by Becky Citra
When I was finished, I grinned at the sight of Grandmother’s underwear waving in the breeze. How horrible to have to wear those odd things with bones in them! Kate said they were called corsets, and all ladies wore them to make their waists skinnier. Another good reason not to go to England. Grandmother would probably make me wear a corset!
I was hot and tired. I ran down to the lake to dip my feet in. On the way back to the cabin, I stopped in horror. Then I burst into a run.
“Star!” I hollered.
Star had hold of the toe of one of Grand-mother’s stockings. Grrrr. He braced his back legs and yanked.
“No, Star!” I dove for his back end, but he grabbed the stocking harder and it came loose, making the rack wobble. Star spun in a circle. The stocking slapped against his sides. He lunged at the clothes again and snatched the edge of a corset. There was a long ripping sound.
The drying rack crashed to the ground. Grandmother’s underwear scattered everywhere. A lacy pink petticoat drifted over Star’s head. Woof! He took off at a run. He looked like a pink ghost swooping around the yard. I burst out laughing.
“This is disgraceful!” said a shocked voice. Grandmother stood in the cabin doorway, her face scarlet.
Papa came out of the barn. He tackled Star as he raced past.
“Whatever has come over that dog?” he said later, after he shut Star in the barn and helped me pick up the scattered clothes.
“Grandmother has come over that dog,” I muttered.
I only minded washing the clothes again a little bit. It had been worth it to see the horrified look on Grandmother’s face. She had looked like a ... toad, I decided. And I didn’t tell her about the long rip in her corset. She could fix that herself.
After supper, Grandmother said, “I want to hear Max and Ellie read.”
Max groaned.
Grandmother gave Max a sharp look and added, “The Bible.”
Max groaned even louder. Papa had taught both of us how to read. But Max wasn’t very fast, and he often complained that the letters jumped around. He said the Bible was the hardest of all because it didn’t sound at all like people talk.
Grandmother brought her big black Bible to the table. I went first. I chose one of my favorite psalms.
“I will lift up my eyes unto the mountains,” I boomed. I glanced sideways to see if Grandmother was impressed.
Grandmother frowned. “There is no need to be so vigorous. I cannot abide children who read the Bible like it was a cheap novel.”
Papa sat quietly by the fire, smoking his pipe. What would Grandmother say if she heard Papa read the part where Samson kills a lion with his bare hands? Papa always made the lion roar so loudly that Star would jump up and bark.
I finished the psalm in a sullen voice. It didn’t sound nearly as exciting as it could have. Grandmother looked satisfied. She reached into the folds of her black dress and produced a red-striped peppermint. I sucked on it and watched Max nervously.
He took a long time flipping pages. I knew he was looking for the shortest psalm he could find. Finally he smiled and said, “Psalm 117.”
Psalm 117 was only six lines long. “Praise the Lord, all nations,” Max read confidently. And then his voice faltered. “Laaa ...laaa ...”
He was stuck on the word “laud.” He twisted and squirmed on his seat. A wave of scarlet climbed up his neck.
There was a long silence. Grandmother’s foot tapped up and down on the floor. Then Papa said quietly, “Laud him, all peoples, for his loving kindness is great toward all people, and the truth of the Lord is everlasting.”
“Praise the Lord,” Max finished in a rush. He looked hopefully at Grandmother. Max loved peppermints. But her hands stayed tightly folded in her lap.
Suddenly a sharp bark sounded outside the cabin, followed by Star’s answering bay. Papa rushed to the door, grabbing his rifle from the rack.
Max and I raced outside after Papa. Star was standing by the garden, barking furiously. Papa walked across the yard and picked up a feather from the ground. “You’re too late, Star,” he said grimly. “A chicken this time.”
“They’ll all be gone by morning,” said Grandmother gloomily from the doorway.
I stared into the forest. I imagined the red fox racing to her den, her prize clutched tightly in her jaws, her eyes and ears alert for danger.
“The fox is getting bolder,” said Papa. “It’s not even dark yet. Max and Ellie, gather up the rest of the chickens and put them in the barn.”
