.
“I’m sorry . . . sorry to make ya the extry work,” Clark murmured. “Don’t fuss none. I’ll help myself when I git back.”
It wasn’t the work that concerned Marty. It was Clark. He needed supper. He needed the rest. And yet—
Once again the door banged opened and four-year-old Dack bustled into the kitchen, his red hair bright and standing in disarray as usual. He was the youngest member of Clare’s household and a favorite with everyone. His chubby, freckled face crinkled into a big grin as he spied his grandfather shrugging into the jacket he had removed just a short time before.
Dack’s round little arms wrapped around the legs of the tall man, and he grinned impishly up at him. One small fist began pounding on Clark’s leg.
“Knock, knock!” he cried playfully. “Knock, knock on wood.”
Clark could not resist the small boy. He reached down and lifted him up into his arms.
“Who’s knockin’ on my wood?” With mock seriousness he asked the question expected of him in their little game.
“It’s me. It’s Dack,” he announced gleefully.
“Dack who?” his grandfather responded next, on cue.
The little boy paused a moment to get the words right. “Dack be nimble, Dack be quick, Dack . . . Dack jumped over the candlestick!” he finished in a triumphant shout.
They both laughed together as Dack’s pudgy arms squeezed Clark’s neck.
“And what is Dack doin’ at my house?” inquired Clark.
Dack’s eyes immediately turned serious. He squirmed to get down.
“Mama sent me,” he said. “I’m ’posta git Amy an’ Dan fer supper.”
Clark looked at the two, who were still peering into Belinda’s basket.
“You’d better all git,” he said. “Iffen yer pa has to come fetch the three of ya, he might not be too happy.”
The three “got”—Amy Jo, taking the hand of her little brother after one last glance at her grandpa in case she might be invited to go along.
Clark turned back to Belinda. “I’ll be ready in a minute,” he informed her. “Better grab a coat.” Then he was gone.
With a sigh, Marty turned to remove the biscuits from the oven. They were crispy brown and piping hot, just the way Clark loved them. But Clark wouldn’t be eating them the way he liked them. By the time he returned, the biscuits would be cold.
Just as Marty finished taking the biscuits from the pan, Belinda gave a little cry. Marty whirled to see what new calamity had befallen.
“I think it’s already dead,” she said in a sobbing whisper. “Look! It’s gittin’ stiff.”
Marty looked. Belinda was right. The sparrow was already past the help of even Dr. Luke.
Belinda burst into fresh tears, and Marty put her arms around her to comfort her.
“I need to catch yer pa before he hooks up the team,” she murmured, more to herself than to the weeping girl, but grief-stricken Belinda nodded her head.
Marty took the nod as consent and hurried to the barn for Clark, sighing deeply as she walked. She was glad Clark was spared the trip to town. She was glad the injured little bird was no longer in pain. But she was sorry that Belinda had to suffer so deeply every time some little creature suffered. It was good and noble for her daughter to be compassionate—but Belinda really took it too far. In many ways she was so much like her big brother Luke. So much! Yet she was even more tenderhearted than Luke. Life is going to be so painful for Belinda, Marty lamented. How many hurts—deep hurts—lay down the road for their youngest child? She trembled at the thought.
Clark was just leading the first horse from the stall.
“It’s too late,” said Marty. “The bird’s already dead. Ya can have yer supper now.”
Concern rather than the relief one could have expected was in Clark’s face.
“She’ll git over it,” Marty assured him. “She’ll cry for a while. Then she’ll have her little buryin’ and put the sparrow to rest in the garden with her other little creatures. By tomorra she’ll be herself again.”
They both knew the truth of it. Belinda would feel the pain of the loss for a time, but she would soon bounce back. They had seen it happen before. While Marty returned to the house, Clark took King back to his stall, the horse no doubt relieved that his supper would not be delayed either.
