Read Online The Quilt Walk by Sandra Dallas - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sandra Dallas
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common. “Pa says you’re German.”
“No, Papa is, but me and Mama are one hundred percent Americans. I don’t even sound like a German. You want to shoot marbles? You can use mine.”
“Really?”
“Sure.” Joey called up to his mother. “Mama, will you throw me down my sack of marbles?”
“You be careful, Joseph. Don’t lose them. And you keep up with the train. We don’t want to lose you, neither.” She glanced at me and added, “Be sure you count them marbles when you’re done.”
I had just met Mrs. Schmidt, and already I didn’t like her.
“She worries all the time,” Joey said to me. “She thinks an Indian’s going to snatch me up, or a bear, even though Papa says there aren’t any bears on the prairie. I’m all they’ve got, you see. My sister died of the whooping cough last year, and my brother was run over by a wagon soon after that.”
I understood. I was my parents’ only living child, too. Sometimes that was a burden.
Joey and I found a flat, hard place just off the trail, and he opened the sack and let the marbles fall to the ground. “That’s my best marble, my shooter,” he said, picking up one that was black with a white spot on it. “You can use the next best.” He pointed to a red one.
As I reached for it, our wagon passed, and Pa called, “Don’t fall too far behind, Emmy Blue.”
I barely paid Pa any attention, because Joey was down on one knee, his black-and-white marble in his hand. He was good. If I’d had my own marbles with me, he’d have won most of them. But after a time, I got comfortable shooting, and I won some of the marbles. Of course, they weren’t mine to keep. Joey had only loaned them to me. We played until the last wagon passed. Then we picked up the marbles and ran to catch up. “Did you count them?” I asked, remembering Joey’s mother.
“Nah. I trust you. Do you want to play tomorrow?” Joey asked as I stopped beside Pa. “We can play something besides marbles, if you got anything.”
But all I had was Waxy—and those darn quilt pieces. No boy would want to sit on a wagon seat and stitch. “No,” I told him. “I don’t have anything to play with.”
After our nooning, and when we were on the trail again, Ma took out the seed sack, which she had tucked into a side pocket of the wagon. She put the square Grandma Mouse had completed on the wagon seat, then unpinned one of the bunches of tiny quilt pieces that Grandma Mouse had cut out. I had already counted the bundles. There were fourteen of them, fifteen if you counted the one Grandma Mouse had already made. And when they were finished, the squares had to be stitched together.
“Aunt Catherine is right. This is a Log Cabin pattern. Grandma Mouse made it small, just the right size for Waxy. Wasn’t that clever of her?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, thinking Grandma Mouse was clever all right. Because of her, I was stuck with making a quilt!
Ma laid out the pieces of a single quilt square on the wagon seat, sixteen strips and a bright red square. “Now, we’ll figure out just how they fit together. The red square always goes in the center, because red stands for the hearth, which is the center of any home,” she explained. “Now, find the smallest piece and lay it beside the square.”
I went through the tiny strips until I found one that was white with light green flowers in it and laid it next to the square.
“Good. Now the next smallest one.”
I found a blue strip and laid it across the ends of the red square and the white piece, but it was too long. I looked through the pieces until I came across another white strip, this one with blue dots. It was the perfect length for the other two.
“You see, you’re circling around the red square.”
A dust devil blew up and lifted one of the quilt pieces, and I made a grab for it before I thought I should have let it blow away and be trampled in the road. That would have meant one less quilt square to make. But then I
“No, Papa is, but me and Mama are one hundred percent Americans. I don’t even sound like a German. You want to shoot marbles? You can use mine.”
“Really?”
“Sure.” Joey called up to his mother. “Mama, will you throw me down my sack of marbles?”
“You be careful, Joseph. Don’t lose them. And you keep up with the train. We don’t want to lose you, neither.” She glanced at me and added, “Be sure you count them marbles when you’re done.”
I had just met Mrs. Schmidt, and already I didn’t like her.
“She worries all the time,” Joey said to me. “She thinks an Indian’s going to snatch me up, or a bear, even though Papa says there aren’t any bears on the prairie. I’m all they’ve got, you see. My sister died of the whooping cough last year, and my brother was run over by a wagon soon after that.”
I understood. I was my parents’ only living child, too. Sometimes that was a burden.
Joey and I found a flat, hard place just off the trail, and he opened the sack and let the marbles fall to the ground. “That’s my best marble, my shooter,” he said, picking up one that was black with a white spot on it. “You can use the next best.” He pointed to a red one.
As I reached for it, our wagon passed, and Pa called, “Don’t fall too far behind, Emmy Blue.”
I barely paid Pa any attention, because Joey was down on one knee, his black-and-white marble in his hand. He was good. If I’d had my own marbles with me, he’d have won most of them. But after a time, I got comfortable shooting, and I won some of the marbles. Of course, they weren’t mine to keep. Joey had only loaned them to me. We played until the last wagon passed. Then we picked up the marbles and ran to catch up. “Did you count them?” I asked, remembering Joey’s mother.
“Nah. I trust you. Do you want to play tomorrow?” Joey asked as I stopped beside Pa. “We can play something besides marbles, if you got anything.”
But all I had was Waxy—and those darn quilt pieces. No boy would want to sit on a wagon seat and stitch. “No,” I told him. “I don’t have anything to play with.”
After our nooning, and when we were on the trail again, Ma took out the seed sack, which she had tucked into a side pocket of the wagon. She put the square Grandma Mouse had completed on the wagon seat, then unpinned one of the bunches of tiny quilt pieces that Grandma Mouse had cut out. I had already counted the bundles. There were fourteen of them, fifteen if you counted the one Grandma Mouse had already made. And when they were finished, the squares had to be stitched together.
“Aunt Catherine is right. This is a Log Cabin pattern. Grandma Mouse made it small, just the right size for Waxy. Wasn’t that clever of her?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, thinking Grandma Mouse was clever all right. Because of her, I was stuck with making a quilt!
Ma laid out the pieces of a single quilt square on the wagon seat, sixteen strips and a bright red square. “Now, we’ll figure out just how they fit together. The red square always goes in the center, because red stands for the hearth, which is the center of any home,” she explained. “Now, find the smallest piece and lay it beside the square.”
I went through the tiny strips until I found one that was white with light green flowers in it and laid it next to the square.
“Good. Now the next smallest one.”
I found a blue strip and laid it across the ends of the red square and the white piece, but it was too long. I looked through the pieces until I came across another white strip, this one with blue dots. It was the perfect length for the other two.
“You see, you’re circling around the red square.”
A dust devil blew up and lifted one of the quilt pieces, and I made a grab for it before I thought I should have let it blow away and be trampled in the road. That would have meant one less quilt square to make. But then I
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