Strawberry Girl

Then she saw that it was the schoolyard. There was the pump by the trough. There was the boys’ baseball field. There was the rope swing under the live oak tree. But the schoolhouse was gone. It was burned to the ground. It had caught from the grass fire and was now only a heap of hot, smoking coals and ashes.

  Birdie forgot the loss of hen and biddies, in the light of this new calamity. She wanted to go back to school again. She had heard that Miss Annie Laurie Dunnaway was to be the new teacher.

  The people were talking about Sam Slater. Nobody said that he had started the fire. But somebody remarked that his boys had fought the man teacher and had broken up the school, because Mr. Pearce had moved away.

  “I tell you what!” Birdie could not keep still, “our house was fixin’ to burn up, and I rode over to Slaters’ to ask ’em to come help, and they wouldn’t never come! They tipped their chairs agin the wall and jest sot! Sam Slater’s the meanest man in the world!”

  Nobody answered her. No one gave her the support she expected. She looked around in dismay.

  Then she saw the reason.’ There stood Shoestring. He had heard every word she said. The people looked from her to the boy, to see how he would take it.

  They were cowards. She was not.

  Shoestring stared fiercely at her with his black, beady eyes, but she did not care. She stared back at him.

  “Now you won’t mess up with no school, Jefferson Davis Slater!” she said in a good loud voice. “Nor learn to read nor write, will you?”

  “No!” said Shoestring. He dropped his eyes and in his voice there was a note of sadness. “Now they ain’t no more school to go to, I wisht I might could go.”

  CHAPTER XIII

  Brown Mule

  BARNEY BARNUM, THE HORSE trader, was in the square. He attended all public gatherings and was always in town on Saturdays. A crowd had gathered round him.

  “Give boot, take boot!” shouted Barney. “I’ll swap, sell or buy!” He had a shaggy spotted pony on the end of his rope. “Swap, sell or buy!” he kept repeating in a loud voice.

  Mr. Boyer and Birdie hurried over. Pa pulled the cow behind him.

  After Semina died, Pa needed a mule badly. There was too much work for Osceola to do. The frequent trips to town alone were enough for the horse’s strength. A good work mule was a necessity. So, as soon as the strawberry crop was harvested, Pa felt he could afford one. He decided to trade in a cow, and pay some cash if necessary. His fenced-in pasture was not large enough to accommodate a large herd, and he felt he had more cows than he needed. He preferred to be a farmer and not a cattleman.

  Birdie looked at the horse trader’s pony.

  “But we want a mule!” she whispered to her father.

  “You mighty right,” said Pa. “But he’ll trade four or five times before the day’s over. We’ll wait, see what comes in.”

  “Looka here what a nice horse,” cried the horse trader. “She’s a Florida-raised little horse. She’s been broke a little, she can work. Last evenin’ I hooked her up to that drag out there and I went round the block three times before I could stop her. I tell you, she tore out with me and nigh killed me!”

  The crowd laughed.

  “Swap, sell or buy!” shouted Barney.

  A man leading a mule began to dicker.

  “Don’t you worry, she don’t buck!” insisted Barney.

  The man’s ten-year-old son ran up, threw himself on the horse’s back and tried to ride her.

  “Don’t get her excited now,” cried Barney. “She might buck after all!”

  The crowd laughed again.

  “Swap, sell or buy!” called Barney.

  Soon the animals changed hands. The man handed his mule to Barney, then he and his son rode off on the horse’s back.

  “Thank you, sir!” shouted Barney after them. “You stoled you a good horse! Who wants to swap this here little ole mule?”

  “Hit’s a mule, Pa!” whispered Birdie. “Now’s your chance.”

  “We don’t want ary mule like that un, honey,” said Pa, shaking his head.

  “One-eyed, by Jerusalem!” cried Barney Barnum. “Goes to prove I always git the worst of the bargain.” He looked the mule over. “I reckon she’s moon-eyed. She can see out of her left eye—all she needs is a pair of specs. But, outside of that, she’s sound. Swap, sell or buy!”

  A newcomer turned in a cow and led the mule away.

  “Get her out of here, hope I’ll never lay eyes on her again!” called Barney. “You-all’s killin’ a man right now, gittin’ the best of ary deal I make. Iffen you got a sick hog or cow or mule, jest leave it to home. Iffen you know your horse’s fixin’ to die, take it somewheres else. Don’t bring it to Barney Brown to swap!”

