Mellie Garson sat on an overturned pickle keg sourly contemplating the
inequity of fate. If he was no better than the next man, he told
himself, neither was he worse. So why should some be rewarded with a
free buggy ride while others received a kick from the mules pulling the
buggy?
Mellie shifted his right foot, his newest reason for eating bitter
bread, and glared at the crutches without which he was helpless. It was
indeed a bitter blow, but it seemed to Mellie as he sat there that his
entire life had been one blow after another.
Though he was the father of children, the very fact that there was no
son among them was a desperate situation. How did one hand a coon hound,
not to mention the mass of coon lore that Mellie had acquired during his
sixty-seven years on earth, down to a girl child?
The lusty wail of a baby floated out of the house. Mellie shuddered, and
only by exercising a heroic effort could he refrain from putting his
hands over his ears. It was not that he didn't love his daughters and do
for them as a proper father should. But did his thirteenth child, now
yelling away in her crib, have to be a girl, too?
Mellie ran down the list of his offspring: Marilyn, Maxine, Martha,
Minerva, Margaret, Mildred, Minnie, Melinda, Mary, Maud, Marcy,
Marcella, and finally, Michelle. There'd been some hope they'd run out
of Ms, but he'd hoped that clear back when Mary arrived and now hope was
dead. He couldn't have thought of Michelle. But his daughters could and
that, he supposed, was no more than he deserved for exposing them to
Miss Cathby's school.
Mellie often wondered if he'd been born in the wrong time of the moon.
Maybe he'd even been born in a caul, but he'd never know whence came
his talent for fathering girls, because by the time he started wondering
his parents had gone to their eternal reward and it was too late to ask
them.
He sighed. Thirteen girl children were thirteen facts of life that
nobody could change. There were rare intervals, when they didn't all
start talking at once, that it was even pleasant to have them around.
But how explain the rest of his misfortunes?
Mellie retraced the chain of events that had culminated in this stark
tragedy.
Morning Glory, his pup out of Raw Stanfield's Queenie by Butt Johnson's
Thunder, showed every indication of becoming a rare coon hound indeed.
Though Mellie would have been satisfied had she inherited the talent of
either parent, there were reasons to believe that she combined the best
of both.
However, Glory must have some education and tonight, this matchless
autumn night, Raw Stanfield with Queenie and Butt Johnson with Thunder
were meeting at Mun Mundee's house. Had they planned a coon hunt, and
that only, Mellie would have contented himself with just being
heart-broken. But Mun and Harky Mundee were going along with Duckfoot
and Mellie had been invited to bring Glory. So--
Yesterday he'd been mule-kicked!
Mellie groaned his misery. Glory and Duckfoot had an opportunity to
learn their trade under masters such as Queenie and Thunder. Now Glory
couldn't go, and what had Mellie ever done to merit such catastrophe?
No doubt Duckfoot would be there, and thinking of Duckfoot, Mellie
wondered why a little of the Mundee luck couldn't rub off on Mellie
Garson. It had been a terrible blow to lose Precious Sue. But to stumble
on Sue's pup, even if he was half duck, and to find that he probably
would be as good as Sue ever was. How come the Mundees were so favored?
Mellie glanced bitterly around as a mule-drawn wagon came from behind
the barn. Morning Glory wagged contentedly behind it and four of
Mellie's daughters comprised the crew that was bringing in another load
of corn. Mellie fixed his eyes on Melinda.
Twelve years old, limber as a willow withe and pretty as a week-old
colt, she was driving the self-same mules that had kicked Mellie right
out of a coon hunt. Furthermore, she was driving them more skillfully
than her father ever had. Mellie permitted himself a troubled frown.
Certain Melinda would be a boy, and a firm exponent of starting the
worthwhile things of life as early as possible, Mellie had even dickered
for a hound pup so the two babies might grow up together. Somebody had
crossed him up, or sneaked up on him, but Melinda should have been a
boy.
She could throw a rock straighter than Harky Mundee; catch bass when
Mellie himself couldn't lure them; handle in perfect safety mules that
could kick flies off each other's ears and were anxious to kick anything
else; she could do everything most boys could and do it better. If more
was needed, Glory adored her with a passion few hounds bestow on any
human.
Melinda backed the wagon into the barn, and as her three sisters started
to unload the corn, she unhitched the mules and drove them to their
stable. A fiendish plan formed in Mellie's brain. Girls were about as
welcome on a coon hunt as bees at a sewing circle, but why should Mellie
do all the suffering? Melinda came out of the stable and floated toward
the house. Mellie came to a decision and called,
"Melinda."
She danced to him on feet that never seemed to touch the ground. "Yes,
Pa?"
"Raw Stanfield an' Butt Johnson'll be at Mun Mundee's come evenin'.
They're goin' to take Duckfoot on a coon hunt. How'd you like to go with
Glory?"
"Pa! You mean it?"
"Sure I mean it, honey."
She stooped and kissed him, and suddenly Mellie felt sorry for
unfortunate fathers who do not have at least thirteen daughters.
