The Long Winter

by Laura Ingalls Wilder

  “I’ll get us a brace of geese,” he said. “I heard them flying over in the night. There’ll be some in the slough.”

  He took down his shotgun and sheltering it under his coat he went out into the weather.

  After he had gone Ma said, “Girls, I’ve thought of a surprise for Pa.”

  Laura and Carrie turned round from the dishpan and Mary straightened up from the bed she was making. “What?” they all asked her.

  “Hurry and get the work done,” said Ma. “And then, Laura, you go to the corn-patch and bring me a green pumpkin. I’m going to make a pie!”

  “A pie! But how…” Mary said, and Laura said, “A green pumpkin pie? I never heard of such a thing, Ma.”

  “Neither did I,” said Ma. “But we wouldn’t do much if we didn’t do things that nobody ever heard of before.”

  Laura and Carrie did the dishes properly but in a hurry. Then Laura ran through the cool, misty rain to the corn-patch and lugged back the biggest green pumpkin.

  “Stand by the oven door and dry yourself,” said Ma. “You’re not very big, Laura, but you’re old enough to put on a shawl without being told.”

  “I went so fast I dodged between the raindrops,” Laura said. “I’m not much wet, Ma, honestly. Now what do I do?”

  “You may cut the pumpkin in slices and peel them while I make the piecrust,” said Ma. “Then we’ll see what we’ll see.”

  Ma put the crust in the pie pan and covered the bottom with brown sugar and spices. Then she filled the crust with thin slices of the green pumpkin. She poured half a cup of vinegar over them, put a small piece of butter on top, and laid the top crust over all.

  “There,” she said, when she had finished crimping the edges.

  “I didn’t know you could,” Carrie breathed, looking wide-eyed at the pie.

  “Well, I don’t know yet,” said Ma. She slipped the pie into the oven and shut the door on it. “But the only way to find out is to try. By dinnertime we’ll know.” They all sat waiting in the tidy shanty. Mary was busily knitting to finish warm stockings for Carrie before cold weather. Laura was sewing two long breadths of muslin together to make a sheet. She pinned the edges together carefully and fastened them with a pin to her dress at the knee. Carefully holding the edges even, she whipped them together with even, tiny stitches.

  The stitches must be close and small and firm and they must be deep enough but not too deep, for the sheet must lie smooth, with not the tiniest ridge down its middle. And all the stitches must be so exactly alike that you could not tell them apart, because that was the way to sew.

  Mary had liked such work, but now she was blind and could not do it. Sewing made Laura feel like flying to pieces. She wanted to scream. The back of her neck ached and the thread twisted and knotted. She had to pick out almost as many stitches as she put in.

  “Blankets are wide enough to cover a bed,” she said fretfully. “Why can’t sheets be made wide enough?”

  “Because sheets are muslin,” said Mary. “And muslin isn’t wide enough for a sheet.”

  The eye of Laura’s needle slipped through a tiny hole in her thimble and ran into her finger. She shut her mouth hard and did not say a word.

  But the pie was baking beautifully. When Ma laid down the shirt that she was making for Pa and opened the oven, the rich smell of baking pie came out. Carrie and Grace stopped to look in while Ma turned the pie so that it would brown evenly.

  “It’s doing nicely,” Ma said.

  “Oh, won’t Pa be surprised!” Carrie cried.

  Just before dinnertime Ma took the pie from the oven. It was a beautiful pie.

  They kept dinner waiting until almost one o’clock, but Pa did not come. When he was hunting, he paid no attention to mealtimes. So at last they ate dinner. The pie must wait till suppertime when Pa would come with fat geese to roast for tomorrow.

  All afternoon the slow rain fell steadily. When Laura went to the well for water, the sky was low and gray. Far over the prairie the brown grasses were sodden with rain and the tall slough grass stood dripping, bent a little under the steady pressure of the falling rain.

  Laura hurried back from the well. She did not like to look at the outdoors when all the grass was weeping.

  Pa did not come home until suppertime. He came empty-handed except for his gun. He did not speak or smile and his eyes were wide-open and still.

