by Lois Lenski
“We belong to build us a fence,” said Birdie. “We belong to fence in the grove and all the fields, Pa.”
“You mighty right, gal,” said Pa.
It was after the first rails had been split and laid along the outside edge of the strawberry field that Shoestring came along.
“How you like our new fence?” asked Birdie.
“Fence? What fence?”
Birdie pointed to the rails.
“What you fencin’ for?” growled Shoestring.
“What we fencin’ for? To keep the Slater hosses and cows out, that’s what for!” Birdie’s voice rose in shrill anger. “See what that mean little ole cowhorse o’ yours done done? See whar he laid down in the middle of our strawberry field and wallered?”
Shoestring began to grin.
“What’s funny?” demanded the girl.
“Wal—the bed was so sorry-lookin’,” explained Shoestring, “nothin’ wouldn’t make there, the strawberry plants was all dried up to nothin’—even my ole cowhorse knowed it, so he jest thought it was a good place to waller in!”
Birdie glared.
“Think you’re funny, don’t you?”
“No,” said Shoestring. His voice was serious. “I mean it. Strawberries won’t never make there.
“Not less’n the neighbors keep their critters out,” answered Birdie. “That’s why we’re fixin’ to put up a fence. We’re fencin’ every acre of ground we own, every inch of field and woods and pasture. See them rails? They’re gonna be a fence. Soon as Pa and Buzz git more split, there’s gonna be more fence. Hear?”
“Yes,” said the boy. When he spoke again, it was in a low, quiet voice. “I wisht you wouldn’t fence. If there’s ary thing my Pa hates, hit’s a fence.” He shook his head, frowning. “Ain’t nothin’ riles Pa more’n a fence.”
Birdie stared at him. “Your Pa’s got nary thing to do with it.”
“Ain’t he?” Shoestring looked at her earnestly. “I want to tell you somethin’. Do your Pa fence his fields in, my Pa will make trouble for him. I jest want you to know, that’s all.”
“What kind o’ trouble?” asked Birdie in a scared voice.
“Can’t never tell when it’s Pa,” Shoestring said slowly. “Pa’s mean, and when he’s drunk, you can’t never tell what he’ll do.”
“He gits … drunk?” asked Birdie.
“Yes.”
The boy turned and walked away. Birdie stared after him.
CHAPTER III
School
“IS IT A FUR piece?” asked Dovey.
“Not so powerful fur,” answered Birdie. She grasped Dovey’s hand tightly and they hurried along. Dan came behind with the dinner bucket. Their path wound in and out through the scrub, around palmetto clumps, over trunks of fallen trees, under dwarf pines and oaks. The sand was hard and hot under their feet, the sun still hotter on their heads.
They came to the flatwoods at last, where their feet made a soft patter on the pine-needle path. Innumerable tall straight trunks of giant pines rose up on all sides to join their tops in a green roof overhead. The sun made a pattern of light and shadow on the stubbly grass beneath. Here and there were cows grazing, or lying down, chewing their cud.
“Is it a fur piece?” asked Dovey again. “My legs is tired.”
“We’re most there now,” said Birdie. “I hear young uns yellin’.” In a moment, she added, “See! Thar ’tis!”
The schoolhouse was an old one, built of logs, with a stick-and-mud chimney at the end. On one side was the boys’ baseball field. On the other, a rope swing dangled from a horizontal branch of a large live oak tree, hung with Spanish moss.
They came up slowly. A group of children playing by the door, stopped suddenly and looked.
“Let’s go home,” said Dovey, starting to cry.
“No,” said Birdie. “We come to school and we’re fixin’ to stay.” Dragging Dovey behind her, she approached the group. “Howdy!” she said.
They stared at her and she stared at them. One girl turned and spoke to the others. They all laughed.
“Howdy!” said Birdie again.
“You Yankees?” The girl, who had pale loose hair falling in her eyes, put the question. The other children crowded close behind her, their eyes cold with suspicion.
“Shucks, no!” answered Birdie with a laugh. “We’re shore ’nough Crackers! We was born in Marion County. We’re jest the same as you-all.” She put her arm round Dovey’s shoulder. Dan said nothing.