* * * * *
Making himself as small as possible, Harky Mundee kept his fingers
crossed and hoped Mun had forgotten he was alive. Everything had worked
out so much better than he'd dared hope that surely there must be some
mistake.
After eleven days at Miss Cathby's school, he was ready and unwilling to
begin the twelfth when he happened to glance toward the pasture. He
himself, after helping milk them at half past five, had turned the cows
out. But though he'd turned all six out, only five remained. Old
Brindle, Mun's ornery cow, had decided to take herself for a walk. It
was nothing that could be ignored. Old Brindle was fast as a deer and if
she decided she'd had enough of human society, she'd be as hard to
catch.
"You'd best help me get her," Mun said.
"Yes, Pa."
They'd scarcely left the house, when, apparently having decided that the
free life is for those who want it, Old Brindle jumped back into the
pasture she'd just jumped out of. But instead of turning on Harky and
roaring for him to be off to school, Mun said nothing at all.
It had been easy as that, which is why Harky worried. Though it was hard
even to imagine Mun's having thoughts to spare for Miss Cathby and her
school with a coon hunt coming up, dismal experience had taught Harky
that it was easier to forecast the next skip of a sand flea than to
anticipate Mun.
Until he knew exactly how the wind was blowing, Harky thought, silence
was not only golden but silver, gold and diamonds. If Mun was thinking
about sending him back to school, to school he would go. If he was not,
an incautious word might start him thinking.
Harky watched furtively as Mun put on his coon-hunting pants, boots,
and curled the brim of his coon-hunting hat. Then he went to the tool
box for his coon-hunting axe.
"Harky!" he roared. "What's your shotgun doin' in my toolbox?"
"Why," Harky hoped he appeared innocent, "is it in there, Pa?"
"Git it out!"
Harky drew his first easy breath since Old Brindle's escape. If Mun had
forgotten why he'd confiscated Harky's shotgun, he'd forgotten about
school. The ordeal was over, at least for this year, and Harky was free
to concentrate on important matters. For the immediate future, the only
matter of importance consisted of wishing it was night so they could go
coon hunting.
Evening finally arrived, and, with Queenie and Thunder at their
respective heels, Raw Stanfield and Butt Johnson arrived with it. The
older hounds sneered in their own fashion at Duckfoot, who
enthusiastically sneered right back, and curled up on the porch.
None of the men, as yet, knew that Mellie was sending his daughter to
substitute for him. When Queenie, Thunder, and Duckfoot set up a
desultory baying, all thought that Mellie would join them shortly. To
do so he would follow prescribed etiquette of the Creeping Hills, which
involved opening the door and walking in.
When Mellie did not enter, but someone knocked, the four hunters first
looked astounded. Then they looked at each other. It was Harky who
decided that one way to find out who was knocking would be to go open
the door. His astounded bellow made Queenie cringe and sent Thunder
slinking from the porch.
"What in tunket do you want?"
"Hello, Harold," Melinda trilled.
She was dressed in the boy's trousers she always wore except when she
went to school, a boy's shirt which immediately gave the lie to the
theory that girls can't wear boys' clothing and look like girls, and a
denim jacket. Her feet were encased in an old pair of shoes, and a boy's
hat was pushed back on her saucy black curls. Without a second glance
for Harky, she walked past him into the kitchen.
"Pa's been mule-kicked and can't come," she announced. "I brought
Glory."
"Right kind of ya," said Mun. "We'll take good care of her an' see that
she gits back."
[Illustration]
"Oh, I'll take her back myself," Melinda said. "Pa will expect it."
"Nice of ya to offer," said Mun. "But Harky an' me, we sort of batch it
here. The house ain't rightly fixed fer a girl to stay in an' we may be
gone all night."
"Don't you worry about that, Mr. Mundee," Melinda reassured him. "I'm
going hunting with you."
Harky gagged. Melinda turned to face him.
"You sound as though you've been eating green apples, Harold," she said
sweetly. "Have you?"
"Why'n'choo go home?"
"Harky!" Mun roared, but not very loudly, "mind your tongue!"
"Thank you, Mr. Mundee," Melinda said, with the barest hint of a sob in
her young voice. "You do want me along, don't you?"
"Well uh--" Mun stammered and appealed to Raw Stanfield. "We do want her
along, don't we?"
"Well uh--" Raw aped Mun and looked at Butt Johnson.
Butt stuttered, "Why--why--why--" and fixed his gaze on Harky.
"There!" Melinda said triumphantly. "The other three want me! Now what
do you say?"
"Hope ya fall in the mud!"
"Harold!" Melinda wrinkled her distinctly fetching nose. "How terrible!"
"Hope ya fall in the mud, an' I'll stomp on your head if ya do!" Harky
said.
"Harky!" This time Mun voiced a full-throated roar. "Mind your tongue!"
"Le's get coon huntin'," Raw Stanfield choked. "Le's do anything long's
we git out of here!"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]