As Clark removed the harness, hung it on the peg and started for the house, he realized just how hungry and tired he was. But his walk was even and steady with hardly the trace of a limp. Again, Clark had a moment of thankfulness for the wooden limb that functioned almost as well as his own leg had. It was good to have his hands free. It was good to be able to throw aside his crutch. But he did get weary and sore. Right now the whole side of his body protested against the pressure of the artificial limb against the stub of leg remaining. He was anxious to take it off and stand it in a corner for the night.
But he wouldn’t—not for a while. He still had chores to do. He wouldn’t remove it even when the chores were all done. He knew Marty watched him carefully for signs of pain or weariness. To remove the leg before bedtime would tell Marty he was in pain. Marty worried enough about his well-being without adding this to her concern. He’d rest the leg a bit while he had his supper. By the time he went to chore, perhaps it would be feeling better.
Clark sure was glad he would not have to make the long trip into town—with a sparrow. He smiled slightly as he thought of the many times he had wished he could rid the whole world of sparrows. Such pesky little nuisances they were, even when Belinda wasn’t fussing over one! And yet . . . they were God’s creatures, too, and Clark would have cheerfully aided Belinda in the fight to save one little life.
Two
Dr. Luke
Just as Clark and Marty predicted, Belinda grieved over the dead sparrow, carefully made and lined a small box for it to be buried in, called on Amy Jo and the three boys to join her in the little ceremony after supper, and wept as the small bird joined a number of other small graves at the far end of the garden. Then it was over and the girl’s thoughts returned to childhood play. The Saturday evening hours ended with a boisterous game of tag, in which all five children joined.
Marty drew a sigh of relief as she threw the dishwater on her rosebush by the door. Belinda was usually a happy, well-adjusted child. If only she did not grieve so when she found little creatures dead or dying, Marty lamented for the umpteenth time. She did hope Belinda eventually would learn to face the realities of life with a bit less emotional turmoil. No one approved of suffering. But some pain was inevitable.
Clark came toward the house, the pail he carried brimming with white foaming milk.
“She looks fine now,” he stated, nodding his head slightly in Belinda’s direction with a look of relief.
“Oh, she usually comes out of it fairly soon—but, my, what a storm of tears in the meantime,” responded Marty as they entered the house together.
“Guess I’d rather have her on the tender side than calloused an’ uncarin’,” Clark commented, but Marty shook her head and sighed. More than once she had found Belinda’s tender heart a very difficult characteristic with which to deal.
“She’ll grow out of it as she gets older,” Clark comforted. “Jest hope she doesn’t go off to the other extreme.”
Marty could not imagine Belinda changing that much. “Don’t think there be much danger of thet,” she assured her husband.
“Jest pray all thet compassion gits put to proper use like,” said Clark. “God must have Him a special place fer someone like our Belinda.”
Marty thought about Clark’s comment as she poured the milk through
the strainer and set out the container for the cream. Clark began to turn the handle of the separator, and Marty stood and listened to the gentle hum. Soon Clark had reached the proper speed and turned the spigot to let the white milk pour into the whirling bowl of the machine. From the left-hand spout, the milk began to stream, and soon a smaller, richer cascade of cream descended from the right spout to splatter into the cream crock.
“She’s so much like Luke,” ventured Marty, picking up the conversation where they had left it minutes before.
Clark nodded. “Or Arnie,” he said. “Arnie’s ’bout as tender as a man could be.”
It was Marty’s turn to nod. Arnie was tender. He could not bear to see anyone or anything in pain. But Arnie would not openly weep as Belinda did. He would just withdraw, his eyes mirroring his troubled soul whenever he ran across nature’s sorrows.
“Poor Arnie,” said Marty. “Maybe it’s easier for Belinda. At least she can cry when she’s hurtin’. The boys, ’specially Arnie, always tried not to cry.”
“Funny where they got thet idea,” returned Clark. “I never told ’em thet boys aren’t to cry.”
