Now Mary thought of a way to count the days until Pa would come home. His last letter had said that two more weeks would finish the threshing where he was. Mary brought out the slate, and on it she made a mark for each day of one week, seven marks. Under them she made another mark for each day of the next week, seven more marks.
The last mark was for the day he would come. But when they showed the slate to Ma, she said, “Better make marks for another week, for Pa to walk home on.”
So Mary slowly made seven marks more. Laura did not like to see so many marks between now and the time that Pa would come home. But every night before they went to bed, Mary rubbed out one mark. That was one day gone.
Every morning Laura thought, “This whole day must go by before Mary can rub out another mark.”
Outdoors smelled good in the chilly mornings. The sun had melted away the snow, but the ground was hard and frosty. Plum Creek was still awake. Brown leaves were floating away on the water under the wintry blue sky.
At night it was cosy to be in the lamplit house by the warm stove. Laura played with Carrie and Jack on the clean, smooth floor. Ma sat comfortably mending, and Mary’s book was spread under the lamp.
“It’s bedtime, girls,” Ma said, taking off her thimble. Then Mary rubbed one more mark, and put the slate away.
One night she rubbed out the first day of the last week. They all watched her do it, and Mary said, as she put the slate away, “Pa is walking home now! Those are the marks he will walk on.”
In his corner Jack suddenly made a glad sound, as if he understood her. He ran to the door. He stood up against the door, scratching and whining and waggling. Then Laura heard, faintly whistling through the wind, “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.”
“It’s Pa! Pa!” she shrieked and tore the door open and ran pell-mell down through the windy dark with Jack bounding ahead.
“Hullo, half-pint!” Pa said, hugging her tight. “Good dog, Jack!” Lamplight streamed from the door and Mary was coming, and Ma and Carrie. “How’s my little one?” Pa said, giving Carrie a toss. “Here’s my big girl,” and he pulled Mary’s braid. “Give me a kiss, Caroline, if you can reach me through these wild Indians.”
Then there was supper to get for Pa, and no one thought of going to bed. Laura and Mary told him everything at once, about the wheels of fire and potatoes and turnips and how big Spot’s calf was and how far they had studied in their books, and Mary said: “But, Pa, you can’t be here. You didn’t walk off the marks on the slate.”
She showed him the marks still there, the marks he was supposed to walk on.
“I see!” said Pa. “But you did not rub out the marks for the days it took my letter to come so far. I hurried fast all the way, too, for they say it’s already a hard winter in the north. What do we need to get in town, Caroline?”
Ma said they did not need anything. They had eaten so many fish and potatoes that the flour was still holding out, and the sugar, and even the tea. Only the salt was low, and it would last several days.
“Then I’d better get the wood up before we go to town,” said Pa. “I don’t like the sound of that wind, and they tell me that Minnesota blizzards come up fast and sudden. I heard of some folks that went to town and a blizzard came up so quickly they couldn’t ge
t back. Their children at home burned all the furniture, but they froze stark stiff before the blizzard cleared up enough so the folks could get home.”
Chapter 35
Keeping House
Now in the daytimes Pa was driving the wagon up and down Plum Creek, and bringing load after load of logs to the pile by the door. He cut down old plum trees and old willows and cottonwoods, leaving the little ones to grow. He hauled them and stacked them, and chopped and split them into stove wood, till he had a big woodpile.
With his short-handled ax in his belt, his traps on his arm, and his gun against his shoulder, he walked far up Plum Creek, setting traps for muskrat and mink and otter and fox.
One evening at supper Pa said he had found a beaver meadow. But he did not set traps there because so few beavers were left. He had seen a fox and shot at it, but missed.
“I am all out of practice hunting,” he said. “It’s a fine place we have here, but there isn’t much game. Makes a fellow think of places out west where—”
“Where there are no schools for the children, Charles,” said Ma.
“You’re right, Caroline. You usually are,” Pa said. “Listen to that wind. We’ll have a storm tomorrow.”
But the next day was mild as spring. The air was soft and warm and the sun shone brightly. In the middle of the morning Pa came to the house.
“Let’s have an early dinner and take a walk to town this afternoon,” he said to Ma. “This is too nice a day for you to stay indoors. Time enough for that when winter really comes.”
“But the children,” said Ma. “We can’t take Carrie and walk so far.”
“Shucks!” Pa laughed at her. “Mary and Laura are great girls now. They can take care of Carrie for one afternoon.”
“Of course we can, Ma,” said Mary; and Laura said, “Of course we can!”