  The black cow was so thin, Barney said he could see through her. She was balky too, and had to be pulled and slapped and pushed. Barney’s arguments fell on empty air, and it was some time before the cow found an owner. Then a man from Kissimmee brought up a brown mule. This time, Mr. Boyer stepped forward.

  Barney began his harangue: “Work anywhere you want to put her. Six years old and I don’t mean seven. She’s not an outlaw, she won’t fight you, kick you or bite you! Best little mule in the whole state of Floridy. Just talk to her, whisper to her and she’ll do what you say. Works anywhere, not a thing wrong with her, sound as a gold doubloon!”

  Boyer opened the mule’s mouth and looked at her teeth.

  “Have a look! Hit won’t cost you nothin’ extry!” shouted Barney. “Have two looks at Kissimmee, the mule! See by her teeth how young she is. I guarantee her the youngest, strongest, workingest mule in the entire United States.”

  The mule was a good one. Other buyers recognized it, came up and made offers. Barney stopped talking to look over the animals offered in trade. When Boyer pulled a gold piece out of his pocket and offered it to boot, besides his cow, the horse trader did not hesitate.

  “Done!” he shouted. “The trade is made. Go git you a new plow, sir, run git your croppin’ done, and you’re a rich man!”

  When Pa came away, leading a big brown mule by the rope, Birdie could not help but think of Semina. Poor, thin, bony, friendly old Semina! It would seem strange to have a brown mule instead of a white one. The new mule was strong and fat and sleek, but just as gentle. Birdie patted her on the nose. “Hello, Kissimmee!” she said. “Pa, let’s call her Kissimmee, ‘cause she came from there.”

  “Shore!” said Pa. “Mighty fine ole Indian name. Jest suits her.”

  They tied the mule to the back of the wagon and started for home.

  “I hope Slater won’t poison this mule, Pa,” said Birdie.

  “He better not!” said Pa. “We’ll keep her locked up in the barn when we’re not workin’ her.”

  “Looks like Slater’s drunk most all the time lately,” said Birdie. “First he poisoned Semina, then he set the grass fire and burned the schoolhouse down. What’s he fixin to do next?”

  “Ary man drinks all the time is shore to come to a bad end,” said Pa. “He hurts other folks, but he hurts hisself most. Iffen he don’t change his ways, he’ll suffer for all the harm he’s done.”

  “You ain’t fixin’ to kill no more of his hogs, be you, Pa?” asked Birdie.

  “Can’t promise!” said Pa grimly. “He jest better not come messin’ round my purty brown mule, is all I say!”

  “Reckon we better not tell the Slaters we got us a new mule,” said Birdie thoughtfully.

  They reached home at midday and all the family came running out to meet them.

  “Her name’s Kissimmee!” said Birdie proudly. “She come from there, so I named her.”

  They crowded round the new brown mule and admired her. They all said how much fatter and younger she was than old Semina, and what a good worker she would be. Suddenly Birdie saw the little Slater girls coming toward her, out of the palmetto tunnel.

  “Slaters!” she cried, pointing. She wished she had an apron on, big enough to cover the brown mule and hide her
from sight. But she could only pull the mule away quickly in the direction of the barn.

  “Tell them Slater gals to go along home!” she called to Dan, as she ran. But when she came back to the house, there they were, standing in the breezeway.

  “I done tole you to go home,” she said harshly. “Don’t want you to come round here never no more.”

  “We come to …” began Essie timidly.

  “Tell me one thing and mind you tell me the truth. Did you see what we brung from town?” demanded Birdie fiercely. “Did you see what I was leadin’ by the rope?”

  “A new mule!” said Essie.

  “A brown mule, ’stid of a white one!” said Zephy.

  They had seen it, of course. She hadn’t been quick enough to hide Kissimmee from their sight as she had hoped. Birdie leaned down, pointed her finger at them and spoke sternly.

  “Don’t you never tell your Pa or your Ma or anybody else we got us a new mule!” she said. “You never seen no mule at all. Hear? You don’t know we got us a new one. Hear? All you know is our ole white mule is dead, and your Pa poisoned it. Hear?”

  “You ain’t got no mule,” said Essie obediently.

