Strawberry Girl (2 page)

"Whoa thar!" called Birdie. "Whoa, Seminal" The white mule stopped. The girl thrust the plowshare into the ash-white soil again.

"Giddap, Seminal" The mule started on.

Again and again the mule had to stop. The soil was too light to hold the plow down, so she had to shove it in with vigorous thrusts.

The sun shone with merciless brightness. Birdie mopped her hot face under her sunbonnet. She started once more around the plot of ground with her plow. Her bare feet were black from the mucky sand.

Suddenly she noticed somebody hanging on the rail fence of the cowpen. It was the black-haired Slater boy. He had jumped off his horse and turned it loose to graze near by. She wondered if he would speak to her.

"Hey!" she called.

"Hey!" came the answer. "What you doin'?"

"I call myself plowin'," replied Birdie. I Wanna help?"

"Shucks--no!"

"Big ole lazy, you!" retorted the girl.

The white mule pushed on through the sandy soil. Birdie shoved the plow in deeper and watched the sand roll up in a high furrow. When she had made the round to the cowpen, she pulled up.

"What you plowin' for!" asked the boy.

"To grow things. Crops'll make mighty good here. This used to be part of the cowpen."

"Cowpen?" The boy looked blank.

"We been pennin' our cows up nights ever since we moved here," explained Birdie, "to git their manure scattered round."

"That what these rail fences is for!"

"Yes," said Birdie. "Pa fenced in this long lane first. Then he put fences across it to make pens. We got this whole piece manured that-a-way."

"You bring your cows up every night?" asked the boy.

"Shore do," said Birdie. "Ain't you seen me ridin’ Pa's horse! But when we keep the calves penned up, the mother cows will come back at night of theirselves, so most of the time I don't need to bring 'em in."

The boy's face showed surprise. "Never heard o' no sich doin's as that. We let our cows run loose all year round. Don't bring'em up but once a year. What you fixin' to plant!"

"Sweet 'taters, peanuts and sich. That's sugar cane over there," explained Birdie, pointing. "Pa and Buzz planted it when we first bought the place. It's doin' real well. We'll be grindin' cane shore 'nough, come fall. Right here we're fixin' to set strawberries."

"I mean! Strawberries!" Shoestring's eyes opened wide.

"Yes, strawberries!" said Birdie. "Heaps o' folks over round Galloway are growin''em to ship north. Pa heard a man called Galloway started it. So we're studyin' to raise us some and sell em.

"You purely can't!" said the boy. "Can't raise nothin' on this sorry ole piece o' land but a fuss!" He spat and frowned. "Sorriest you can find--either too wet or too dry. Not fitten for nothin' but palmetto roots. Your strawberries won't never make."

Birdie lifted her small chin defiantly.

"Neighbors hung over Galloway's fence and said his'n wouldn't make, neither, but they did."

She turned the mule around and said giddap.

"We're fixin' to plant corn and cowpeas becween the rows," she called out. "Three crops offen one piece o' land!"

"Sorry-lookin' mule you got!" scoffed Shoestring. "She's windy--listen to her heave! Sounds like a big ole freight train chuggin'! Why don't you git a good horse like mine! Better'nary mule."

Birdie glanced at the small, wiry animal which was nibbling grass behind him. Its hair was long and shaggy, as if it had never been touched by a currycomb.

"Pony, I call it," she said, with a sniff. "Little bitty ole sorry pony, no bigger'n a flea! Why, your legs are so long, your feet hit the ground as often as the pony's do!"

"He's a cowhorse," bragged Shoestring, "and I'm a cow- man! This is my rope. I can catch ary thing I want to." He took the rope off the saddle and wound the loops carefully in his left hand. "You'd admire to watch me catch a steer. See that stump yonder! That's a wild steer. Be still, steer!"

He swung the rope high over his head, then threw it, looping it round the stump.

"Huh! Thats nothin'!" said Birdie. "Stumps don’t move."

"Dog take it, I kin lasso your ole mule then!" boasted the boy. "Git her goin'!"

Birdie took up the lines and slapped the mule on the back. Semina began to move slowly along the row, pulling the plow.

"Grab that steer there, boy! Grab that steer!" yelled Shoestring. In a second he was over the rail fence, running through the sand. His rope went flying through the air.

"Don't catch me! Catch Seminal" Birdie dodged, but the rope hit her.

The boy pulled, and the loop tightened round her shoulders, throwing her down.

