“We’ve forgotten to write Mr. McRae and tell him how much we like the
house,” Doris said a few days later.
“He doesn’t know anything about the house, or care either,” protested
Kit, struggling with some raspberry bushes that needed disentangling and
tying back against the woodshed boards. “He’s never even seen it. Do you
suppose he has the least bit of sentiment for it the way we have or
Sally has? I wouldn’t bother to write to him.”
“Oh, I would,” Doris answered serenely. She was down on her knees
hunting for four-leaf clovers. “It isn’t his fault that he’s never seen
the place. Maybe we could coax him back.”
“We don’t want to coax him back. It must be our one endeavor to keep him
right out there in Saskatoon forever. We must tell him the cellar’s damp
and the roof leaks and the whole place has gone to rack and ruin. If we
don’t he may come East and take it away from us, and we want to save up
and buy it and give it back to Sally and her Mother and Buzzy.”
“What’s Buzzy’s real name?” asked Tommy irrelevantly. “I never thought
to ask him.”
“He wants to study electrical engineering or else be a rancher,” Kit
said. “I never asked him what his real name is. You’re awfully
inquisitive, Tommy.”
“What do all boys see in ranches, I wonder,” put in Doris. “Back at the
Cove, Dave Phelps always wanted to be a cowboy and he’s got to be a
lawyer, his father says.”
“Maybe he’ll escape West some day and be whatever he likes. I think one
of the very worst things in life is to have to be something you don’t
want to be.” Kit surveyed her work. “Of course, in the ups and downs and
uncertainties, as Becky would remark, we must be prepared for all
things, but if you can decide what you’re best fitted for, then you
ought to aim everything at that mark. If Buzzy wants to be an electrical
engineer, he ought to get books now, and study them hard, and if he
wants to be a rancher, he ought to go West—”
A voice came from midair apparently, overhead on the woodshed roof which
Buzzy was patching with waterproof paint and tar. It was a mild and
cheerful voice and showed plainly that Buzzy was personally interested
in the conversation.
“I can’t go West just now, Mom needs me. But I’m going as soon as I
can.”
The three stared up at him with laughing faces. “Buzzy Hancock,”
exclaimed Tommy, “why didn’t you sing out to us before?”
“Wanted to hear what you had to say,” said Buzzy simply. “Thought maybe
I’d get some good advice. And my first name’s Seth. Seth Guilford
Trowbridge Hancock. I’m named for my grandfather. Sally called me Buzzy
when I was a little kid, so I suppose that I’ll be that all my life.”
“Sally and Buzzy,” repeated Doris musingly, “when you’re really Sarah
and Seth. Nicknames are queer, aren’t they? I think that babies should
be called pet names till they’re old enough to choose their own. Still
Seth’s a good name. It’s a name to grow up to, Buzzy. You ought to be
stout and dignified, like Mr. Pickwick.”
“Guess I don’t know him, do I?” asked Buzzy. “Sally wants to be
something too, but girls can’t do that. She wants to be a builder and
look after land. She wants to go to the State Agricultural College too,
and take the forestry course. Do you know what she does? She read some
place that the chestnut trees were dying out, so she takes a pocketful
of sound chestnuts with her whenever she goes out for a walk in the
woods, and every once in a while she sticks her finger in the ground and
plants a chestnut. What do you think of that?”
Kit drew in a deep breath.
“I think she’s wonderful. I don’t see why she can’t go to the State
College if she likes, or why she can’t take the forestry course. It
isn’t whether you’re a boy or a girl that matters in such things. It’s
just whether you can do the work that counts.”
“She can shut her eyes and walk through the woods and tell the name of
every tree just by feeling its leaves.”
Jean appeared on the back porch and called down to them to come up and
wash for dinner. She stood there in the doorway for a minute after the
rest had gone in, looking out at the fields highlighted by the sun. As
she stood there Buzzy came up, looking as if there was something on his
mind.
