finally. 'Your king was so great and mighty that when he died and went to Heaven, he made a great and mighty hole in the sky. It will rain forever unless that hole is sewn up.'"
"Never happen," said Spud, who was sitting next to Lacey now.
"Happened here," I said. "So Pan Matuschanski had the townspeople take all the ladders in town, tie them together, and lean them against the sky. Then he took his needle and his thousand miles of thread and climbed up and up and up. When he got to the sky, sure enough, there was a huge hole in it. He went to work and sewed and sewed. Two days later, fingers stiff and back sore, he climbed down the ladder.
'The sun was shining in Splatt. 'Long live the king,' said the mayor, handing him a golden crown while the townsfolk all cheered.
"'And,' said the princess, handing him a jeweled scepter, 'long live my husband.' And he did."
When I finished, Nellie was asleep against my shoulder. Lacey was sleeping too. And Mickey Dooley, Spud, Chester, and Joe. "May we all be kings in the west," I said with a great sigh, as I leaned back in my seat. "Or at least safe and happy." And I slept too.
When I awoke, the other children had scattered back to their own seats. Suppertime and Cheyenne, the last stop for the orphan train, drew near. We stopped in the middle of nowhere for a few minutes. Out the window I could read wooden grave markers lining the road: "Called Home August 12, 1880," one said. And "Ma Dyed 7 October 1869." And "Lillian Bruxton, mother of 12, grandmother of 32, greatly loved and greatly missed, dwelling now with God." The ground was littered with iron stoves, sofas and chairs, tables, and wagon wheels. What awful thing had happened here?
I walked back to the lady doctor's seat. She was smoothing her skirt and examining little holes made by the blowing sparks and cinders.
"Miss Doctor?" I asked. She picked up her book from the seat beside her, and I sat down. "Why is all this stuff out here?"
"The railroad tracks appear to follow a wagon road," she said. "I imagine that as the road gets harder, people lighten their loads. And the markers note the resting places of those too old or too sick or too tired to travel anymore."
Why, can you imagine those poor souls throwing Mama's piano out the back of the wagon because it was too heavy? Or burying a grandma in the dry, hard ground, marked only with an old buckboard seat, and leaving her behind? It made me so awfully sad, my eyes burned for that imaginary grandma buried out here in the middle of nowhere.
Between these sad reminders were hundreds of tiny mounds like fairy hills. Plump little animals, looking like fat-cheeked squirrels with no tails, bounced and scolded as the train started up again. "Prairie dogs," said Miss Doctor.
Watching them took my mind off the world's sadness for a time.
Their furry bodies popped in and out of doorways in those mounds like they were passages to some underground world. I could imagine tunnels under the land leading to prairie dog cities, prairie dog rivers and lakes, prairie dog castles with a prairie dog princess with jewels in her hair and tiny pink slippers on her furry feet. When I started thinking about her prairie dog mama and papa, I could see this imagining was leading me somewhere I didn't want to go, so I took a deep breath and sat up straight. All the tears still uncried inside me, I figured, would make an underground lake at least as deep as anything those old prairie dogs ever saw.
"Miss Doctor?" I asked again, looking over at her.
"Here," she said, handing me her book. "You might find that this answers your questions."
Where to Emigrate and Why,
it was called. Miss Doctor was heading west to live, just like us orphans, just like those people in the covered wagons, just like the Polish tailor. Seems like everybody thought west was a good place to go. I wondered just why she was going. Had she really answered an ad for a wife, like I imagined in Grand Island? Or would she sew up a
"Never happen," said Spud, who was sitting next to Lacey now.
"Happened here," I said. "So Pan Matuschanski had the townspeople take all the ladders in town, tie them together, and lean them against the sky. Then he took his needle and his thousand miles of thread and climbed up and up and up. When he got to the sky, sure enough, there was a huge hole in it. He went to work and sewed and sewed. Two days later, fingers stiff and back sore, he climbed down the ladder.
'The sun was shining in Splatt. 'Long live the king,' said the mayor, handing him a golden crown while the townsfolk all cheered.
"'And,' said the princess, handing him a jeweled scepter, 'long live my husband.' And he did."
When I finished, Nellie was asleep against my shoulder. Lacey was sleeping too. And Mickey Dooley, Spud, Chester, and Joe. "May we all be kings in the west," I said with a great sigh, as I leaned back in my seat. "Or at least safe and happy." And I slept too.
When I awoke, the other children had scattered back to their own seats. Suppertime and Cheyenne, the last stop for the orphan train, drew near. We stopped in the middle of nowhere for a few minutes. Out the window I could read wooden grave markers lining the road: "Called Home August 12, 1880," one said. And "Ma Dyed 7 October 1869." And "Lillian Bruxton, mother of 12, grandmother of 32, greatly loved and greatly missed, dwelling now with God." The ground was littered with iron stoves, sofas and chairs, tables, and wagon wheels. What awful thing had happened here?
I walked back to the lady doctor's seat. She was smoothing her skirt and examining little holes made by the blowing sparks and cinders.
"Miss Doctor?" I asked. She picked up her book from the seat beside her, and I sat down. "Why is all this stuff out here?"
"The railroad tracks appear to follow a wagon road," she said. "I imagine that as the road gets harder, people lighten their loads. And the markers note the resting places of those too old or too sick or too tired to travel anymore."
Why, can you imagine those poor souls throwing Mama's piano out the back of the wagon because it was too heavy? Or burying a grandma in the dry, hard ground, marked only with an old buckboard seat, and leaving her behind? It made me so awfully sad, my eyes burned for that imaginary grandma buried out here in the middle of nowhere.
Between these sad reminders were hundreds of tiny mounds like fairy hills. Plump little animals, looking like fat-cheeked squirrels with no tails, bounced and scolded as the train started up again. "Prairie dogs," said Miss Doctor.
Watching them took my mind off the world's sadness for a time.
Their furry bodies popped in and out of doorways in those mounds like they were passages to some underground world. I could imagine tunnels under the land leading to prairie dog cities, prairie dog rivers and lakes, prairie dog castles with a prairie dog princess with jewels in her hair and tiny pink slippers on her furry feet. When I started thinking about her prairie dog mama and papa, I could see this imagining was leading me somewhere I didn't want to go, so I took a deep breath and sat up straight. All the tears still uncried inside me, I figured, would make an underground lake at least as deep as anything those old prairie dogs ever saw.
"Miss Doctor?" I asked again, looking over at her.
"Here," she said, handing me her book. "You might find that this answers your questions."
Where to Emigrate and Why,
it was called. Miss Doctor was heading west to live, just like us orphans, just like those people in the covered wagons, just like the Polish tailor. Seems like everybody thought west was a good place to go. I wondered just why she was going. Had she really answered an ad for a wife, like I imagined in Grand Island? Or would she sew up a
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