That night, when Pony Ranch had simmered down into a semblance of
peace, Maureen brought out the birth announcements and piled them
on the kitchen table. She and Paul were alone. Grandpa had gone to
an emergency meeting of the Pony Penning Committee, and Grandma was
attending the evening church service.
"You put the date on," Paul said to Maureen. "You write better than me.
Besides, I got some important thinking to do."
"Oh?"
Paul flicked open his pocketknife and began working on a block of wood.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Maureen dip her pen in the ink
bottle and wait with it poised in the air.
"I declare, Paul Beebe, you can be downright mean! What _are_ you
thinking?"
"And you can be such a _girl_!" Paul said in disdain. "Always poking
and prying."
"All right, I won't ask. 'Cause I already know. So there!"
"What do you know?"
"You're trying to think of the right name for Misty's baby."
"Okay then. I reckon you got what Grandpa calls 'woman's tuition.' Now
you know what's occupying my mind, whyn't you keep quiet and do your
work?"
_Sunday, March 11, 6 a.m._ Maureen wrote again and again until her
fingers were tired.
At last Paul was ready to talk. "There's three ways to do it. One is by
her markings...."
"Like _New Moon_ or _White Stockings_, Paul?"
"Uh-huh. And the second way is by using her family's names--like _Misty
Wings_ or _Pied Phantom_."
"And what's the third way, Paul?"
Just then Grandpa's truck roared into the yard, brakes screeching.
Grandpa himself banged into the house like a Fourth of July
firecracker. He threw his hat on the peg, then with both hands began
rubbing the bristles in his ears.
"I say there's _got_ to be a Pony Pennin' this year like allus," he
stormed. "Why, it's the oldest roundup in America! We jes' can't let
folks down 'cause of a little flood. Why, come July and roundup time,
folks are goin' to pack their night things and set out for Chincoteague
hopin' to give their kids a real hollerday. And they're goin' to drive
fer miles an' miles, and when they get here--NO hollerday! No Pony
Penning!" He snorted in disgust. "I won't hear to it! I jes'--"
"Grandpa!" Paul interrupted. "Who says there won't be a Pony Penning?"
"Why, the Mayor's committee and the firemen, they say ain't enough wild
ponies left over to Assateague to make it excitin', and no money in the
treasury to buy new ones.
"What's more," he bellowed, "they're right! But I ain't told 'em so!
'Cause without ponies this-here island is dead. Do ye think folks comes
here to see oysters and clams and biddies?"
"No, Grandpa."
"Ye're dead right they don't! They come to see wild ponies swimmin'
across the channel, and feudin' and fratchin' in the pens. Pony Penning
Day! That's what they come fer. Can't see it nowhere else in the world."
Paul and Maureen were aghast. July without Pony Penning was
unthinkable. "All year I been answering letters about Misty," Maureen
said. "And in every one I invited people to come to Pony Penning,
people from all over the United States. Even one to Alaska."
Paul broke in. "And this year folks'll come special on purpose to see
Misty's baby."
Grandpa began pacing, thinking out loud. "If only we had the ponies!
If only the Town Council could buy back some of the colts that was
auctioned off last year and the year afore that."
He quickened his pace. "Why, we could load 'em onto a big old barge,
and chug 'em acrost the channel to Assateague, and they'd go wild again
jes' like they'd never left." Now he spoke out with great conviction.
"Why, then we could put up one o' the greatest Pony Pennings in
Chincoteague history."
Grandpa ran out of breath. He gulped for more. "But all that'd take a
heap o' money," he sighed.
"Maybe," Maureen said excitedly, "maybe Paul and me could earn a lot of
money like we did to buy Misty's mother. We could rake clams or help
people clean up their houses."
Paul looked pityingly at his sister. "When you going to grow up,
Maureen? Why, it took us three whole months to earn enough to buy just
one mare and her colt. Besides, folks here lost most everything in the
flood. They can't afford to hire us."
"Paul's right, honey."
"But, Grandpa," Paul asked, "even if we had the money, would people
sell back their ponies?"
"Likely some'd be right anxious to help," Grandpa replied, "and some'd
sell fer other reasons. A lucky thing me and the Fire Company got a
record o' each sale, and if only half them people say yes, that'd give
us the start we need."
Grandpa suddenly remembered that his feet hurt. He collapsed into the
nearest chair and began unlacing his Sunday shoes. "Can't abide 'em!"
he grumbled. "I jes' stormed outen that meetin' afore it was done--half
'cause my hackles was up, but half 'cause my shoes squinched me."
The phone rang insistently. "You answer, Paul. There's another thing I
can't abide. Phone-talkin'. A contraption o' the devil."
"It's for you, Grandpa. It's the Mayor and he sounds real important."
Grandpa thudded to the phone. "Hall-oo-oa!" he bellowed.
"Grandpa doesn't need a phone," Paul snickered. "He could just open a
window."
"Sh!" Maureen put up a finger, listening.
"_Who_ called you?" Grandpa questioned.
There was a pause.
"What in tunket _he_ want?"
Another pause.
"He did!"
Paul and Maureen looked inquiringly at each other.
"Wa-al, Great Jumpin' Jehoshephat! Now ain't that nice?... What's that
ye say?"
A long pause.
Still holding the receiver, Grandpa turned and looked penetratingly at
Paul and Maureen. His voice sobered. "Sure I like the ideer, Mayor, but
'tain't fer me to say. I'll have to put it to Paul and Maureen and get
their yes or no. The colt, nor Misty neither--they ain't mine, y'know."
Grandpa hung up the receiver and walked back to the table, collecting
his thoughts. Paul and Maureen stared at him, unable to ask the
question except with their eyes.
Grandpa hummed and hawed. "Now I ain't a-goin' to influence ye," he
said. "It's _yer_ druthers, an' no one else's."
"But what is it?"
"Y'see, uh, it's this way. One o' the big chiefs from the movie company
that made Misty's picture--he jes' telephoned the Mayor long distance.
From his home, mind ye."
"What did he want?" Maureen asked. "Does he want to make a picture of
Misty's baby?"
"Stop interruptin'," Paul scolded. "Let Grandpa finish."
"Wa-al," Grandpa went on, "seems he'd been readin' 'bout the storm and
how so many ponies had drowned. And he wants to do somethin' to help.
Why, he's willin' to let theaters borry the picture of Misty free; that
is, _if_ the money tooken in goes to build up the lost herds."
Paul did a flying leap over his chair. "That's great, Grandpa. You
don't have to get our okay on that."
"But I ain't told ye the kernel yet," Grandpa explained. "Y'see, the
Mayor and the Council wants to start a disaster fund, and call it the
Misty Disaster Fund." Grandpa stroked his chin and a far look crept
into his eyes. "They want to cast Misty in the biggest role o' her
life; even bigger'n bein' a star in a movie."
The children listened, speechless.
"Even bigger," Grandpa added, "than birthin' a colt."
"What could be bigger?" Maureen asked.
"They want Misty and her young'un to make a personal tour wherever her
picture is playing, and go right spang up onto the stage. And part o'
the ticket money'll be used to tidy up the island, but most of it to
buy back the ponies. Mind ye, it'll all have to start right away. Mebbe
in two weeks--that is, if there's to be a roundup this year."