“We don’t want no Yankees in our school,” said the girl.
Birdie looked at her. “I done tole you we ain’t Yankees.”
The girl looked at the others. “We heard tell ’at Yankees, with heaps of high-flyin’ notions, was livin’ in the ole Roddenberry house. They come from up north somewheres.”
“We come from Marion County, Florida—that’s up north,” said Birdie patiently. “We live in the Roddenberry house, but we ain’t Yankees.”
The girl seemed satisfied. “My name’s Olema Dorsey. What’s your’n?”
Birdie told her Dovey’s and Dan’s names and her own.
Olema began to be friendly. She pointed out the school children by name—Mary Jim Dorsey, Lank Tatum, Rofelia Marsh, Latrelle Tatum, Coy and Loy—the Marsh twins, the Hardens—Shad, Billie Sue and Roxie May—Kossie and Kessie Cook and others. They stood awkwardly and stared at the newcomers.
“What? No Slaters?” asked Birdie.
The minute she said it, she knew she had made a mistake. A frown went round the circle of child faces.
“Don’t Essie and Zephy come to school?” she asked.
“Course not,” said Rofelia Marsh. “They’re little bitty screamin’ young uns.”
“How ’bout Shoestring, then?”
Rofelia Marsh looked at Olema Dorsey. “We don’t mess up with no Slaters,” she said.
What did this mean? Birdie was no wiser than before.
“Let’s play ball,” called Lank Tatum. The boys ran over to their side and Dan followed them.
“Want a drink?” asked Olema.
“Yes,” said Birdie.
“Shore do,” said Dovey.
They went to the pump. Olema pumped the water and her sister, Mary Jim, held the gourd. The children watched as Birdie and Dovey drank.
“Tastes of sulphur, don’t hit?” said Birdie.
Nobody answered.
“I wore my new calico dress,” said Dovey.
As soon as she said it, Birdie wished she hadn’t.
“Think you’re biggety, don’t you?” spoke up Billie Sue Harden.
Birdie looked around and saw that most of the girls’ dresses were made from flour sacks. “No,” she said quickly, “our dresses are calico, but not new. They been washed heaps o’ times. See how faded they air?” They must not appear to be better than any of the others.
Billie Sue smiled. That made it all right. “Want to swing?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Birdie. ‘
“Shore do,” said Dovey.
They walked over to the live oak tree.
“Your turn first,” said Olema Dorsey.
Birdie swung and let Olema push her. It was nice to be a new girl in a new school and have the first turn. Next it was Dovey’s turn, but while she was swinging, the bell rang. Birdie looked and saw a small, thin-looking man standing at the schoolhouse door.
“Is that … is he …” she began.
“That’s Mr. Pearce, our teacher,” said Rofelia. “He always makes us a talk of a mornin’.”
The children crowded in, stamping their bare feet on the floor to shake the sand off. Olema took Birdie and Dovey to Mr. Pearce and told him their names. He gave them seats in the side row. It was nice to be a new girl in a new school and sit in the side row by the open window. Birdie was happy. She knew she would soon like all the girls and they would like her.
School opened with a song.
Mr. Pearce stood in front with his back to the fireplace
. A bamboo pole leaned in one corner, and a pile of fatwood, to burn on cold days, filled another. A small blackboard was on the rear wall. Mr. Pearce’s voice was shrill, and all the children chimed in. When the song was over, Mr. Pearce made a talk and asked the children to be studious and to work hard to get an education.
The morning went by very fast. Dovey was put with the Marsh twins in the First Reader. Birdie was in the Fourth Grade with Olema Dorsey and Rofelia Marsh. Lank Tatum and Shad Harden were in the Fifth. Birdie wondered why the Slater boy was not there.
During recess they all played together as if they were old friends. At noon, Birdie and Dovey and Dan sat together under the live oak tree and ate their dinner. Other family groups were scattered here and there. Birdie opened the dinner bucket. It contained a bottle of cane syrup, pieces of fried rabbit and cooked hominy grits. They ate the grits with a spoon. They poured syrup from the bottle into the cover of the bucket and dipped their biscuits in it.