  “Your ole white mule is dead,” said Zephy.

  “Mind now! And go on home!” ordered Birdie. “Go along home and stay there. Don’t you never come back again!”

  But the little girls would not budge.

  “We want to see your Ma,” they insisted.

  Birdie took them tightly by the hands and led them into the house. Mrs. Boyer was stirring up cornbread for dinner. She glanced at the girls. “Iffen hit’s soap your Ma wants,” she said sharply, “tell her I ain’t got none till I go to town and buy me some. Iffen hit’s sugar, tell her I can’t spare her none, till she brings back what she borrowed before.”

  “She don’t want no soap,” said Essie.

  “She don’t want no sugar,” said Zephy.

  “What do she want then?” asked Mrs. Boyer, out of patience.

  Essie swallowed hard, then she spoke as if she had learned a piece by rote: “Ma’s fixin’ to have a chicken pilau down on the branch.” In backwoods fashion, she pronounced the word per-low. “She bids you-all to come.”

  “A chicken pilau!” cried Mrs. Boyer in surprise. “You mean she’s inviting us?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Essie. “Shoestring’s gone around to bid all the other neighbors to come. This evenin’, all evenin’ and tonight, at the branch down back of our house.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Boyer. “Your folks is mad at us. Ever since Mr. Boyer whopped Shoestring, they ain’t spoke to us. Your Pa poisoned our mule. Then he refused to help us put out the grass fire, when our house like to burned up. Now you invite us to come and frolic. We purely can’t.”

  “They jest want us to overlook all the mean things they done done to us!” broke in Birdie angrily. “We don’t go to ary doin’s at their house, do we?”

  “Ma ain’t mad at you,” said Essie.

  “And Pa’s gone away,” added Zephy. “Ma said likely he won’t be back for two-three days.”

  “Where’s he gone to?” asked Mrs. Boyer.

  “We don’t know,” said Essie. “He always goes off when he gits rarin’.”

  Mrs. Boyer hesitated. What did all this mean?

  “Ma’ thought likely you’d help her dress the chickens,” said Zephy, “’count of she’s got all of them to do.”

  “All of them? What did she kill all of ’em for? Don’t she know how many folks is comin’?” asked Mrs. Boyer, more and more puzzled.

  “Well,” said Essie, “Pa shot the heads offen all of Ma’s chickens and …”

  “What!” exclaimed Mrs. Boyer.

  “So Ma’s fixin’ to have a chicken pilau!” added Zephy.

  “What did he do that for?” gasped Mrs. Boyer.

  “He was drunk,” said Essie. She hung her head, ashamed.

  “He practiced hittin’ the mark, to show what a good shot he was, even when he was drunk,” said Zephy. “And now Ma ain’t got no more chickens.”

  “And no more egg money,” added Mrs. Boyer.

  “Likely he was drunk when he poisoned Semina,” said Birdie.

  “I reckon so,” said Ma. “That pore woman!” She opened the oven door and shoved the cornbread inside. She turned to the girls. “Tell your Ma we’re shore obliged, and will be glad to come.”

  The chicken pilau was a gay and happy occasion. The Tatums, the Marshes and the Dorseys came, besides the Boyers.

  It was pleasantly cool under the trees along by the trickling stream which was always spoken of as “the branch.” The men cleared an open space and built lightwood fires and put on great kettles of water to heat. The women dressed the chickens, cut them up and boiled them. They put on rice to cook. Later the chickens and rice were cooked together with rich seasoning to make the favorite backwoods dish—chicken pilau. While the meal was in preparation, the men went off hunting and fishing, and the children played games. Lank Tatum brought his mouth organ and furnished music for the dancing that followed after dark.

  Through it all Mrs. Slater was as quiet and easy as could be.

  She told everybody what her husband had done, and they admired her for her spirit. Slater’s absence was a great relief.

  After the others had gone, Mrs. Slater fell into Mrs. Boyer’s arms and cried a little.

  “There, there, now, hit’s all over,” said Mrs. Boyer, “and they all done had a good time.”

  “Nothin’ like a frolic,” said Mrs. Slater tearfully, “to ease the spirit.”

  “I’d a buried the dead chickens, had it been me,” said Mrs. Boyer, “and not let anybody know.”

