“Come on,” said Grandpa. “We’ve come to take the whole family for a ride.”
“Good,” said Daddy. “I’ve been itching to go for a ride.”
This time there was no way out for Mama. Emily and her mother and father climbed into the back seat. Grandpa got out and cranked the car—and cranked it and cranked it. Finally the engine started, with a noise like machinery sneezing, and the automobile began to shimmy. Grandpa ran around and climbed in fast and off they drove, trailing two brown veils of dust behind them. Fong Quock, who was out tending his vegetable garden, shouted and waved. Grandpa honked his horn in reply—a-ooga, a-ooga.
“Mercy!” exclaimed Grandma, as Grandpa whizzed around the corner onto Main Street. A-ooga, a-ooga. Grandpa honked at a boy on a bicycle. Mama looked nervous. Daddy beamed. Emily waved to everyone she saw. What a ride they had! Down Main Street, past the school, down an unpaved road trailing dust and scattering chickens, up Depot Road, around to Main Street, back up the road to the farm. They had not had a single accident; they had not hit a cow or even a chicken!
“Say, Emily,” said Grandpa, before he and Grandma drove off, “how would you like to drive out to the old Skinner place with me in the morning?” The old Skinner place was a piece of land which Grandpa owned and which was farmed for him by a nearby farmer. Several people had owned it since the Skinners had sold it back around 1890, but in Pitchfork land was almost always called after the name of the pioneer who had taken up the donation land claim.
“Oh, Grandpa, I would love to,” answered Emily quickly.
Mama hesitated before she said, “Mrs. Scott phoned to say she had some books to give to the library but no way to get into town. Perhaps you could stop at the Scott place and pick them up.”
It was all right. At last Emily was free to ride in Grandpa’s Ford and keep up with the times, too.
The next morning, bright and early, Grandpa drove up to the farm for Emily, who was waiting for him on the gate out by the catalpa tree. This was going to be even better than Emily had hoped, because Grandpa had put down the top of his car. Mama, still looking worried, came out on the porch to wave good-bye.
Unfortunately, Emily and Grandpa had to pass old George A. Barbee’s house on the way out of town. When the old gentleman heard them approaching he crawled out from under his own Model T Ford and hailed them. Naturally Grandpa had to stop, although he did not turn off the engine. Old George A. came over and leaned against Grandpa’s automobile. Emily could see he had settled down for a good long talk about the insides of Fords. Emily squirmed around on the leather seat while the two old men discussed such tiresome things as spindle-joint anti-rattlers, slipping clutches, low bands that might burn out, the advantages of a Ruxtell axle…. It seemed to her that the chugging motor was as eager to be off as she was.
Finally Emily simply could not stand it. “Grandpa,” she said urgently above the noise of the engine, “don’t you think we’d better go?”
“Yes, Emily, I expect we’d better,” agreed Grandpa. “Well, thanks for the advice, George A.”
At last they were on their way! It was a beautiful day for a drive in the country in an automobile with the top down. The fields were green; the sky was blue with whipped-cream clouds; wild roses and Queen Anne’s lace bloomed along the fences. Blackbirds glistened in the sun. If Grandpa’s automobile had not been making so much noise they could have heard the meadowlarks.
The road was good and bumpy, and Emily enjoyed every bump they hit. “Can you go faster, Grandpa?” she asked.
Grandpa pulled down the gas lever on the steering wheel. The Ford leaped ahead. Emily jounced and bounced around on the leather seat, but she managed to look at the needle on the speedometer which Grandpa had had installed. “Grandpa!” she shrieked. “We’re going twenty-five miles an hour!” The joy and the wonder of it! Tearing along at twenty-five miles an hour.
They stopped under the old maple in front of the Scott place while Mrs. Scott ran out with her books for the library. Emily was much disappointed, although she was careful not to let Mrs. Scott, a tired, wispy little woman, know it. There were only three books, all of them very old, with yellowed paper and fine print. Kenilworth and two books of sermons. No Black Beauty. Emily thanked her. It was nice of her to give her books, the only books she had.