We chased the squawking chickens around the yard for ages, feathers flying. Grandmother watched us with a frown on her face.
“A fox is trouble,” she said when we were finished. “Nothing but trouble. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
4
“I cannot abide milk porridge!” said Max in a loud voice.
Papa gave a snort that turned into a cough. Grandmother glared at Max across the table. “I imagine you have had milk porridge most of your life, and it hasn’t done you any harm.” She took a spoonful of her own porridge.
Papa smiled. “Max, pass me the bowl of maple sugar.”
“It’s empty!” said Max. He looked meaningfully at Grandmother. A huge golden mound of sugar melted in the middle of her bowl.
Papa’s face dropped in disappointment. I knew how much he loved his maple sugar. But he finished his porridge quickly and pushed his chair back.
“Come along, Max,” he said. “We are going fox hunting.”
“And Ellie and I are going for a walk,” said Grandmother.
We walked along the path toward Blueberry Point. Grandmother gripped my arm so tightly it pinched. She held onto her cane with her other hand. She walked slowly. Tap tap tap went her cane. I bit back my impatience. It would have been a perfect day to run, my moccasins skimming over the grass, my long hair flying in the breeze.
The path wound along the shore of the blue lake. White water lilies were blooming and the beds of wild rice were just starting to poke out of the water. They looked like islands of bright green grass. But if Grandmother thought it was pretty, she didn’t say.
We walked as far as the big tree where Max and I had once seen a lynx and then we turned around. A breeze blew off the lake. Grandmother shivered and pulled her shawl around her shoulders. She was out of breath when we got back. She sat in her chair by the oak tree, and I got her a cup of cool water. Her hand shook when she held the cup and water sloshed on her dress. She glared at me when she saw me looking.
I fetched her knitting and a quilt to lay over her lap and then went to work in my garden. I moved up and down the rows of peas with my hoe.
Click click click went Grandmother’s knitting needles. After a long time, she closed her eyes and dozed.
Boom. A gunshot echoed in the distance.
My stomach lurched. Grandmother’s head jerked up. “Well, that takes care of the fox,” she said. She sounded pleased.
I jabbed my hoe into the dirt. I pretended I didn’t hear her.
When Papa and Max got back, Max told me what had happened. He and Papa had followed the tracks right to the top of the hill above the creek. They found the den near a huge boulder that I had named Castle Rock. It was my favorite place to pick wild strawberries. I wondered if sometimes the fox had watched me quietly from the bushes.
“There were six babies,” Max said. “Papa had to dig them out with a shovel.”
The babies were only a few weeks old, too tiny to leave the den. Papa had shot the mother and drowned the babies in the creek in a sack. I watched Papa later, chopping wood. He swung the axe much harder than usual, and I knew he felt as bad about it as I did.
In the afternoon, Grandmother went inside to have a nap in the big bed. I took my berry-picking bucket and headed up the hill toward Castle Rock. It was too late to get Kate, and besides, I wanted to be alone.
The forest was cool and shady. Blue and yellow flowers dotted the grass between the trees. Halfway up the hill, a deer with a smal
l spotted fawn bounded across the trail.
When I got to Castle Rock, I sat down on a log to rest for a few minutes. Then I searched for the fox’s den. I found it on the back side of the hill, in front of a pile of loose rocks. There was a big mound of fresh earth where Papa had dug. A few feathers and bones lay scattered on the ground.
I knelt down and peered into the hole. I shivered. What had the baby foxes thought when they heard the scrape of Papa’s shovel?
I felt sick. I stood up slowly, brushing the dirt from my dress. I had been planning to make strawberry jam, but I changed my mind. I would pick enough berries for supper and go home.
Just then I heard a funny little squeaking noise. I stood still.
I heard it again. It sounded like a kitten mewing. Or a puppy whimpering for its mother. I knelt back down on the ground and listened hard. The sound came from inside the den. My heart thumped.
