Part 8

"Misty!" Paul shouted. But he grinned as he said it, knowing what Grandma had in mind.

Grandpa twisted uncomfortably. "Me and him," he said, scratching Skipper behind an ear, "we got to clean out the truck and do a passel o' things. We'll jes' do our churchin' while we work."

"Clarence Beebe, you'll do no sech a thing! Today is a shining special day and we won't argify. To church we go. _As a fambly!_"

Promptly at nine forty-five the truck, now clean as water and soap could make it, rattled out of the yard with Grandpa and Grandma sitting dressed up and proud in the cab, and Maureen and Paul in back, feet dangling over the tailgate. The sun was shining for the first time in a week, and the sky was a luminous blue.

"Seems almost like it's Easter," Maureen said. "Seems different from other Sundays. Wonder why?"

"'Cause we're wearing shadow rolls over our noses, just like race horses."

Unconsciously Maureen felt of her nose.

"Can't you see, Maureen? We're not even looking at the houses with their porches ripped off and mattresses and things drying in the sun. We're seeing bigger."

"Like what?"

Paul looked up. "Like that flag flying over the Fire House, painting stars and stripes on the sky. And the sea smiling and cheerful as if it'd never been nasty-mean."

Maureen nodded. "And even if the houses _are_ all bashed in, Paul, you hardly notice them for the clumps of daffydils."

It was true. The world seemed reborn. The blue-green water of the bay was unruffled and washing softly against the drift. Gulls were gliding on a seaward breeze with scarcely a wing-flutter. And here and there in all the mud and muck, hosts of yellow daffodils were nodding like spatters of sunshine.

Up in front Grandpa and Grandma were feeling the same joy. "The storm sure bloomed the place up," Grandpa said.

Grandma sighed in deep contentment. "Takes a wrathful storm to make us 'preciate bonny weather, don't it?"

As the Beebe family took their seats in the rapidly filling church, the men of the Coast Guard filed into the front rows.

"Paul!" Grandpa whispered loud enough for the whole congregation to hear. "There's Lieutenant Lipham. He's the one rescued you the day you snuck over to Assateague and your boat drifted away."

The lieutenant turned around, smiling broadly. Paul's cheeks reddened.

Maureen had secretly brought the birth announcements to church so that she and Paul could fill in the hour and date, everything except the name. But they never even opened the package. From almost the beginning of the sermon, they leaned forward, listening with every fiber.

"The earth is the Lord's," the deep voice of the preacher intoned. "He hath founded it upon the seas, and established it upon the floods."

And just by listening to the resounding voice, Paul and Maureen could see God commanding Noah to build the ark, big and flat-bottomed, and they could see the flood waters rising and the animals marching in, two by two.

"God is in the rescue business," the preacher's words rolled out, "and every believer is a member of His rescue force. Today we pay special tribute to the United States Coast Guard. In the sight of God, men who do not know the harbor of His love are like men lost at sea, grasping for something or someone to save them. The Church is God's rescue force, just as the Coast Guard is the government's rescue force."

The preacher half-closed his eyes. "On Thursday night," he said, "when the last of the refugees staying here in our church had been taken to their homes or to the mainland, I walked down the streets and saw the havoc and the emptiness of our once lovely island. Yet no Chincoteaguer had lost his life, and I paused to thank God.

"Then I came back to the parsonage. All was dark and quiet. I was alone. Darkness was all around. Then a flash across the sky! The only light left shining came from the old lighthouse on Assateague Island. It was spreading wide its beam of hope and guidance. So it is when the lights of this old world are snuffed out, and the storms of life would destroy us, the steady light of God's love still shines. As our great Coast Guard keeps the light flashing from the lighthouse, so it is our task to keep our lights burning here at home.

"Let us sing."

Paul and Maureen were almost sorry when the sermon ended. They rose with the congregation, and sang as lustily as Grandma. Even Grandpa made his lips move as if he knew the words:

"Brightly beams our Father's mercy From His lighthouse evermore, But to us He gives the keeping Of the lights along the shore."

Just as the final "Amen" faded, the preacher was handed a message. He read it to himself in apparent pleasure. Then he stilled the congregation.

"Friends," he said with a smile, "I have an important announcement." He cleared his throat and glanced at Paul and Maureen before he began. "On this day, in a stable in the city of Pocomoke, a foal was born--a tiny mare colt." He paused. Then he added, "And her mother is Misty."