“Nor me. Guess they pick up some of those things at school. Kids can be heartless with one another.”
The milk and cream continued to stream from the separator spouts.
“Funny!” mused Marty. “They are so much alike—an’ yet different.”
“Like how?”
“Well, Luke is carin’ and compassionate, all right, but he . . . he don’t hide from pain none. He gits in there an’ fights it. He sure enough had the right makin’s fer a doctor. Arnie, now—he coulda never been a doctor. Couldn’t stand even to be around pain. He’d pull away, I’m a thinkin’.”
Clark appeared to be considering Marty’s comment. “I think yer right,” he finally said somberly. “Arnie woulda had a hard time bein’ a doctor all right. He’s much better at jest bein’ a pa.”
Marty smiled. Arnie was truly a good pa. They had wondered at first if he might spoil his youngsters, but Arnie seemed to know better than that. Even though it was hard for him, he did discipline and did it consistently.
It was a good thing Arnie took care of the disciplining. He had three very rambunctious young sons who needed the strong and steady influence of a father. Their mother, tiny Anne, was hard pressed to keep up with them. Marty smiled as she thought of the trio. Silas was Amy Jo’s age. The two of them had been born only four days apart and, having celebrated their tenth birthday, were not quite a year younger than Belinda.
The next son was John. He was now seven and in second grade already. Abe, the youngest, was still home but chafing to be off to school like his big brothers. Anne had all she could do to keep the young boy busy. He insisted that he learn to read so he wouldn’t be left out when his older brothers had their noses buried in books. Anne had felt that teaching was the duty of the schoolmarm, but with Abe continually pestering her, she finally gave in and taught the small boy his letters. Now the older boys were bringing home storybooks so young Abe could read, as well.
Marty’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of running feet. David, Clare’s third child, burst into the back entry, his eyes shining, his cheeks flushed from running.
“Hide me. Hide me, Gramma!” he cried excitedly.
“Whoa,” said Clark, who had just finished the separating. “Thought the rule was no hidin’ in the house.”
David stopped short and dropped his eyes to the floor. He knew the rule. He stood quietly for a moment and then looked up, an irrepressible sparkle in his teasing eyes. “Then hide me outside—will ya, Grandpa?”
Clark laughed. “Now, where would I hide ya?” he asked the small boy.
“I dunno. But you have lots of good ideas. ’Member?”
It had been a while since the children had talked Clark into joining them in their game.
“Please,” coaxed Davey.
Clark looked at Marty and laughed again. She knew he had been hoping to head for his favorite chair, prop up his leg, and bury his face in a favorite book. Instead, he took Davey by the hand.
“Who’s ’it’?” he asked.
“Dan. An’ he really looks hard,” warned Davey in a theatrical whisper.
“Has anyone tried the rhubarb patch?” Clark asked him, matching his tone and volume.
Davey shook his head, his eyes shining with glee as he acknowledged the potential of the large rhubarb leaves.
“Then how ’bout we try it?” asked Clark as the two left the house.
Marty finished up her evening duties and set out the cream and milk to cool.
She gave one last wipe to the table and had scarcely turned around when she heard the dog barking. They had not been expecting company. It was getting on toward dark. Who’s coming at this hour? she wondered as she peered out the window.
Through the evening gloom, she immediately recognized the horse at the hitching rail. Luke’s black doctor’s bag hung from the horn of the saddle. The noise in the yard quickly changed from cries of “One, two, three,” or “Home free!” to shouts of “Uncle Luke!” Marty went to the door to add her welcome.
Belinda had already claimed Luke’s attention, pouring out her sad story about the sparrow and its untimely death. Luke hunched down in front of her to listen attentively.
“An’ if you woulda been here, it might not have died,” Belinda finished, just a hint of reproach in her voice.
Luke did not say, as he could have, that he had more important things to be doing. He did not even excuse himself with the fact that he had no way of knowing about the bird. Instead, he laid a gentle hand on Belinda’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”
From the expression on her big brother’s face, Belinda would know he meant it. Though still a child, she also knew Luke should not have to feel guilty that he wasn’t there when he was needed.
