One day when she was coming downstairs she heard Daddy say something mysterious and important. She could tell from the sound of his voice how important it was. "Well, we can't go on postponing it any longer, can we? We've got to decide now!" he said.
"I expect Marly would be glad," Mother said. "But I don't know about Joe."
"I didn't even think we could get in and out," Daddy said. "But Chris says with a good load of that gravel on the low place, we wouldn't have a bit of trouble. The county keeps the roads clear for the school bus."
Marly felt herself beginning to tremble, because she was beginning to know what they were talking about. "Every objection I think of, Chris figures a way out," Daddy went on. "They really do want us to stay."
Stay! Here? At Maple Hill? All winter? Marly was listening so hard that her ears felt like a donkey's, on either side. Mother was clattering the skillet, and it was hard to hear every word she said.
"...as tight as ever, isn't it? After all, Grandma stayed here all the year round as far back as I can remember—and before. And as Chris says, if we got the heat in ... It's not the house that worries me, Dale."
"I know." Marly heard the sadness in Daddy's voice. "It's not fair for the children. If it wasn't for school..."
"Of course, I don't see anything wrong with country schools myself. The children get lots more attention than they do in those crowded city schools now. It's only that Joe was so pleased about being in such a big school, so new and everything, and he likes his crowd. And he wanted to get a horn and play in the band."
Marly hardly heard past the words "country schools." She and Joe had seen the little Maple Mountain school. It looked just like a church, with a funny bell tower. It even had a graveyard behind it, on a low hill, with the stones overgrown and tumbling. They traced interesting names on some of them, like Mehitable and Josephus, and even gruesome verses about dying. When they looked through the dusty windows of the schoolhouse, they laughed and laughed. There were rows of pictures still pinned to the walls, birds and pussy willows and tulips that the children had colored in the spring. And there was the hugest, roundest stove they ever saw in all their lives. Six rows of desks went from a little tiny row to a great big row. Joe said it looked like a school for "the six bears"—from the little bears to the big bears.
"Imagine having to go to a school like that!" he said.
What was Joe going to think? She couldn't wait to tell him and find out. She crept upstairs again and into Joe's room, but he was still asleep. He looked tall when he was lying down, especially because he spread himself every direction. And once he was spread on the mattress, he didn't move; Daddy said he slept like a stone and a log rolled together.
"Joe!" she said.
He growled and turned over and pulled the covers nearly over his head.
She sat on the edge of the bed. It'd be fun to tease him about that funny school, she thought. So she leaned down close to his ear and said: "Joe-guess what! We're not ever going back to Pittsburgh, we're going to stay right here at Maple Hill all winter long!"
"What?" He sat up so fast she almost fell off the edge of the bed. You'd have thought he hadn't been asleep for a week.
"Yes—I just now heard Mother and Daddy talking. He said it's a good enough house to stay in all winter, and Mr. Chris says we can get in and out, and Mother says the school bus comes by, and we get to go to that funny little old school by the graveyard!" Her words came tumbling over each other, and it came to Marly as she said them that they weren't strictly true, at least not yet. But then she had never yet known something Daddy wanted not to be what Mother wanted, too. And anybody could tell from the way he talked that he wanted to stay at Maple Hill.
Joe looked absolutely horrified. "That school?" She could see on his face the thought of the beautiful school where he would go in Pittsburgh. A solid block of buildings with rooms and rooms and a gymnasium and everything, with policemen to help all the children across the streets.
"I don't believe it," he said, and got out of bed and started for the door.
"Joe—" Marly hurried after him. "Mother and Daddy were talking, see. And I don't think it's all settled, but Daddy—"
"I knew it wasn't so," Joe said. "You always get things wrong." He stood and looked at her angrily. "I'll bet you made the whole thing up. Why, we started packing yesterday."
"I heard them," she said. "Mother said she didn't see anything wrong with country schools. I heard her—"
"Honest?"
