Miracles on Maple Hill (Harcourt Young Classics) (10 page)

"Here's the den," he said. It was a real big hole, with grass over the top like a huge eyebrow so nobody would ever have seen it from above. Marly's hands shook so her lights went wobble-wobble. The rag flared at once, the minute Joe struck the first match, and Joe tossed it in.

And then they ran, stumbling and slipping as they climbed.

They didn't have long to wait. Out of the other door came a long slim shape, and another, and another smaller, and then a whole quick row of them. The flame showed them as plain as plain, and besides Joe suddenly turned a flashlight full onto them. There was a flashing of eyes. And that was all. The rag died down and went out, and there wasn't a sound.

They waited. Far off, a dog barked. Or was it a dog? "I'm not sure the father was here, even," Joe said. "I only saw one big one. Maybe he'd gone off to hunt, and she's calling him."

Once more they heard the barking. It sounded far off. "If that's her barking, she's gone a long way already," Joe said. "I don't think they'll come back here. But in case they do, we'd better put some rocks and things in the doors. Are you too tired?"

"No, I'm not tired at all." It was true. She was too excited to be tired. She worked right beside him, and they put lots of rocks in both the doors.

"Well, I guess that's all we can do," Joe said.

Now that it was over, Marly was so tired she could hardly walk, but she didn't say so. When they got home, they didn't make a sound. Except right at her door Joe suddenly took her arm and squeezed it hard and whispered, "Now keep your mouth shut about this, see? Not a word!"

"Not a word," she said.

"Honest?"

"Honest, Joe. Cross my heart."

That was the last she knew until she heard Fritz give a little honk at dawn. He went everywhere in the truck because he had so much to do from one end of the farm to the other. Joe went down the stairs, and Marly watched from the window. Joe had his gun. She lay shivering so hard she thought she'd be better up. So she went downstairs and built a fire that really burned. She even mixed biscuits.

"Well, look who's up already!" Daddy said. He went outside to listen, and came back and asked, "Have you heard any shots yet, Marly?"

"No," she said.

"And I know you were listening." He patted her hand. He thought he understood, she thought, but this time he was all wrong. He didn't know
half.
And she would never tell, either, in this world or another.

They didn't ever hear any shooting. Not that morning! Soon they heard the truck instead. Joe got out at the gate and waved his gun to say good-bye as Fritz drove away. Marly's heart was beating fast when Joe appeared at the door. She gave him one look—and he winked.

"Funniest thing," he said. "We went right to that place, and there wasn't a sign of a fox. Den's all full of stuff. Fritz said he never saw anything like it before."

Marly ran to look at the biscuits. They were done, huge and brown. She felt as if she would burst clear out of her skin with joy, so she began to sing. "Galloping ... galloping ... galloping..." Her voice cracked when she sang "No, not I!" because it was on a note too high for her. But she didn't care.

"I wonder—" Daddy said.

But he didn't say what he wondered, and nobody answered.

"Goodness, but I'd hate to live in two places at once all the year around," Mother said. "I'm tired of packing all this stuff back and forth." But she was looking happy whether she was tired or not. They would not have to come back to the apartment all summer long.

The drive was in daylight this time, all the way, even though it had taken them a long while to get everything ready and the apartment locked up. Clear from the bottom of the hill they could see Daddy come out and wave.

"Well, he's got an apron on," Mother said. "He must be getting our supper."

And he was. Not only their supper but Mr. Chris's and Fritz's and Chrissie's besides. He was so busy he forgot to ask whether their report cards had been good or even whether they had been promoted. Of course he was pleased when they told him, and said, "I knew there was plenty of reason for a good big celebration around this place!"

When the Chrises came, he was looking hot and red as he leaned over the oven. "The one thing I dare fix for a good cook like Chrissie is broiled steak," he said, "so that's all we're having."

"
All?
As if there was anything in this world any better!" Chrissie said.