After they had eaten, the boys ran off to a bayhead a short distance away. A clump of trees grew in a low swampy place, near a pond. They tied a grapevine swing to the top of a tree, and hung onto it, to swing out over the pond. When the bell rang, they came back to their seats in the schoolhouse.
Lessons had already begun and Birdie was standing at the blackboard doing arithmetic when suddenly the outer door opened, and two large over-grown boys stumbled in. Mr. Pearce looked up at them over his glasses, but said nothing. The boys swaggered to their seats in the back of the room.
Birdie stared at them. The younger one reminded her of Jefferson Davis Slater.
When the teacher finished the lesson with the First Grade, he said severely: “Gus and Joe Slater, you were absent this morning. And tardy this evening. Have you a good excuse?”
“Yep!” said Gus. “We been rabbit-huntin’.”
“Yep!” said Joe. “We been quail-trappin’.”
“Seen a bunch o’ wild turkeys,” added Gus.
“Got too close and scared ’em away!” added Joe.
The children began to laugh.
“That will do!” said Mr. Pearce sternly. “Get out your books.”
The Slater boys slammed their books on their desks. They shoved their feet out across the aisle.
Birdie went on with her arithmetic. So they were Slaters. They must be Shoestring’s older brothers. She wondered why he was not in school. Maybe he was out rabbit-hunting too.
Mr. Pearce started the Third Grade spelling class. When little Latrelle Tatum went through the aisle to take her place on the recitation bench, she stumbled over Gus Slater’s foot and fell.
Birdie ran, picked her up and dried her tears. She glared at the Slater boys. Did they come to school only to pester little children and make trouble?
“Have you no consideration even for a child?” Mr. Pearce’s voice was soft with reproach.
“Naw!” said Gus. “She don’t belong to come round this way.”
“We don’t have to come to school, nohow,” said Joe.
“Pa says he needs us to home,” Gus went on.
“To hunt rabbits? To trap quail?” Mr. Pearce’s voice was soft with sarcasm.
“Pa said we don’t need to git book-larnin’,” boasted Joe.
“Do you come to school,” said Mr. Pearce gently, “you must study your books.”
Gus and Joe threw their books on the floor in active defiance. “Jest try and make us!” they answered with a laugh.
Mr. Pearce picked up the bamboo rod and bravely walked to the back of the room. The eyes of all the children followed him. Some of the little girls began to cry. The room grew tense. Everybody knew something was going to happen.
Birdie slipped over into Dovey’s seat and put her arm around her. She stared at the Slater boys, half-afraid and yet half-eager to see what they would do. She kept remembering they were Shoestring’s brothers.
“You’ll do as I say!” Mr. Pearce’s voice was sharp, but it trembled. He raised the bamboo stick in the air.
The next moment Gus and Joe were on their feet, and nobody knew what was happening. The bamboo stick fell to the floor with a clatter, books and slates went flying through the air. The arms and legs of the two boys and the teacher became so mixed up, it was impossible to tell which was which. They rolled and tumbled over each other, and over seats, desks and floor.
Shad Harden, who was twelve, took charge. Olema Dorsey and Rofelia Marsh were sobbing.
“Run outen here, everybody!” he called. He turned to Birdie. “Git the young uns out!”
With his help, she led the frightened, crying children out of the building. They huddled in a group under the live oak tree. They listened to the shouting and scuffling through the open door.
“Will they hurt Teacher?” the children asked.
“I hope not,” said Birdie. “Teacher’s a good fighter, too.”
“They been studyin’ to fight him for a long time,” said Olema Dorsey.
“Now they done done it,” said Rofelia Marsh, still sobbing in her handkerchief.
“Two agin one ain’t fair.” It was Lank Tatum who spoke.
“Let’s go help Teacher,” said Shad Harden.
Lank and Shad and several other boys ventured back in at the schoolhouse door. But they were too late. The fight was over. The Slater boys had finished their job. They came out the door and started off through the woods. They did not look at the children or speak to them. They had the air of being through with school forever.
Birdie shook her fist at them. She turned to the other girls. “I shore hope they never come back,” she said.
“Shore do,” said Olema and Rofelia.
They all shook their fists at the Slater boys’ backs.
