Chapter 4
CHAPTER IV. THE ARRIVAL OF MILKWEED. Tilda Jane stood watching her huge orphan who was out in the woodhouse, splitting kindling wood. The orphan was having considerable trouble with Poacher and the half-blind Gibby, who
were circling about her, getting persistently in the way of the hatchet with which she was giving powerful strokes to the sticks of wood. She favors dogs and she's good to Grandpa, murmured Tilda Jane. That's about a hundred weight off my mind. Then she said aloud, Perletta, hey, exclaimed the big girl, turning around, you needn't
chop up those boxes. Mr. Hank said he would split the kindling. It's not fit work for women, he says. Go long, remarked Perletta. I'm woof, more than him any day.
Hank's as fat as a saddled minister, but he ain't brawny. You better not let him hear you call him Hank, said the little girl. He'd be angry. He'll not get mad about nothing, said Perletta cunningly. Not now.
He's too set up about that mare coming. And how can he split wood when he's out in the barn all the time, affixing up that box stall? Tilda Jane beamed all over. She was almost as pleased as Hank was with their new acquisition.
How does it be about that mare? inquired Perletta curiously. Seems like as you had her afore. I never had her. Mr. Hank owned her when he was in the creamery business.
Then he had to sell her and go into the mill. And what is it he names her? pursued Perletta. Milkweed? What's that for a name?
She's got little tricksy splashes of white all over her, said Tilda Jane. And I believe she was named Milkweed partly owing to that and partly owing to the milk trade he was in. Hark, don't I hear the sleigh bells now. He has to come with her this afternoon.
When his work at the mill was over and snatching an old shawl from a hook, she wrapped it around her and ran like a deer through the woodhouse door to the snowy yard. Hank was proudly driving in the gate. He sat in a smart shiny cutter with a warm fur rug over his knees. And in front of him trotted a dainty high-stepping bay mare flecked with white as if she had
dashed foam from her lips over her chest and sides. Tilda Jane gave a glad cry and running up, threw her arms round the neck of the gratified animal. Her Letta, after one long look, lunged into the woodhouse, got two rosy-cheeked apples, and putting them in her palm, went out again and offered them to the new member of the
family. Hank had sprung out and was beginning to unharness. His face was aglow with satisfaction, and he listened contentedly to Tilda Jane's purring remarks near the ear of the graceful Milkweed. Her Letta silently fed the apples.
Then as the mare tossed her head and whinnied pleadingly, she laughed and went into the house for more. When at last Milkweed was unharnessed, Hank said to her, Step into the barn, beauty, and see your new home. Milkweed followed him like a dog.
Behind her was a small procession consisting of Tilda Jane, her Letta, the two dogs, and some tame pigeons who came waddling in with their eyes fixed on the corn barrel. The Jersey cow turned her head as they entered the barn and threw a benevolent glance at the mare, who was to be her companion more than any other creatures, for they occupied neighboring stalls.
The hens in the poultry house next door, hearing an unusual commotion, lifted up their voices in joyful anticipation of their evening meal. I guess I'll get something for their crops, remarked Per Letta in her uncouth yet kind fashion, and she went lumbering toward the house to prepare their warm cornmeal supper. What a joyful family we are, exclaimed Tilda Jane gleefully.
You and me and Per Letta and the dogs and the cow and Milkweed and the pigeons and the poor little sparrows, she added in conclusion. Here, little beggars, let me give you something to stay you before the cold night comes. As she spoke, she dipped a quart measure deep in the corn barrel and threw the cracked kernels out in the yard.
The pigeons got the larger pieces, the sparrows the smaller ones, and all ate in peace and harmony. Folks tell me sparrows are bad, said Tilda Jane, and so they are, for I saw them driving away the wild birds from the melanchons' garden. But ours don't fight the wild birds, for we've had their nests all summer.
You stuff them, said Hank kindly. They don't need to fight when there's enough for all. And we don't have as many grubs on our trees as our neighbors do, continued Tilda Jane. I see the sparrows eating them. Sparrows eat some kind of worms, said Hank.
I've heard they were imported to destroy the looping caterpillars which used to devour the American Lindens. But they would not eat the hairy caterpillars, and our native birds would. I'm afraid your friend the sparrow is a pretty big nuisance, Tilda. The question is, how do you get rid of him?
He's here to stay, I guess. I say, Sissy, I'm powerful glad to get this mare back. I know you are, Hank, she said, as she restored the dipper to the barrel. I just can figure to myself how you feel. Suppose someone had had Gippy away from me a whole year.
Hank burst out laughing, and threw a comical glance at the little dog who was stretching out his head, sniffing violently and trying to make his nose do duty for his other senses. I ain't had one minute's peace since I had to give her up, said Hank, pausing in his operation of giving Milkweed a good rub down and turning his red face toward Tilda Jane, who stood peering at him from the folds of the shawl and wrapping her head and shoulders.
Every hour of the day I had her before me. Was she overdriven and whipped when she was tired? Did that fellow scream at her and make her stand round? She my beauty that never had a crossword. It's cruel hard to have to give up an animal, said Tilda Jane with a shudder.
