Part 7

"Course they are, honey." Grandma placed them on the table. "Paul, you still got your boots on. Run out to the smokehouse for some bacon. We'll have a tiny fried egg apiece and plenty o' crispy bacon. I'll put the skillet on and have it spittin' hot."

When Paul had gone out, Grandma turned to Maureen and Grandpa. "Now you two wash up so's I can tell who's who. And for pity's sake, use that naphtha soap. If'n I had any sense at all, I'd go around this house with a clothespin twigged onto my nose."

Grandpa's face broadened into a grin. "Humpf! A sea-captain's daughter complainin' 'bout a little bilge water."

Suddenly Maureen shushed Grandpa and held up a warning finger. "Listen!"

Faint and far off, like something in a dream, came a sound like a dog's barking. Then it faded away and stopped. They all stood still--waiting, listening. For long seconds they heard nothing. Only the clock hammering and the fire crackling in the stove.

But there! It came again. Louder this time. Nearer! A gruff, rusty bark, then three short yaps, familiar, beloved.

In one stride Grandpa was at the door. He flung it wide and a flash of golden fur bulleted into the room, skidding across the wet floor until it reached Maureen.

"Skipper! Skipper!" she cried, hugging him passionately, wildly.

Grandpa and Grandma seemed to forget they were grown. They let Skipper come leaping at them, let him put his front feet on their shoulders. Who minded muddy paws? Who minded the icy-cold nose? Who minded the wet tongue-swipes? And the tracked floor? Not even Grandma! Only Wait-a-Minute hissed and spat at him.

Everyone was laughing and crying and talking all at once.

"Where you been, feller?"

"_I_ thought you'd been caught in a mushrat trap."

"_I_ thought you'd drowned, for sure."

"Why, ye're strong as a tiger."

"And yer coat's got a nice shine."

Paul came in then, a wide smile spread across his face. "He _should_ be fat and shiny. He's been in the smokehouse eatin' his way through hams and salt pork."

Grandma wiped her laughter-tears away. "He allus was crazy on smoked meats," she said.

Maureen buried her nose in his ruff. "He's even got a smokehouse smell to him," she said. "Remember, Paul? Last thing you did was to go get a ham before we left on the helicopter."

Grandpa went to the sink and plunged his face into the wash basin, making a sound like a seal. He came up bellowing: "Skipper's a progger!"

"What's that?" Maureen and Paul wanted to know.

Grandpa scruffed his beard, thinking. "It's a old, old Chincoteague word, and it means ... wa-al, it jes' means someone as is smart enough to grab a livin' when things is dire bad." And he cupped his hands around his mouth and boomed, "Welcome home, ye old Progger!"

_Chapter 17_

SAWDUST AND SADNESS

Saturday. News briefs from around the world were coming over the radio like flak:

"India agrees to a conference with Pakistan.... African leaders at the United Nations are exploring the Common Market.... Russia accuses the United States of war-mongering.... Jordan and Israel again at loggerheads over the River Jordan.... England's Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip return in triumph from Australia and New Zealand."

The newscaster paused and took a breath as if all this were far away and only a prelude to the real news. His tone became neighborly now and concerned.

"And here on the home front, the tiny flooded island of Chincoteague has aroused the sympathy of the whole nation. The islanders, whose livelihood depends on chickens and sea-food and ponies, have suffered a savage blow to all three industries. Their oyster beds are gone; their chickens are gone. And today's report indicates that only a remnant of the wild pony herds on Assateague Island have survived. These are the ponies that made Chincoteague famous for the annual roundup and Pony Penning celebration, and that have brought visitors by the thousands. How seriously this loss will affect the tourist industry can only be estimated.

"Yet the Chincoteaguers are showing indomitable courage. With bulldozers and scoop shovels they are pushing tons of sand off streets, off lawns, out of cellars, and back into the channel. Clean-up crews are making bonfires of rubble and debris.

"Oh ... flash news! Two notes were just handed me. One says Misty, the movie-star pony, has been evacuated from her owner's kitchen to an animal hospital in Pocomoke, Maryland, where her colt is expected momentarily.

"The other says the Second Army at Fort Belvoir is flying in helicopters within the hour to remove the dead ponies from Chincoteague and Assateague...."

At Pony Ranch Grandpa snapped off the radio in mid-sentence. "I got to go now," he said in a tone of finality. "Them's my orders." He kissed his family good-bye as solemnly as if he were going away on a long journey and might never return.

