Mary Jane had a very “single eye” one beautiful Saturday morning. As she hurried to put the last piece in place on the milk separator, she looked about, hoping eagerly that no further jobs would be called. There were kittens in the barn – three darling bundles of excitement. Even now they might have round, violet eyes opened to the world for the first time! Mary Jane could hardly wait and checked on them as often as she could slip out to their cozy hiding place in the hayloft.
Hyperbole, the mother, had been so extravagantly named by a young engineering student who loved to work on the farm in the summers. Mary Jane had been told the meaning of the word, but it hadn’t registered too well. Claude had been amused at her extra super show of love at times, and he said that the name fit her personality. So be it. The word sounded grand enough for her precious tabby. The babies, she and Ellen had named. Twinkle, for a tiny star between her tightly shut eyes; White foot, for very obvious reasons; and Mitzi, her own special name that she had remembered reading about somewhere among the many stories in her collection.
Joy! At her first peep today, Twinkle greeted her with one and a half eyes opened. And Mitzi, two eyes! Hyperbole purr-r-r-ed sweetly and licked the babies right off their wobbly footing. Mary Jane spent a blissful half-hour with the little family, oblivious to all else.
A persistent sound of distant calling began to make an impression.
“Who? Oh, I don’t want to hear!” she murmured. But it was dear Mamma’s voice, and it was a distinct “Mar-y Jane!”
She sighed and slid down the hay to the door, answering reluctantly.
“Come, honey!” Mamma called. “I want you to run the butter over to Mrs. Mercer.”
That was different! A fun job! She loved to bicycle the little crock of butter over to the neighbors’ about a mile and a half away. Mrs. Mercer was chatty and interesting and had a dear little daughter about five years old. No need for further words.
Mary Jane happily attached the little crock to the handle bars of Robbie’s shabby bicycle. Still being rather unskilled, she found a slope to help her start as she wobbly mounted, for the scabs were just nicely off her knees and elbows from the learning process. Soon she was pedaling gaily down the sandy lane, watching for the many bad bumps and holes. Suddenly, a little rabbit leaped out from the roadside. He seemed to turn and laugh as he loped easily ahead.
“Catch me if you can, eh! All right, Mr. Rabbit!”
Then came the crash. Mary Jane found herself in a thick clump of weeds, aware of bruises and fresh scrapes to her elbows and arm.
“The butter! Oh, I can’t bear to look!” she groaned.
“Aren’t you lamb’s lettuce, or something?”
“And Robbie, oh, I sure hope the bike is okay!”
For a moment there was an urge to cry. Once she had the courage to move, the little girl found herself intact. And, wonder of wonders, there was the butter, lid gone and a neat sprig of weed “planted” in the golden pot of fresh butter.
“Well, weed,” Mary Jane addressed, “you and your family here sure saved my butter and bones! Thanks!”
“Hey! Aren’t you ‘lamb lettuce’ or something? You’re a big pest in the garden, but I think you are even eatable. Anyway, I’ll just unplant you and” – groan – “be on my way! I’ve seen Mrs. Mercer pick worse from her food!”
The bike was richer in its antique appearance, but ride able. Finding the lid unbroken, she resealed the crock and pedaled gingerly the rest of the way.
Mrs. Mercer was a woman of talent and ability. She had been a school teacher and was quick with wit and tongue. As Daddy tritely put it, her husband Joe was “slower than molasses in January.” Their farm was small and poor. His little wife must have suffered quite a jolt when she came face to face with the facts of her situation. But she bravely and cheerfully did the best she could to help, and usually bought and raised from three to five thousand chickens yearly.
These kept the family fed and clothed. She was a self-righteous woman, however, and scorned dear Mamma for her religious beliefs. She complained that these kept her out of the local school and church politics where she was needed. Most of all, she had no patience with Mamma’s ignorance of neighborhood news. She couldn’t understand anyone who wouldn’t listen in on the party line. But she was kind and lively to talk to.
Joe’s milk cows hadn’t survived, for he had neglected their Black Leg inoculations. And, since Mrs. Hillman had few chickens by comparison, the two ladies exchanged commodities.
Mary Jane tried not to look about the untidy kitchen too closely. She saw enough to feel at ease about the slightly contaminated butter which she did not mention. Little Marjorie modeled the ruffled dress Lori had made for her birthday, and after a pleasant chat, Mary Jane said her good-bye. It was with considerably more care that she wheeled home with the fragile eggs.
Mamma caught the new scrapes and a new tear in Mary Jane’s apron right away.
“It’s just what I was afraid of! I thought that lane too rough and you’re too new at bike riding. Are you sure the butter was okay?”
“Sure. Honest, Mamma, it was the rabbit’s fault. I’m getting better all the time at riding. Anyway, I found one good use for those old Lamb’s Lettuce weeds. They grow so thick and tall in the ditch, that it was nearly like falling in the hay.”
“It’s ‘Lamb’s Quarters,’ and it’s a good thing for you that you tumbled into them. However, I’m not sure you should –,” and she thoughtfully applied some iodine.
“Ouch! Mamma, please forget it. I’ll be more careful!”