I scraped back the loose dirt, reaching deep into the tunnel. Papa had told me once that foxes sometimes have more than one chamber in their den and lots of entrances.
The squeaking noise became louder. I scooped out a pile of dirt, and suddenly the side of the tunnel caved in. A pair of tiny eyes in a stubby face stared at me.
A baby fox! I held my breath. Very carefully I slid my hands under the soft warm body. The mother fox’s fur was golden red, but this little baby was black. Black foxes only happened sometimes, and I had never seen one before.
I cradled the fox gently and stroked its head. It dug its tiny teeth into my palm. I could feel its heart pounding. I stared in wonder at the little furry black ball. Papa and Max had said there were six babies in the den.
They were wrong. There were seven.
5
I filled the bottom of the berry bucket with tufts of soft moss and old leaves and laid the baby fox on top. He burrowed into the moss making frightened mewing sounds. I touched him gently on his furry head. His tiny body trembled.
I walked down the hill one step at a time, trying not to bump the bucket against my legs. After a while, the fox stopped crying. I peeked in the bucket. He had curled up into a little ball and shut his eyes.
When I got back to the farm, everything was quiet. Papa and Max were burning brush in the new field. Grandmother moved like a shadow, back and forth behind the cabin window.
I had a sudden urge to run in and show Grandmother the fox. But what if she told Papa? Papa had drowned the other babies. A sick feeling spread up from my stomach. Why would this baby fox be any different?
I had to think of a place to hide the fox. I bit my lip. The cabin was too small. If the fox cried, Papa would hear him. The barn had more hiding places, but Papa went in there all the time. And Nettie or one of the horses might step on the little fox. Then there was our cat, Pirate. The barn was her favorite hunting place.
Our old shanty! Papa had built it before the cabin, and we had lived there when we first came to the farm. One day Papa planned to turn it into a turkey and chicken house, but right now it wasn’t used for anything. It had a good strong door to keep Star and Pirate out.
The door creaked when I pushed it open. The shanty smelled like damp earth and leaves. Some barrels with a few withered apples and potatoes stood in the middle of the room. A piece of a plough and old boards leaned against one wall. I put the bucket down on the floor beside the fireplace. I dragged the barrels into one corner and propped the boards against them to make a kind of wall. The barrels were heavy, and I was panting when I finished, but I was pleased.
I went to the doorway and looked over at the field. Papa and Max were bending over the ground, picking up branches and throwing them onto the fire.
Please, please, don’t look over here. My heart pounding, I ran to the barn and scooped up an armful of hay. I brought it back to the shanty and piled it into the corner behind the barrels.
I peeked in the bucket. The fox lay in a little heap on the moss. For a second, I thought he had died. Then I saw his small sides move faintly in and out. He was alive, but he was very weak.
I lifted the fox out of the bucket and nestled him into the bed of hay. I had covered a pail of Nettie’s milk with a cloth and left it in a cool corner of the barn that morning. I ran back to the barn, filled a small tin plate with milk and carried it back to the shanty.
I propped up the fox’s tiny head so that his face was close to the creamy milk. His black nose quivered. Then he flopped back on the hay. I stuck my finger in the milk and dribbled a bit around his mouth. “Come on, come on,” I urged softly.
He wouldn’t drink. My stomach tightened. I tried to think what to do. Then faint cries of “Ellie! Ellie!” came from outside the shanty.
Grandmother. She called me a hundred times a day, for little things she could do herself, like fetching her knitting or getting more sticks for the fire.
I looked at the fox one last time. He was shivering. I laid hay over top of him to keep him warm and pushed the pan of milk closer. “I’ll be back,” I said.
I went to the door and shouted, “I’m coming.”
Grandmother made bread pudding with dried plums for supper. Max and Papa ate three helpings each. Grandmother seemed tired out by her effort. I couldn’t remember her ever cooking anything in her house in England.
I ate slowly, my mind whirring with thoughts of the baby fox. I felt Papa’s stern gaze on me, and I looked up startled.
“... gone all afternoon,” Grandmother was saying in a cross voice. “I really could have used some help.”