After a moment he said, “Jean, there’s going to be a barn dance up at
the Grange Saturday night. I wondered if you’d like to go?”
“What? A barn dance? I’ve never been to one. I’d love to. What are they
like?” said Jean all in one breath.
“Oh, they’re a lot of fun. Everybody goes to them. They do square
dancing and sometimes they do regular dancing besides. They have a
caller, a man who plays the fiddle and directs the dancing so you know
what steps to use. It’s not hard to learn.”
“It sounds like a good time,” said Jean.
“OK, then, I’ll pick you up about eight. That be all right?”
“Swell, Buzzy. Gee, I’d better go! Something’s burning.” With that Jean
turned and ran back into the kitchen, feeling happier than she had since
the family had moved to Woodhow. When she told her mother about it
later, Mrs. Craig agreed that Buzzy was very nice indeed to have offered
to show her some of the fun of living in the country.
Saturday night promptly at eight o’clock, Buzzy appeared at the front
door with his hair slicked down, his shoes polished, and looking quite
different from the boy who worked in the fields all day in overalls.
Jean opened the door for him, wearing a pretty light blue cotton dress
that set off her dark hair.
“Hi, Buzzy. Come on in. I’m all ready.” She picked up her bag, called
good night to her family and they went out.
It was a lovely spring evening, the smell of cherry blossoms hung in the
air and the moon was beginning to come up over the hills. Buzzy opened
the door of his battered jalopy and Jean got in. Walking around to the
other side of the car, Buzzy broke off a sprig of cherry blossoms and
tossed them into Jean’s lap. She turned and smiled at him as she
fastened the flowers in her hair.
“Gee, you look nice tonight, Jeannie,” he said, and abruptly started the
car.
Judging by the number of cars parked when they arrived at the Grange,
there were already a number of people there before them. Inside they
found quite a crowd. A square dance had already begun, so Jean and Buzzy
stood watching the twirling mass of people dance by them.
“Gosh, they dance so fast. I’ll never be able to do it,” exclaimed Jean.
“Does just that one fiddler play all evening?”
“Not always,” he explained. “Sometimes somebody plays the piano, too, or
Jed Perkins brings his bass fiddle, but usually just Nate plays. That’s
his name, Nate White. Come on, let’s try it. They’re starting again.
Just follow me and you’ll be all right.”
Buzzy led her out onto the floor and they began to dance. Much to her
surprise, Jean found the steps quite easy after she tried them a few
times. It was far more strenuous than it looked, however, and after a
couple of dances she was forced to sit down and catch her breath.
“I’ve never danced so fast in all my life,” she gasped while they were
resting. “I’m terribly thirsty. Do you suppose they have anything cold
to drink?”
“Sure,” said Buzzy. “I’ll be back in a minute with some of the
best-tasting lemonade you ever drank.”
While he was gone, Sally appeared from out of the crowd and came over to
where Jean was sitting. “Hi,” she said. “How do you like night life,
country style?”
“It’s fun,” replied Jean, “although it’s a little exhausting. But then,
country living seems to be more strenuous altogether than what I was
used to.” Just then Buzzy came back with the lemonade and Sally moved
off with her partner.
After a few more dances, Jean declared she couldn’t take it any more, so
the two left and drove back home. At the door Jean said, “I can’t thank
you enough for the lovely time tonight, Buzzy. I never knew a barn dance
could be such fun.”
“We’ll have to try it again some night. Good night, Jean.”
“Good night.” And Jean went into the house and upstairs to Kit, who was
still awake and waiting impatiently to hear the details of the dance.
The two older girls had always discussed their dates and parties with
each other back at the Cove, and the tradition was not broken now.
Together in Jean’s room, they talked it over while Jean undressed.
“Buzzy’s tops, Jean,” said Kit, after she had finished describing the
evening. “I’ll bet he’ll be the best friend we make in this
neighborhood.”
“It’s an evening I won’t forget soon,” replied Jean sleepily. “My feet
ache so from dancing, I couldn’t possibly forget it for at least a
week.”