Over the weekend the schoolhouse had been dried out, and on Monday it
re-opened with only the high-tide mark showing. Paul and Maureen were
present and on time. But it was a hard thing to remember the provinces
of Canada, or to stand up and recite: "Washington, Adams, Jefferson,
Madison, Monroe ..." when Misty's filly had to be named. The Town
Council was insistent. They had to have a name at once. And the more
Paul and Maureen were pressed to make a decision, the harder it was to
decide.
For the next few days, in school and out, they thought up names and
just as quickly discarded them. None seemed right. Either they were
too long, or when you called them out across the marsh they sounded
puny. It wasn't like naming just any colt.
For three days they struggled. Then on Wednesday almost at dusk Mr.
Conant, the postmaster himself, arrived at Pony Ranch with a whole bag
of mail for the Beebes. When Grandma spied him striding across the
yard, she quickly set an extra place at the table and sent Maureen to
the door.
"Evenin', Mr. Conant," Maureen said politely, but her eyes were on the
mailbag.
"How do you do, Maureen and Mrs. Beebe?"
"How-do, Mr. Conant. I declare," Grandma chuckled, "you look jes' like
Santa Claus with that leather pouch ye're carryin'. Let me hang it on
a peg whilst you set down. Mr. Beebe and Paul will be in right soon.
Now then," she beamed, "do stay to supper. We got us a fine turtle
stew with black-eyed peas, and light bread, and some of my beach-plum
preserves."
"I'd be very honored to stay!" Mr. Conant replied. "My wife has taken
her mother to Salisbury for over night, and while she has no doubt
prepared some tasty treat for me, what is food without good talk to
digest it?"
Grandma looked pleased. "That's what I allus tell Clarence, only I
don't say it so elegant."
Maureen was still eyeing the mailbag, her curiosity at the bursting
point.
"Oh, I almost forgot," Mr. Conant smiled broadly. He reached into his
inside pocket and drew out an envelope bearing a bright red Special
Delivery sticker. "It's for you and Paul," he said, handing it to
Maureen. "Since it's marked _Special_, I decided to bring all of your
mail along, instead of letting it wait until tomorrow." Pointing to
the mailbag, he added, "It's the biggest batch of mail ever to come to
Chincoteague for one family in one day."
There was a clatter and a stamping in the back hall as Grandpa and Paul
came in. "Why, if 'tain't Mr. Conant," Grandpa said, putting out his
hand. "I'm as pleased to see ye as a dog with two tails!"
"Look, Paul!" Maureen cried. "A letter, Special Delivery! For us!"
Paul took the news with outward calm, but his eyes strained to see the
postmark and his fingers itched to snatch the letter and run off, like
Skipper with a bone.
"You children put that letter with the others and wash up now," Grandma
scolded gently as she stirred the stew. "Turtles is hard to come by,
and I ain't minded to let our vittles get ruint. Besides," she said,
"if it's good news, it'll keep, and if it's bad, time enough to read it
after we've et. Everyone, please to sit. You here, Mr. Postmaster."
In spite of company, supper that night was, as Grandpa put it, "a lick
and a gallop." Everyone was in a fever of excitement to start opening
the letters. But first the table had to be cleared, and the crumbs
swept clean. Then Grandma spread out a fresh checkered cloth to protect
the top. "We allus use the kitchen table for everything," she explained
to Mr. Conant, "fer readin' and writin', fer splintin' broken bird
legs--whatever 'tis needs doin'." She nodded now in the direction of
the mail pouch.
The postmaster took down the bag and dumped the letters onto the table.
With the hand of an expert he stacked them in neat piles, placing the
Special Delivery on top.
"It's like Christmas!" Maureen gasped.
"It's _bigger_ than Christmas," Paul said.
"Who they for?" Grandpa wanted to know.
"Some are for you, Mr. Beebe, and some for Paul and Maureen."
Wait-a-Minute jumped on the table and began upsetting the piles. Paul
swept her off with his arm. "You tend to your kittens," he said not
unkindly. "We got important business!" He took out his pocketknife.
"I'll do the slitting," he announced.
"I'll do the pullin' out and unfoldin'," Grandpa offered.
"You read them to us, Grandma," Maureen said. "You make everything
sound like a storybook."
Grandma blushed. "Mr. Conant's got the edification. I'd be right shy
readin' in front of him."
"Not at all, not at all, Mrs. Beebe. I agree with Maureen. Many a
Sunday I've gone by your class and heard you reading from the Bible. I
feel complimented you let me stay and be part of the family."
For a moment the slitting of the envelopes and the crackle of paper
were the only sounds in the room. Then Grandma picked up the Special
Delivery letter, took a deep breath, and in her best Sunday voice began:
"_Dear Paul and Maureen,_
"_I am sorry the storm came. But I am glad Misty had a baby. Was I
surprised!_
"_I hope some day I can visit your island or maybe even live there.
I hope to go to Pony Penning Day and maybe buy a pony._
"_I hope you don't mind if I send you a name for Misty's baby. I
think 'Windy' would be nice._"
"By ginger!" Grandpa exclaimed. "That's uncommon purty. Let's have
another, Idy."
Mr. Conant took pencil and paper out of his pocket and wrote down
_Windy_ with a checkmark after it.
"This one is to Misty herself," Grandma went on. "Why, it's a regular
baby card, and it says, _Congratulations to you and the new little
bundle of joy_."
"Turn it over, Grandma, there's a note on the back," Maureen said.
"So there is! Listen:
"_Dear little Misty,_
"_I've heard so much about you I feel like I know you. I love
horses and I was worried about you during the storm. You have a
wonderful master and mistress to bring you into the kitchen._
"_You should name your filly 'Misty's Little Storm Cloud.'_