Farther out in the country the wagon road to the old Skinner place wound through several farms and at each farm Grandpa had to stop and climb out over the door. He opened the gate, climbed back into his Ford, drove through, got out and closed the gate, climbed back in, and drove on to the next gate. The first section of the road led them through a barnyard, where Grandpa had to swerve to avoid some chickens and a calf.
Finally they reached the old Skinner place. How quiet it was with the engine of Grandpa’s car turned off! Grandpa climbed out to examine his alfalfa crop while Emily picked a bouquet of wild columbine growing along the fence, to take home to Mama.
“Come on, Emily,” Grandpa called at last. “Time to go. I don’t like to leave your grandmother alone with the store all morning.”
Emily started to climb up on the running board with her bouquet of columbine when she heard a sound. At first she thought it was a tractor, but then she realized it was not. It was an airplane! “Look, Grandpa!” she cried, pointing. “An airplane!”
“By George, you’re right!” exclaimed Grandpa, shading his eyes with his hand.
“Grandpa, I can see the aviator!” cried Emily ecstatically. And she could! She could see his brown leather jacket and helmet and even his goggles. What an exciting morning this was! She waved frantically. The man in the airplane waved to her over the side of the cockpit. It was almost too much to bear. She had been waved at by an aviator! “Grandpa, he waved!” Emily could hardly believe it. She stood watching until the airplane disappeared in the distance. Then she climbed into the Ford and slammed the door. The things she had to tell Mama!
Emily and her grandfather were not even near the first gate when Grandpa began to work the clutch pedal up and down. It seemed lifeless under his foot.
“Grandpa!” Emily was alarmed.
“Great Scott!” Grandpa was alarmed, too. “Now what the Sam Hill was it old George A. said to do in a case like this?” He pumped the clutch once more before it came to him. “He said if this ever happened I’d better not stop, because I couldn’t get started again unless I was on a hill.”
“Then don’t stop,” begged Emily. Right here all the hills were in the distance, where they could do no good.
“We’re coming to the gate!” yelled Grandpa.
“You can’t stop!” shouted Emily. The gate seemed to be flying toward her. “Grandpa, don’t stop!”
“I’ve got to!” yelled Grandpa.
“No!” shrieked Emily. “We’ll never get home.” My goodness, if she didn’t get home, Mama would worry and she would never get to go for a ride again. Just when Emily thought they were going to crash into the gate, Grandpa turned aside and his automobile went bounding around in his alfalfa crop. Grandpa drove around and around in a circle. “It’s no use, Emily,” he said. “I’ll have to stop. There’s nothing else to do. We can hike to the nearest farm and get a farmer with a team to tow us back to town.”
“No, wait, Grandpa,” begged Emily. Be towed back to town behind old-fashioned horses? I should say not! Grandpa and his wonderful new automobile would be the laughingstock of Pitchfork. Besides, it would take all morning or longer, and Emily was very anxious not to worry Mama. “If you drive real slow,” she suggested, “I could jump out and open the gate.”
“Emily, you might get hurt,” protested Grandpa.
“No, I won’t,” Emily assured him. “I’ll be careful.”
“I guess I could see how slow I can drive.” Grandpa sounded dubious, but he was not eager to be towed back by horses either. He was proud of his Ford and wanted to ride back in style. They slowed down until they were bouncing gently over the ruts. Emily held her breath for fear the e
ngine might stop altogether and there they would be, out in the middle of an alfalfa field, miles from nowhere.
“You’re sure you can do it?” asked Grandpa.
“I’m sure.” Emily laid her bouquet of columbine on the seat. She opened the door and looked down. The ground was passing by faster than she had expected. She took a deep breath and jumped. She stumbled and fell, skinning her knee. Never mind. It was half-sock weather and her knee would heal. “I’m all right,” she called out, and while Grandpa speeded up and went on driving in circles through the alfalfa, she ran to the gate, climbed up and lifted off the ring of wire that secured it to the fence post. She pushed off with one foot and riding the gate, she swung out across the road. If she had not been so worried it would have been fun. Swinging on gates was forbidden at home.
