Caddie Woodlawn

by Carol Ryrie Brink

  The next day the circuit rider rode away on his horse. Father set his clock upon the shelf to be mended later, and life went on again as usual. But now the children began to talk about when Uncle Edmund would come, for Uncle Edmund always came with the pigeons in the fall. He made his annual visit when the shooting was at its best, for he was an eager if not a very skillful sportsman.

  Mrs. Woodlawn sighed. “No one can say that I am not a devoted sister,” she said, “but the prospect of a visit from Edmund always fills me with alarm. My house is turned upside down, my children behave like wild things, there is nothing but noise and confusion.”

  “But Ma—” cried Tom.

  “Don’t Ma me, my child,” said Mrs. Woodlawn calmly.

  “But, Mother,” persisted Tom, defending his hero.

  “Uncle Edmund knows the most tricks——”

  “And jokes!” cried Caddie.

  “Remember when he put the hairbrush in Caddie’s bed?” shouted Warren.

  “And the time he put a frog in a covered dish on the supper table, and when Mrs. Conroy lifted the cover——”

  “That is enough, Tom,” said his mother. “We remember Uncle Edmund’s tricks very well, and I’ve no doubt we’ll soon see more of them.”

  But she looked forward to her younger brother’s coming just the same, and when the pigeons came and there was no Uncle Edmund everyone felt surprised and concerned.

  One night when they went to bed the sky was clear and the woods were still. But when they awoke in the crisp autumn morning the air was full of the noise of wings, and flocks of birds flew like clouds across the sun. The passenger pigeons were on their way south. They filled the trees in the woods. They came down in the fields and gardens, feeding on whatever seeds and grains they could find. The last birds kept flying over those which were feeding in front, in order to come at new ground, so that the flock seemed to roll along like a great moving cloud.

  “The pigeons have come!” shouted the little Woodlawns. “The pigeons have come!” Even baby Joe waved his arms and shouted.

  Tom and Warren armed themselves with sticks and went out with the hired men. But for once Caddie stayed indoors. She liked hunting as well as the boys. But this was too easy. This was not hunting—it was a kind of wholesale slaughter. She knew that the Indians and the white men, too, caught the birds in nets and sent them by thousands to the markets. She knew that wherever the beautiful gray birds went, they were harassed and driven away or killed. Something of sadness filled her young heart, as if she knew that they were a doomed race. The pigeons, like the Indians, were fighting a losing battle with the white man.

  But John Woodlawn was not a glutton as some of his neighbors were. He said to Tom and the hired men: “There is not much grain left in the fields now. Drive the birds off and keep them from doing harm as well as you can, but don’t kill more than we can eat. There is moderation in all things.”

  And so that night there was pigeon pie for supper. But on the Woodlawn farm no more birds were killed than could be eaten. After supper Robert Ireton, strumming his banjo out by the barn, sang the song that everybody had on his lips at this time of the year:

  “When I can shoot my rifle clear

  At pigeons in the sky,

  I’ll bid farewell to pork and beans

  And live on pigeon pie”

  The three children, huddled around him on the chilly ground, hummed or sang with him, and all about them in the darkness was the rustle and stir of wings.

  A few days later the passenger pigeons had disappeared as suddenly as they had come. They had taken up their perilous journey toward the South. It was as if they had never passed by—except that the woods were stripped of seeds and acorns and dried berries, and some folks still had cold pigeon pie in their kitchens or dead birds on their truck heaps.

  Then, after the pigeons were all gone, came a letter from Uncle Edmund announcing his arrival on the next steamer. The “Little Steamer,” as everyone called it, came up the Menomonie River once a week as far as Dunnville. Its arrival was a great event, for all the letters from the East, all the news from the great world, most of the visitors and strangers and supplies came up the river on the Little Steamer.

  The Woodlawn children begged to be allowed to go and meet Uncle Edmund.

  “Certainly we can’t take all of you!” said Mrs. Woodlawn calmly. “I shall let Clara and Tom go, because they are the eldest.”

  Tom looked at Caddie and Warren with a superior smile. “Too bad you little children have to stay at home,” he said, “but we can’t take all of you.”