  “Hit seemed so wasteful,” said Mrs. Slater. “Most of them hens layin’ too. But when he gits to rompin’ and rarin’, I don’t pay no mind. Then purty soon he goes off to git sobered up.”

  “Mis’ Slater,” said Mrs. Boyer, “I’m right sorry ’bout them hogs. Bihu’s someways hot-tempered and he was mad. But he didn’t belong to kill them three hogs of your’n. That’s what started all the trouble, I reckon.”

  The women sat on buckskin rockers on the front porch, Mrs. Slater with her baby on her lap and Birdie leaned against her mother’s knee. The whippoorwills were calling and the moon shone with a clear brilliance.

  “Things is goin’ from bad to worse,” sighed Mrs. Slater. “Iffen hit ain’t one thing, hit’s two—he’s drinkin’ so much.”

  “He won’t stop?” asked Mrs. Boyer.

  “Nothin’ can’t stop ary habit like that …”

  “Exceptin’ to take the liquor away. Where do he get it?”

  “The Lord only knows,” said Mrs. Slater. “Spends all his money for it. Never gives none to his family. Do our clothes git wore out more, they’ll fall off us in rags. I been usin’ my egg money for calico for my dresses and overalls for the boys, and now hit’s gone.”

  “This can’t go on,” said Mrs. Boyer. “Him drinkin’ all the time, and our men quarrelin’ over hogs and cows. We’re neighbors and we belong to live peaceable.”

  “You mighty right,” sighed Mrs. Slater.

  “Did the young uns tell you how we saved ’em from the grass fire, ma’am?” asked Birdie.

  Mrs. Slater had heard nothing about it, so Mrs. Boyer told her the story. She rocked back and forth in her chair. “I’m shore obliged,” she said. Then she began to cry. “He done set that fire to burn you folkses out and send you back to Caroliny where you come from.”

  “I mean!” said Mrs. Boyer. “We like to burnt up, but we ain’t goin’ back.”

  They rocked awhile in silence.

  “I hear they’re fixin’ to hold Camp Meetin’ down to Ellis’s Picnic Grounds,” said Mrs. Slater. “I’d admire to hear some of the preachin’. There’s nothin’ I relish more’n a good noisy sermon. You reckon we might could go?”

  “Why yes,” said Mrs. Boyer. “It would pleasure us, too. Do you have no other way to go,
we’ll take you-all with us.”

  “Iffen Sam would only go too …” began Mrs. Slater.

  “Hit would do him a heap of good,” added Mrs. Boyer.

  “Ever since I bought me that Bible from the Bible-sellin’ feller,” said Mrs. Slater, “I been thinkin’ we belong to git more religion.”

  “We all belong to git more,” said Mrs. Boyer, “to learn how to love our neighbor.”

  “Sam, he sometimes goes to the church doin’s,” said Mrs. Slater, “but he don’t pay no mind to the preacher.”

  “What he needs is …” began Mrs. Boyer.

  “A change of heart,” added Mrs. Slater. She paused, then she began to sing an old Florida lullaby to her baby. Her soft thin voice melted into the stillness of the night:

  “‘Hush, little baby, don’t say a word,

  Papa’s gonna buy you a mockin’bird;

  If that mockin’bird don’t sing,

  Papa’s gonna buy you a diamond ring;

  If that diamond ring turns to brass,

  Papa’s gonna buy you a lookin’ glass;

  If that lookin’ glass gets broke,

  Papa’s gonna buy you a billygoat;

  If that billygoat runs away,

  Papa’s gonna buy you a horse and dray.’ ”

  CHAPTER XIV

  The Preacher

  NOTHING WAS HEARD FROM the Slaters for about a week. Then one night, Birdie woke with a start. She heard a familiar voice in the kitchen. It sounded like Shoestring Slater, but what could he want in the middle of the night? Birdie listened.

  “Ma’s sick and wants you to come quick.” He was not asking Mrs. Boyer to come, he was demanding it.

  A ray from the kitchen lamp made a path of light on the bedroom floor. Birdie listened.

  “Ma’s got a fever and the young uns are ailin’ too,” said the boy. “They cry all the time. Pa ain’t come home and I don’t know what to do.”

  Birdie jumped up. She looked through the door and saw that her mother was already dressed and was putting some things in a basket. A flickering lantern hung from Shoestring’s hand.

  “I’ll go with you, Ma,” said Birdie.