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Speaker 1:
[00:15] Hello, my dear listeners, welcome back. I'm Joanne, your host, and you're listening to Drift Off. Tonight, we're continuing our journey through The Long Winter by Laura Ingalls Wilder, one of my favorite books in the Little House series, and honestly, one that feels perfectly made for evenings just like this one. There's something about Laura's world, the lantern light, the howling wind outside, the warmth of family gathered close. That makes me feel like the most natural thing in the world to just slow down and listen. Now, let's set everything else aside. Take a slow breath in and let it go. Feel the weight of your body settle, wherever you are, however you're resting. Let your shoulders drop. Let your jaw unclench just a little. You don't have to go anywhere or do anything. This time is just for you. We're heading back to the Dakota Territory. There is story. And you are safe and settled right here with me. Take another deep breath in. And allow the breath to release as you soften in to the surface beneath you. And whenever you're ready, let's begin. Chapter 19, Where There's a Will. The hay made a quick, hot fire, but it burned away more swiftly than kindling. Ma kept the stove's drafts closed, and all day long she was feeding the fire. All day long, except when he went through the storm to do the chores, Pa was twisting more sticks of hay in the lean-to. The storm grew fiercer, and the cold more cool. Often Pa came to the stove to warm his hands. My fingers get so numb, he said. I can't make a good twist. Let me help you, Pa, Laura begged. He did not want to let her. Your hands are too small for such work, he told her. Then he admitted. But somebody's got to help. It is going to be more than one person can do to keep this stove going and haul hay for it. Finally he decided. Come along, I'll show you how. Laura put on Pa's old coat and her hood and muffler and went into the lean-to with Pa. The lean-to was not sealed inside. The wind was blowing snow through all the cracks of the board walls. Snow traveled in little drifts across the floor and sifted over the hay. Pa picked up a double handful of hay and shook the snow from it. Shake off all the snow, he told Laura. If you leave it on, it will melt when you take the sticks in and make them too wet to burn. Laura picked up all the hay her hands could hold and shook the snow from it. Then, watching Pa, she followed his motions in twisting the hay. First he twisted the long strand as far as his two hands could do it. Then he put the right hand end of it under his left elbow and held it there, tight against his side, so that it could not untwist. Then his right hand took the other end from his left hand. His left hand slid down as near as it could get to the end under his left elbow and took hold of it. Pa twisted the strand again. This time he put its other end under his left elbow. He repeated these motions again and again and again till the whole strand of hay was twisted tight and kinking in the middle. Each time he twisted and tucked the end under his left arm, the tight twist coiled around itself. When the whole length of the twist had wound itself tight, Pa bent the ends of hay together and tucked them into the last kink. He dropped the hard stick of hay on the floor and looked at Laura. She was trying to tuck in the ends as Pa had done. The hay was twisted so tightly that she couldn't push them in. Bend your twist a little to loosen it, said Pa. Then slipped the ends in between the kinks and let it twist itself back tight. That's the way. Laura's stick of hay was uneven and raggedy, not smooth and hard like Pa's. But Pa told her that it was well done for the first one. She would do better next time. She made six sticks of hay, each better than the one before till the sixth one was as it should be. But now she was so cold that her hands could not feel the hay. That's enough, Pa told her. Gather them up and we'll go warm ourselves. They carried the sticks of hay into the kitchen. Laura's feet were numb from cold. They felt like wooden feet. Her hands were red and when she held them in the warm air above the stove, they tingled and stung and smarted where the sharp blades of grass had cut them. But she had helped Pa. The sticks of hay that she had made gave him time enough to get warm before they must go into the cold to twist more hay. All that day and all the next day, Laura helped Pa twist hay, while Ma kept the fire going and Carrie helped her take care of grace and of the housework. For dinner, they had the baked potatoes and mashed turnips with pepper and salt. And for supper, Ma chopped the potatoes and heated them in the oven because there was no fat to fry them in. But the food was hot and good, and there was plenty of tea and still some sugar. This is the last loaf of bread, Ma said the second night at supper. We really must have some flour, Charles. I'll buy some as soon as this storm lets up, Pa said, no matter what it costs. Use my college money, Pa, Mary said. Thirty-five dollars and twenty-five cents will buy all the flour we could want. That's our good girl, Mary said Ma. But I hope we won't have to spend your college money. I suppose prices depend on when they can get the train through, she