  “All right for you, Tom,” said Caddie, “talking like that!”

  She and Warren withdrew. They crossed the barnyard and climbed to the haymow. Nero went with them to the bottom of the ladder. He was quick to sense trouble of any sort and his tail wagged in mournful sympathy. Caddie and Warren buried themselves in the hay and talked things over. When Father or Mother made a decision, the Woodlawn children accepted it as final. There was very little teasing for favors in a large pioneer family. But not to meet Uncle Edmund was unthinkable.

  “It’s just because they haven’t room for us in the wagon,” said Caddie at last, “but if we walked——”

  “Sure,” said Warren, his face brightening, “and let’s not tell them we’re walking either. Let’s save it for a—a surprise.”

  “Or maybe we could take one of the horses,” suggested Caddie.

  “Pete’s the fastest,” said Warren.

  “Better take Betsy. Pete always runs for the low shed behind the barn and scrapes us off.”

  “Sure,” said Warren, “we’ll take Betsy!”

  When the time came to meet the steamer, Clara and Tom, in their Sunday clothes, climbed into the wagon behind Mr. and Mrs. Woodlawn. Tom was a little sorry for Caddie and Warren, but he couldn’t resist a smirk of satisfaction. Only, strangely enough, Caddie and Warren did not seem as depressed over being left behind as they should have been. They stood beside the wagon, grinning like two Cheshire cats. Hetty and little Minnie stood with them, looking properly wistful. The moment the wagon started Caddie and Warren made a beeline for the barn to get old Betsy and ride across the fields and through the woods.

  Hetty saw them go, and instant realization of what they were going to do flashed across her mind. Here was something important to tell. “Father! Mother!” she shouted, running down the lane behind the wagon. “Stop! Stop! Father! Mother!” But her voice was lost in the rattle of wheels, and in a cloud of dust the wagon disappeared. Across the field in the other direction flew Betsy, the black mare, with only a rope and halter, and Caddie and Warren clinging like monkeys to her bare back.

  Dunnville consisted of the schoolhouse which the children attended in winter and summer, a few log cabins, a store, and two taverns, one on either side of the river where the Little Steamer docked and turned around. As the Little Steamer came into sight, Mr. and Mrs. Woodlawn, Clara and Tom were standing on the dock ready with handkerchiefs to wave at sight of Uncle Edmund. Yes, Uncle Edmund was there. His round face was creased with smiles. His round eyes, behind his spectacles, twinkled with delight.

  As soon as his voice could be heard over the sound of churning water, he shouted: “Hello there! Hello, Harriet and John! Hello, Tom and Clara! Hey, there, Caddie and Warren! Why don’t you come on down?”

  Caddie and Warren! The Woodlawns on the dock turned sharply around. There they were, Caddie and Warren, sitting on the bank above, their bare legs dangling, their red heads shining. They grinned sheepishly.

  “Well, of all things!” cried Mrs. Woodlawn, her clear brow darkening ominously. She was going to say a great deal more, but suddenly the Little Steamer docked with a bump and she was obliged to catch her husband’s arm to keep her balance. Then they were all in Uncle Edmund’s large, enthusiastic embrace—even Caddie and Warren. Uncle Edmund was so delighted that they had all come to meet him that nobody

  could bear to tell him it had not been pla
nned that way.

  As they were walking up the path from the dock, Uncle Edmund began to fumble in his pocket. “Wait,” he said, “I’ve got a present here for Caddie.”

  Caddie stopped in her tracks, speechless with joy. The others crowded around them. Out of his pocket Uncle Edmund took a fat little book. Caddie had never felt much need of books, but any sort of present was a rare delight. She took the little book from Uncle Edmund’s hand and opened the cover. Whiz! Something long and green flew out at her and fell into the path. Uncle Edmund shouted with laughter, and Caddie laughed, too, a little ruefully. She picked up the long green thing which lay in the path.

  “That’s no snake,” she said. “It’s got a clock spring inside it.”

  “Say, Uncle Edmund,” cried Tom, “you’d ought to know you can’t fool Caddie on snakes or clock springs. Try that on Hetty.”

