Strawberry Girl

  The boys put the gophers down on the ground on their backs. The animals began to pummel the air with their clubbed feet.

  “One, two, three … GO!” shouted Shoestring.

  At the signal, each boy turned his gopher over, and they started out. The dogs pranced about and barked loudly.

  “Come, have a ride, Birdie!” called Shoestring.

  Birdie flew. She stepped on the back of a gopher and tried to ride. Dan stepped on the other’s back. They hopped and slipped as the animals headed, with slow but steady speed, straight for the scrub.

  “Pick him up and tote him back, Dan,” called Shoestring.

  The boys brought the gophers back and started the race all over again.

  “I’m bettin’ on yours.”

  A strange voice spoke. Birdie looked up and was surprised to see a strange man standing beside her. He had a ruddy, wrinkled face and frowzy hair. His ears stood out from his head. His clothes were wrinkled and he carried a little black bag.

  It was unusual to see a stranger. Not many people passed the house. Sometimes Negroes in wagons rode by on their way to the turpentine still farther north. Sometimes the Slaters or the Tatums or the Cooks passed on their way to town. But strangers were rare. Had the man dropped from the sky?

  “Howdy!” said Birdie, remembering her manners.

  People who passed were always invited into the house, but Ma was lying down with a headache. She stared at the man. She could not ask him in, and she did not know what else to do with him.

  The boys picked up their gophers and raced off. Birdie heard them say they were going to get ripe watermelons from the field, chill them in the rain-water barrel and eat them. They had not noticed the stranger.

  “Doc Dayton’s my name,” said he. “Saw an alligator down the road a piece. Come out of the cypress swamp to cool off, I reckon.”

  Birdie smiled. She had seen plenty of alligators and knew all about them.

  “Doc Dayton’s, my name,” said the man. He repeated it a second time as if she had not heard. “Likely you don’t know me. I’m the tooth dentist. I pull teeth of animals or humans, as the occasion requires. Any teeth need pullin’ round here?”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Birdie. “I’ll call Pa,” she started to run round the house, “and Dan.”

  She came dashing back at once. “How did you know Dan had the toothache?”

  “I can smell a toothache a mile off!” said the stranger.

  Birdie smiled. Then she remembered her manners again.

  “Won’t you please set?” She waved her arm toward the rocking chair on the porch.

  Birdie found her father in the field. Mr. Boyer was as glad as anybody to come in out of the heat. He brought Dan from the watermelon bed and the tooth dentist pulled Dan’s tooth. Pa said Dan yelled loud enough to be heard all over Polk County. From the front porch they went to the barn.

  “Could be Semina will stop being so ornery with those rotten teeth out,” said Pa.

  “Likely her teeth just need filing,” said Doc Dayton. “Mules grind their food instead of chewing it. Their teeth git very sharp and need to be filed once a year by a mule dentist.” He filed her teeth flat. “No more balkin’ now. She’ll be gentle as a cat right on.”

  Company, even passing strangers, always stayed for meals. The dentist stayed for supper and ate a big meal of vegetables in “pot likker,” sweet potatoes, biscuit and syrup and watermelon. He told stories all evening. He made the Boyers almost forget how hot it was.

  He needed no urging to spend the night. He decided to go to church with them in the morning. He said he might find some teeth to tend to, after the service was over. At any rate he would get a ride from there with somebody to the next town.

  On Sunday it was so hot and close, it was like smothering to draw breath. Birdie fastened one of her red wax roses to the front of her new leghorn hat.

  She glanced in the looking-glass on the back porch and smiled happily to herself.

  When they walked into church, Miss Annie Laurie Dunnaway spoke to them. She said, “What a pretty hat!”

  “When I get big, I’ll have an organ and play like you,” said Birdie.

  The sky darkened. Birdie looked up and saw great flocks of birds all flying in the same direction. The air was very heavy.

  It was on the way home that the storm broke. All through the preaching and singing, thunder rolled and lightning flashed. When the wind began to blow, the preacher ended his remarks abruptly and dismissed. The people scurried to their wagons and buggies. Birdie did not see the tooth dentist again.

