One of Ours, Willa Cather [feel good fiction books txt] 📗

They pulled up at the Wheeler farm just before dark, and Mrs. Wheeler came running out to meet them with a rubber coat over her head.

“You poor drowned children!” she cried, taking Enid in her arms. “How did you ever get home? I so hoped you had stayed in Hastings.”

“It was Enid who got us home,” Claude told her. “She’s a dreadfully foolhardy girl, and somebody ought to shake her, but she’s a fine driver.”

Enid laughed as she brushed a wet lock back from her forehead. “You were right, of course; the sensible thing would have been to turn in at the Rice place; only I didn’t want to.”

Later in the evening Claude was glad they hadn’t. It was pleasant to be at home and to see Enid at the supper table, sitting on his father’s right and wearing one of his mother’s new grey house-dresses. They would have had a dismal time at the Rices’, with no beds to sleep in except such as were already occupied by Rice children. Enid had never slept in his mother’s guest room before, and it pleased him to think how comfortable she would be there.

At an early hour Mrs. Wheeler took a candle to light her guest to bed; Enid passed near Claude’s chair as she was leaving the room. “Have you forgiven me?” she asked teasingly.

“What made you so pigheaded? Did you want to frighten me? or to show me how well you could drive?”

“Neither. I wanted to get home. Good night.”

Claude settled back in his chair and shaded his eyes. She did feel that this was home, then. She had not been afraid of his father’s jokes, or disconcerted by Mahailey’s knowing grin. Her ease in the household gave him unaccountable pleasure. He picked up a book, but did not read. It was lying open on his knee when his mother came back half an hour later.

“Move quietly when you go upstairs, Claude. She is so tired that she may be asleep already.”

He took off his shoes and made his ascent with the utmost caution.

Ernest Havel was cultivating his bright, glistening young cornfield one summer morning, whistling to himself an old German song which was somehow connected with a picture that rose in his memory. It was a picture of the earliest ploughing he could remember.

He saw a half-circle of green hills, with snow still lingering in the clefts of the higher ridges; behind the hills rose a wall of sharp mountains, covered with dark pine forests. In the meadows at the foot of that sweep of hills there was a winding creek, with polled willows in their first yellow-green, and brown fields. He himself was a little boy, playing by the creek and watching his father and mother plough with two great oxen, that had rope traces fastened to their heads and their long horns. His mother walked barefoot beside the oxen and led them; his father walked behind, guiding the plough. His father always looked down. His mother’s face was almost as brown and furrowed as the fields, and her eyes were pale blue, like the skies of early spring. The two would go up and down thus all morning without speaking, except to the oxen. Ernest was the last of a long family, and as he played by the creek he used to wonder why his parents looked so old.

Leonard Dawson drove his car up to the fence and shouted, waking Ernest from his revery. He told his team to stand, and ran out to the edge of the field.

“Hello, Ernest,” Leonard called. “Have you heard Claude Wheeler got hurt day before yesterday?”

“You don’t say so! It can’t be anything bad, or they’d let me know.”

“Oh, it’s nothing very bad, I guess, but he got his face scratched up in the wire quite a little. It was the queerest thing I ever saw. He was out with the team of mules and a heavy plough, working the road in that deep cut between their place and mine. The gasoline motortruck came along, making more noise than usual, maybe. But those mules know a motor truck, and what they did was pure cussedness. They begun to rear and plunge in that deep cut. I was working my corn over in the field and shouted to the gasoline man to stop, but he didn’t hear me. Claude jumped for the critters’ heads and got ’em by the bits, but by that time he was all tangled up in the lines. Those damned mules lifted him off his feet and started to run. Down the draw and up the bank and across the fields they went, with that big plough-blade jumping three or four feet in the air every clip. I was sure it would cut one of the mules open, or go clean through Claude. It would have got him, too, if he hadn’t kept his hold on the bits. They carried him right along, swinging in the air, and finally ran him into the barbwire fence and cut his face and neck up.”

“My goodness! Did he get cut bad?”

“No, not very, but yesterday morning he was out cultivating corn, all stuck up with court plaster. I knew that was a fool thing to do; a wire cut’s nasty if you get overheated out in the dust. But you can’t tell a Wheeler anything. Now they say his face has swelled and is hurting him terrible, and he’s gone to town to see the doctor. You’d better go over there tonight, and see if you can make him take care of himself.”

Leonard drove on, and Ernest went back to his team. “It’s queer about that boy,” he was thinking. “He’s big and strong, and he’s got an education and all that fine land, but he don’t seem to fit in right.” Sometimes Ernest thought his friend was unlucky. When that idea occurred to him, he sighed and shook it off. For Ernest believed