Grandpa drove through the gate and started going around in circles in the next field. Emily hopped off the gate before the dust had settled and pushed and shoved until it was closed once more. She slipped the circle of wire back in place and ran after the Ford. She had worked fast, because this field of wheat did not belong to Grandpa and the farmer who owned it might not like Grandpa driving around on his crop. Emily was glad it was a field of wheat and not a prune orchard. Grandpa would have had a terrible time if he had to drive in circles through an orchard.
Grandpa slowed down until Emily was afraid the engine would stop. She grabbed the edge of the Ford beside the seat cushion and pulled herself up on the running board. Then she flopped into the seat. Whew! She had made it!
“Good work, Emily,” said Grandpa, and drove in a straight line down the wagon road once more.
Emily leaned back and concentrated on catching her breath before the next gate. If she had done it once she could do it again. She had to or be towed back by horses.
At the second gate Grandpa began to circle once more. Emily opened the door, for an instant glad that Mama could not see her now, and leaped bravely through the air. She stumbled again but managed not to fall. She must be getting the hang of it. Once more she slipped off the wire hoop. This gate creaked and Emily could not ride it. She had to shove. Grandpa straightened out his driving and went through. Emily tried not to breathe dust while she struggled to close the gate, and Grandpa circled through the oats until she could scramble aboard. Whew! That was hard work. Emily hoped she had enough strength left for the third and last gate.
That gate was in view of some farm buildings. Grandpa circled slowly. Emily took a deep breath and leaped. Yes, she did seem to have the hang of it, because she landed on her feet. She ran to the gate, unfastened it, and tried to pull it open. It still would not budge. Desperately Emily shoved. What if Grandpa ran out of gas while he was circling around!
“Can you lift it up, Emily?” Grandpa yelled, as he drove past.
Emily lifted. The gate budged but that was all. Emily lifted again and managed to get the gate partway open but not enough for an automobile to pass through. She wondered if it would be too selfish to ask God to help her in this one little thing. “Don’t stop, Grandpa,” she begged. “I’ll think of something.”
An inquisitive calf came bounding across the barnyard to see what was going on. It would be dreadful if he got through the gate. Emily would never be able to catch him in that big field and Grandpa really would run out of gas while she tried. She put one hand on the gatepost and the other on the gate. The calf frolicked over and nuzzled her with his moist nose. “Shoo!” she cried. “Go away!”
The farmer came out of the barn with a pitchfork in his hands. “What the Sam Hill is going on here?” he yelled, dropping the pitchfork and running toward Emily.
“Don’t stop, Grandpa,” pleaded Emily, as the calf licked her face with his long, wet tongue. “I’ll ask the man to open the gate.”
“What are you driving around in my oats for?” demanded the farmer.
“I can’t stop,” yelled Grandpa. “I’ll never get her started again.”
“Please open the gate for us,” begged Emily, shoving at the calf with her foot. If only the farmer would help them out!
The farmer began to laugh. “Beat it, Buttercup,” he said, slapping the calf on the rump. Then he opened the gate for Emily.
“Oh, thank you,” said Emily, with great feeling. “Thank you ever so much.” She hoped she was doing a good job of thanking the farmer. If Grandpa felt he had to thank him too, he might think he had to stop. No, it was all right. Grandpa was circling the barnyard, skillfully avoiding three chickens and the bounding Buttercup.
The farmer stood watching Emily with something like admiration as she leaped to the running board when Grandpa drove by.
“Thank you,” she called again, to make sure, as she flopped into the seat.
“Thank you, sir,” Grandpa yelled above the noise of the engine.
“You’re welcome,” the farmer yelled back. “Next time get a horse!”
Gracious! Emily hoped the farmer did not get to town often. She did not want this adventure to get around Pitchfork. Grandpa would never hear the last of it and Mama might not let her go driving again.
“Yes sir, Emily,” said Grandpa, as they headed back toward Pitchfork, “I always said you were a humdinger.”
The ride back to town was peaceful enough, although Emily was a little nervous lest they meet a cow in the middle of the road that might force them to stop. It would be awful if they had to stop now after all she had been through. When they came to Main Street, she said, “I can walk home from the store, Grandpa, as easy as not.”