"I ain't a steer! You missed your aim!" She jumped up quickly.

Shoestring wound his rope and threw again. This time he lassoed the white mule, and stopped her in her tracks.

"See what a good cowman I am! " boasted the boy.

"Think you're smart, don't you!" replied Birdie. "Maybe you can ride a cowhorse, but I bet you can't ride Seminal"

"Huh! That ole mule! She's half-dead already. Ary baby kin ride her."

"You jest try it," said Birdie.

The plowing done, she removed the harness and brought Semina out into the lane. Shoestring ran, threw himself over the mule's back, landed on Semina's ticklish spot and was promptly thrown headlong in the sand.

"Er-r-r-r, what'd your ole mule do that for!" sputtered the boy as he rose to his feet.

"She don't like cowmen," said Birdie. "They brag too much. And neither do I."

"Birdie!" called Mr. Boyer, entering the field. "What's a- goin' on out here! What you been doin' to that 'ere boy!"

"Semina throwed him, Pa!" said Birdie, laughing. "I was done plowing. That little ole shirttail boy got so biggety, I couldn't stand it no more."

Mr. Boyer was a tall, thin, genial-looking man, with a weathered complexion. He shoved his hat back and patted Birdie on the shoulder.

"Serves him dogged right!" he said, with a laugh. "Got rid o' him, eh!" He pointed his thumb after the retreating figures of boy and horse.

"Seems like them Slaters air hard folks to neighbor with," said Birdie, remembering Mrs. Slater's call. "Likely I had orter been nice to Shoestring; likely they won't come see us no more.

"They'll be back direckly; don't you pay no mind," said Mr. Boyer. "Tired out with all the plowin'! Little gal like you, no bigger'n a weensy wren, plowin' a hull big field like this!"

"I ain't no-ways tired," said Birdie, "but I'm so hot, I wisht I was a fish in the lake, swimmin' round nice and cool. When we gonna set the strawberry plants, Pa!"

"Right soon now," said Mr. Boyer. "I got 'em today. That's what kept me so long. Had a hard time findin' whar the ole man lives who sells 'em. Took the wrong turnin' in the piney- woods and losted myself and like to never got found again. The plants is beauties. Buzz and me'll git the sweet 'taters and peanuts planted tomorrow, and you and your Ma can start settin'

strawberry plants."

"How soon do we pick!" asked Birdie excitedly.

"Pick! Don't count your biddies 'fore they're hatched, gal young un!" Her father laughed. "You won't be pickin' no purry red berries till nigh a year from now. Soon as these plants gir starred growin', they'll send oLlt runners enough to cover up the beds. In September, we take off the runners and set'em out to make more plants. Then they stop runnin'l and 'long about December, they begin bloomin' and ..."

"Then we pick!" added Birdie, beaming.

"Yep! Bout next January we pick! But first, hit's a mighty hard job settin' all them plants."

Her father knew what he was talking about. Birdie agreed after the first day of setting. When she came into the house at suppertime, her knees and legs ached, her back ached, and all her muscles ached. She ate quickly and went to bed without a word.

Succeeding days saw the remainder of the plants set in neat double rows on high ridges in the fertilized land. Frequent rains gave them a good start, and the plants began to green up and stretch out fresh new leaves.

"I wisht that ere Shoestring could see how purty they air!" thought Birdie, filled with pride. "He said they wouldn't never make. I'd jest mightily like to show him."

But Shoestring did not come, nor any of the Slaters. Birdie often mentioned the fact, but her parents did not seem to let it worry them.

"They'll come directly," said Mrs. Boyer. "Likely we'll see more of'em than we want."

One day the boy passed. Birdie decided not to speak first. If he was still mad, he would go by without a word.

But he was friendly. He surprised her by handing her a big cooter a soft-shell water turtle.

"Bern fishin’ over to Catfish Lake," he said agreeably. "Put me our a trout line, with white bacon for bait, and caught me ten cooters. Sold some of'em, et some, and give some away. Tell your Ma to cook it. My Ma rolls 'em in flour and fries 'em in grease. Mighty good. Know how to clean 'am!"

"Pa does," said Birdie. "We like cooters when we can git em.

"My Pa's a great hunter," boasted Shoestring. "I like all kinds of meat they is--reckon I must be part Indian. I’ve et rabbit, frog, goat, possum, gopher, bear, deer, alligator and even rattlesnake!"

