Part 8

They passed through the outskirts of the city. They stopped near a ladies’ dress shop to wait for the light to change. There was a woman in the show window, busily draping a manikin. The figure was beautifully gowned and had an expression of great hauteur. Everything was perfect, except her head, and that was shining bald. At her feet lay a carefully arranged blond wig. The woman was still draping the skirt as the bus started on through the intersection. Janie grinned to herself. “I must remember,” she thought, “never to go out without my wig.”

People were beginning to leave the bus now. Janie was going all the way down to the terminal. They had to travel much more slowly, now that the traffic was heavy, and once they had to stop while a bridge went up, and a long coal boat slid through on its way up the river. Once over the bridge, they threaded their ponderous way down a hill and over a lot of railroad tracks, and then the driver turned and turned at his wheel, and they cut sharply into the long dark tunnel at the terminal building. There were other big busses lined up, and they nosed into the ramp just as a boat eases up to a pier.

By now Jane felt like a seasoned traveler. She picked up her purse and walked into the waiting room with the others. She made straight for the public telephones, and put her purse on the little shelf in front of her. She put a nickel in the slot, and dialed the doctor’s number slowly and carefully. “This is Jane Murray,” she said as the office girl answered. “What time would you like to have me come out?”

“The doctor can see you at four, Jane.”

“Thank you, Miss Clark. Good-by.”

The little watch said half past eleven. She left the terminal, and walked slowly down the busy street. The shop windows were fascinating. There were stores that sold wallpaper and paint, and there were shops that sold nothing but baby clothes. One little place, about the size of the pantry at home, sold nothing but nuts. There was a pan of fresh-roasted nuts slowly revolving in the window. An imitation squirrel looked at them greedily out of his imitation eyes.

A newsboy shouted at the corner, something about “Wuxtra, Wuxtra!” He shouted so that he got red in the face. Just as Janie got close to him, he stopped to draw a breath, and she looked at him in surprise. He wasn’t excited at all. His eyes were as matter of fact as her own. Only his voice was wrought up so. Pigeons circled far overhead. They lived in the balconies and towers at the top of the tall buildings.

A policeman blew his whistle at the street crossing near a big department store, and Janie marched across with the crowd. She pushed on the revolving door until her little cubicle swung her right into the store. My, but it smelled good. No wonder, she was in the perfume department. She walked to the notions department, and bought the skein of salmon colored thread for Grandma. Notions department ... what a funny name, she thought. I wonder if they call it that because ladies say: “I have a notion to buy this, or I have a notion to buy that.” I must remember to ask someone about it sometime.

A river ran close to the building, and Jane walked over to the windows to look out. A sign read:

_Eat Your Lunch In Our Sky Room_ DINE ABOVE THE CLOUDS.

Jane squinted up. It wasn’t above the clouds, really, but something in her imaginative heart responded to the invitation. She looked in her purse. There was the one dollar bill she had earned taking care of Sammy, and Mom had given her thirty-five cents for lunch and car fare. “That’s where I’m going to eat my lunch,” she said. “That’s how I’ll spend my dollar.”

She walked over to the row of elevators. A pretty lady in a neat gray uniform clicked a little snapper that she had in her hand, and that was a signal for the elevator to climb. They went up, up, and up, past dresses and hats and chairs and mixing bowls. They passed long rolls of carpeting that looked like giant crayons laying side by side on the floor. “Call your floor please,” the operator sang out, and at each stop people would squeeze out, and new people would squeeze in. They passed dress materials and lamps and luggage.

At last they came to the top floor, and Janie stepped out into what was called a lounge. It looked like a large living room, and people sat on the chairs and davenports waiting to meet their friends, or perhaps they were just resting.

A tall lady who seemed to be the hostess stood at the entrance and smiled and bowed as the people came in. She smiled very sweetly at Jane. “Good afternoon,” she said. “Where would you like to sit?” The large room seemed crowded, but along one side of the room ran a sort of porch, a long narrow balcony overlooking the river. It had a curved glass roof, like a conservatory.

“Oh,” said Jane eagerly. “Could I sit out there?”