"No, son." He shook his head in answer to Paul's asking look. "No, ye're needed here today to work on Misty's stall. Somebody's got to ready it for her homecoming. Besides, Grandma and Maureen can't lift that wet rug out on the line by theirselves. They need an able-bodied man."

"But who's going to help lift the dead po--"

Grandpa cut off the word with a sharp glance. His eyes said, "Less talk, the better." And his voice said, "Each 'copter has a crew of four stout army men, and there's Tom Reed and Henry Leonard to help me."

Grandma's eyes were bright with unshed tears. Quickly she went to the cupboard and took out a small brown sack. "I was saving these peppermints for Misty's baby. But here, Clarence, you take them. For extry strength," she whispered, "when things is rough."

* * * * *

Paul and Maureen were soon so busy with preparations for Misty's return that they forgot Grandpa. The phone might ring any minute, long distance, with big news from Pocomoke. And if it did, the made-over chicken coop had to be dry and snug and warm, and waiting.

The day was spent in a fever of activity. At first they tackled the heavy, sodden straw with enthusiasm. They were used to cleaning Misty's stall every morning before breakfast. It took only a few minutes--fifteen at most. But now clumps of seaweed made the bedding slithery as soup and heavy as lead. With fork and shovel they pitched and tossed for an hour. Each wheelbarrowful seemed heavier than the last, until finally it took both of them, one at each handle, to push it and dump the muck in the woods.

Skipper found an old pulpy potato and asked Paul and Maureen to play ball, but they were too busy and too tired.

At morning's end the floor of the shed was emptied of wet bedding, but what remained was a churned-up, slimy mass of mud. Maureen leaned against the wall, rubbing an arm across her face. "How are we _ever_ going to get it dry?" she said, bursting into tears.

Paul felt defeated too, and his head and body ached. "What we need," he groaned, "is a thousand million blotters. But where?" Suddenly his face lighted in inspiration. "Sawdust!" he cried. "That's what we need!" He ran sloshing toward the road, calling back over his shoulder, "You wait, I'm going to see Mr. Hancock."

Mr. Hancock was a long-time friend. He was a wood-carver, and had given work to Paul and Maureen when they were earning money to buy Misty's mother. Often for fifty cents apiece they had swept his shop clean of sawdust and shavings.

By the time Maureen had finished her cry and wiped away her tears, Paul and Mr. Hancock were driving into the yard in his newly painted truck. She gaped in astonishment as she watched them unload bushel basket after bushel basket of sawdust at the door of the stall.

"Ain't near enough," Mr. Hancock said as he helped dump the yellow sawdust on the floor and saw it turn dark and wet in seconds. "Tell ye what," he said, noticing Maureen's tear-streaked face, "it's eatin'-time now and we all got to eat, regardless. That'll give this stuff time to absorb all the wet it's a-goin' to. Then ye got to heave it all out, and I'll bring more sawdust, and some chips too. Lucky thing I had it stored high and dry in my barn loft."

Paul piled the empty baskets into Mr. Hancock's truck. Then he and Maureen headed wearily for the house. Maureen was trying not to cry.

"See what I see?" Paul pointed to the back stoop. And there was Grandma milking the nanny goat, who was tied to the stair railing.

"Sh ... sh!" Grandma warned as the children came up. "Don't frighten her. This ain't easy, but I got eenamost enough to make us a nice pot of cocoa."

All during lunch Grandma kept up a stream of conversation to cheer them. "Children," she said brightly, "a she-goat was 'zackly what we needed. If not for Misty, then for us. Ain't this cocoa _de_-licious?"

Paul and Maureen nodded, too tired for words.

"You can each have two cups. And all the biscuits you can eat, with gooseberry jam. I figger the starving people of the world would think this a Thanksgiving feast, don't ye?"

"Yes, Grandma."

"And since you still got work on Misty's stall, you don't need to hang my rug outside today. I got all the windows open and there's a good breeze blowing in."

"Thank you, Grandma."

"Now, you two perten up. Everything's going to be better this afternoon. Life's like a teeter-totter. Heartbreak, happiness. Happiness, heartbreak. You'll see. Everything'll be better this afternoon."

Grandma was right. By the time the wet sawdust was shoveled out, Mr. Hancock was back again with a small tow wagon hooked onto his car.

