Read Online Morning in Nicodemus by Ellen Gray Massey - Free Book Online
Authors: Ellen Gray Massey
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afraid. But the main thing was that she wasnât alone.Â
  Marcus was with her then. And she wasnât alone now. She could handle whatever Kansas would deal her. She would proved it. Marcus was just outside testing the soil once again hoping it was dry enough to work. And Virgil would return before dark.
  Thinking about the lonely winter reminded her of some words in the song about the slave Nicodemus, âTwas a long weary night.â They seemed to speak directly to her now as they did during the lonely winter. She sang aloud the whole verse:
Â
Â
  ââTwas a long weary night, we were
  almost in fear
  That the future was more than we
  knew,
  âTwas a long weary night, but the
  morning was near.
  There are signs in the sky that the
  darkness is gone
  There are tokens in endless array,
  When the storm which had seem-
  ingly banished the dawn,
  Only hastens the advent of day.â
Â
Â
  She frowned. Throwing Marcusâs torn shirt she was mending on top of the bed pads, she walked to the door. She stepped outside to see the cornfield where Marcus was testing the ground again for the tenth time that day. She saw him shake his head and drop the clod of dirt he crumbled in his hands. She returned inside and glanced at his unmended shirt.
  Nicky rubbed against her legs. She picked him up and held him in her arms, stroking him as she looked out the door. This time of year, in spite of having to work in the dark shoddy most of the time, she could enjoy the huge outside whenever she wanted. Her frown changed to a smile. Her life really wasnât so bad.
  Later that afternoon, happy to be in the cornfield, her face shaded from the bright sun by her sunbonnet, she made one little hole after another in the straight rows Marcus laid out. Into each hole she carefully dropped two kernels of corn and covered them with a hill of fine, rich dirt.
  She gloried in the work. The beautiful day seemed to beg Liberty to forgive the winterâs storms and to apologize for yesterdayâs cyclone. The gentle breeze stirred in the sixty-five-degree temperature of the late April afternoon. The prairie was fresh and alive in its rebirth from the long winter. A flock of quail flew up in front of Marcus. They flew low over the field. An eagle soaring in the sky started to swoop down until Liberty yelled at it and swung her hoe in its direction.
  âNo, you donât,â she cried. âYou wonât use our seed for your dinner or those little bobwhites, neither. Go somewhere else.â She smiled when it flew east out of her sight.
  âWeâre destroying the quailsâ home,â she called to Marcus who was disking the land next to her plot.
  He nodded. âThereâs lots more space for them.â He pointed west where the birds were landing and quickly scampering out of sight into the new grasses.
  Liberty made another giant step that Marcus said measured thirty-six inches. She made a small hole with her hoe and dropped two more seeds.
  The sun set before they finished planting the corn. Though her back hurt and her hands had blisters from the unaccustomed work with the hoe, Liberty hurried home happily behind Marcus and Lady. She looked back at their cornfield, a tiny plot cut out of the prairie. Instead of seeing the black dirt island in the middle of green, she envisioned tall brownish stalks with ripened ears of golden corn hanging from each one.
  No matter how hard it was, she knew they were far better off than being in slavery like the slave Nicodemus in the song. Like her parents had been most of their lives.
  Inside the soddy, her happy mood predominating, she removed the lid of the iron kettle to see about supper. The left-over stew smelled fine. It
  Marcus was with her then. And she wasnât alone now. She could handle whatever Kansas would deal her. She would proved it. Marcus was just outside testing the soil once again hoping it was dry enough to work. And Virgil would return before dark.
  Thinking about the lonely winter reminded her of some words in the song about the slave Nicodemus, âTwas a long weary night.â They seemed to speak directly to her now as they did during the lonely winter. She sang aloud the whole verse:
Â
Â
  ââTwas a long weary night, we were
  almost in fear
  That the future was more than we
  knew,
  âTwas a long weary night, but the
  morning was near.
  There are signs in the sky that the
  darkness is gone
  There are tokens in endless array,
  When the storm which had seem-
  ingly banished the dawn,
  Only hastens the advent of day.â
Â
Â
  She frowned. Throwing Marcusâs torn shirt she was mending on top of the bed pads, she walked to the door. She stepped outside to see the cornfield where Marcus was testing the ground again for the tenth time that day. She saw him shake his head and drop the clod of dirt he crumbled in his hands. She returned inside and glanced at his unmended shirt.
  Nicky rubbed against her legs. She picked him up and held him in her arms, stroking him as she looked out the door. This time of year, in spite of having to work in the dark shoddy most of the time, she could enjoy the huge outside whenever she wanted. Her frown changed to a smile. Her life really wasnât so bad.
  Later that afternoon, happy to be in the cornfield, her face shaded from the bright sun by her sunbonnet, she made one little hole after another in the straight rows Marcus laid out. Into each hole she carefully dropped two kernels of corn and covered them with a hill of fine, rich dirt.
  She gloried in the work. The beautiful day seemed to beg Liberty to forgive the winterâs storms and to apologize for yesterdayâs cyclone. The gentle breeze stirred in the sixty-five-degree temperature of the late April afternoon. The prairie was fresh and alive in its rebirth from the long winter. A flock of quail flew up in front of Marcus. They flew low over the field. An eagle soaring in the sky started to swoop down until Liberty yelled at it and swung her hoe in its direction.
  âNo, you donât,â she cried. âYou wonât use our seed for your dinner or those little bobwhites, neither. Go somewhere else.â She smiled when it flew east out of her sight.
  âWeâre destroying the quailsâ home,â she called to Marcus who was disking the land next to her plot.
  He nodded. âThereâs lots more space for them.â He pointed west where the birds were landing and quickly scampering out of sight into the new grasses.
  Liberty made another giant step that Marcus said measured thirty-six inches. She made a small hole with her hoe and dropped two more seeds.
  The sun set before they finished planting the corn. Though her back hurt and her hands had blisters from the unaccustomed work with the hoe, Liberty hurried home happily behind Marcus and Lady. She looked back at their cornfield, a tiny plot cut out of the prairie. Instead of seeing the black dirt island in the middle of green, she envisioned tall brownish stalks with ripened ears of golden corn hanging from each one.
  No matter how hard it was, she knew they were far better off than being in slavery like the slave Nicodemus in the song. Like her parents had been most of their lives.
  Inside the soddy, her happy mood predominating, she removed the lid of the iron kettle to see about supper. The left-over stew smelled fine. It
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