  The wind blew. It blew all the hot, sultry air away. It blew fresh cool air in their faces. It blew great bunches of Spanish moss and dead branches of trees through the air. It blew the trees over until they nearly touched the ground. The trees bent low, straightened up, bent lower, straightened, and bent again.

  Pa and Ma and the younger children crouched in a huddle on the wagon seat. The others threw the chairs down flat and lay down on their stomachs on the wagon bed.

  “Don’t raise your heads!” yelled Pa, as loud as he could above the roar of the wind. “Hold on tight!”

  The wind tried to lift the frail wagon off the road and whirl it in the air. Osceola, the horse, bent his head and pulled hard. Suddenly Birdie’s new hat flew up in the air and landed on a palmetto. Pa pulled up long enough for Dan to run get it. Birdie lay on top of it, and held onto the wagon sides with all her strength. Then the wind lifted one of the chairs and it went whirling off, but they did not stop again. They came to a large pine tree, blown down across the road, and Pa had to drive around it.

  Pretty soon the rain came. Like sharp pebbles, it bit into their skin. It pounded their bodies without mercy.

  When they got home, they saw that the roof of the chicken house had been blown off and was leaning against the barn. The yard around the house was a great puddle. They did not stop to see what further damage had been done. They ran for the house, where they closed all the wooden shutters and braced all the doors.

  Indoors, Birdie looked at her new hat. The rain had washed all the color out of the paper rose and had stained the straw a bright pink. The crown was mashed flat.

  “You’re a sorry sight,” said Birdie. She put it down with a sigh.

  Then she drew a deep breath. The hot spell was over.

  CHAPTER VII

  Cane Grinding

  “GIDDAP, SEMINA! GIDDAP!”

  The white mule was hitched to the end of the long sweep. Birdie hit her over the back with a stick. She hoped she would not balk today.

  Summer was over and cane grinding time had come. The sweet potatoes had been dug in August and stored in layers of pine straw on the floor of the potato house. Fodder and corn had been stowed away in the crib, along with dried peanuts and chufers—winter feed for the stock. Hogs had been butchered, hams and sides of bacon smoked, and sausage made.

  The cane crop was good. Pa said it would take two or three weeks to grind it all. There would be syrup to sell, and plenty of brown sugar and molasses to eat all year.

  “Git that lazy ole mule goin’!” yelled Buzz.

  Birdie whacked Semina as hard as she could.

  The cane mill had two iron rollers set vertically on a pine framework, and a long, curved pine-trunk sweep fastened on top. The mule was hitched to its lower end, while the short upper end swung free as a balance. Buzz stood under the sweep and fed sugar cane into the slowly grinding rollers.

  “Git her goin’!” yelled Buzz.

  Birdie whacked the mule again.

  Semina moved slowly. Round and round the cane mill she walked in an endless circle. The rollers, though well-greased with tallow, began a loud screak, scre-ak, scre-ak, which could be heard far and wide.

  Mr. Boyer had sent word to all the neighbors that he was grinding cane. People began to drop in—the Tatums, the Cooks and others. The men went to the field where they cut the long cane stalks and hauled them in. They took turns feeding the stalk
s into the rollers. Cane pulp, called “pummy” fell to the ground at one side.

  The pale green milky-looking cane juice poured out slowly into a barrel on the other side. Flies began to come, attracted by its sweetness. Like the flies, children and grown-ups came too, all eager to taste.

  “I always put on ten pounds in grinding season,” said Mrs. Tatum, a plump young woman with a hearty laugh.

  She dipped a tin cup into the sudsy liquor and drained it dry. She filled it again for Lank, her son, and Latrelle, her daughter. Other children crowded close, eager for drinks.

  “Hit looks like ole dirty, soapy wash-water to me,” said Shoestring Slater, frowning.

  “But hit tastes sweet like sugar candy to me!” retorted Birdie.

  “Hey! Don’t drink too much!” cried Mr. Boyer. “Or they won’t be none left for your candy-pullin’ this evenin’!”

  “Candy pullin’! Candy pullin’!” The children danced with excitement.

  “Yard-plays! We’ll have yard-plays too!” they cried.

