out.” I grinned.
Laura straightened her shoulders and pressed her lips together. “Well, I did let him in, even if it was wrong.” Her voice fell to a softer whisper. “And he brought me a little handful of spring violets, too,” she added.
“Violets?”
“Over here.” She led me to our wooden chest. “I put them inside with our other things.” Sure enough, inside our chest was a knot of flowers from the woods. Delicate purple ones. Me and Laura dearly loved violets.
“I know I shouldn't have taken them,” she whispered. “But no one ever gave me a thing like that before, and I didn't know what to do, truly I didn't. Aren't they beautiful, Reb?” She lifted them up from the teacup of water where they were setting, and my heart pounded, fearing that Pa and the boys might come stomping in.
“Maybe you shouldn't keep them,” I told her in a jumpy voice. My eyes darted from the flowers to the cabin door and back again.
“Reb Carver, I daresay you should be the one to talk, with all the things you have kept from the Indian,” Laura whispered loudly. “My little flowers won't do any harm, I don't think.” She set the violets carefully back in their teacup and closed the heavywooden cover. “Never got flowers from a gentleman before,” she said, smoothing her hand across the top of the chest. “Even if Mr. Kelley is helping a savage Indian, they're still real nice.”
I didn't say a word, just hoped in my head that Mr. Kelley was smart enough to know that he could get me and Laura in awful bad trouble with Pa if he kept coming around to our house and didn't watch his step.
Standing up, Laura cast her eyes around the cabin and sighed. “I surely hope he doesn't come back this morning,” she said. “What would he say about me keeping a house like this?”
“He's gonna come back?” I asked, wide-eyed.
Laura tugged Mercy off the bed and began picking up the yarn that she had unrolled every which way. “He said he might, if Pa and the boys are gone.”
I already knew that they were going to the mills with the last of our shelled corn. After they had the wagon ready, they would rattle down the road with our old horse, Mary Ester. She walked so slow and plodding, I knew they wouldn't be back from the mills until well after dark.
Sure enough, not long after they left, we heard the sound of a person coming down the path toward the house. Me and Laura both jumped up from our baking, and Laura nearly spilled a whole jug of water in her rush to scrub the dough and flour off her hands.
When we reached the door, Peter Kelley stood outside waiting. He was wearing the same wide-brimmed hat and ill-fitting coat. “Good morning,” hesaid, pulling the hat off his head real fast and turning a shade of pink, I noticed.
Laura answered “Good morning” in a soft voice that didn't even sound like her own. “This here's my sister Rebecca,” she told Mr. Kelley as if he had never seen me before. Strange to say, this time he had a single snowshoe tucked under his arm.
i hold the snowshoe
from Red Hair
in my hand
and touch the smooth curve
of the wood
made from the straight white tree
that grows strong snowshoes.
my fingers trace
the paths of the netting
woven tight as bowstrings
by Rice Bird's quick wooden needle.
Red Hair asks me
—
did you wear this snowshoe
in the moon of the Big Spirit?
in the moon of the sucker fish?
in the moon of the crust on the snow?
eya’, eya’, eya’
,
yes, yes, yes
,
i sigh.
i do not see why my friend asks such
foolish questions
—
how does he think
i would walk
in the winter moons
,
when the snow
is deep
and the freeze
is hard?
Red Hair says
he is asking
for the trial
,
that is the reason
for his questions.
i tell him
i do not see
why the white man's trial
will need
my snowshoes.
When Peter Kelley finished his meeting with Indian John and came down the stairs, Laura invited him to stay for a piece of custard pie.
She had made the pie
Laura straightened her shoulders and pressed her lips together. “Well, I did let him in, even if it was wrong.” Her voice fell to a softer whisper. “And he brought me a little handful of spring violets, too,” she added.
“Violets?”
“Over here.” She led me to our wooden chest. “I put them inside with our other things.” Sure enough, inside our chest was a knot of flowers from the woods. Delicate purple ones. Me and Laura dearly loved violets.
“I know I shouldn't have taken them,” she whispered. “But no one ever gave me a thing like that before, and I didn't know what to do, truly I didn't. Aren't they beautiful, Reb?” She lifted them up from the teacup of water where they were setting, and my heart pounded, fearing that Pa and the boys might come stomping in.
“Maybe you shouldn't keep them,” I told her in a jumpy voice. My eyes darted from the flowers to the cabin door and back again.
“Reb Carver, I daresay you should be the one to talk, with all the things you have kept from the Indian,” Laura whispered loudly. “My little flowers won't do any harm, I don't think.” She set the violets carefully back in their teacup and closed the heavywooden cover. “Never got flowers from a gentleman before,” she said, smoothing her hand across the top of the chest. “Even if Mr. Kelley is helping a savage Indian, they're still real nice.”
I didn't say a word, just hoped in my head that Mr. Kelley was smart enough to know that he could get me and Laura in awful bad trouble with Pa if he kept coming around to our house and didn't watch his step.
Standing up, Laura cast her eyes around the cabin and sighed. “I surely hope he doesn't come back this morning,” she said. “What would he say about me keeping a house like this?”
“He's gonna come back?” I asked, wide-eyed.
Laura tugged Mercy off the bed and began picking up the yarn that she had unrolled every which way. “He said he might, if Pa and the boys are gone.”
I already knew that they were going to the mills with the last of our shelled corn. After they had the wagon ready, they would rattle down the road with our old horse, Mary Ester. She walked so slow and plodding, I knew they wouldn't be back from the mills until well after dark.
Sure enough, not long after they left, we heard the sound of a person coming down the path toward the house. Me and Laura both jumped up from our baking, and Laura nearly spilled a whole jug of water in her rush to scrub the dough and flour off her hands.
When we reached the door, Peter Kelley stood outside waiting. He was wearing the same wide-brimmed hat and ill-fitting coat. “Good morning,” hesaid, pulling the hat off his head real fast and turning a shade of pink, I noticed.
Laura answered “Good morning” in a soft voice that didn't even sound like her own. “This here's my sister Rebecca,” she told Mr. Kelley as if he had never seen me before. Strange to say, this time he had a single snowshoe tucked under his arm.
i hold the snowshoe
from Red Hair
in my hand
and touch the smooth curve
of the wood
made from the straight white tree
that grows strong snowshoes.
my fingers trace
the paths of the netting
woven tight as bowstrings
by Rice Bird's quick wooden needle.
Red Hair asks me
—
did you wear this snowshoe
in the moon of the Big Spirit?
in the moon of the sucker fish?
in the moon of the crust on the snow?
eya’, eya’, eya’
,
yes, yes, yes
,
i sigh.
i do not see why my friend asks such
foolish questions
—
how does he think
i would walk
in the winter moons
,
when the snow
is deep
and the freeze
is hard?
Red Hair says
he is asking
for the trial
,
that is the reason
for his questions.
i tell him
i do not see
why the white man's trial
will need
my snowshoes.
When Peter Kelley finished his meeting with Indian John and came down the stairs, Laura invited him to stay for a piece of custard pie.
She had made the pie
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