"Honest. Daddy said it wouldn't be fair for us, and she said she didn't see anything wrong—"
"Imagine!" Joe interrupted her as if he couldn't stand to hear another word. "That school! All those little kids right in the same room. Why, I wouldn't go to that school if there wasn't another school in the whole world! Why—" He didn't seem able to find even the words to say how awful the whole idea was. He turned and opened the door, but Marly caught his arm.
"Joe." Marly made her face go as long and solemn as she could. "I know how Mother feels. You see, Daddy's better here, isn't he?"
For a minute Joe stood looking at her. She saw his face get afraid, just the way it used to get when Daddy was cross. Once Daddy even reached out and slapped Joe's face, hard, and Mother hurried and took hold of Daddy's arm and said, "Don't you dare!" Joe looked just the same now as he had then.
"The other day when Mother and I were in the garden," Marly said, "Daddy was at the other end of the row. And Mother said, 'Isn't it wonderful how much better Daddy is at Maple Hill?' He was laughing and talking and telling stories and singing the whole time, all the time it took to pick the last of the beans and pull all those carrots and beets."
While she talked, Joe walked slowly back to his bed. He lay down and pulled the covers up again. The huge movie theaters, the museums, the concerts, the science exhibits. She knew all the things Joe loved about the city. He liked the bridges and the hills and even the steel mills. He liked noise and people and policemen. He had his crowd, and they went all kinds of places together. Cities were lots better for boys, she thought, even boys who liked to explore.
"Don't you like Maple Hill, Joe?" she asked. "Not a bit?"
"Sure I do." His voice sounded lost and little, deep in the covers. "But..." His face came out. "Why, I was going to get that horn and play in the band and everything."
"Joe, maybe we're not really going to stay here," she said. "You just tell Daddy how you feel. They were just saying we'd have to decide."
He sat up again. "How do you mean, Marly? I thought you meant it was all settled."
"They were just talking, see, and Daddy said we had to decide."
He threw the covers off so hard they went all over the floor. "Well, I'm going down and find out," he said. "First you say one thing, and then you say the other. If you don't know something, you just ought to shut up about it." He was on the stairs already. "I'm going down and find out," he said again.
Marly heard Daddy say, "Find out what?"
Oh, dear, she thought. Why did she get excited and make out that things were so when they weren't? At least not yet. She was always saying things were settled, and then sometimes they were, and sometimes they weren't. She followed Joe down the stairs, wishing she hadn't said a single word.
"Are we going to stay here all winter and have to go to that funny old school, like Marly says?" Joe demanded.
Mother turned from the stove. "Did Marly say that?" she asked. "How in the world did she get hold of that idea?"
Joe turned accusingly as Marly came into the kitchen. She said, feeling her face go hot, "I heard you talking about it. I was just coming downstairs and I—"
"Come and sit down, both of you," Daddy said. He looked at Mother. "I told you we'd better settle it, Lee. Well, now's the time."
Poor Joe's face had the struggle on it again. He didn't look at Marly at all. If Daddy was going to say he was well here and sick somewhere else, what would there be to settle?
"Marly was in too big a hur
ry, as usual," Daddy said. "We haven't decided, because, after all, there are four of us, and this is a mighty big decision."
So during breakfast and for a long time afterward, they talked it over. Daddy got an old score-card and crossed out Them and Us and wrote "Points for Staying" and "Points for Going." But this wasn't like cards at all, where the same number on each side makes people tied. Some points were more important than others, so that the one point Mother made—"Daddy is better at Maple Hill"—would have canceled out forty points on the other side. Everybody knew that the whole time. When Daddy wrote that one down, he looked as miserable as could be.
"Now, remember, all of you, that's no more important than Schools and Advantages on the other side," he said. But there was so much on the Maple Hill side, it was really ridiculous—like "Live cheaper in the country" and "The Chrises" and "Could live on government pension without Mother working." Marly thought of suggesting "Miracles" for that side, but she was afraid they wouldn't know just what she meant. She wasn't sure, either, that she could explain.