  When she was sure that Semina was going in good form, Birdie ran back to the house. Already it was full of people. The Hardens and the Dorseys had come. The Marshes with Rofelia and the twins, Coy and Loy, were there. And Mrs. Slater with her baby and Essie and Zephy.

  “Git out and play with the other young uns!” ordered Mrs. Slater. “Can’t have you underfoot all day.”

  But the little girls were shy and refused to move.

  “Come with me,” said Birdie, smiling.

  Birdie could not help thinking about the hog with its ears cut off, and the note on the porch. It seemed strange that the Slaters, who were the Boyers’ worst enemies, should act like good friends and come to the cane grinding. But quarrels did not keep people away from frolics, she knew that. It was an unwritten law of the backwoods.

  She found Dovey and took the three little girls to a shady spot under the big umbrella tree. She made play dollies out of towels for them. She brought sugar cane, peeled it down and gave them pieces to suck and chew. She promised them candy at the candy-pulling in the evening.

  With a piece of sugar cane in her mouth, she ran back to the mill. Semina was still making her obedient rounds. The mule walked with her eyes closed as if she could go on forever. There was no need to whack her.

  Two barrels had been filled with cane juice, and the syrup-making had begun. Under the roof shelter near by, a big sixty-gallon kettle of the green liquid was bubbling away on top of the brick furnace. Shoestring, Lank and other boys brought up armfuls of pine wood to feed the fire, which glowed red from the open end and sent clouds of black smoke up the tall chimney.

  Mrs. Tatum, very red in the face, had charge of the syrup-boiling. She stirred it constantly with a long-handled dipper to keep it from boiling over. Now and then she skimmed it, dipping the green foam off into a barrel at one side. This was saved, and when fermented, would be made into a sweetish-sour beer.

  Gradually, the cane juice changed from green to a warm yellowish color with flecks of red.

  When bubbles appeared at the top, it was done. A cedar trough had been put up on blocks. Mrs. Tatum dipped the syrup out of the kettle into the trough, to allow it to cool.

  Birdie and Shoestring and Olema Dorsey and Lank Tatum made little paddles of cane, and began to scrape off the fine scum rising on the surface of the syrup, and eat it with relish. Sweet potatoes, tucked under the edge of the syrup kettle, had baked quickly, and now found their way into the children’s hands.

  The men refilled the kettle on the furnace with fresh cane juice for the next boiling. Mrs. Tatum went into the kitchen and Mrs. Dorsey came out to take her place.

  It was when the grinding and boiling were at their height that Semina took it into her head to balk. She stopped in her tracks and refused to move another step. Mr. Dorsey beat her with a stick, but she did not appear to feel it.

  The feeding of the cane stopped. No more juice poured into the trough. The kettle on the furnace was empty. Everything stopped because of Semina.

  Birdie stepped up. “Likely I can get her started.”

  She tried everything.

  She whispered in her ear. She whacked her on the back. She tickled her ticklish spot. She held brown sugar in her hand to tempt her sweet tooth. She offered her a chew of sugar cane. But the white mule turned away with cool indifference.

  “Honey,” said Pa, “you can’t do nothing with her.”

  The men stood around and laughed at Birdie. She got red in the face and redder. At last she spoke to Pa.

  “Likely her teeth need filing again,” said Birdie. “The tooth dentist said that would stop her from balking!”

  The men roared with laughter. Embarrassed, Birdie fled. She took refuge behind the big umbrella tree. Then she heard the rollers creak again, and saw that somebody’s horse had been put in Semina’s place. The cane grinding went on.

  At dusk-dark the real fun began.

  Sam Slater and Gus and Joe appeared. No frolic was complete without them. Sam brought his fiddle into the house and struck up a lively tune, while Shoestring stood at his side and picked on the violin strings with knitting needles, for an accompaniment. The men and women formed into lines and Sam Slater called the dance steps in a loud voice. Soon the rooms and porches were a flurry of movement, music and laughter. Joe Slater danced fancy steps, and made the people laugh. “He shore can cut the fool!” they said.

