American Struggle by Veda Boyd Jones

Author:Veda Boyd Jones
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-60742-756-8
Publisher: Barbour Publishing, Inc.
Published: 2006-09-10T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 4

In Trouble with Mrs. Gravitt

The next morning broke sunny and warm. Meg relished every warm day, because she dreaded winter. The cold of winter seeped into her bones and remained there until spring. In geography they studied about tropical islands way out in the ocean where the sun shone and flowers grew year round. Meg was sure she would love to live in such a place.

As she jumped out of bed and put on her work dress, the sun was transforming the gray eastern sky into a pearl pink. Mr. Cock was crowing his heart out in the backyard.

After washing up and braiding her hair, she shook Julia awake. It was her job to make sure Julia was up and dressed. Then she hurried downstairs to begin the morning chores. She was expected to help with breakfast and to feed the chickens and gather eggs before leaving for school. Aromas of kochwurst and potatoes sizzling in the iron skillet blended with the smell of hot, strong coffee. Papa was already at the table reading a copy of the Daily Gazette.

“Good morning, Papa, Mama,” Meg said as she came into the large kitchen.

“Gute morgen,” Mama replied.

Papa looked up from his plate. “Morning, Meg. You’re certainly chipper this morning.”

She nodded and grabbed for the apron on the hook by the back door. “I slept well.” She always slept better after she’d had time to sketch and draw.

Hurrying outside, she breathed deeply of the brisk morning air as she passed the garden and opened the door of the henhouse. She stepped back quickly to allow the birds to come running out. Sharp smells of chicken manure met her sensitive nose.

As always, Meg fed the chickens first in hopes that all the hens would come out of the henhouse. But it seldom worked. At least two of the cranky old birds wouldn’t move no matter what. Taking up the wicker egg basket from the storage room, she moved from nest to nest, gently lifting the eggs from the hay. Some were still warm. Papa had built the sturdy chicken coop and all the nesting boxes that were mounted on the walls in straight rows.

“So,” she said to the two hens that remained stoically upon their nests, “you aren’t going to move.” They glared back at her with beady black eyes. Some hens allowed her to reach right under them and take the eggs, but not these two. She stretched out her hand slowly; and quick as a striking rattlesnake, the hen pecked at her. She jumped back. “Grumpy!” she said.

Perhaps a stick would help. Setting down her basket, she went out looking for a stick beneath the apple tree in the far corner of the yard. Using the stick, she poked and prodded and shoved, trying to get the two old hens to move, but they continued to squawk at her and refused to budge.

“What would Fred do?” she muttered aloud. Neither he nor Julia were afraid of the old hens. Maybe she could use the stick as a distraction.

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