"Huh!" scoffed Birdie. "Bet you never ate no rattler. Bet it nigh choked you iffen you did."

"Tasted like chicken!" boasted the boy. "Alligator tastes like beefsteak, bear meat ain't much good, possum ..."

"I don't want no possum," said Birdie. "Hit don't appeal to my notion."

"Try cooter then," said Shoestring, and he was off.

After he left, Birdie wondered if he had nothing to do but go fishing all day. Then she remembered she had forgotten to show him the strawberry plants and tell him how nicely they were growing.

After the rains stopped, the strawberries didn't do so well. The plants began to dry up in the sun's terrific heat. Birdie carried water in a bucket and dipped it on them with a gourd dipper.

She went out early every morning. But they continued to dry up, and more of them died.

"The strawberries don't make!" she wailed bitterly "They're jest fixin' to die!"

One morning she saw a horse lying in the middle of the strawberry field. At first she thought it was dead. Beneath its shaggy coat, it was very lean and bony. She approached it warily. Suddenly the animal raised its head and looked at her. Then it began to roll. Over and over it went, its four feet pawing the air in awkward movements.

By the time it scrambled to its feet, Birdie had found a stick and she gave chase. She flayed it with all her strength. The horse tore about aimlessly, tramping on rows where it had not wallowed.

"Mean little ole pony!" shouted Birdie. "You git outen here!"

Dan appeared, found a stick and began to chase too. Then Buzz and Mrs. Boyer came. ?`hey ran the horse off though the woods.

"Cowhorse!" cried Birdie in disgust. "That was Shoe- string's cowhorse. He rounds up their cows with it."

When she went back to the strawberry field and saw the damage, she cried. Pa put his arm around her and said he would buy new plants to replace the others.

"We belong to build us a fence, Pa!" said Birdie. "Strawberries won't never make in an open field."

That same evening they found a bunch of cows with the S circle brand in the orange grove, pulling leaves and bark off the trees. Buzz discovered them while he was stripping Spanish moss off the topmost branches. He slid down and gave chase, whooping loudly. His shouts brought the rest of the family

Off near the woods, Birdie found little Essie Slater. She had a stick in her hand and was whacking the back of a poor skinny beast, that kept on eating.

"Ole cow won't go home," wailed Essie.

The child's pale hair was more tousled than ever, and her face dirtier. She was the picture of distress. Birdie wiped off her tears, took her to the back porch and washed her face in the washbasin. Then she sent her home through the woods.

Not till then did she notice that her young orange tree was nibbled off to the ground. She saw hoof prints in the soft earth where water had dripped from the pump. One of the Slater cows had gone home by way of the Boyers' backyard. It had stopped long enough to drink from the trough and eat up the fresh green leaves and branches of the young orange tree.

This time Birdie did not cry. She was too angry to cry.

"We belong to build us a fence," said Birdie. "We belong to fence in the grove and all the fields, Pa."

"You mighty right, gal,'' said Pa.

It was after the first rails had been split and laid along the outside edge of the strawberry field that Shoestring came along.

"How you like our new fence?" asked Birdie.

"Fence? What fence?"

Birdie pointed to the rails.

"What you fencin' for?" growled Shoestring.

"What we fencin' for? To keep the Slater hosses and cows out, that's what for!" Birdie's voice rose in shrill anger. "See what that mean little ole cowhorse o' yours done done! See what he laid down in the middle of our strawberry field and wallered?"

Shoestring began to grin.

"What's funny?" demanded the girl.

"Wal--the bed was so sorry-lookin'," explained Shoe- string, "nothin' wouldn't make there, the strawberry plants was all dried up to nothin'--even my ole cowhorse knowed it, so he jest thought it was a good place to waller in!"

Birdie glared.

"Think you're funny, don't you?"

"No," said Shoestring. His voice was serious. "I mean it. Strawberries won't never make there." "Not less'n the neighbors keep their critters our," answered Birdie. "That's why we're tixin' to put up a fence. Were fencin' every acre of ground we own, every inch of field and woods and pasture. See them rails! They're gonna be a fence. Soon as Pa and Buzz git more split, there's gonna be more fence. Hear!"

"Yes," said the boy When he spoke again, it was in a low, quiet voice. "I wisht you wouldn't fence. If there's ary thing my Pa hates, hit's a fence." He shook his head, frowning. "Aint nothin' riles Pa more'n a fence."

Birdie stared at him. "Your Pa's got nary thing to do with it."