Looking as though she might begin to cry once more, she swallowed her tears and reached out for Luke’s hand.
“It’s okay,” she comforted. “Ya didn’t know. It was hurt pretty bad an’ maybe . . .” She let the sentence remain unfinished and brushed at her wet eyes.
“What brings ya out this way?” asked Clark as Marty joined them at the front gate.
“Baby Graham just arrived,” announced Luke with a grin.
“Oh!” exclaimed Marty, her eyes shining. “Lou’s? What is it?”
“Another girl.”
“My land! That makes ’im five girls now.” Marty laughed. “Ma was a hopin’ fer a boy this time. Her with all those granddaughters and us with all the grandsons! Seems it should even out like.”
“Well, when I left, Ma Graham was busy fussing over that girl like it was the only thing she ever wanted,” said Luke. “If she was disappointed, I sure didn’t see it.”
“’Course!” responded Marty. “’Course she would. Jest like I fuss over each new grandson. I am sure glad I’ve got Amy Jo close by, though.”
Just then Kate’s voice drifted over the farmyard. “Amy Jo, bring the boys in now. It’s time ya be gittin’ ready for bed.”
Marty saw the disappointed looks on four small faces, but they moved to obey their mother.
Luke reached out a hand to rumple the hair of young Dack as he passed.
“We’ll see you tomorrow. Remember. You are all coming for dinner after church.”
The frown turned to a grin, and young Dack skipped ahead to join his older brothers and sister.
“Can ya stop in fer coffee?” asked Marty of their youngest son.
Luke grinned. “Thought you’d never ask,” he quipped, flipping the reins of his horse over the hitching rail. “It’s been a long day. I thought that baby was never going to make an appearance. Guess she just wanted to keep us all in suspense as long as she could.”
Marty led the way back in and placed the coffeepot on the stove. When she had cut some slices of pumpkin bread and placed them on the table, Luke didn’t e
ven wait for the coffee but reached out to help himself.
“You ought to teach Abbie how to make this,” he said around the mouthful.
Marty smiled, thinking of the wife Luke had brought back with him from the East, where he had trained as a doctor. Abbie was a dear girl with a heart as big as Luke’s, but she had not had the advantage of knowing how to make good use of garden produce. She had been raised in a city, where a garden other than flowers was unfamiliar. But she was trying. She had her own vegetable garden now. She loved to watch things grow and was learning how to use all its produce.
“She’s welcome to the recipe,” responded Marty with a pat on Luke’s shoulder as she went for the coffee. A secret smile creased her face as she remembered her own early culinary efforts as Clark’s new wife.
Luke pulled a small book from his pocket and began to pencil in an entry. “That’s thirty-seven,” he said.
“Thirty-seven what?” Belinda piped up from her perch on the woodbox.
“Thirty-seven babies. Thirty-seven that I have delivered since becoming a doctor.”
“Thet’s quite a number,” remarked Marty.
“It’s been almost seven years already. Seven years! Just think of it.”
“It’s hard to believe,” said Clark. “Seems ya jest got yerself back.”
“Deliverin’ babies must be ’bout the nicest part of yer work,” Marty commented as she poured the coffee.
“It’s exciting, all right—but I like the rest of it, too. I think I’d soon get weary of just waiting on little ones to decide it’s the right time.”
“Do you like makin’ stitches?” asked Belinda. Her question reminded Marty that the young girl should be getting ready for bed.
“Belinda, ya hurry an’ wash fer bed now. It’s already past yer bedtime,” she chided mildly.
Belinda no doubt wished she had kept quiet—maybe her mother wouldn’t have noticed her. She looked as if she was about to argue when she caught her father’s eye. It told her plainly that she was not to question her mother. Reluctantly she rose to do as she was bidden.
