The Osage Orange Tree

Published by Trinity University Press

San Antonio, Texas 78212

Text copyright © 1959 by William Stafford, 2014 by the Estate of William Stafford. Illustrations copyright © 2014 by Dennis Cunningham. Afterword copyright © 2014 by Naomi Shihab Nye.

The publisher gratefully acknowledges the generous support of Scot Siegel and Leah Stenson. Special thanks to William Howe and Joy Bottinelli, whose gift supported the artwork by Dennis Cunningham.

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ISBN 978-1-59534-102-0 ebook

CIP data on file at the Library of Congress

18 17 16 15 14
    
5 4 3 2 1

For Dorothy

C
ONTENTS

The Osage Orange Tree

Afterword

Naomi Shihab Nye

Biographical Notes

The Osage Orange Tree

On that first day of high school in the prairie town where the tree was, I stood in the sun by the flagpole and watched, but pretended not to watch, the others. They stood in groups and talked and knew each other, all except one—a girl though—in a faded blue dress, carrying a sack lunch and standing near the corner looking everywhere but at the crowd.

I might talk to her, I thought. But of course it was out of the question. That first day was easier when the classes started. Some of the teachers were kind; some were frightening. Some of the students didn't care, but I listened and waited; and at the end of the day I was relieved, less conspicuous from then on.

But that day was not really over. As I hurried to carry my new paper route, I was thinking about how in a strange town, if you are quiet, no one notices, and some may like you, later. I was thinking about this when I reached the north edge of town where the scattering houses dwindle. Beyond them to the north lay just openness, the plains, a big swoop of nothing.

There, at the last house, just as I cut across a lot and threw to the last customer, I saw the girl in the blue dress coming along the street, heading on out of town, carrying books. And she saw me.

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

And because we stopped we were friends. I didn't know how I could stop, but I didn't hurry on. I stood. There was nothing to do but to act as if I were walking on out too. I had three papers left in the bag, and I frantically began to fold them—box them, was what we called it—for throwing. We had begun to walk and talk. The girl was timid; I became more bold. Not much, but a little.

“Have you gone to school here before?” I asked.

“Yes, I went here last year.”

A long pause. A meadowlark sitting on a fencepost hunched his wings and flew. I kicked through the dust of the road. I began to look ahead. Where could we be walking to? I couldn't be walking just because I wanted to be with her. Fortunately, there was one more house, a gray house by a sagging barn, set two hundred yards from the road. “I thought I'd see if I could get a customer here,” I said, waving toward the house.

“That's where I live.”

“Oh.”

We were at the dusty car tracks that turned off the road to the house. The girl stopped. There was a tree at that corner, a straight but little tree with slim branches and shiny dark leaves.

“I could take a paper tonight to see if my father wants to buy it.”

A great relief, this. What could I have said to her parents? I held out a paper, dropped it, picked it up, brushing off the dust. “No, here's a new one”—a great action, putting the dusty paper in the bag over my shoulder and pulling out a fresh one. When she took the paper we stood there for a minute. The wind was coming in over the grass. She looked out with a tranquil expression.

She walked away past the tree, and I went quickly back toward town. Could anyone in the houses have been watching us? I looked back once. The girl was standing on the small bridge halfway to her house. I hurried on.

The next day at school I didn't ask her whether her father wanted to take the paper. When the others were there I wouldn't say anything. I stood with the boys. In American history the students could choose their seats, and I saw that she was too quiet and plainly dressed for many to notice her. But I crowded in with the boys, pushing one aside, scrambling for a seat by the window.

That night I came to the edge of town. Two papers were left, and I walked on out. The meadowlark was there. By some reeds in a ditch by the road a dragonfly—snake feeders, we called them—glinted. The sun was going down, and the plains were stretched out and lifted, some way, to the horizon. Could I go on up to the house? I didn't think so, but I walked on. Then, by the tree where her road turned off, she was standing. She was holding her books. More confused than ever, I stopped.

“My father will take the paper,” she said.