said to Pa. Yes, Pa said, that's what they depend on. Ma got up and put another stick of hay on the fire. When she lifted the stove lid, a reddish-yellow smoky light flared up and drove back the dark for a moment. Then the dark came back again. The wild screaming of the storm seemed louder and nearer in the dark. If only I had some grease I could fix some kind of a light, Ma considered. We didn't lack for light when I was a girl, before this newfangled kerosene was ever heard of. That's so, said Pa. These times are too progressive. Everything has changed too fast. Railroads and telegraph and kerosene and coal stoves are good things to have, but the trouble is folks get to depend on them. In the morning the winds were still howling, and outside the thick frosted windows the snow was still whirling. By mid-morning, a straight, strong wind was blowing from the south and the sun was shining. It was very cold, so cold that the snow squeaked under Laura's feet in the lean-to. Paul went across the street to get flour. He was gone some time, and when he came back, he was carrying a grain, a sack on his shoulder. He let it slide to the floor with a thump. Here's your flour, Caroline, or what will have to take the place of it, he said. It is wheat, the last that's left of the Wilder boys' stock. There is no flour in the stores. Banker Ruth bought the last sack this morning. He paid fifty dollars for it, a dollar a pound. My goodness, Charles, Ma gasped. Yes, we couldn't buy much flour at that price. So I guess it's just as well Ruth got it. We may as well learn now how to cook wheat. How will it be boiled? I don't know, Charles. It isn't as if we had anything to eat on it, said Ma. It's a pity there isn't a gristmill in town, Pa said. We have a mill, Ma replied. She reached the top of the cupboard and took down the coffee mill. So we have, said Pa. Let's see how it works. Ma set the little brown wooden box on the table. She turned the handle for a moment to loosen every last grain of coffee from the grinders. Then she pulled out the little drawer, emptied it and wiped it carefully. Pa opened the sack of wheat. The black iron hopper in the top of the mill held half a cupful of the grain. Ma shut its top. Then she sat down, placed the square box between her knees to hold it firmly, and began turning the handle around and around. The mill gave out its grinding noise. Wheat will grind just like coffee, Ma said. She looked into the little drawer. The broken bits of wheat were crushed out flat. Not like coffee either, Ma said. The wheat hasn't been roasted and has more moisture in it. Can you make bread of that? Pa asked. Of course I can, Ma replied. But we must keep the mill grinding if I'm to have enough to make a loaf for dinner. And I must go haul some hay to bake it with, said Pa. He took a round flat wooden box from his pocket and handed it to Ma. Here's something you can make use to make a light. Is there any word of the train, Charles? Ma asked him. They're working again at the trace he cut, said Pa. It's packed full of snow again. To the top of the snow banks they threw up on both sides when they cleared it last time. He went to the stable to hitch David to the sled. Ma looked into the box. It was full of yellow axle grease. But there was no time then to think about making a light. The fire was dying and Ma put the elastic of hay on it. Laura hurried into the lean-to to twist more hay. In a few minutes, Ma came to help her. Mary is grinding the wheat, Ma said. We must twist a lot of hay to keep the fire going. We must have a good warm fire when Pa comes back. He will be almost frozen. It was late afternoon before Pa came back. He unhitched the sled near the back door and put David in the stable. Then he pitched the hay into the lean-to until there was hardly space to squeeze through from door to door. When that was done, he came in to the stove. He was so cold that it was some time before he was warm enough to speak. I'm sorry to be so late, Caroline, he made excuse. The snow is much deeper than it was. I had a hard time digging the hay out of the drift. I think we may as well have dinner at this time every day, Ma answered. What with saving fire and light, the days are so short that there's hardly time for three meals. A late dinner will serve for supper as well. The brown bread that Ma had made from the ground wheat was very good. It had a fresh, nutty flavor that seemed almost to take the place of butter. I see you've got your sourdough working again, Pa remarked. Yes, Ma answered. We don't need yeast or milk to make a good bread. Where there's a will, there's a way, said Pa. He helped himself to another potato and sprinkled it with salt. Potatoes and salt aren't to be sneezed at either. Salt brings out the full flavor of a potato. It's not all hidden with butter and gravy. Don't put sugar in your tea, Pa, and you'll get the full flavor of the tea, Laura said naudily. Pa's eyes twinkled at her. A good hot cup of tea brings out the flavor of the sugar, Half Pint, he answered. Then he asked Ma, How did you make out with the Axle Grease for a light? I haven't had time yet, Ma told him. But as soon as we finish eating, I'm going to make a button lamp. What's a button lamp? Pa asked. Wait and see, said Ma. When he had gone to do