  Outdoors, the children and young people began their yard-plays. Gus Slater played his mouth organ with gay abandon. They took partners, formed a circle and sang:

  “How happy was the miller when he lived by himself,

  The wheel rolls round and he gathers in his wealth;

  One hand in the hopper and the other in the sack,

  The wheel rolls round and he hollers out grab!”

  Whereupon each boy grabbed the girl in front of him, and kept on whirling. Gus Slater happened to be next to Birdie. He caught her up and swung her so high, her feet did not touch the ground till she got round the circle.

  “You put me down, Gus Slater!” she cried indignantly.

  They played and sang Get on Girls and Go to Boston. After that came King William was King Joseph’s Son, Go Forth and Face Your Lover and Green Grows the Willow Tree. They played the games until their voices were hoarse and they were ready to drop.

  Meanwhile Mr. Boyer had set fire to a pine stump near by. When darkness came down, he had a great bonfire burning to light up the yard. The boys ran to pile on more lightwood knots whenever it burned low. It hissed and crackled and popped, bathing the dancing figures in a pattern of light and shadow.

  Mr. Boyer made the candy himself. He boiled the syrup down to just the right temperature, then poured the thickening mixture out on many plates to cool. A brisk rush followed, as each boy hurried to get a plate for his girl.

  Birdie took plates to the little Slater girls and Dovey and showed them how to pull. By the time she got back, most of the boys and girls had teamed up. Shad Harden was pulling candy with Olema Dorsey, and Lank Tatum with Rofelia Marsh. She stood around for a while, wondering who would pull with her.

  She hoped it would not be Shoestring Slater. She was getting sick of the Slaters.

  But she could not get away from him. He stood in front of her and blocked her path. For once he was not wearing the black felt hat. He held out a plate of candy. He smiled shyly, but did not look happy.

  “Know how to pull?” he asked.

  “Shore do,” she said.

  They greased their hands. Shoestring clamped his hands on the ball of candy and they began to pull. The candy swung back and forth, growing lighter and paler in color and gradually hardening. Shoestring’s hands were big and strong for pulling, but he said not a word.

  All the boys and girls were laughing and screaming. Some got candy in their hair and had fun taking it out. Birdie wished she were with someone else. She watched Lank Tatum and Shad Harden. They liked fun, they knew how to laugh. Olem
a and Rofelia were having a fine time.

  But Shoestring was as glum as if he were at a funeral.

  “I got somethin’ to tell you,” he whispered.

  Birdie looked at him.

  His eyes were sullen. His lips were closed in a hard thin line. Couldn’t he laugh a little even at a frolic? If he couldn’t laugh, he might could stay home. Why, there was always more fun at candy-pullings than at anything else. Why did he have to spoil everything?

  “Trouble again,” said Shoestring, mysteriously.

  Birdie was sick of the word, but she said nothing.

  Shoestring took out his knife and cut the hardened candy into pieces. They held the plateful between them as they stood under the umbrella tree. The little girls’ play dollies were lying there on the bench.

  “What is it?” asked Birdie.

  Shoestring offered her candy, and she put a piece in her mouth.

  “Pa knows about your new barbed-wire fence,” said he.

  “What of it?”

  “Our ponds got all dried up from the dry summer,” explained the boy, “so this morning Pa told me to drive the cows over to Catfish Lake for water. I got on my cowhorse and …”

  “Then what?” asked Birdie.

  He offered her candy, but she couldn’t eat any more.

  “I come right back. I tole Pa: ‘Boyer’s done fenced in the right o’ way to the lake’.”

  “Pa and Buzz been so busy all summer,” said Birdie, “they jest got round to puttin’ the fence up last week. What’d you tell him for?”

  “Had to. He’d a found it out for himself,” said Shoestring.

  “What’s he fixin’ to do?”

  “Make trouble.”

  “But he come to our cane grindin’ and he’s in the house right now callin’ all the dances,” cried Birdie in protest. “He don’t mean us no harm,”

  “Don’t he!” The boy spoke scornfully.

  “How you know?”

  Shoestring hesitated, looking at her hard. Then he said, “He’s got the pliers in his pocket.”