  “What is wrong, Charles?” Ma asked quickly.

  He took off his wet coat and his dripping hat and hung them up before he answered. “That is what I’d like to know. Something’s queer. Not a goose nor a duck on the lake. None in the slough. Not one in sight. They are flying high above the clouds, flying fast. I could hear them calling. Caroline, every kind of bird is going south as fast and as high as it can fly. All of them, going south. And no other kind of game is out. Every living thing that runs or swims is hidden away somewhere. I never saw country so empty and still.”

  “Never mind,” Ma said cheerfully. “Supper’s ready. You sit close by the fire, Charles, and dry yourself. I’ll move the table up. Seems to me it’s growing chilly.”

  It was growing chilly. The cold crept under the table, crawling up from Laura’s bare feet to her bare knees under her skirts. But supper was warm and good and in the lamplight all the faces were shining with the secret of the surprise for Pa.

  Pa did not notice them. He ate hungrily but he did not notice what he ate. He said again, “It’s queer, not a duck nor a goose coming down to rest.”

  “Likely the poor things want to get to sunshine,” Ma said. “I’m glad we’re snug, out of the rain, under this good roof.”

  Pa pushed back his empty plate and Ma gave Laura a look that said, “Now!” Smiles spread over all their faces but Pa’s. Carrie wriggled in her chair and Grace bounced on Ma’s lap, while Laura set down the pie.

  For an instant Pa did not see it. Then he said, “Pie!”

  His surprise was even greater than they had expected. Grace and Carrie and even Laura laughed out loud.

  “Caroline, however did you manage to make a pie?” Pa exclaimed. “What kind of pie is it?”

  “Taste it and see!” said Ma. She cut a piece and put it on his plate.

  Pa cut off the point with his fork and put it in his mouth. “Apple pie! Where in the world did you get apples?”

  Carrie could keep still no longer. She almost shouted, “It’s pumpkin! Ma made it of green pumpkin!”

  Pa took another small bite and tasted it carefully. “I’d never have guessed it,” he said. “Ma always could beat the nation cooking.”

  Ma said nothing, but a little flush came up in her cheeks and her eyes kept on smiling while they all ate that delicious pie. They ate slowly, taking small bites of the sweet spiciness to make it last as long as they could.

  That was such a happy supper that Laura wanted it never to end. When she was in bed with Mary and Carrie, she stayed awake to keep on being happy. She was so sleepily comfortable and cosy. The rain on the roof was a pleasant sound.

  A splash of water on her face dimly surprised her. She was sure it could not be rain, for the roof was overhead. She snuggled closer to Mary and everything slid away into dark, warm sleep.

  Chapter 4

  October Blizzard

  Laura woke up suddenly. She heard singing and a queer slapping sound.

  “Oh, I am as happy as a big sunflower (Slap! Slap)

  That nods and bends in the breezes, Oh! (Slap! Slap!)

  And my heart (Slap!)

  is as light (Slap!)

  as the wind that blows (Slap! Slap!)

  The leaves from off the treeses, Oh! (Slap! SLAP!)”

  Pa was singing his trouble song and slapping his arms on his chest.

  Laura’s nose was cold. Only her nose was outside the quilts that she was huddled under. She put out her whole head and then she knew why Pa was slapping himself. He was trying to warm his hands.

  He had kindled the fire. It was roaring in the stove,
but the air was freezing cold. Ice crackled on the quilt where leaking rain had fallen. Winds howled around the shanty and from the roof and all the walls came a sound of scouring.

  Carrie sleepily asked, “What is it?”

  “It’s a blizzard,” Laura told her. “You and Mary stay under the covers.”

  Careful not to let the cold get under the quilts, she crawled out of the warm bed. Her teeth chattered while she pulled on her clothes. Ma was dressing, too, beyond the curtain, but they were both too cold to say anything.

  They met at the stove where the fire was blazing furiously without warming the air at all. The window was a white blur of madly swirling snow. Snow had blown under the door and across the floor and every nail in the walls was white with frost.

