The “depression” had found its way into the Gas Creek region deep in the Rockies of Colorado. David Morton, his ten years resting heavily on his thin young shoulders, was concerned over something to eat and wear, and a place to live. So intent was he on these problems as he trudged up the narrow, rutted road to the schoolhouse, that he failed to see the beauty of his surroundings. He was not even listening to the wind as it whistled through the trees — a sound which he loved. Today he only shivered and drew his shabby coat closer about him.
“It’s not fair!” he suddenly shouted to a chattering blue jay. “It’s not. She’s the onliest brother ‘n’ sister I got.” He tried to think, but the doctor’s words kept bothering him. “She needs to cry,” the doctor had said. That was last night. He had been curled up behind the stove trying to keep warm, when he heard his mother say, “Father, I’m worried about sister; she isn’t picking up as she should. She won’t eat, and she fusses in her sleep. Henry, can’t we call the doctor? We’ll pay him when better times come.”
There was pleading in her voice, and father had gone for the doctor. When the doctor came, he examined the baby carefully, and then said bluntly, “There is nothing the matter with the child, except that her little lungs are not developed. She needs to cry, that’s all.”
“It’s true, doctor, that I haven’t let her cry. I’ve held her and hushed her for fear she’d disturb the people downstairs, who have so kindly let us have these two rooms free of rent.” Mother’s voice had choked, and the doctor had gone away soon afterward.
“Father wants to work,” David muttered defiantly to the world at large. “It isn’t his fault we haven’t enough to eat — and I guess we have to live somewhere.” But the problem remained — a place to live where baby sister could cry.
He was so absorbed in thought that he stumbled in his heavy boots and fell down in the snow. His dinner pail went rolling, not that it mattered, for it was empty save for a lone piece of cold corn bread. Picking up his lunch, he thought happily of the new teacher at the Gas Creek school. She often gave him some of her own lunch to add to his. If she hadn’t, he would have often been more hungry than he was. But an apple, a fat sandwich, a piece of cake, or peaps a cooky or nuts helped out a great deal. His mouth watered hungrily.
“I wonder what she’ll give me today,” he sighed. “Maybe I can take some of it to Mother. Mother looks so thin and tired.” He clenched his fists, blue with cold. “When I get big, there’ll just have to be jobs enough to go ‘round.” He thought of the teacher again, and of the idea he had been pondering ever since the doctor had left last night.
“Maybe her Jesus will help us.” At the thought his steps quickened, and then as he rounded the bend and the stone schoolhouse came into view, involuntarily they slowed again, for in the yard the “gang” was playing snowball.
ML 05/13/1956