  4. A Silver Dollar

  The next morning Uncle Edmund got out his gun and oiled and polished it. Then he polished his spectacles, for Uncle Edmund was near-sighted.

  “Now,” he said, “I’ve missed the pigeons, and that’s a great pity, for a near-sighted man can always bring down a nice bag of pigeons. But I must do the best I can. Who will go with me to help me sight my game?”

  Tom and Warren and Caddie stood beside him in breathless anticipation of this question. Uncle Edmund always asked it, and he always chose one of the three to go with him. More than one of them he would never take, for then, he said, they frightened the game away.

  The three children spoke up with one voice: “I’ll go, Uncle Edmund!”

  Uncle Edmund looked them over critically. “Tom, you went last time I was here. You’re pretty good, but you let a nice, fat squirrel get away. You remember?”

  “Yah,” said Tom, “but if I’d had the gun he wouldn’t have got away.”

  “That’s the trouble,” said Uncle Edmund regretfully. “And Warren, here, talks too much. I might as well take a fife and drum corps.”

  “I wouldn’t say a word,” shouted Warren. “I wouldn’t talk a bit. Just listen how quiet I could be.”

  “No,” said Uncle Edmund, “I always have to fall back on Caddie in the end. I might as well start with her. She’s as good as a pointer for showing me the game, and she never tells me how to shoot it nor reproaches me when I miss my aim. Come along, Caddie.”

  Caddie opened her mouth to speak. She was going to say: “It’s too bad you little children have to stay at home. But, of course, we can’t take all of you.” But she closed it again without saying anything. After all, she did hate to see Tom and Warren disappointed, and also she didn’t want to find a frog in her bed or a pail of water arranged over her door in such a way as to give her a drenching when she came back.

  As she trotted along beside Uncle Edmund, she was absolutely happy. It was perfect Indian-summer weather. The birch trees were all a-tremble with thinning gold. The oaks and sugar maples were putting on their vivid red and orange hues, and river, lake, and sky were all sublimely blue.

  Uncle Edmund and Caddie struck across fields and through the woods to the lake. Nero went with them, for, although he had not been trained as a hunter, he loved to go hunting, and he had a strong affection for Uncle Edmund. Half drawn up on the shore of the lake were the Woodlawn children’s two prized possessions—a homemade raft, of small logs or poles fastened together with wooden pins, and the Indian canoe hollowed from a single log. The little Woodlawns could manage almost any craft in any kind of weather, but, although they spent half of their time on either lake or river, they had never learned to swim.

  Caddie ran ahead, her golden-red curls flying in the breeze. She threw her weight against the canoe and pushed it into the water. Then, her eyes shining with mischief, she jumped in and caught up the paddle.

  “Beat you to the end of the lake, Uncle Edmund,” she called. Uncle Edmund could swim, but he was no hand with a boat. He managed to get the raft afloat, and he and Nero scrambled aboard. Then he began to pole it down the lake. It swung from side to side and seemed to defy all of his attempts at steering.

  “Hey, you little whippersnapper, you!” he shouted at Caddie, shaking his fist good-naturedly.

  Caddie came back laughing and circled around the raft in her canoe. “Oh, I’m sorry, Uncle Edmund. Honestly I am. But I can’t help laughing. You look so funny. You can take the canoe coming back, and I’ll take the raft, and I’ll beat you that way, too. See if I don’t!”

  “Oh, you’ll beat me that way, too, will you?” said Uncle Edmund, a fine edge sounding in his voice. “How much will you bet?”

  “Oh, I haven’t any money and Mother doesn’t like us to bet, but I’ll beat you just the same.”

  “All right,” said Uncle Edmund. “You won’t bet, but I’ll tell you what I’ll do. If you can beat me coming back, I’ll give you a silver dollar, that’s what I’ll do. Mind—you take the raft and I take the canoe.”

  “Bully for you!” cried Caddie, echoing Tom’s favorite expression. She was confident of winning. A silver dollar! The Woodlawn children never had much money to spend, and, in those days of war-time “green-backs,” a silver dollar was worth nearly three times the value of the paper dollar. Caddie was so delighted by Uncle Edmund’s generosity that she offered to tow the raft to shore. But Uncle Edmund declined her offer and finally got himself awkwardly to the end of the lake. They beached their craft and started through the woods. But Uncle Edmund had forgotten something.