“Yes, you could,” said the lady. “Come along with me,” and she led Jane to a small table next to one of the windows. The river was eight stories straight down, and on all sides the buildings rose even higher than Jane’s balcony. From where she sat, she could see three bridges. It was interesting to see that they crossed the river at an angle instead of in a businesslike straightforward way. Then she remembered a story that Grandma used to tell. It seemed that over one hundred years ago, when the city was first founded, it was really three separate towns. The people on the west side of the river quarreled with the people on the east bank, and vowed never to have anything to do with them. When the streets were laid out they were careful to see that they did not line up with the streets across the river. They wanted to make it inconvenient ever to build a bridge. Now there were many bridges, a little askew perhaps, but happily making one big friendly town out of the little squabbling villages.

Jane was so absorbed in the view that she forgot to order until a smiling waitress reminded her. Then she remembered she was hungry. Breakfast was so long ago. She read everything on the long menu, and mentally counted her money. This was to be something different, something special. No ham sandwich and a glass of milk this time. She finally decided upon an elaborate chicken mixture in a potato basket, and a chocolate ice-cream sundae for dessert.

The food was delicious, and Janie was engrossed. Once, as she lifted a spoonful of ice cream, she looked up to see a sea gull watching her from his perch just out side the window. He wasn’t nearly so pretty close up as he was from a distance. He was quite awkward and ugly looking, except for his eyes. They were like clear, red glass. Janie smiled at him, but he only looked at her bleakly. “Greedy,” he seemed to say. “There you sit, eating chicken and ice cream, while I have to scour the river for my dinner.” With that unhappy observation he was gone.

“Grouch,” Jane said, and continued to enjoy her lunch.

A noisy tug chortled up the river leaving a wake of foam. It was small enough to scuttle under the bridges, and the bridge tender only waved his arm in salute, instead of having to turn all the machinery as he did for the big boats.

The clock in one of the tall buildings across the river chimed and Janie looked up. Goodness! It was one o’clock. The waitress brought the check, and Janie extracted her crisp one dollar bill and laid it on the slip of paper. She wasn’t quite sure of what to do next, but grown people always put something on the tray for the waitress. She added a dime and a nickel from her rapidly dwindling supply.

An exquisite creature, dressed in the very latest fashion, walked slowly up and down the aisles between the tables. Every curl was in place. Her face had the pleasantly blank expression of a wax doll. Her posture was faultless, and she moved so very gracefully and formally, it was almost like dancing. Janie held her breath. In spite of all that Mom had taught her, she stared. She had never seen anything so beautiful in all her life, even on circus posters.

She rose to leave, but her eyes wouldn’t come away from the beautiful lady. She walked backwards, and missing the entrance, bumped into a palm tree.

The hostess at the entrance looked as if she hadn’t seen the mishap, but her eyes were sparkling.

“Would you like to be a model when you grow up, dear?”

“Oh yes,” said Jane blissfully walking away on air. All the way down to the street floor she studied her reflection in the tiny mirror at the elevator operator’s elbow. She held her chin very high, and lowered her eyelashes. That was better. With her eyes half closed she looked just right.

“Main floor,” the operator called. “Main floor, watch your step, please.”

Jane floated out with her nose in the air, and tripped on the ledge. Down she went, full length, on the floor. Half a dozen people helped her up, and were very solicitous.

“Are you hurt, little girl?”

“Did you trip?”

“Let me brush you off.”

“Dear me, such a fall!”

“Can I get you a drink of water?”

“Perhaps you’d better sit down for a moment.”

Janie was embarrassed, but otherwise quite all right. “Thank you,” she said to each one who wanted to help her. “Thank you, but I’m not hurt. I’m all right now. I only stumbled.”

She started off by herself once more, and this time she didn’t lower her eyelashes, and she didn’t float. “I’ll wait till I get home,” she thought. “I’ll practice that walk in my room.”