“That’s not true!” I burst out. “I ... I was just gone for a little while.”
“Where did you go?” said Papa.
“To pick strawberries,” I stammered.
Papa put his spoon down. “And did you get lots of berries?”
“Some.”
There was a long silence. I stared at my pudding. I prayed that Papa wouldn’t ask to see the strawberries.
After a minute, Papa said, “Agatha, you have picked the perfect time to visit us. The Indian name for June means Strawberry Moon.”
“Really,” said Grandmother. She didn’t sound at all interested.
My cheeks burned. That was enough talk about strawberries for me. I got up from the table and poured hot water into the tub for washing the dishes.
After I finished my chores, I slipped back to the shanty. The baby fox had crawled deeper into the hay. He was twisted in a circle, his nose touching his stubby tail. His eyes were shut. The pan of milk was untouched. I blinked with disappointment. Why wouldn’t he drink?
I sat beside the fox until it was too dark to see. “Tomorrow I will give you a name,” I whispered.
I closed the shanty door securely. As I walked back to the cabin, my stomach churned. The little fox must be starving. If he didn’t drink soon, he would die.
6
In the morning, the fox lay like a limp rag in my hands. The milk in the pan smelled sour. I dumped it outside and fetched fresh milk from the barn. I dipped the corner of my apron in the milk and squeezed tiny droplets over the fox’s nose and mouth.
I held my breath and waited to see if he would try to lick it away. His head flopped back weakly. I stroked his soft black fur for a long time. Then I tucked him into his nest in the hay and went back to the cabin.
I set out four pans of bread to rise and churned a crock of butter with Nettie’s cream. Grandmother sat in the rocking chair, her knitting needles clicking furiously. She didn’t offer to help once. I banged the dishes as I put out soup and bread for our midday meal. Papa and Max came in, talking about plans for Papa’s new field. I should have been a boy, I thought. Then I wouldn’t be stuck with Grandmother all day.
We had just finished eating when Kate arrived at the door, bubbling over with news. Her dog Jingo’s puppies had been born last night. “Can you come and see them?” she begged.
Like Kate, I had been waiting and waiting for the puppies, but now I felt strangely distant. All I could think about was the tiny fox cub in the sha
nty. But I hated to disappoint my friend. I looked at Papa. “I could run all the way there and back.”
Papa frowned. “Max and I are going to the Jordan farm to look at a plough he has for sale. Grandmother—”
“I’m sure I can manage on my own again for a little while,” said Grandmother stiffly. “As long as Ellie is back in time for my walk.”
I groaned inside. I hated taking Grandmother for her poky old walk. But I said, “Thank you, Grandmother.”
“Make sure you’re back here quickly,” said Papa, as I flew out the door with Kate.
Before we left, I took her to the shanty to see the baby fox. She stared at him in silence for a minute, and I said fiercely, “He’s going to survive. I’m going to raise him and then put him back in the wild when he’s old enough.”
A doubtful look spread across Kate’s face, and I wished I had never brought her to the see the fox. I felt meanly that I didn’t care about her puppies anymore. I would just take one look and come right back.
We ran most of the way down to the trail to their farm. Jingo was in the McDougall’s barn. Her puppies lay along her belly, sucking at her teats.
“I’m keeping one, and I’ll ask if you can have one too,” said Kate.
I knew Papa would say no, but I pretended I was allowed to choose a puppy. I picked a black puppy with a brown face. When the puppies had finished drinking, Kate and I picked them up one at a time and cuddled them. Their eyes were still closed, but their furry bodies felt warm and sturdy.
Kate was chattering on about the puppies, and I felt resentful that she had forgotten all about my fox. A pang of worry shot through me. Maybe even now he was dying.
I jumped up. “I have to go now,” I said. I ignored the hurt look in Kate’s eyes and raced home through the forest. Our wagon was gone; Papa and Max had left for the Jordans’ farm. I glanced at the cabin. I pictured Grandmother sitting stiffly on her chair, waiting for her walk.