  Pa had gone to the stable. Laura was glad that they had so many haystacks in a row between the stable and the shanty. Going from haystack to haystack, Pa would not get lost.

  “A b-b-b-b-blizzard!” Ma chattered. “In Oc-October. I n-n-never heard of…”

  She put more wood in the stove and broke the ice in the water pail to fill the teakettle.

  The water pail was less than half-full. They must be sparing of water for nobody could get to the well in that storm. But the snow on the floor was clean. Laura scooped it into the washbasin and set it on the stove to melt, for washing in.

  The air by the stove was not so cold now, so she rolled Grace in quilts and brought her to the stove to dress her. Mary and Carrie shiveringly dressed themselves, close to the open oven. They all put on their stockings and shoes.

  Breakfast was waiting when Pa came back. He blew in with a howl of wind and swirling snow.

  “Well, those muskrats knew what was coming, didn’t they, Laura?” he said as soon as he was warm enough to speak. “And the geese too.”

  “No wonder they wouldn’t stop at the lake,” said Ma.

  “The lake’s frozen by now,” Pa said. “Temperature’s down near zero and going lower.”

  He glanced at the wood box as he spoke. Laura had filled it last night, but already the wood was low. So as soon as he had eaten breakfast, Pa wrapped himself well and brought big armfuls from the woodpile.

  The shanty was growing colder. The stove could not warm the air inside the thin walls. There was nothing to do but sit huddled in coats and shawls, close to the stove.

  “I’m glad I put beans to soak last night,” said Ma. She lifted the lid of the bubbling kettle and quickly popped in a spoonful of soda. The boiling beans roared, foaming up, but did not quite run over.

  “There’s a little bit of salt pork to put in them too,” Ma said.

  Now and then she spooned up a few beans and blew on them. When their skins split and curled, she drained the soda-water from the kettle and filled it again with hot water. She put in the bit of fat pork.

  “There’s nothing like good hot bean soup on a cold day,” said Pa. He looked down at Grace, pulling at his hand. “Well, Blue-Eyes, what do you want?”

  “A tory,” Grace said.

  “Tell us the one about Grandpa and the pig on the sled,” Carrie begged. So, taking Grace and Carrie on his knees, Pa began again the stories that he used to tell Mary and Laura in the Big Woods when they were little girls. Ma and Mary knitted busily, in quilt-covered rockers drawn close to the oven, and Laura stood wrapped in her shawl, between the stove and the wall.

  The cold crept in from the corners of the shanty, closer and closer to the stove. Icy-cold breezes sucked and fluttered the curtains around the beds. The little shanty quivered in the storm. But the steamy smell of boiling beans was good and it seemed to make the air warmer.

  At noon Ma sliced bread and filled bowls with the hot bean broth and they all ate where they were, close to the stove. They all drank cups of strong, hot tea. Ma even gave Grace a cup of cambric tea. Cambric tea was hot water and milk, with only a taste of tea in it, but little girls felt grown-up when their mothers let them drink cambric tea.

  The hot soup and hot tea warmed them all. They ate the broth from the beans. Then Ma emptied the beans into a milk-pan, set the bit of fat pork in the middle, and laced the top with dribbles of molasses. She set the pan in the oven and shut the oven door. They would have baked beans for supper.

  Then Pa had to bring in more wood. They were thankful that the woodpile was close to the back door. Pa staggered in breathless with the first armful. When he could speak he said, “This wind takes your breath away. If I’d thought of such a storm as this, I’d have filled this shanty with wood yesterday. Now I’m bringing in as much snow as wood.”

  That was almost true. Every time Laura opened the door for him, snow swirled in. Snow fell off him and the wood was covered with snow. It was snow as hard as ice and as fine as sand, and opening the door made the shanty so cold that the snow did not melt.

  “That’s enough for now,” Pa said. If he let in any more cold, the wood he brought would not make enough heat to drive the cold out.

  “When you get that snow swept up, Laura, bring me the fiddle,” he said. “Soon as I can thaw out my fingers, we’ll have a tune to drown the yowl of that wind.”

  In a little while he was able to tune the strings and rosin the bow. Then he set the fiddle to his shoulder and sang with it.