  “Wait here a moment, Caddie. I left my game bag back on the raft.”

  “I’ll get it, Uncle Edmund.”

  “No, wait here. I’ll go myself.”

  Uncle Edmund was gone quite a long time, but at last he returned with the bag.

  Now they went slowly and quietly, Uncle Edmund peering through his thick glasses at the nearby trees, Caddie’s bright eyes searching the more distant places. Nero walked beside them, deeply excited. His business was sheep and cows, not game, but, as Edmund often said, a little training would have made him an admirable hunter. Suddenly Caddie stopped, her body stiffened, she put a tense hand on Uncle Edmund’s arm.

  “There!” she whispered, pointing to the branch of a tree some yards ahead. A squirrel sat there motionless, trying to look like a part of the tree. Uncle Edmund followed the direction of her finger with his nearsighted eyes. He raised his gun to his shoulder. Bang! The report reverberated through the woods, shattering the silence into a hundred echoes.

  “I got him!” shouted Uncle Edmund exultantly. “By golly, Caddie, I got him!” Caddie was as delighted as Uncle Edmund. She and Nero raced to retrieve the squirrel for Uncle Edmund’s game bag.

  It was well along in the afternoon when they started back toward the lake. Uncle Edmund was treading on air, for he had three squirrels and a brace of partridges, and, for a near-sighted man, that was a good bag. Caddie’s mind returned to the silver dollar she was going to win.

  “Remember, I’m going to beat you across the lake, Uncle Edmund,” she chirped.

  “So you said. So you said,” agreed Uncle Edmund jovially, chuckling to himself. He sprang into the canoe, and pushed off. Caddie thrust the raft into the water and jumped on. Nero sprang on behind her, and Caddie began to pole the raft. She and Tom had handled the raft so often that she knew just how to manage it to the best advantage. A few deft strokes brought her alongside Uncle Edmund, who was hopelessly inefficient, even with such a delicate craft as a canoe. But something curious was beginning to happen to the raft. One by one the small logs of which it was built were beginning to float away. Caddie could not believe her eyes. She poled for dear life, but the faster she poled, the more quickly the logs fell away from the raft. The space on which she stood grew smaller and smaller. Someone had loosened all the pins which held the raft together! Bit by bit it was coming apart.

  “Uncle Edmund!” shouted Caddie, red with surprise and rage. Uncle Edmund lay back in the canoe and laughed. In a flash Caddie knew why Uncle Edmund had taken so long to fe
tch his game bag. The logs on which Nero stood came loose, and the old sheepdog plunged into the water and began to swim for shore. There were only three or four logs left together now and it took only an instant for them to drift apart. Caddie went down with a great splash, and her shining head disappeared beneath the water like a quenched flame. Presently she came up again, sputtering and blowing, and caught desperately at the nearest log. When she felt its rough surface under her fingers, she stopped struggling and clasped her arms about it. She was used to the feel of water up to her neck, if only she had something to hold onto. But she was angry. It took a good deal to arouse Caddie from her good nature, but every red-head’s temper has its limitations, and Caddie’s had been reached.

  “Oh! Oh! Oh!” she sputtered, too angry to find any words.

  Now that Uncle Edmund had had his little joke, he began to be worried. He brought the canoe around and helped Caddie into it. “Say, Caddie,” he said, “I never thought that raft would come apart so quickly. Honestly, I just wanted to scare you a little.

  You don’t mind getting a little wet, do you? Just for fun?”

  Caddie sat in the bottom of the canoe straight and stiff. Streams of water ran down all over her and made a puddle around her. Her face was pale and her hazel eyes flashed cold fire, but still she couldn’t find a word to say to relieve her bottled indignation.

  “Oh, say, Caddie, don’t take it so hard,” coaxed Uncle Edmund. “It was just a joke. Listen now, I’ll give you that silver dollar I promised; but say, don’t tell your mother, Caddie.”

  At last Caddie exploded.