the chores for the night, Ma told Carrie to bring her the rag bag. She took some of the axle grease from the box and spread it on an old saucer. Then she cut a small square of calico. Now find me a button in the button bag, Carrie. What kind of button, Ma? Carrie asked, bringing the button bag from the cold front room. Oh, one of Pa's old overcoat buttons, said Ma. She put the button in the center of the square calico. She drew the cloth together over the button and wound a thread tightly around it and twisted the corners of calico straight upward in a tapering bunch. Then she rubbed the little axle grease up the calico and set the button on the axle grease in the saucer. Now, we'll wait till Pa comes, she said. Laura and Carrie hurried to finish washing the dishes in the gathering dusk. It was dark when Pa came in. Give me a match, Charles, please, Ma said. She lighted the taper tip of the button lamp. A tiny flame flickered and grew stronger. It burned steadily, melting the axle grease and drawing it up through the cloth into itself, keeping itself alight by burning. The little flame was like the flame of a candle in the dark. You're a wonder, Caroline, said Pa. It's only a little light, but it makes all the difference. Warming his hands above the stove, he looked down at the little pile of twisted hay. But I don't need a light to twist hay, he said. And we must have more now. There's not enough here for morning. He went out to twist hay, and Laura took the coffee mill from Mary. Turning the little handle around and around made the arm and shoulder ache so badly that they must take turns at the grinding. The little mill ground wheat so slowly that they had to keep it grinding all the time to make flour enough to bake for each meal. Ma took off Grace's shoes and warmed her feet by the oven door while she slipped off her little dress, pulled on her nightgown, and wrapped her in the shawl that was warming over a chair by the stove. Come, Carrie, if you're good and warm, she said, I'll put Grace in bed with you now. When Grace and Carrie were tucked in bed with the warm shawl and the hot flat iron, Ma came downstairs. All grind wheat now, Laura, she said. You and Mary go to bed. As soon as Paul comes in, we'll go to bed too, to save this hay that is so hard to get and to twist. Chapter 20, Antelope There came a sunny day when the loose snow was rolling like drifts of smoke across the frozen white prairie. Pa came hurrying into the house. There's a herd of antelope west of town, he said, as he took his shotgun down from its hooks and filled his pockets with cartridges. Laura threw Ma's shawl around her and ran into the cold front room. She scratched a peephole through the frost on the window and she saw a crowd of men gathering in the street. Several were on horseback. Mr. Foster and Almanzo Wilder were riding the beautiful Morgan horses. Cap Garland came running and joined the men on foot who were listening to Pa. They all carried guns. They looked excited and their voices sounded excited and loud. Come back where it's warm, Laura, Ma called. Think of venison, Laura said, hanging up the shawl. I hope Pa gets two antelopes. I will be glad to have some meat to go with the brown bread, Ma said. But we must not count chickens before they are hatched. Why, Ma, Pa will get an antelope if there are antelopes, said Laura. Carrie brought a dish of wheat to fill the hopper of the coffee mill that Mary was grinding. Roast venison, Carrie said, with gravy. Gravy on the potatoes and the brown bread. Wait a minute, Mary, Laura exclaimed. Listen. There they go. The steady wind rushed by the house, and whistled shrill along the eaves, but they could dimly hear the voices and the feet of men and horses moving away along Main Street. At the end of the street, they paused. They could see, a mile away across the snow drifts and the blowing snow, the gray herd of antelope drifting southward. Slow and easy does it, said Pa. Give us some time to work around them to the north before you boys close in from the south. Come in slow and herd them towards us without scaring them, if you can, till they're in gunshot. There's no hurry. We've got the day before us, and if we work it right, we ought to get us one a piece. Maybe we'd better ride to the north and you fellows on foot surround them from the south, Mr. Foster said. No, let it go as Ingalls said, Mr. Harthorne told him. Come on, boys. String out Poghalt, and go slow and easy. Don't scare him. On the Morgans, Almonzo and Mr. Foster took the lead. The cold wind made the horses eager to go. They pricked their ears forward and back, and tossed their heads, jingling the bits, and pretending to shy a little at their own shadows. They stretched their noses forward, pulling on the bits, and prancing to go faster. Hold her steady, Almonzo said to Mr. Foster. Don't saw on the bits. She's tender-mouthed. Mr. Foster did not know how to ride. He was nervous as lady, and he was making her more nervous. He bounced in the saddle, and did not hold the reins steadily. Almonzo was sorry he had let him ride, lady. Careful, Foster, Almonzo said. That mare will jump up from under you. What's the matter with her? Mr. Foster chattered in the cold wind. Oh, there they are. In the clear air, the antelope seemed nearer than they