  “Oh, If I were young again,

  I’d lead a different life,

  Lay up some money and buy some land

  And take Dinah for my wife.

  But now I’m getting old and gray

  I cannot work any more.

  Oh carry me back

  Oh, carry me back

  To the old Virginia shore.

  So carry me ’long and carry me ’long

  And carry me till I die…”

  “For pity’s sakes!” Ma broke in. “I’d as soon listen to the wind.” She was trying to keep Grace warm and Grace was struggling and whimpering. Ma set her down. “There, run if you’re bound to! You’ll be glad enough to come back to the stove.”

  “I’ll tell you what!” Pa exclaimed. “Laura and Carrie, you get out there with Grace and let’s see you quick-step march! It’ll warm up your blood.”

  It was hard to leave the shelter of their huddled shawls, but they did as Pa said. Then his strong voice rang out with the singing fiddle:

  “March! March! Ettrick and Teviotdale!

  Why, my lads, dinna ye march forward in order?

  March! March! Eskdale and Liddesdale!

  All the blue bonnets are over the border!

  Many a banner spread flutters above your head,

  Many a crest that is famous in story.”

  Round and round they marched, Laura and Carrie and Grace, singing with all their might, thumping loud thumps of their shoes on the floor.

  “Mount, and make ready, then,

  Sons of the mountain glen,

  Fight! for your homes and the old Scottish glory!”

  They felt that banners were blowing above them and that they were marching to victory. They did not even hear the storm. They were warm to the tips of their toes.

  Then the music ended and Pa laid the fiddle in its box. “Well, girls, it’s up to me to march out against this storm and make the stock comfortable for the night. Blamed if that old tune don’t give me the spunk to like fighting even a blizzard!”

  Ma warmed his coat and muffler by the oven while he put away the fiddle-box. They all heard the wind howling furiously.

  “We’ll have hot baked beans and hot tea waiting when you get back, Charles,” Ma promised him. “And then we’ll all go to bed and keep warm, and likely the storm’ll be over by morning.”

  But in the morning Pa sang again his sunflower song. The window was the same white blur, the winds still drove the scouring snow against the shivering little shanty.

  The blizzard lasted two more long days and two more nights.

  Chapter 5

  After the Storm

  On the fourth morning, there was a queer feeling in Laura’s ears. She peeped from the qu
ilts and saw snow drifted over the bed. She heard the little crash of the stove lid and then the first crackling of the fire. Then she knew why her ears felt empty. The noise of the blizzard had stopped!

  “Wake up, Mary!” she sang out, poking Mary with her elbow. “The blizzard’s over!”

  She jumped out of the warm bed, into air colder than ice. The hot stove seemed to give out no heat at all. The pail of snow-water was almost solidly frozen. But the frosted windows were glowing with sunshine.

  “It’s as cold as ever outside,” Pa said when he came in. He bent over the stove to thaw the icicles from his mustache. They sizzled on the stove-top and went up in steam.

  Pa wiped his mustache and went on. “The winds tore a big piece of tar-paper off the roof, tight as it was nailed on. No wonder the roof leaked rain and snow.”

  “Anyway, it’s over,” Laura said. It was pleasant to be eating breakfast and to see the yellow-glowing windowpanes.

  “We’ll have Indian summer yet,” Ma was sure. “This storm was so early, it can’t be the beginning of winter.”

  “I never knew a winter to set in so early,” Pa admitted. “But I don’t like the feel of things.”

  “What things, Charles?” Ma wanted to know.

  Pa couldn’t say exactly He said, “There’s some stray cattle by the haystacks.”

  “Are they tearing down the hay?” Ma asked quickly.

  “No,” said Pa.

  “Then what of it, if they aren’t doing any harm?” Ma said.

  “I guess they’re tired out by the storm,” said Pa. “They took shelter there by the haystacks. I thought I’d let them rest and eat a little before I drove them off. I can’t afford to let them tear down the stacks, but they could eat a little without doing any harm. But they aren’t eating.”

  “What’s wrong then?” Ma asked.