She looked at her watch once more. It was early in the afternoon, only one-fifteen. Two hours stretched before her to do with as she pleased. She decided to go to the stamp store. All the Murrays except Mom collected stamps, and they had worn a beaten path to the stamp store. Mom would have none of it. “I collect stamps, all right,” she said. “I collect them off the floor and under the beds. I shouldn’t be surprised if I’d brush stamps out of my hair!”

The stamp man was glad to see her. He was small and gray and stooped. He always seemed absorbed in something he was peering at through a magnifying glass. He was like a kindly absent-minded gnome. Janie sat on a stool at the counter, and pushed off her hat. It was good to sit down after the hot walk up the street. A fly buzzed on the screen at the window, and the clock ticked. That was the only sound as the old man and the young girl pored over the bright-colored paper squares. She looked and looked, and at last decided upon three stamps, one for each of the boys. She opened her purse and reached for her money, but the money was gone. She searched again, and turned the purse upside down and shook it, but there was nothing in it but a handkerchief and two skeins of embroidery cotton.

“Oh, Mr. Marckus,” she wailed. “What will I do? I’ve lost my money.”

“Eh? What’s that you say?”

“I’ve lost my money. It must have fallen out of my purse when I fell getting out of the elevator. I wanted to buy these stamps for the boys, and now I’ve lost my money.”

Mr. Marckus carefully put a stamp down with a pair of tiny tweezers. He squinted at her distressed face.

“How much do you need,” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t really need anything. I can walk from here to the doctor’s office, and I’m getting a ride back to the lake with Daddy, but I spent a whole dollar on myself, and now I wish that I could buy something for the boys.”

“Well, you can’t charge anything here,” said Mr. Marckus in his dry, dusty, little voice. “If I gave credit to all the young ones who came in here, I’d never be able to make enough to pay my rent.”

Janie’s cheeks burned. “I didn’t mean,” she started to say.

“I know you didn’t,” said Mr. Marckus. “Your whole family, from your Grandmother down have always been good customers of mine. Here, take the stamps, and we’ll say they’re a birthday present. You have a birthday pretty soon, don’t you?”

“No,” said Janie, looking happy again. “Not until September.”

“Makes no difference,” he said. “A present’s a present.”

He went back to his magnifying glass, and seemed to pay no attention to Janie’s delighted thanks as she prepared to leave.

The twenty-two blocks to the doctor’s office seemed very long indeed. When she got there the waiting room was crowded and she was thirsty and tired. When Daddy called for her at five o’clock she thought she had never been so glad to see him.

“Well, chickie,” he said, pinching her nose. “Did you have a good day? Did you have a fine time spending your hard-earned dollar?”

She settled back in the front seat gratefully, and the car headed for the lake. “Daddy,” she confessed. “I had fun. It was a good day, but I spent my whole dollar on a fancy meal. I ate so much that I felt uneasy all afternoon, and now my money is gone and I have nothing to show for it, not even a new hair ribbon.”

Daddy chuckled. “That’s all right, Janie, my girl,” he said. “We all learn our little lessons.”

_Chapter Twelve_

_The Bear Who Loved Apple Pie_

It was cool that night at the lake front. The boys built a fire with some old boards that had washed up on the shore and begged Daddy for a story.

“Please tell us a story about Indians, Daddy,” said Davey. Bill ran to gather some dry willow twigs to get the fire off to a blazing start.

“I want a bear story,” James insisted. “Mom knows a good one about a big brown bear. It’s a true story, too. She told it to me a long time ago, when I was real little.”

Dad laughed. “It would appear,” he said, “that I’m being ousted as the storyteller of the evening. Janie, run and get your mother.”

Mom was standing on the stepladder tacking paper edging on the cupboard shelves. She had a hammer in one hand and a handful of tacks in the other. “Me?” she asked, gesturing with a hammer. “You’ve got the champion storyteller of McWade county down there right now. Why don’t you have him entertain you?”

“It’s James,” said Jane patiently. “He’s got it into his head that he wants to hear your story about the big brown bear, and I was sent to fetch you.”

“Why,” said Mom. “I’m flattered. I’ll find my sweater and be right with you.”

“Welcome to the powwow,” said Daddy rising and bowing low. “These mighty braves,” he explained, “would like to hear an Indian story and a bear story.”