“All right, Emily,” agreed Grandpa. “You know, I have a feeling your mother might not think too highly of what went on this morning. Probably I shouldn’t have let you do it. Maybe we had better keep it a secret, you and me.”
“Yes, let’s,” agreed Emily, who was happy that Grandpa wasn’t going to tell, either. Secrets were fun and she was pleased that she and Grandpa had one all their own to share.
“Whoa!” cried Grandpa, stopping in front of the store just as if there was nothing wrong with his Model T. Old George A. Barbee would be only too happy to tell him how to fix it.
When Emily climbed out with Mrs. Scott’s three books and the bouquet of columbine, she discovered her legs felt wobbly. “Thank you for the ride, Grandpa,” she said, not feeling the least bit like a humdinger.
Grandpa’s eyes twinkled. “Thank you, Emily. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.” He meant it, too.
Emily walked home on shaky legs. No running or skipping this morning. She found Mama on the back porch doing the washing, which seemed surprising until Emily realized that it was only mid-morning even though she felt as if she had been gone a long, long time.
“What lovely columbine!” Mama smiled over the wringer. “Did you have a nice ride, Emily?”
“Yes, Mama.” Wearily Emily sat down on the back steps to rest. “But Mama, I don’t think many people will want to read Mrs. Scott’s donation.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.” Mama folded a pair of overalls so they would go through the wringer.
“And Mama,” said Emily, “the most exciting thing happened. I was waved at by an aviator! An airplane flew over and I waved at him and he waved back.”
“Why Emily, that’s the second airplane that has been around here this year!” Mama guided the overalls into a washtub of rinse water. “Just think, it was only about seventy-five years ago that your pioneer ancestors came here by covered wagon, and now your grandfather is driving his automobile and airplanes are flying over!” She fished another pair of overalls from the suds in the washing machine. “Emily, your grandfather is right. Times are changing and he is right to keep up with them, even at his age.”
As Emily bent over to examine her skinned knee, she could not help thinking that it had been all she could do to keep up with Grandpa’s Tin Lizzie.
5
A Tarnished Silver Dollar
Summer was a busy time on the farm. Mama and Emily canned fruits and vegetables, jars and ja
rs of fruits and vegetables. Emily snapped the beans and slipped the skins off so many peaches that she began to feel as if the skin was about to slip off her hands. Mama even found time to can pie cherries, and Emily became expert at flipping pits out of cherries with a buttonhook.
All day long the wash boiler full of jars steamed and bubbled on top of the stove, but in the middle of every morning and every afternoon Emily escaped from the hot kitchen to take a Mason jar of lemonade without sugar to Daddy, who was working in the fields. Daddy, his denim shirt soaked and his sunburned face streaming with sweat, was mighty glad to see Emily and that jar of lemonade. On the way back to the house Emily always wanted to pick a bouquet of bachelor’s buttons, but she never did. When Daddy was her age, all the Bartlett boys had to work long hours weeding bachelor’s buttons out of the fields and to this day Daddy did not want to see the pesky things in a vase in the house. It was too bad, because Emily dearly loved to gather wildflowers.
Summer was such a busy time that Emily was afraid Mama and the Ladies’ Civic Club might forget about the library. She should have known Mama would not forget something once she had started it. Every week Mama managed to find time to send some news about the library to the Pitchfork Report. Sixty-two books had been given to the library. (Mama did not put in the paper that the sixty-two books were not very good books. She did not want to discourage people from giving.) More books were needed, especially books for boys and girls. Another bookcase or cupboard with doors that could be locked would be useful. Any plans for raising money for shelves and books would be gratefully received. And finally the important announcement—the library was actually going to open on Saturday afternoon in the Commercial Clubrooms, upstairs over the Pitchfork State Bank, and a gala occasion it was going to be. The whole town was invited and there was to be a silver tea. People could borrow books and keep them for two weeks. It was going to be a big day in Pitchfork.
Emily's Runaway Imagination Page 5
