Read Online The Thanksgiving Treasure by Gail Rock - Free Book Online

wrinkled.
    When he saw me looking at it, he looked embarrassed.
    â€œLooks real good there,” I said, feeling rather proud.
    â€œHad ta get it out of the way somewhere,” he said.
    â€œOh,” I said. “I thought maybe you put it up there because you liked it.”
    â€œSmart-aleck kid,” he mumbled. “Just like old Pearlie Blake.”
    â€œShe must have been a lot of fun,” I said, thinking of the story he had told me.
    â€œYep, that Pearlie was something,” he laughed softly. “We used to have the best times together. I remember her dad had a big old pig that was Pearlie’s pet. She used to ride him. She had an old wooden bucket that she took most of the staves out of and turned it upside down over the pig’s back and sat on it like a saddle. And she’d get on that pig and ride all ever the barnyard.
    â€œOne Sunday we just come back from Sunday School together … all dressed up, and Pearlie’s ma told us to get changed into our old clothes before we played outdoors. Course old Pearlie never listened to her ma, so she just whistled at that pig and it come waddling out, and we both got on its back, and it took off running. Dumped us both right in the hog wallow. Oh, our clothes was covered! The worst thing you ever smelled.
    â€œPearlie’s ma and pa came running, and I thought we was gonna be tanned for that, but when they saw us they busted out laughin’ so hard they couldn’t get mad. So Pearlie’s pa just took us over to the horse tank and got a bucket and threw water on both of us till the slop was washed off. Then her ma pressed our clothes out dry. She never did tell my folks, or I’d a got tanned myself.”
    He looked at me for a moment. “You sure remind me of her,” he said. “Smart-alecky as the day is long!” And he stomped on outdoors to do his chores.
    After that I would sometimes sketch him doing things when he was working around the house or the barn. I’d try to catch the line of his old body or the way he moved, and he would always shake his head and wonder aloud why I didn’t get tired of that fool drawing. But he always wanted to see what I had done, and sometimes he would say that it about looked real, which I took to be a compliment, coming from him.
    Meanwhile, I was going crazy trying to find enough time to sneak away from home and be with Treasure. I daydreamed that I could get Dad to buy her for me, but I knew it was just a dream. I made my usual big hints about horses at the dinner table every night. I wouldn’t dare come right out and ask for a horse, but I thought talking about it—lots of mentions of Roy Rogers and Dale Evans and Trigger—might help. I always left my Roy Rogers comics lying around in conspicuous places, and cut out all the pictures of horses in the Saturday Evening Post and put them on my mirror.
    My dad knew what I was up to and would make his own hints back, about how people who lived in town couldn’t have horses unless they wanted a horse sleeping in bed with them, and then I would casually mention that Billy Wild kept his horse in Haskell’s barn, which was very cheap. It was a rule of this game Dad and I seemed to be playing that neither of us ever mentioned directly that I wanted a horse. But I did ask for cowboy boots like Billy’s.
    â€œYou never know when I might have a chance to ride somebody else’s horse,” I said, trying to sound practical. “At least I would be prepared with boots.”
    My father didn’t seem impressed. “It’s dangerous to go riding someone else’s horse. You never know what might happen.”
    Grandma chimed in. “Cowboy boots will ruin your feet.”
    â€œOh, Roy Rogers wears them all the time,” I pointed out. “And his feet aren’t ruined.”
    â€œYou’ve got to wear good, sturdy oxfords until your feet stop growing,” said