"Got a big surprise fer ye," he chuckled. "The road people was putting down some ground-up oyster shells, and I got 'em to fill my wagon plumb full. With them shells first, and the shavings atop that, ye'll have the driest stable this side o' Doc Finney's."

The rest of the afternoon flew by in a fury of work. Paul dumped the oyster shells onto the floor. Maureen raked them even. Then came layer on layer of chips and shavings. For a final touch they took a bale of straw and cut it up, a sheaf at a time, into short wisps.

"Why can't we just shake it airy?" Maureen asked. "My fingers ache. Why do I have to cut it?"

"Do you want his pipestem legs getting all tangled up and throwin' him down?"

"'Course not. When you tell me why, I don't mind doing it. But, Paul, how do you know it's going to be a 'he'?"

"I don't, silly. People always say 'he' when they don't know."

"Well, _I_ say 'she.'"

With the work done, Paul flopped down on the straw and lay there quite still.

"You sick?" Maureen asked in fright.

"No!"

"Then what are you doing?"

"I'm a newborn colt and I'm testing to see if there are any draughts. Doctor Finney says they can't stand them."

"I feel the wind coming in through the siding. I can feel it blowing my hair."

"That's easy to fix." Paul got up and plastered the cracks with straw and mud. Meanwhile Maureen stripped some pine branches and scattered the needles lightly for fragrance.

By twilight any horse-master would have tacked a blue ribbon on the old chicken-coop barn. Maureen called Grandma to come out and inspect. "You've got to see, Grandma. It's beautiful. Misty's going to be the happiest mother in the world."

Grandma, holding her sweater tight around her neck, stepped inside the snug shelter. She beamed her approval. "I declare to goodness, I'd like to move in myself. Just wait 'til yer Grandpa sees this. Likely he'll do a hop-dance for joy."

But that night Grandpa never even looked at Misty's stall. It was dark when he came home. Without a word he made his way toward the kitchen table and sat down heavily. His face seemed made of clay, gray and pinched and old. Without removing his jacket he sat there, hands folded, just staring at the floor.

The noisy clock was no respecter of grief. Each stroke of the hammer thudded like a heartbeat. The seconds and minutes ticked on. Paul and Maureen sat very still, saying nothing, doing nothing. Just waiting.

"Yer Grandpa's had a mill day," Grandma whispered at last. "He's all cut to pieces. Jes' leave him be."

It was as if the gentle words had broken a dike. The old man hid his face in his arms and wept.

"Don't be ashamed to cry, Clarence. Let the tears out if they want to come." Grandma put her clean, scrubbed hand on the gnarled, mud-crusted ones. "King David in the Bible was a strong man and he wept copiously." Her voice went on softly. "In my Sunday School class just two weeks ago I gave the story of King David. There was one verse and it said, 'The King covered his face and wept.' Just like you, Clarence."

Neither Paul nor Maureen made a sound. They were too stunned. They watched the heaving shoulders in silence. Grandpa, who had always seemed so strong and indestructible, now looked little and feeble and old. When his sobs quieted, he wiped his eyes and slowly looked up. "I ain't fit to talk to nobody," he said, his voice no more than a breath.

"Oh ... oh, Grandpa!" Maureen cried. "Your voice! It's gone! You ain't bellerin'!" And she ran to him and flung her arms about him, sobbing hysterically.

"There, there, child. Don't you cry, too. I'm plumb 'shamed to break down when we're lots luckier than most folks." He smiled weakly. "We got our house and each other and...."

"And Misty," Paul said earnestly.

"And Misty," Grandpa nodded. "It's jes'...." He swallowed hard and his hands gripped the table until the knuckles showed white through the dirt. "It's jes'," he repeated, "that all the days of my life I'll hear that slow creakin' of the crane liftin' up the dead ponies, and I'll see their legs a-swingin' this way and that like they was still alive and kickin'." Now the words poured from him in a tide; he couldn't stop the flow. "And some had stars on their faces, and some had two-toned manes and tails, and some was marked so bright and purty, and most o' the mares had a little one inside 'em." His voice broke. "I knowed all my herd by name."

"How many were there in all, Clarence? Yours and the others?"

Grandpa's breath came heavy, as if he were still at work. "We lifted off more'n we could count," he said, "includin' the wild ones over to Assateague. And when the trucks was all lined up with their dead cargo, ever' one of us took off our hats, and the army men and us Chincoteaguers all looked alike with our sunburnt faces and white foreheads. And we was all alike in our sadness.

