not sin against thee.’ I like to tuck verses in my heart every chance I get.”
“The hundred and nineteenth psalm,” Mr. Stauffer said.
“You got yourself a fine memory. Me? I can’t make head nor tales of numbers. I always wondered ’bout that sayin’. You can’t make up a story out of numbers.”
Mrs. Erickson gave Hope a shy smile over her shoulder. “It’s like ‘gambol’ and ‘gamble’ the other night. The words sound alike, but they’re spelled differently. In that saying, the spelling means ‘an animal’s tail.’ ”
Emmy-Lou giggled. “You can’t make a story out of a horse’s tail. Or a cow or a pig, either.”
“Coins have two sides—a front and a back. They are called heads and tails.” For having sounded so grouchy earlier, Mr. Stauffer seemed to have calmed down a mite. “When someone says they can’t make head nor tail out of something, it means that no matter which way they look at it, it makes no sense.”
“That’s me all right.” Hope paused a moment as a flock of birds startled and took flight. “Two years of schooling, and we all gave up on me. Teacher said I got stuff backwards, sidewise, and upside down. Couldn’t make sense of it. A washtub’s a washtub no matter what way you look at it, but them letters flip upside down or swap the stick to t’other side and they ain’t themselves anymore.”
Emmy-Lou’s eyes were huge. “Don’t you wanna read?”
“We don’t always get what we want.” Mr. Stauffer bit out the words as if they tasted mighty bad.
Hurt and confusion mingled on Emmy-Lou’s face, and Hope hastened to soften the unintentional upset Mr. Stauffer’s words caused. “ ’Tis true we don’t. But the Bible says God is our Father, and He always gives us what is best. So I can’t read, but God brung me here to your house where your auntie reads to me and your parson tells me more ’bout the Bible. Ain’t it something how my heavenly Father looks after me?”
“Daddy and Aunt Annie look after me.”
“Well, I reckon that means you and me oughtta look after them. What say we fry up a chicken to feed ’em for Sunday supper?”
“Yummy!”
Once they reached the Stauffer home, Hope caught herself before hopping down on her own. She caught the worried glance Phineas shot toward Mrs. Erickson; then he reached up to Hope. “Miss Ladley.”
A pregnant woman oughtn’t hop down. Us setting an example is a good notion. “Thankee.”
As he set her on the ground, Emmy-Lou giggled. “Phineas helped you ’cuz he wants fried chicken!”
“Is that so?” Hope held out her arms to catch the little girl.
“Uh-huh.” Emmy-Lou jumped to her and wrapped her arms around Hope’s neck in an exuberant hug. “I like fried chicken, too.” Her little legs locked around Hope’s waist. “Do I get the gizzard or the neck this time?”
“Ask your auntie.”
“Aunt Annie?”
“Whichever you want.” Annie glanced past the garden, toward the outhouse.
Hope gave Emmy-Lou a squeeze. “You and me need to go change outta our Sunday clothes. I surely am lookin’ forward to eating some of your auntie’s coleslaw with the chicken.”
While Phineas drove the buckboard across the yard to the barn and Mrs. Erickson went to the necessary, Hope walked up the back porch steps. Emmy-Lou continued to cling to her, and Mr. Stauffer opened the door for them.
“Miss Hope, do you gotta change out of your Sunday-best dress? It’s so pretty, and I like green. The other one’s ugly.”
“Emmy-Lou!” Mr. Stauffer’s brows crunched into a stern V, and he pulled her off Hope and into his own arms. “That was rude.”
“We all got our favorite colors. I reckon lotta folks don’t cotton much to brown. Yeller’s probably my favorite on account of it bein’ so sunny. But brown—’tis a fine color, too. Why, I bet Emmy-Lou and me can name all sorts of grand things that’re brown whilst we change our clothes. Dirt’s brown, and ain’t nothin’ like
“The hundred and nineteenth psalm,” Mr. Stauffer said.
“You got yourself a fine memory. Me? I can’t make head nor tales of numbers. I always wondered ’bout that sayin’. You can’t make up a story out of numbers.”
Mrs. Erickson gave Hope a shy smile over her shoulder. “It’s like ‘gambol’ and ‘gamble’ the other night. The words sound alike, but they’re spelled differently. In that saying, the spelling means ‘an animal’s tail.’ ”
Emmy-Lou giggled. “You can’t make a story out of a horse’s tail. Or a cow or a pig, either.”
“Coins have two sides—a front and a back. They are called heads and tails.” For having sounded so grouchy earlier, Mr. Stauffer seemed to have calmed down a mite. “When someone says they can’t make head nor tail out of something, it means that no matter which way they look at it, it makes no sense.”
“That’s me all right.” Hope paused a moment as a flock of birds startled and took flight. “Two years of schooling, and we all gave up on me. Teacher said I got stuff backwards, sidewise, and upside down. Couldn’t make sense of it. A washtub’s a washtub no matter what way you look at it, but them letters flip upside down or swap the stick to t’other side and they ain’t themselves anymore.”
Emmy-Lou’s eyes were huge. “Don’t you wanna read?”
“We don’t always get what we want.” Mr. Stauffer bit out the words as if they tasted mighty bad.
Hurt and confusion mingled on Emmy-Lou’s face, and Hope hastened to soften the unintentional upset Mr. Stauffer’s words caused. “ ’Tis true we don’t. But the Bible says God is our Father, and He always gives us what is best. So I can’t read, but God brung me here to your house where your auntie reads to me and your parson tells me more ’bout the Bible. Ain’t it something how my heavenly Father looks after me?”
“Daddy and Aunt Annie look after me.”
“Well, I reckon that means you and me oughtta look after them. What say we fry up a chicken to feed ’em for Sunday supper?”
“Yummy!”
Once they reached the Stauffer home, Hope caught herself before hopping down on her own. She caught the worried glance Phineas shot toward Mrs. Erickson; then he reached up to Hope. “Miss Ladley.”
A pregnant woman oughtn’t hop down. Us setting an example is a good notion. “Thankee.”
As he set her on the ground, Emmy-Lou giggled. “Phineas helped you ’cuz he wants fried chicken!”
“Is that so?” Hope held out her arms to catch the little girl.
“Uh-huh.” Emmy-Lou jumped to her and wrapped her arms around Hope’s neck in an exuberant hug. “I like fried chicken, too.” Her little legs locked around Hope’s waist. “Do I get the gizzard or the neck this time?”
“Ask your auntie.”
“Aunt Annie?”
“Whichever you want.” Annie glanced past the garden, toward the outhouse.
Hope gave Emmy-Lou a squeeze. “You and me need to go change outta our Sunday clothes. I surely am lookin’ forward to eating some of your auntie’s coleslaw with the chicken.”
While Phineas drove the buckboard across the yard to the barn and Mrs. Erickson went to the necessary, Hope walked up the back porch steps. Emmy-Lou continued to cling to her, and Mr. Stauffer opened the door for them.
“Miss Hope, do you gotta change out of your Sunday-best dress? It’s so pretty, and I like green. The other one’s ugly.”
“Emmy-Lou!” Mr. Stauffer’s brows crunched into a stern V, and he pulled her off Hope and into his own arms. “That was rude.”
“We all got our favorite colors. I reckon lotta folks don’t cotton much to brown. Yeller’s probably my favorite on account of it bein’ so sunny. But brown—’tis a fine color, too. Why, I bet Emmy-Lou and me can name all sorts of grand things that’re brown whilst we change our clothes. Dirt’s brown, and ain’t nothin’ like
Similar Books