Mom joined in the play. She wrapped her sweater around her shoulders, making believe it was an Indian blanket, and accepted a cushion near the fire.

“I think I know the story that James is referring to. It’s a true story about Indians that your Grandmother told to me.” She leaned back against the willow tree, and made designs in the sand with a willow twig as she talked.

“It was about a hundred years ago when the Murrays first moved to Wisconsin. Your Great-grandfather bought a farm up in Door county. I shouldn’t say a farm, because it was really a forest. Before it could be a farm they had to chop the trees down, uproot the stumps, and carry off the stones. They built a little cabin in the clearing, and there they lived and worked.

“You’ve seen pictures of Great-grandmother in Grandma’s album. She looks very prim and sedate in her stiff silk dress, and her little children look as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths, but they were just the same sort of people that we are now. I think that Great-grandfather must often have been tired and discouraged at the end of the day, and Great-grandmother must have been frightened and lonely at times, but they worked on and on and lived to see the forest disappear and beautiful cherry orchards bloom in its place.

“There were no neighbors near by, but the Indians were friendly. One of their trails led past the cabin, and the Murrays used to watch them padding along on their way to the settlement at Sturgeon Bay. Great-grandfather knew two of the braves.

“‘That’s Ninnecons,’ he would point out. ‘He has no fingers on his left hand. He says that a bear bit them off, but most likely he got them caught in a beaver trap. The tall one is Shabeno. He’s a good Indian. They’re walking down to the settlement to sell those baskets you see piled on the squaws’ heads.’

“Summer was a busy time. The entire family helped to grow and gather food for the winter. The children helped in the garden patch, and little Nick pulled trout out of the brook as fast as he could bait his hook. Blackberries as big as thimbles glistened in the sun at the edge of the clearing, and thick clusters of wild grapes gave promise of being jelly in the fall. There were raspberries in the woods, but Great-grandfather didn’t want them to go picking berries without him.

“‘A big brown bear lives in the neighborhood,’ he said. ‘He has a sweet tooth. Remember how he stole the wild honey you wanted, Mother? He likes raspberries. You’d most likely meet him in the berry patch.’

“‘He wouldn’t hurt us,’ said Great-grandmother. ‘He might like raspberries. He might even make off with a lamb or a young pig, but he wouldn’t hurt a person.’

“‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that,’ said Great-grandfather. ‘Folks around here say that he’s the one who bit off Ninnecons’ fingers.’

“Great-grandmother laughed and turned back to her work. There was always work to be done in the little clearing. She made her own soap out of ashes and lye and waste fat, and she dipped candles and grew herbs in a tiny garden at the side of the cabin, so that she could make some of her own medicines.

“When the summer turned to fall the air was fragrant with the odor of smoked hams and slabs of bacon. Pumpkins were gathered, and dried corn hung from the rafters like ripe bananas. The forest turned scarlet and yellow and orange, and the slender birch trees at the outskirts looked like a lady’s white fingers held up to the blaze. Indian summer was a little breath of quiet and content, a Thanksgiving at the end of a meal. Just a moment of drowsing in the sun, listening to the ripened nuts falling from the trees and to the partridge rising, and then fall was over, and the northern winter roared in across the Great Lakes.

“During the winter the men worked in the woods cutting down the tall trees, and the women spent most of their time indoors. There was always a fire in the fireplace, and Great-grandmother would sit there spinning and knitting. She taught the children and entertained them, and she cooked and mended and baked and kept the cabin tidy. She sprinkled crumbs for the birds, and once when the snow was deep they tamed a chipmunk.

“Often, on moonlit nights, they looked out to see deer feeding in their garden. The gentle creatures would dig down into the snow with their dainty hooves and nibble at the frozen stumps of cabbages and the remains of corn and chard.”

“Why did they eat that old stuff?” asked Davey.

“Because they were hungry,” said Bill. “Very hungry. Deer almost starve in the wintertime.”