There was a rustle as everyone turned to look at Paul and Maureen, then smiles and murmurs of "Misty ... Misty" from every pew.

Quickly the congregation moved out into the bright sunshine. Preacher Britton was greeting the members, and Paul and Maureen, blushing in embarrassment, were standing beside him. Everyone was shaking hands with everyone else. Hands that all week had lifted and scrubbed and prayed now clasped each other in joy.

"It's the happiest news to reach Chincoteague in a week of terror!"

"The very happiest."

For once Grandpa didn't bolt for home as if his house were on fire. He shook hands heartily with the preacher. "Reverend," he said, "ye jes' put up one o' the greatest sermons I ever heerd!"

"Come oftener," the preacher replied with a grin.

_Chapter 20_

HOME AT LAST

After returning home from church, all of the Beebes hurried into old clothes and went to work in a kind of happy frenzy. Everything needed doing at once.

Paul crushed oats in Grandma's coffee grinder and mixed them with bran and linseed, all ready for the hot water when Misty came home. He filled the manger with good-smelling hay. He washed the salt block.

"Wouldn't surprise me none if ye licked it clean with yer own tongue," Grandpa laughed as he went by with Nanny's kid tugging at his pants leg.

In the kitchen Maureen was sewing strips of tape on an old blanket. Every now and then she ran to try it on Grandma to see if the ties were in the right place. "If it fits you, Grandma, it'll fit Misty."

Grandma made a wry face. "Reckon I should be complimented," she snorted, "'stead of laying my ears back. Beats me!" she added as she wrapped jelly sandwiches in waxed paper. "There's barely a speck o' meal in the house for biscuits or bread, and scarce a dry thing to cover folks with, but there's allus oats and bran a-plenty, and a royal blanket for Miss Misty."

"Missus Misty!" Maureen corrected.

Grandma disappeared into her bedroom for a moment and came back with a shy smile. "Here's my contribution," she said. "Likely I'll have no more use for this soft baby blanket. With a couple of safety pins to fasten it under her belly, it'll be just the right size for Misty's young'un. That long ride home will be kind o' drafty for a newborn."

By half-past noon Grandpa and Paul and Maureen were waving good-bye to Grandma and were on their way to Pocomoke City. To their amazement, the causeway to the mainland was jammed with a long procession of cars coming from Maryland, Delaware, and even Washington, D.C.

"Why in tarnation they coming to Chincoteague today?" Paul asked, opening up the lunch box.

"I'll tune ye if I catch ye sayin' 'tarnation' again," Grandpa scolded. Then he cackled in laughter. "'Tain't fittin' except fer an old feller like me."

"But why _are_ they?" Maureen wanted to know.

"Folks is funny," Grandpa mused. "Some jes' nacherly likes to waller in woe like pigs in a pen. Sure as shootin' they're comin' to gawp at the wreckage and to take pitchers o' the boats in the streets, and the soggy beddin' and things dryin' in the sun. Curiosity folks, I calls 'em."

A station wagon with a Maryland license flagged them down. Brakes screeched for a mile as cars behind honked in a mad chorus. A young man with a shock of red hair called out, "How do we get to the Beebe Ranch? We want to see Misty's colt."

Grandpa stopped the truck and guffawed. "News out already?" he asked in amazement.

"Yes, sir! Network had it on the radio, and my kids gave me no peace--"

"Wal, what do ye know! Sorry, young feller, but you passed plumb by her. She's over to Pocomoke City, to Doc Finney's house." Grandpa drove on, chuckling.

"See!" Maureen said. "Not everybody comes to look at trouble."

"Ye're right, honey. Lucky thing yer Grandma stayed to home. She would've flew into the air, hearin' me talk like that."

* * * * *

When they reached Dr. Finney's place, the doctor, who had been watching from the house, came to meet them. With a welcoming smile he unlocked the gate and motioned Grandpa to drive in and park alongside the corral. Then without a word he led the way. In absolute silence the three Beebes walked one after the other Indian file behind him. They moved across the paddock as if it were hallowed ground. Still in silence they eased up to the barn. And then, after almost a year of waiting, the moment had come!

Unconsciously Grandpa took off his hat and tucked it under his arm. Paul and Maureen stood on tiptoe, peering in without breathing. They were utterly still, not wanting the scene to change. There, at the far end of the stall, stood Misty. She eyed them dispassionately as if they belonged to another world and another time. Like a bird brooding a chick she was hovering over a wise little, fuzzy little, scraggly little foal. For a moment the tiny thing took fright and leaned quivering against her mother, who made soft whuffing sounds. Then, comforted, she nosed her way to Misty's teats and began nursing.