By the time they voted, even Joe could see that the city didn't have a chance in the world. It was as if he could see his trumpet and his fine big school go floating away. But he was a good sport, Joe, as always. He actually voted to stay, even though his throat wobbled in the middle, and he went outside right after and disappeared down the road. She wondered if he'd cry when he was alone; she would have. But she guessed he wouldn't.
Daddy stood in the kitchen door, watching him go. "It's only for this year," he said. "Then I'll be ready to go back to my old job. I know it."
Marly wanted to run after Joe and tell him what Daddy had said. But she decided to wait. If he should happen to cry, he wouldn't want anybody barging right into the middle of it.
So she just ran down to the Chrises to tell them what the big decision was. Nobody wanted to cry about it there! Mr. Chris picked her up and tossed her around, laughing. Chrissie said, "Chris, be careful!" but she laughed, too. They began talking about all the marvelous things that happened in winter on Maple Mountain, and how perfect Thanksgiving was, and Christmas, and how Marly and Joe could have a horse to pull that cunning little sleigh. "Joe can paint it red like it used to be," Mr. Chris said, "and I'll get out our old sleigh bells. You folks will think you've walked right into a Christmas card!"
"I'll tell Joe about the sleigh," Marly said. "He feels so bad about that funny school."
They both looked at her, surprised. Mr. Chris's face went redder, even, than it usually looked. "Why, that's a fine school," he said. "We've got as good a school as any in this country, I can tell you. And big, too. Growing all the time."
Marly was puzzled at first, but then it turned out that Joe wouldn't go to the little school by the graveyard at all. He was twelve, so he would go on the bus to town. "Do they have a band?" she asked eagerly.
"A band? I'll tell the world they've got a band! If Joe wants to be in a band, he'll like that one, all right. They march at all the football games in red and gold suits, and last year they went to a state contest and won honorable mention!"
Marly was so eager to tell Joe about the school and the band that she ran all the way home. But Joe wasn't there. He didn't even come back for lunch at noon.
"Do you know, I wouldn't be surprised if he went to see his friend, the hermit?" Daddy said. "Isn't it the oddest thing, the way Joe took to that old man?" Daddy sounded the least bit jealous, Marly thought.
"Joe helps with the bees and the goats, and they're building a wonderful fence," Marly said.
"I wish he'd come home and eat, at least," Mother said, looking out of the window and down the hill at the empty road.
"There are worse things than goat cheese and honey," Daddy said. "Chris says Harry bakes the best rye bread he ever ate."
When the dishes were done, Marly slipped away and walked to Harry's place. Clear from the second turn, she could see that Joe was there. He and Harry were building a little fence of sharp poles clear around the house, weaving it together with willow boughs that crissed and crossed and wound together. Joe had told Marly about that fence. It was just like the kind the Mexican Indians made, he said, only they made theirs out of cactus that went right on blooming with bright red flowers. Harry said his fence would take root in places, maybe, and get green leaves on it in the spring.
Joe saw her coming, and before she could say a word about the school or the band or anything, he was shouting news of his own. "Marly—guess what? I'm going to take two goats home for the winter!"
"Joe! Why, Mother won't—"
"Why won't she let me?" he interrupted angrily. "If we're going to live in the country, we've got to figure how to manage. Harry's showing me how to milk and separate and make butter and cheese and everything. Do you think I'm tramping all the way to Chris's place for milk all winter?"
Harry was sitting on the ground, cutting a neat sharp end on each of a pile of fence sticks. He looked up at Marly, and his gray beard shook when he laughed. "Joe is right," he said. "You must have everything you need, all together, before the winter really begins. For you I have something, too, and Joe will make a fence like this for them to run—but much higher."
It was chickens. Harry said he had too many, and they must take at least eight home now, today. For a present, he had already prepared an old orange crate to carry them in, tied with neat rope handles at either end. "For these you will be caretaker," Harry said to Marly. "Each on a farm should care for something alive and useful."
Marly had never dared look at Harry very closely for very long. But now she looked right straight at his eyes. They were very sharp and blue, but very kind and twinkling.