The whole evening was wonderful and jolly and special. It was the best night they had ever had at Maple Hill, except of course that first night at the sugar camp. When all the steaks were gone, they sat and sang and talked and told stories. Then the Chrises and Fritz said they had to go home
sometime,
and shook hands with everybody all around. At the door Mr. Chris said, "Now you folks don't have to leave us again until the leaves turn."

"Long before
that,
I'm afraid," Mother said. "I remember how Grandma used to say we left before the prettiest sights of the year."

Marly stood on the porch, breathing the flowery smells and looking at the bright stars. "Autumn can't be prettier than this," she said. "It just
cant.
"

The moon seemed to nod at her through the leaves of the vines that hung from the eaves around the porch. Those leaves were all sizes now, from tiny new ones to big spreading full-grown ones. Mr. Chris seemed to be thinking about them, too, for he said, "The Virginia creepers seem to like the whole family at home at once, like us. Little ones and big ones, all together."

The next morning Marly lay a long time, just listening. So many different birds singing! Leaves were rustling outside her window; now that it stood open she could hear the littlest sound. She could even hear water splashing down the hill, as restful to listen to as the pattering of rain.

Now we are really at Maple Hill.
Really,
she thought. She got up and dressed and ran downstairs and straight outdoors into the bright sun. Dew shone everywhere, but it was warm. If you weren't as hungry as all three bears put together, she thought, you wouldn't have to build a fire all day long.

Somebody shouted, "Yoo-hoo!" from the top of the hill. Of course it was Joe. He couldn't stand not to let her know he was up earlier than she was, no matter
how
early she might get up. But she waved and called, "Yoo-hoo!" right back at him.

Then she forgot about Joe, because she found something lovely right along the side of the house. A long row of little red points was sticking up out of the ground, with curly folded-up leaves. Rhubarb. She had never seen rhubarb outside of a market in all her life. She was stooping over it when Daddy came out of the house. "I found that old row of rhubarb," he said proudly, "and it's coming along fine. And do you know, Marly, there's asparagus coming, too."

Then he told her of all the things that were in his garden. He took her proudly along every row and showed her the little crookedy rows of tiny leaves. He knew what all of them were, even though they looked very much alike, except the carrot-feathers.

That day was the beginning. It was the same from then on—one wonderful surprise after the other. Early spring was not a bit more amazing than early summer, because the big pushing went on and on. Things weren't coming up anymore, but they were getting bigger and bigger and
bigger,
every day. You could practically measure the growing, especially—as Joe complained—when you had to mow the grass, and especially—as Daddy said—when you had to keep after the weeds in a garden.

Ferns, which had been nothing but tight hairy little curls, stood huge along the roads. In Mother's flower garden she kept finding things that Grandma had loved. Buds and then yellow roses appeared on the bushes by the porch. Weeks before, there had been daffodils springing up among the old weeds, and fragrant hyacinths, and blue flags. English violets appeared when the beds were cleaned out. Under the trees and on the shady side of the house were lilies of the valley, in clumps so thick one could gather whole brides' bouquets, as Mother said, and never notice where they had been picked.

Then lilacs, white and purple, sent waves of perfume over the porch in the evenings when a breeze sprang up.

Red raspberries appeared in the wilderness beyond where Fritz had plowed for Daddy's vegetable garden. Every morning early, every evening until it was too dark to see, Daddy worked in his garden or among the vines. When Mr. Chris came for a visit, he and Daddy stood outside or sat on the grass. They never seemed to run out of talk about seeds and weeds and bugs and sprays and fruit, as Mother and Chrissie seemed never to run out of talk about flowers and jelly and jam.

"I thought Marly asked a lot of questions," Mr. Chris said once. "But I think Dale here takes the prize. If Fritz and I don't hump ourselves, he'll be growing vegetables that'll take every ribbon at the Fair."

"We'll be gone before the Fair," Daddy said. He said it as if he'd surely get all the ribbons if he wasn't gone. And no wonder, the way things grew for him.

Fritz even seemed a bit jealous about Daddy's garden. "This place hasn't been planted for a long time," he said. "It's fresh and rich."