"Wa-al, I never!" Grandpa sighed in deep contentment. "Them sucky-smacky sounds is purtier 'n a hull flock o' meadow larks!"

Maureen brushed away a tear. How could a creature be so young and breakable-looking, and yet so spunky? "Why, I feel like I'm its grandma!" she whispered shyly. "And hasn't it got the longest eye-winkers and the curliest tail you most ever saw?"

Paul whispered too. "Look at the strange marking on her forehead--it's in the shape of a new sickle moon! I know!" he exulted. "That's 'cause she was born in the time of the new moon."

Grandpa stared. "She's the onliest colt I ever see with a markin' like that."

"Yes," Dr. Finney said. "There's nothing like her on the Eastern Shore."

"Likely not in all the world," Paul said.

After the colt had drunk her fill, Misty came to the door and nickered happily, sniffing Paul and Maureen by turns.

"She's inviting us in," Paul said.

Slowly, quietly, not to startle the little one, the Beebes went into the stall, and the gentlest of hands lifted her forelock that was only beginning to be a forelock. "Here's a girl's got a head on her," Grandpa approved. "There's enough Arabian into her to make that purty head. And ain't she marked up nice? Not a reg'lar map on her shoulders like her mommy, but she's got her four white stockings."

"And her color is sorrel, like Wings," Maureen said.

Dr. Finney looked at his watch, thinking of the calls still to be made.

Grandpa followed his glance. "If'n ye'll excuse us," he said, "we got to hyper along now. Any last-minute advice, Doc?"

"For now," Dr. Finney said, "avoid bulky food for Misty. Nothing rich or hard to digest."

"How about ground oats and bran and linseed?" Paul asked hopefully.

"Couldn't be better! And no need to remind you children that daily mucking-out is a MUST."

Grandpa nodded vigorously, an "I-told-you-so" twinkle in his eye.

"Right now their stall is the cleanest in the whole wide world," Maureen said proudly.

With quiet confidence she and Paul tied Misty's blanket in place for the trip back. Grandpa took the soft baby blanket and laid it on the little one. Then he crouched down and lifted her up in his arms and carried her out, with Paul leading Misty alongside.

As she approached the truck, Misty planted her feet and balked. Plain as day she bellered: "I'm _not_ getting into that thing without my baby!" But when she found out that her foal was safely stowed in the cab in front, she hurried up the ramp, poked her head through the window, and nickered in relief.

Dr. Finney started to wave good-bye, then had a last-minute request. "Mind driving by David's window?" he asked. "I had to put him to bed this morning with a case of old-fashioned measles. Poor lad hasn't seen the colt. He's heartbroken."

Paul felt a prick of shame. "I'm sorry, Dr. Finney, I didn't even miss him." He reached into a pocket and pulled out a tiny wooden gull. "I made it to sell to the tourist folk," he explained, "but I want to give it to David instead. And some day," he added, warming to his own generosity, "I might make a carving of Misty and her foal. Just for him."

Grandpa drove home very carefully, avoiding ruts and bumps. He didn't want to jar the little filly, who lay asleep across Paul's and Maureen's laps, her soft woolen blanket rising and falling with her breathing.

Going over the causeway, they slowed to a crawl. One driver spotted Misty and put on the brakes so suddenly that his two children almost flew through the windshield. "There she is!" he shouted. "Hey, Mister, wait!"

Grandpa came to a stop, grinning. He felt good toward the whole world. "Want a picture?" he asked.

"Do we!" And now other cars were stopping and out popped dozens of children and dozens of cameras. Traffic stalled while shutters clicked on all sides.

After a few moments Misty began stomping and whinnying. There was a curious urging in her mind, a tremendous pull for home.

"Let's go," Paul said. "Misty's getting nervous."

Grandpa stopped the picture-taking and drove on. And at long last they were going down Beebe Road into Pony Ranch. Once the tailgate was lowered Misty slow-footed down the ramp like a queen returning to her kingdom. Skipper, the official greeter, welcomed her in ten-foot bounds, jumping, rolling, yelping in pure joy. And out on the marsh, Wings added his voice in a great cry of triumph.

Grandma rushed out of the house, calling, "Where's Misty's baby? Where?"