"Then the preacher, he come by and he said somethin' about these hosses needin' no headstone to mark their grave, and he put up a prayer to the memory of the wild free things. He said, 'Neither tide nor wind nor rain nor flight of time can erase the glory o' their memory.'"

Everyone in the little kitchen let out a deep sigh as if the preacher's words were right and good.

After a moment Grandpa got up from the table and put his arm around Grandma. "Now ye see, Idy, why I had to smuggle ye home. I needed ye for comfort."

Grandma wiped her spectacles with her apron. "Must be steam in the room," she said.

Grandpa had one more thing to say. "Fer jes' this oncet in my life I wisht I was a waterman 'stead of a hossman. When oysters die, ye can plant another bushel, and when boats drift away, ye can build another. But when ponies die ... how can ye replace 'em?"

Paul glanced around in sudden terror. It was as if a cold blade of fear had struck him. His eyes sought Maureen's. They were very dark and wide and asking.

Was Misty all right?

_Chapter 18_

WITHIN THE FOALING BOX

On the same day that Grandpa was airlifting the ponies and Paul and Maureen were drying out Misty's stall, Misty herself felt strangely unhappy.

She had a freshly made bed in a snug stable, and she couldn't have been lonely for she was never without company. If she so much as scratched an ear with a hind hoof, young David Finney tried to do it for her. If she lipped at her hay, he tore handfuls out of the manger and presented it joyously to her. If she lay down, he tried to help her get comfortable.

And there were newspaper men coming and going, taking pictures of her in her stall, out of her stall, with David, without David. One caught Misty pulling the ponytail of a lady reporter. There was plenty of laughter and a constant flow of visitors.

But in spite of all the attention she was getting, Misty felt discontented and homesick. She was accustomed to the cries of sea birds, and the tang of salt air, and the tidal rhythm of the sea. And she was accustomed to going in and out of her stall, to the old tin bathtub that was her watering trough. But here everything was brought to her.

She kept shaking her head nervously and stamping in impatience. Occasionally she let out a low cry of distress which brought David and Dr. Finney on the run. But they could not comfort her. She yawned right in their faces as much as to say, "Go away. I miss my own home-place and my own children and my own marsh grass."

In all the long day there was only one creature who seemed to sense her plight. It was Trineda, the trotter in the next stall. The two mares struck up a friendly attachment, and when they weren't interrupted by callers, they did a lot of neighborly visiting. If Misty paced back and forth, Trineda paced alongside in her own stall, making soothing, snorting sounds. The newsmen spoke of her as Misty's lady-in-waiting, and some took pictures of the two, nose to nose.

When night came on, Trineda was put out to pasture, and Misty's sudden loneness was almost beyond bearing. She shied at eerie shadows hulking across her stall. And her ear caught spooky rustling sounds. Filled with uneasiness, she began pacing again, not knowing that the shadows came from a lantern flame flickering as the wind stirred it, not knowing that the rustling sounds were made by Dr. Finney tiptoeing into the next stall, carefully setting down his bag of instruments, and stealthily opening up his sleeping roll.

When at last there was quiet, Misty lay down, trying to get comfortable. But she was even more uncomfortable. Hastily she got up and tried to sleep standing, shifting her weight from one foot to another.

Suddenly she wanted to get out, to be free, to high-tail it for home. She neighed in desperation. She pawed and scraped the floor, then banged her hoof against the door.

Trineda came flying in at once, whinnying her concern. Trying to help, she worked on the catch to the door, but it was padlocked. She thrust her head inside, reaching over Misty's shoulder, as much as to say, "There, there. There, there. It'll all be over soon."

Dr. Finney watched, fascinated, as the four-footed nurse quickly calmed her patient. "It'll probably be a long time yet," he told himself. "Nine chances out of ten she'll foal in the dark watches of the night. I'd better get some sleep while I can." He was aware that many of his friends would pity him tonight, shaking their heads over the hard life of a veterinarian. But at this moment he would not trade jobs for any other in the world. Each birth was a different kind of miracle.

Sighing in satisfaction, he slid down into his sleeping bag and settled himself for a long wait. The seconds wore on, and the minutes and the slow hours. He grew drowsy and he dozed, and he woke to check on Misty, and he dozed again. Toward morning his sleep was fitful and he dreamed that Misty was a tree with ripening fruit--just one golden pear. And he dreamed that the stem of the fruit was growing weak, and it was the moment of ripe perfection.