were. Beyond the drifting herd, the men on foot were working westward. Almonzo saw Mr. Ingalls at the head of the line. In a few more minutes, they would have the herd surrounded. He turned to speak to Mr. Foster, and he saw lady's saddle empty. At that instant, a shot deafened him, and both horses jumped high and far. Almonzo rained prince down, and lady streaked away. Mr. Foster was jumping up and down, waving his gun and yelling. Crazy with excitement, he had jumped off lady, let go her reins, and fired at the antelope that were too far away to hit. Heads and tails up, the antelope were skimming away as if the wind were blowing them above the snowdrifts. Brown lady overtook the gray herd and reached its middle, running with them. Don't shoot, don't shoot, Almonzo yelled, though he knew that his yells were useless against the wind. The antelope were already passing through the line of men on foot, but no one fired at them for fear of hitting the mare. The glossy brown Morgan, head up and black mane and tail flying, went over a prairie swell in the midst of the gray, low cloud of antelope and vanished. In a moment, the horse and the herd passed over another white curve. Then, growing smaller, they appeared again and again. The prairie swallowed them. Looks like you've lost her, Wilder, Mr. Harthorne said. Too bad. The other riders had come up. They sat still on their horses, watching the distant prairie. The antelope herd, with lady small and dark in it, appeared once more as a flying gray smudge that quickly vanished. Mr. Ingalls came, and the other men on foot. Cap Garland said, Tough luck, Wilder. Guess we might as well have risked a shot. You're a mighty hunter before the Lord Foster, Gerald Fuller said. He's the only man that got a shot, said Cap Garland. And what a shot! I'm sorry. I must have let the mare go, Mr. Foster said. I was so excited. I didn't think. I thought the horse would stand. I never saw an antelope before. Next time you take a shot at one, Foster. Wait till you're within range, Gerald Fuller told him. No one else said anything. Almanzo sat in the saddle, while Prince fought the bit, trying to get free to follow his mate. Frightened as Lady was, and racing with the herd, the danger was that she would run herself to death. Trying to catch her would do no good. Chasing the herd would only make it run faster. Judging by the landmarks, the antelope were five or six miles to the west when they turned northward. They're making for Spirit Lake, Mr. Ingalls said. They'll shelter there in the brush, and then they'll range back into the bluffs of the river. We'll not see them again. What about Wilder's horse, Mr. Ingalls? Cap Garland asked. Pa looked at Almanzo, and then he looked again at the northwest. There was no cloud there, but the wind blew strongly and bitter cold. That's the only horse in the country that can race an antelope unless it's her mate here, and you'd kill him trying to catch them, Pa said. It's a day's journey to Spirit Lake, at best, and no one knows when a blizzard will hit. I wouldn't risk it myself, not this winter. I don't intend to, said Almonzo, but I'll just circle around and come into town from the north. Maybe I'll catch sight of the mare. If not, maybe she'll find her own way back. So long. See you in town. He let Prince go into a canter and set off toward the north, while the others shouldered their guns and turned straight toward town. He rode with his head bowed against the wind, but on each prairie swell, or high snowbank, he looked over the land before him. There was nothing to be seen but gentle slopes of snow and the snow spray blown from their tops by the cutting wind. The loss of Lady made him sick at heart, but he did not intend to risk his life for a horse. The matched team was ruined without her. In a lifetime, he would not find another perfect match for Prince. He thought what a fool he had been to lend a horse to a stranger. Prince went on smoothly, head up to the wind, galloping up the slopes and cantering down them. Almanzo did not intend to go far from town, but the sky remained clear in the northwest, and there was always another slope ahead of him, from which he might see farther north. Lady, he thought, might have grown tired and dropped behind the antelope herd. She might be wandering, lost and bewildered. She might be in sight from the top of the next prairie swell. When he reached it, there was only the white land beyond. Prince went smoothly down the slope, and another one rose before him. He looked back to see the town, and there was no town. The huddle of tall, false fronts and the thin smoke blowing from their stovepipes had vanished. Under the whole sky, there was nothing but the white land, the snow blowing, and the wind and the cold. He was not afraid. He knew where the town was, and as long as the sun was in the sky, or the moon or stars, he could not get lost. But he had a feeling colder than the wind. He felt that he was the only life on the cold earth, under the cold sky. He and his horse alone in an enormous coldness. High up, Prince, he said, but the wind carried away the sound and the ceaseless rush of its blowing. Then he was afraid of being afraid. He said to himself, There's nothing to be afraid of. He thought, I won't turn back now. I'll turn