It takes me back to my asylum days, when I ran away to save Gippy from being taken from me, and picking up the little animal, she cuddled him in her shawl. I asked that fellow if he found Milkweed smart and bright, said Hank indignantly, and what do you think he said? Why not a bit ahead of other horses?
She the quickest horse wit in the old pine-tree state. What do you think she did just now when I was coming down Wisconsin Hill? I don't know, Hank, said Tilda Jane softly. Why she stopped short and turned to one side. The bit had parted in her mouth, and the lines were slipping through my hands.
Any other horse would have run. I never had such an accident before, but she stood just like a lamb. What did you do, Hank? I jumped out pretty lively, ran to her head, and led her to the harness store. Then do you mind, Sissy, the time she got loose in that hotel barn?
At the old Moss Glen Inn? Yes, I mind, said Tilda Jane. And at the mention of the inn, a shadow passed over her face. But tell me again, Hank. It was mighty shrewd in her, said Hank, stopping his work and wiping the perspiration from
his face. I was sick that night and had to hurry into the inn. I forgot to warn Mrs. Minley's man that Milkweed would untie every knot except one particular kind. Of course her teeth was soon busy with his knot, and in the morning he found her loose
in the corner of the barn, where Mrs. Minley, who was as untidy in her barn as she was tidy in her house, had stored a lot of barbed wire, some old plows, some poultry netting, and a few farm tools thrown in promiscuous. There stood Milkweed feet fast and before her an open door, and before the open door a field of oats.
Now any other horse would have plunged, but she stood like a rock waiting for me to come. The man yelled for me, and it took the two of us to get her out, and I had to cut some of the barbed wire with shears. The dear horsey, murmured Tilda Jane, then she said bitterly, when Mrs. Minley tried to send me back to the asylum as I was running away from it, she played a scampish trick
on a poor orphan. I must tell you what I heard about her the other day, said Hank with a chuckle, shows how your sin does chase you, and catch up with you in this world. We both know Mrs. Minley had no kind feelings in trying to send you back to the asylum. She wanted to stand in with that Mrs. Granis who had a mortgage on her house.
When she came spanking up to the inn with Mrs. Granis, and found you'd run away again, the lady she was so dead set on pleasing, turned on her and said, you fooled me. And she got nasty about the mortgage, and Mrs. Minley had to sell out. She's cook somewhere in Bangor now. Why, Hank, ejaculated Tilda Jane, you surprised me.
And what became of Mrs. Minley's good sister, the one who gave me a helping hand in running away? She married the hired man, and lives on a place his father left him near the Moss Glen station, where I passed that woeful night in the woods, said Tilda Jane, hugging Gippy a little closer.
Oh, Hank, what performances I've had. Yes, you have had considerable for a young one, replied Hank thoughtfully. I guess you took out a kind of accident policy. Stand over, Milkweed. Well, I'm taking solid comfort in knowing Ruthann married, said Tilda Jane heartily.
I knew she'd like to, because she said in a kind of piney way that she'd never had no, I mean any offer. She weren't what you call a rare and tarren beauty, said Hank dispassionately. Tilda Jane looked distressed. Don't make fun of her, Hank.
I don't want to laugh at her. She was good to me. All the same, she looked like a graven image with a wispy hank of hair curled tight at the back of it. Well, I guess she was a good cook.
If I couldn't get a beauty and a cook in one, I'd take the cook, if she was as homely as a gridiron. That reminds me, said Tilda Jane. We are going to have hotcakes tonight. I must go and show Perletta how to make them.
Tilda called Hank as she was running away after a last caress of Milkweed. I left that harness outside thinking I'd take it in the house and clean it. It will make a mess in your ship-shaped kitchen, but you'll not fuss, I guess. Fuss? No.
You can't do it out here. Or in the woodhouse, you'd freeze. But must you do it tonight? I could wait till tomorrow. I want to run out a few minutes this evening, right after supper, said Tilda Jane, and I'd
like to help you, so if you wait till tomorrow... I'll do it tonight, said Hank promptly. Handling harness ain't fit work for your small-sized hands. Now if that elephant there wants to help me... And he nodded in the direction of the house and Perletta.
She'd jump at it, said Tilda Jane Gailey, and it's hard to get her work for the evening. If she's idle, she's sassy. I mean saucy. I'm glad she don't want to trot the streets, said Hank. If she did, we'd have to get a block and tackle to fetch her home.
Now run along in, sissy, your teeth are chattering. Tilda Jane and the dog scampered to the house, and soon the little girl's face was as red as fire as she bent over the kitchen stove. It seemed as if Hank could not leave his newly obtained treasure that night. He kept altering the straps of the gay striped rug he had bought for her.
He fussed with the fodder, and only when the supper bell rang long and lustily for the second time could he tear himself away from her with an affectionate caress of her beautiful head. Her eloquent eyes followed him, he knew, as he went to the stable door, though the whole barn had become dusky in the gathering twilight.
My land, he ejaculated warmly, there's nothing but solid satisfaction to be got out of the friendship of a horse. That critter is as content to be back as I am to have her. I know by the way she mumbled my sleeve and my shoulder. What a tasty smell!
And his nostrils dilated delightedly as he entered the house. End of chapter 4. Recording by John Brandon.
