4. Mama’s Nice Little Man

It was a bitterly cold Sunday afternoon in January. Papa was away, attending to his duties at the south end of the charge.

Mama had been reading a story to Lou and me. I was convalescing from a mild attack of chicken pox. It was my custom to pick up whatever juvenile epidemic was making the rounds, proving that Nature viewed me as a little boy, no matter what my mama thought on that subject.

When these calamities struck, I was a pretty brave little kid, even if I do have to say it myself. I admit that no pain accompanied such maladies, and a great deal of attention was tendered me. Good old Doctor Engle came, whipped out his thermometer, and would be for wiping it off on the lining of his long coattail when Mama would yell at him to wait until she found a hot washcloth, well soaped, and a clean towel. Doctor Engle probably thought she was very fussy.

For a couple of weeks I would be excused from all the tiresome chores which, in normal circumstances, burdened my young life. I would be given large potations of saffron tea, which I loved, and sassafras tea, if there was any to be had. It, too, was very good. I think I bore my afflictions quite manfully and never teased to be discharged until completely recovered.

On the occasion of which I am about to speak, although I still moved slowly and even limped a little, I had regained something of an appetite; and, at noon, I had been able to take aboard a heavy cargo of canned currants which, until mid-afternoon of that eventful day, had been one of my favorite dishes.

Because good Mrs. Morland is one of the principals in the tragedy you thought you wanted to hear about, you deserve to make her acquaintance. She was, in dimension, what later came to be known as a stylish stout, though she made no visible effort to put on style. She was a little past middle age, whatever that is. I used to think that middle age was about twenty: at this writing, it is somewhere in the early fifties.

Mrs. Morland was a long-time widow (sod) and she lived alone, for her two grown-up children were in their own homes, in distant places. She lived alone in a snug cottage only a block away; and, having plenty of time for neighborly visiting, we saw her almost every day. She was prominent in church affairs. Everybody liked her, I think. Doubtless she was a lonesome creature, for she was ardently maternal in her attitude toward children. Perhaps this will do for Mrs. Morland, at the moment. She was big and floppy, busty, hippy, lappy. Whether her lamp was lit, I wouldn’t know at six, but I do recall that she had an ungirt loin.

About two o’clock, the town firebell rang furiously, and at the same instant people began racing through our yard and down our alley. We ran to the kitchen windows. Isenbarger’s barn, directly across the narrow alley from ours, was on fire! Great clouds of black smoke hovered over it and angry flames spurted from the haymow. It was a shocking sight! Apparently the Isenbargers were not at home, for their horse and sleigh were gone. It was only minutes until all the men in town were draining our cistern and all the women in town were in our kitchen, dear-meing and tsch-tsching as they watched from our windows.