back from the top of that next slope. And he tightened the reins ever so little to hold the rhythm of Prince's galloping. From the top of that slope, he saw a low edge of cloud on the northwestern skyline. Then suddenly, the whole great prairie seemed to be a trap that knew it had caught him, but he also saw Lady. Far away and small, on a ridge of the rolling snow fields, the brown horse stood looking eastward. Almanzo tore off his glove, and putting two fingers into his mouth, he blew the piercing whistle used to call Lady across his father's pastures in Minnesota when she was a colt. But this prairie wind caught the shrill note at his lips and carried it soundlessly away. It carried away the long, wickering call from Prince's stretched throat. Lady still stood, looking away from them. Then she looked to the southward and saw them. The wind brought her far, faint, whinny. Her neck arched, her tail curved up, and she came galloping. Almanzo waited until she topped a nearer rise, and again her call came down the wind. He turned then, and rode toward the town. The low cloud fell below the skyline as he rode, but again and again Lady appeared behind him. In the stable behind the feed store, he put Prince in his stall and rubbed him down. He filled the manger and held the water pail to let Prince drink a little. There was a rattling at the stable door, and he opened it to let Lady in. She was white with lather. A foam of sweat dripped from her, and her sides were heaving. Almanzo shut the stable door against the cold while Lady went into her stall. Then, with the curry comb, he scraped the foam from her panting sides and her flanks and covered her warmly with a blanket. He squeezed a wet cloth into her mouth to moisten her tongue. He rubbed her slender legs and dried them where the sweat still ran down. Well, Lady, so you can outrun an antelope. Made a fool of yourself, didn't you? Almanzo talked to her while he worked. It's the last time I let a fool ride you anyway. Now you rest warm and quiet. I'll water and feed you after a while. Pa had come quietly into the kitchen, and without a word, he laid his shotgun on its hooks. No one said anything. There was no need to. Carrie sighed. There would be no venison. No gravy on the brown bread. Pa sat down by the stove and spread his hands to the warmth. After a little, he said, Foster lost his head from excitement. He jumped off his horse and fired before he was anywhere near within gunshot. None of the rest of us had a chance. The whole herds hightailed it north. Ma put a stick of hay in the stove. They would have been poor eating anyway this time of year, she said. Laura knew that antelope had to paw away the deep snow to reach the dry grass that was their food. In a blizzard, they couldn't do that. And now the snow was so deep that they must be starving. It was true that their meat would have been thin and tough, but it would have been meat. They were all so tired of nothing but potatoes and brown bread. The younger Wilder boy's horse got away too, Pa said, and he told him how it had run with the antelope. He made a story for Carrie and Grace of the beautiful horse running free and far with the wild herd. And did it ever, ever come back, Pa? Grace asked him wide-eyed. I don't know, said Pa. Almanzo Wilder rode off that way, and I don't know whether he's come back or not. While you're getting dinner ready, Caroline, I'll step up to the feed store and find out. The feed store was bare and empty, but Royall looked from the back room and said heartily, Come on in, Mr. Ingalls. You're just in time to sample the pancakes and bacon. I didn't know this was your dinner time, Pa said. He looked at the platter of bacon keeping hot on the stove hearth. Three stacks of pancakes were tall on a plate too, and Royall was frying more. There were molasses on the table, and the coffee pot was boiling. We eat when we're hungry, said Royall. That's the advantage of batching it. Where there's no women folks, there's no regular meal times. You boys are lucky to have brought in supplies, Pa said. Well, I was bringing out a carload of feed anyway, and thought I might as well bring the stuff along, Royall replied. I wish I had brought a couple of carloads now. I guess I could sell another carload before they get the train through. I guess you could, Pa agreed. He looked around the snug room, ran his eyes along the walls, hung with clothes and harness, and noticed the empty spaces on the end wall. Your brother not got back yet? He just came into the stable, Royall answered. Then he exclaimed, Jiminy Crickets, look there! They saw Lady, dripping with lather, and empty saddled, streaking past the window to the stable. While they were talking about the hunt, and Mr. Foster's crazy shot, Almanzo came in. He dumped the saddles in a corner to be cleaned before he hung them up, and he warmed himself by the stove. Then he and Royall urged Pa to sit up to the table and eat with them. Royall don't make as good pancakes as I do, Almanzo said. But nobody can beat this bacon. Is home cured and hickory smoked from corn-fattened young hogs raised on clover back on the farm in Minnesota? Sit right up Mr. Ingalls and help yourself. There's plenty more down cellar in a tea cup, said Royall. Sweet dreams, my friend, sleep well.