“That’s right,” said Mom. “All the creatures in the forest were hungry, but the wolves sounded hungriest of all. When they howled at night it seemed that they were right on the edge of the clearing, and Great-grandmother would pull the pieced quilt up over her head and shiver.”

“How did the children play in winter,” asked Bill. “Could they go coasting and skating like we do?”

“Yes, but they had neither skates nor sleds as we have now. Nick coasted on barrel staves and he had his own trap line, but Katy and Nell spent most of their time inside the cabin playing with calico dolls.

“One day Great-grandmother looked out to see Ninnecons and Shabeno filing past. They were followed by their patient wives who had baskets piled on their heads and papooses strapped on their backs.

“‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I feel so sorry for those poor women and for those little babies. How cold they must be. I’m going to ask them to come in to get warm.’ She threw a shawl over her head and ran to the door.

“‘Ninnecons,’ she called. ‘Shabeno, won’t you stop for a while and get warm?’

“Without answering the four of them turned off the trail and started up the path to the cabin. Nelly and Katy darted under the beds like frightened rabbits, and the baby started to cry, but Great-grandmother and Nick stood there as if they were giving a reception, and the braves walked in. The squaws stopped at the door and unfastened their papooses.”

Mom paused and looked around at the faces in the firelight.

“Do you know what they did then?” she asked.

Three mouths made circles saying “No.”

But James knew the answer. “I know, Mom,” he said with his eyes sparkling. “I remember now. They parked them outside in the snowbank.”

“That’s right,” said Mom smiling. “The squaws propped their children against the side of the cabin and followed the braves inside. The men walked over close to the fire and sat on the floor without saying a word. Great-grandmother offered chairs to the women, but they declined modestly and sat on the floor near the door. You’ve often heard the expression, ‘Like a wooden Indian.’ Well, that’s just what they were like. They sat there absorbing the heat without moving a muscle. After a while the girls picked up courage and edged out from under the bed. Little Nick was braver than the others. He came over and stood beside his mother and looked and looked. At last his curiosity got the better of his good manners. Pointing to the fingerless hand, he said to Ninnecons,

“‘Did a bear do that?’

“‘Ugh,’ said Ninnecons, ‘bear.’

“That was the extent of the conversation. In another few minutes the braves got up and walked out. The squaws picked up their baskets and babies and followed them down to the trail and then away through the silent forest.

“Many times before spring came, the Indians passed that way, but they never needed another invitation to come in to get warm. They just walked in. They weren’t being impolite. They were really being very logical and reasonable. If the white squaw wanted them in on one cold day, why not on any cold day? Great-grandmother would hear the latch click, and she’d look up from her spinning to see her brown-skinned friends glide in. Occasionally she gave them something to eat, hot tea and corn bread. Sometimes they gave her a present in return. Once she got a basket, and toward spring there were gifts of maple sugar that delighted the children.

“Great-grandmother longed for spring. She watched the buds grow large on the maple trees. Morning came earlier and evening stayed longer. One day she looked out to see a great flock of geese, with their necks outstretched, flying in perfect formation to the Canadian lakes. She called to the children to watch them.

“‘See,’ she said. ‘Spring is here at last.’

“The snow melted and it rained. It rained and rained. The road to the settlement was impassible. It was so muddy that the oxen would have bogged down at every step. Great-grandmother didn’t mind except that the sugar barrel was empty. The flour barrel was almost empty too. There was a little tea in the canister over the fireplace, and part of a slab of bacon hung from the rafters.

“‘We won’t be hungry for another week or so,’ said Great-grandmother as she poured corn meal into a bowl and stirred away at the all too familiar johnnycake.”

“What’s a johnnycake, Mom?” asked Davey.

“It’s another name for corn bread,” said Mom and she kept right on with her story.

“At the side of the cabin rose a brown hump of earth with a wooden ventilator sticking out of the top. It looked like a fat brown man sleeping with a pipe in his mouth. Do any of you children know what it was?”

They looked puzzled, but Janie had a gleam in her eye. “I think I know,” she said. “It must have been a root cellar. We saw them in New Salem where Abraham Lincoln once lived. Weren’t they used for storing potatoes and things like that?”