Once in a while Fritz came by and said Daddy had worked long enough—and then they went fishing. Of course Joe went, too, and Mother and Marly had, as Mother said, "a fine female time." They didn't have to cook perfect pots of things every meal but ate up all the leftovers. Then, when the men came home, they ate fish, wonderful sizzling pans of crisp little fish. Fritz always got some whether Daddy did or not. And Joe—Fritz said Joe was a born fisherman.

"Maybe," Marly heard Daddy say to Mother one warm summer night as they sat over their plates of fine little bones, "it's still possible for a family to live entirely off the land."

"Entirely?" Mother asked, and shook her head. "What about
shoes?
"

Marly knew what Mother meant. Plenty of things didn't just grow. Every time there was talk about living off the land, somebody ended by saying, "How did those people manage, in the old days, going right out into the wilderness the way they did?"

One night Mr. Chris told them a story of two little boys who were the very first white people to spend a whole winter in this very valley. Their mother was a widow with lots of children and a cow. She brought her family and the cow to start a farm, arriving in the spring. When winter came, she went back to a far-off town where she lived, leaving two of her sons to keep the cow and the little house they had all built together.

"Those boys managed fine, I guess," Mr. Chris said. "The older one was only fourteen. The next spring the family came back again, and then they stayed. You can see that family name all over this country now, on dozens of mailboxes."

"I could do it easy," Joe said, "if I had a house and a cow."

"And of course a gun," Fritz said.

"There's an old fellow near here who lives about like that," Mr. Chris said. "We call him Harry the Hermit. Lives at the end of the mountain, south, just above that pond where the ducks landed."

"If you can call it
living,
" Chrissie said, and held her nose. "He has goats. Folks say they live right in with him in the winter."

The next morning Marly was not a bit surprised to see Joe headed south.

I wish I could see the hermit, too,
she thought, enviously. And then she had an idea. Why not? She could just start out after Joe, keeping him in sight and not calling or anything. He hadn't asked her, but if she just came, what could he do?

She found she could go fast enough to keep him in sight, except just over the tops of the hills. He wasn't hurrying. Past Chris's place, he turned on a little road, and pretty soon, sure enough, there was a lovely pond. Joe walked around it, looking in and stooping down, and for a while she thought maybe he wasn't going on at all. But pretty soon he started out again. Then he stopped by a tipsy mailbox gazing up a hill. First there was a wide meadow without any trees, just waving grass. Beyond the meadow stood a little house. Behind that was a still littler barn, which looked queer in Pennsylvania where barns were usually ten times bigger than their houses. A steep, rocky path came straight down the hill, ending at the mailbox where Joe stood.

She saw Joe walk around the box. Looking for the name, maybe. Then he looked at something in it. A letter? Surely he wouldn't look at anybody else's mail! There were laws and things to keep people from doing that. And in full sight of the house.

She decided to call him. It was time he knew she had come along.

He didn't seem in the least surprised to see her. When she came walking down the road he said, "Didn't you think I saw you? I knew you were following me all the time. But look here, Marly—what do you think of this?" There was a note standing in the box against a little pile of honeycombs. The note said, "Take honey. Leave money. Gone for the day." Lying beside the note was a quarter and a nickel.

"He sure trusts people, doesn't he?" Joe said, and gazed up toward the house. "If he's gone for the day, why don't we just look around?"

There was never in this world a more wonderful place for looking around. The house was of wooden planks, very plain, painted gray. The back door stood wide open, and flies buzzed gaily in and out of holes in the screen.

"Don't stand looking in, Joe," Marly said. "I don't think it's polite to look into people's houses when they're not home." But Joe went on standing there, looking and looking. Pretty soon he turned to her and said, "If you want to see something interesting, come look. Fritz told me this old man makes wooden chains. And there are dozens of 'em, all sizes, hanging all over the walls."

So she looked, too. And when they turned away from the house, they saw another chain standing against a huge oak tree in the yard. It was only partly made, from "a log as long as Joe-and-a-half," as Mr. Chris would say it. The huge links were only partly cut out, so it looked rather like one of the totem poles in the museum, scallops going down four sides.