It was the queerest thing, but Marly actually got so excited about the goats and chickens that she forgot about telling Joe what she had come to tell. She had never really seen part of Harry's place, and now Joe showed her everything. Down the ravine, west of the hill above the springhouse, Harry had built three wonderful little dams. They were made of large flat stones piled close together. They were beautiful, like fine stone walls, with grass and moss growing over them. All around his house were small patches of things enclosed in fences to keep the rabbits out, and_as Harry said_to keep the flowers and vegetables in. In front of the door were patches of zinnias and marigolds and rhubarb.
The place where he chopped wood was nice. It was under the hugest oak tree Marly had even seen in all her life. There was a sawhorse, and there were three different-sized woodpiles, one of big pieces, one of middle-sized pieces, and one of little pieces for kindlings, all ranked perfectly. The strange yoke Harry had worn that first day was lying against the tree. He had carved it out of a smaller tree, he said, and it fitted his shoulders neatly. It was covered with nice designs. Everything possible was carved with designs, even the stanchions where the goats put their heads and the stalls in the little barn. There was an odd little stand where they leaped to be milked. And every single goat had a name out of Shakespeare!
"We're getting Rosalind and Audrey," Joe said.
Wooden chains were everywhere, from a huge one with links as round as Marly's head to a tiny one Harry was using for a bookmark in his Bible.
As the sun went down, Harry took her to the head of the meadow to look through his telescope. He had it trained on the pond below where ducks were swimming. "Any day now the black ducks come," he said, "and the mallards. Then we will have good meat." He could turn the glass on the meadow, too, and watch pheasants coming and going. Marly could hardly tear her eyes away. Looking through that long tube at a pheasant made you feel as if you were taking a walk with him. She could see his white collar and the white tufts of his ears, and the sun shining on him as it went lower and lower showed dozens of colors clear down to the tip of his long pointed tail.
Harry smiled when she drew back at last, sighing. "Sometimes, can you imagine, people ask me if I am lonely here!" he said.
It did seem a very silly question. He had six goats and five hives of bees and a floc
k of chickens and a herd of geese and a pair of cardinals that stayed near his house the whole year around. He had rabbits that came to eat from his hands and deer that walked down to drink at his dams every morning and never ran off when he talked to them. He had woodchucks and a coon and squirrels and chipmunks. He had an owl in his barn who talked to him at night and a pair of swallows. He had pheasants and grouse and the ducks down on the pond and fishes behind all his dams. And peepers and frogs—not to mention spiders having thousands of babies in his windows. He showed her one spider with four sacks of eggs swinging right over his table where he could watch her while he ate. Then if you considered moths and butterflies and beetles "And lizards and efts," Joe said.
"And the sparrows are always here," Harry said.
"And snakes," said Joe, just because he knew Marly was scared of them. But then he added quickly, "Marly, wait until you know the goats. You'll agree they're the best."
It was true, as he said, that every face of every goat was different—as different as people. Each one was sure to look straight into your eyes, though, so they were alike about being curious. There were three little half-grown goats, and it was nice and comical to see how much they loved Harry. They tried to get close to him for a rubbing when he went into the barn and stretched and bleated for a little touch on the nose. When he let them out, they leaped and ran and climbed onto every bump in the meadow, gazing around from every little height as if they owned the world.
"Do you know, Marly, Harry lived in a city for fifty years?" Joe asked. "This morning when I came over, he told me."
Harry heard. "It was because of Mr. Chris I stayed here," he said. "I was tired and sick of the world, and my wife had left me in disgust. I had been fighting in the war and then in the streets at home, and even in my own house. I was as sick of fighting as Joe says your father is. So one day I put my belongings into a sack and started to walk like a tramp. One morning I came along this road. I was thinking hard thoughts about all men, and I was hungry. Then suddenly I saw this man working in a field. Right there, below where the dam is. I stopped and we began to talk together."
Miracles on Maple Hill (Harcourt Young Classics) Page 9