For answer Paul and Grandpa lifted her out of the truck and carefully set her down beside her mother. She tried a little caper, lost her balance and fell in a heap. Bravely she scrabbled up again, then staggered to her mother and began drinking thirstily. Satisfied, she blew bubbles, sending little beads of milk running down her whiskers.

Misty whickered in contentment. "Home at last," she seemed to say. And she gave the little rump at her side a nip, ever so gentle and motherly.

_Chapter 21_

A GRAVE DECISION

That night, when Pony Ranch had simmered down into a semblance of peace, Maureen brought out the birth announcements and piled them on the kitchen table. She and Paul were alone. Grandpa had gone to an emergency meeting of the Pony Penning Committee, and Grandma was attending the evening church service.

"You put the date on," Paul said to Maureen. "You write better than me. Besides, I got some important thinking to do."

"Oh?"

Paul flicked open his pocketknife and began working on a block of wood. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Maureen dip her pen in the ink bottle and wait with it poised in the air.

"I declare, Paul Beebe, you can be downright mean! What _are_ you thinking?"

"And you can be such a _girl_!" Paul said in disdain. "Always poking and prying."

"All right, I won't ask. 'Cause I already know. So there!"

"What do you know?"

"You're trying to think of the right name for Misty's baby."

"Okay then. I reckon you got what Grandpa calls 'woman's tuition.' Now you know what's occupying my mind, whyn't you keep quiet and do your work?"

_Sunday, March 11, 6 a.m._ Maureen wrote again and again until her fingers were tired.

At last Paul was ready to talk. "There's three ways to do it. One is by her markings...."

"Like _New Moon_ or _White Stockings_, Paul?"

"Uh-huh. And the second way is by using her family's names--like _Misty Wings_ or _Pied Phantom_."

"And what's the third way, Paul?"

Just then Grandpa's truck roared into the yard, brakes screeching. Grandpa himself banged into the house like a Fourth of July firecracker. He threw his hat on the peg, then with both hands began rubbing the bristles in his ears.

"I say there's _got_ to be a Pony Pennin' this year like allus," he stormed. "Why, it's the oldest roundup in America! We jes' can't let folks down 'cause of a little flood. Why, come July and roundup time, folks are goin' to pack their night things and set out for Chincoteague hopin' to give their kids a real hollerday. And they're goin' to drive fer miles an' miles, and when they get here--NO hollerday! No Pony Penning!" He snorted in disgust. "I won't hear to it! I jes'--"

"Grandpa!" Paul interrupted. "Who says there won't be a Pony Penning?"

"Why, the Mayor's committee and the firemen, they say ain't enough wild ponies left over to Assateague to make it excitin', and no money in the treasury to buy new ones.

"What's more," he bellowed, "they're right! But I ain't told 'em so! 'Cause without ponies this-here island is dead. Do ye think folks comes here to see oysters and clams and biddies?"

"No, Grandpa."

"Ye're dead right they don't! They come to see wild ponies swimmin' across the channel, and feudin' and fratchin' in the pens. Pony Penning Day! That's what they come fer. Can't see it nowhere else in the world."

Paul and Maureen were aghast. July without Pony Penning was unthinkable. "All year I been answering letters about Misty," Maureen said. "And in every one I invited people to come to Pony Penning, people from all over the United States. Even one to Alaska."

Paul broke in. "And this year folks'll come special on purpose to see Misty's baby."

Grandpa began pacing, thinking out loud. "If only we had the ponies! If only the Town Council could buy back some of the colts that was auctioned off last year and the year afore that."

He quickened his pace. "Why, we could load 'em onto a big old barge, and chug 'em acrost the channel to Assateague, and they'd go wild again jes' like they'd never left." Now he spoke out with great conviction. "Why, then we could put up one o' the greatest Pony Pennings in Chincoteague history."

Grandpa ran out of breath. He gulped for more. "But all that'd take a heap o' money," he sighed.

"Maybe," Maureen said excitedly, "maybe Paul and me could earn a lot of money like we did to buy Misty's mother. We could rake clams or help people clean up their houses."

Paul looked pityingly at his sister. "When you going to grow up, Maureen? Why, it took us three whole months to earn enough to buy just one mare and her colt. Besides, folks here lost most everything in the flood. They can't afford to hire us."

"Paul's right, honey."

"But, Grandpa," Paul asked, "even if we had the money, would people sell back their ponies?"