A flush of light in the northeast brought him sharply awake. He peered through the siding and he saw Misty lying down, and he saw wee forehoofs breaking through the silken birth bag, the head resting upon them; then quickly came the slender body with the hindlegs tucked under.

He froze in wonder at the tiny filly lying there, complete and whole in the straw. It gave one gulping gasp for air, and then its sides began rising and falling as regularly as the ticking of a clock.

Alarmed by the gasping sound, Misty scrambled to her feet and turned to look at the new little creature, and the cord joining them broke apart, like the pear from the tree. Motionless, she watched the spidery legs thrashing about in the straw. Her foal was struggling to get up. And then it was half way up, nearly standing!

Suddenly Misty was all motherliness. She sniffed at the shivering wet thing and some warning impulse told her to protect it from chills. Timidly at first, she began to mop it dry with her tongue. Then as her confidence grew, she scrubbed in great rhythmic swipes. Lick! Lick! Lick! More vigorously all the time. The moments stretched out, and still the cleaning and currying went on.

Dr. Finney sighed in relief. Now the miracle was complete--Misty had accepted her foal. He stepped over the unneeded bag of instruments and picked up a box of salt and a towel. Then, talking softly all the while, he unlocked Misty's door and went inside. "Good girl, Misty. Move over. There, now. You had an easy time."

With a practiced hand he sprinkled salt on the filly's coat and the licking began all over again. "That's right, Misty. You work on your baby," he said, unfolding the towel, "and I'll rub _you_ down. Then I'll make you a nice warm gruel. Why, you're not even sweating, but we can't take any chances."

Misty scarcely felt Dr. Finney's hands. She was nudging the foal with her nose, urging it up again so that she could scrub the other side.

The little creature _wanted_ to stand. Desperately it thrust its forelegs forward. They skidded, then splayed into an inverted V, like a schoolboy's compass. There! It was standing, swaying to and fro as if caught in a wind.

Smiling, Dr. Finney stopped his rubbing. He saw that all was well. Reluctantly he left the stall.

Minutes later he was on the telephone. Young David stood behind him, listening in amazement and disgust. How could grown-ups be so calm, as if they'd just come in from repairing a fence or pulling weeds? He wanted to do hand-springs, cartwheels, stand on his head! But there was his father's voice again, sounding plain and everyday.

"Yes, Paul. She delivered at dawn."

"A mare-colt, sound as a dollar."

"Yes, I'm making Misty a warm mash. Just waiting for it to cool a bit."

"No, Paul, she's just fine. Everything was normal."

"No, don't bring the nanny goat. Misty's a fine mother."

"Don't see why not. By mid-afternoon, anyway."

Dr. Finney put the receiver in place, stretching and yawning.

"Dad, what don't you 'see why not'?" David asked.

"Why they can't take Misty and her foal home today."

"Can I go out and see her now?" David pleaded.

"No, son," Dr. Finney replied. Then he saw the flushed young face and the tears brimming. "Of course you can go later. Just give them an hour or so alone."

_Chapter 19_

GLORY HALLELUJAH!

Paul turned from the telephone and let out a war whoop loud enough to break the sound barrier. He grabbed Maureen and they pulled Grandpa between them and went dancing around the kitchen table, lifting their knees high, bugling like wild horses. It was a free-for-all frolic. Grandpa was suddenly himself again, spry-legged and bellowing.

Grandma laughed in relief. She dropped her spoon in the pancake batter and half ran to the organ. Recklessly she threw back the lid and, with all stops open, made the notes thunder and throb as she sang in her full-bodied voice:

"Glory, glory, halle-_loooo_-jah, Glory, glory, halle-_loooo_-jah, Glory, glory, halle-_loooo_-jah, His truth is marching on."

Around and around the table marched the three Beebes. Skipper burst into the house, joining the dance, howling to the music. At last Grandpa had to sit down, and Paul and Maureen fell limp and exhausted on the floor.

Grandma turned from the organ, her eyes crinkled with joy. She clapped her hands for attention, then chanted:

"_Come_ day, _go_ day; God send _Sun_-day.

And where do we go today?" she asked.

"To Pocomoke!" Maureen burst out.

"But before that, where? And who do we thank today?"