“We don’t never want them Slaters in our school,” said the children. “We don’t never want to see ’em again.”
From the schoolhouse door, Lank Tatum beckoned to Birdie. Because she was the new girl, he beckoned to her, and not to any of the others.
“Tell the young uns to go on home,” he said. “Tell ’em there won’t be no school tomorrow. Teacher says so.”
“Teacher?” gasped Birdie. “He ain’t dead then?”
“He’s beat up to a jelly,” said Lank. “They shore whopped him good. Shad and me will git him home. We’ll ride him on his horse and hold him so he won’t fall off. Git the kids home first.”
Birdie could just see the limp figure of Mr. Pearce stretched out on the floor. She went back to the children.
“Teacher says there won’t be no school tomorrow,” she announced. She felt sick inside with disappointment as she said it. She liked school. She liked being the new girl in a new school and having everybody be nice to her.
“No school tomorrow!” cried the children. “Goody! Goody!” They crowded round her.
“Is Teacher bad hurt?” asked Olema Dorsey.
“Did they beat the starch out of him?” asked Rofelia Marsh.
“All I know is he can talk,” said Birdie. “He said no school tomorrow. We belong to go home now.”
So they all went home. There was no school on the morrow, nor for many days and weeks thereafter, because the Slater boys had whipped the teacher. The first day of school for Birdie proved to be the last one for a long time.
CHAPTER IV
Hogses
“HOGSES!” SHOUTED PA. “Slater’s hogses!”
Birdie sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. It was the middle of the night, too dark to see anything. She heard the squealing of hogs, the scamper of sharp hoofs, and her father’s voice yelling.
She jumped up and ran through the bedroom. A coal-oil lamp was burning on the dresser and she saw that the other beds were empty. She dashed through the kitchen, picked up a broom and went flying out the back door.
Pa’s nightshirt flapped around his long bare legs, as he galloped over the white sand and waved the grubbing hoe in the air. Buzz had the ax, Ma had the rake, Dixie, Dovey and Dan all had lightwood sticks. They were chasin
g Slater’s hogs. Only little Bunny had kept to his bed, sleeping through the excitement.
Like dark, swift-moving shadows, the hogs ran in circles over the strawberry field. They started in one direction, then turned off in another. They leaped and stumbled and sprang through the air, their long thin noses pointing the way for their skinny, long-legged bodies. The clamor of snorting and squealing was punctuated with the loud whacks and blows of the weapons laid on their backs.
After a while all the hogs were gone but one.
“Go back to bed, you-all!” ordered Pa. “I’m fixin’ to deal with that feller myself!”
They hurried in, cleaned the sand off their feet and went to bed. As Birdie tried to go back to sleep, the grunts and squeals grew fainter and fainter. Then she heard one piercing squeal and a loud thud.
Had Pa killed the hog? Was there one hog less in Florida?
The hogs must have ruined the strawberries, but she forgot the damage in her concern over Slater’s hog. She could not go to sleep until Pa came in. She heard him whispering to Ma and she wished she could hear what they were saying. She hoped he had not killed the hog. It would only make more trouble.
She must find out in the morning.
But when morning came, it was Sunday and nobody mentioned the hogs. They were busy getting ready to go to church. Today was the All-Day Sing and that meant taking dinner. Ma and Dixie worked hard packing the basket lunch. Birdie washed and dressed Dovey and Bunny, the boys fussed in front of the looking-glass, and soon they all climbed into the wagon and drove off. Dovey and Bunny sat on the seat with Ma and Pa. The others sat on slat-backed chairs placed in the wagon bed. They held onto the sides of the wagon as it jolted through the deep sandy ruts.
They were attending the Mt. Lebanon Church for the first time. It stood on a slight rise of ground which hardly deserved to be called a hill. The minute they got out of the wagon, the preacher came up and greeted the Boyer family. Other people came up and told their names. With all the welcoming, the Boyers soon felt quite at home.
The church was a long, boxlike structure, with two doors at the front gable end, and five windows in a row on each side wall. The inside walls and roof were ceiled with tiny narrow boards, varnished a dark brown. The pews were handmade benches with sloping backs. An organ stood in front, near the preacher’s desk.