"Likely some'd be right anxious to help," Grandpa replied, "and some'd sell fer other reasons. A lucky thing me and the Fire Company got a record o' each sale, and if only half them people say yes, that'd give us the start we need."

Grandpa suddenly remembered that his feet hurt. He collapsed into the nearest chair and began unlacing his Sunday shoes. "Can't abide 'em!" he grumbled. "I jes' stormed outen that meetin' afore it was done--half 'cause my hackles was up, but half 'cause my shoes squinched me."

The phone rang insistently. "You answer, Paul. There's another thing I can't abide. Phone-talkin'. A contraption o' the devil."

"It's for you, Grandpa. It's the Mayor and he sounds real important."

Grandpa thudded to the phone. "Hall-oo-oa!" he bellowed.

"Grandpa doesn't need a phone," Paul snickered. "He could just open a window."

"Sh!" Maureen put up a finger, listening.

"_Who_ called you?" Grandpa questioned.

There was a pause.

"What in tunket _he_ want?"

Another pause.

"He did!"

Paul and Maureen looked inquiringly at each other.

"Wa-al, Great Jumpin' Jehoshephat! Now ain't that nice?... What's that ye say?"

A long pause.

Still holding the receiver, Grandpa turned and looked penetratingly at Paul and Maureen. His voice sobered. "Sure I like the ideer, Mayor, but 'tain't fer me to say. I'll have to put it to Paul and Maureen and get their yes or no. The colt, nor Misty neither--they ain't mine, y'know."

Grandpa hung up the receiver and walked back to the table, collecting his thoughts. Paul and Maureen stared at him, unable to ask the question except with their eyes.

Grandpa hummed and hawed. "Now I ain't a-goin' to influence ye," he said. "It's _yer_ druthers, an' no one else's."

"But what is it?"

"Y'see, uh, it's this way. One o' the big chiefs from the movie company that made Misty's picture--he jes' telephoned the Mayor long distance. From his home, mind ye."

"What did he want?" Maureen asked. "Does he want to make a picture of Misty's baby?"

"Stop interruptin'," Paul scolded. "Let Grandpa finish."

"Wa-al," Grandpa went on, "seems he'd been readin' 'bout the storm and how so many ponies had drowned. And he wants to do somethin' to help. Why, he's willin' to let theaters borry the picture of Misty free; that is, _if_ the money tooken in goes to build up the lost herds."

Paul did a flying leap over his chair. "That's great, Grandpa. You don't have to get our okay on that."

"But I ain't told ye the kernel yet," Grandpa explained. "Y'see, the Mayor and the Council wants to start a disaster fund, and call it the Misty Disaster Fund." Grandpa stroked his chin and a far look crept into his eyes. "They want to cast Misty in the biggest role o' her life; even bigger'n bein' a star in a movie."

The children listened, speechless.

"Even bigger," Grandpa added, "than birthin' a colt."

"What could be bigger?" Maureen asked.

"They want Misty and her young'un to make a personal tour wherever her picture is playing, and go right spang up onto the stage. And part o' the ticket money'll be used to tidy up the island, but most of it to buy back the ponies. Mind ye, it'll all have to start right away. Mebbe in two weeks--that is, if there's to be a roundup this year."

Paul turned to his sister. "What do you say, Maureen?"

Maureen's face clouded and she thought carefully before replying. "If Misty's baby wasn't so new and tiny, I'd say yes."

Paul picked up the block of wood and his knife, and made a few fierce jabs. "Exactly the way I feel." He looked at Maureen. "'Course, it'd be fun to be excused from school and all."

"Mostly it'd be on Saturdays," Grandpa said drily.

"But suppose," Paul was serious now, "suppose they caught the shippin' fever, or bad coughs from travelin' and going in and out of hot theaters. Or even broke a leg."

All three of them lapsed into silence. No one knew what to say. Maureen screwed the cap onto the ink bottle as if she would never have need of it again. Paul threw his piece of wood into the stove and closed his knife. The silence was a growing power. Grandpa sat down and crossed his arms, using his paunch as a ledge. He looked up at the ceiling and across at the clock. He picked up one of the birth announcements and studied it. The corners of his mouth twisted into a smile of sympathy and understanding. "It'd be chancy," he admitted. "Mighty chancy."

"But suppose," Paul spoke slowly, earnestly, "suppose we let Misty and the colt go to just one theater, and if they come home feeling frisky, they could go again. But if they got sick or were off their feed for just one day, they'd _never_ have to go again."