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Stormy, Misty's Foal

<h2>Chapter 22</h2> <h3>THE NAMING BEE</h3> 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. <hr class="chap" /> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus56.jpg" alt=""/></div> <hr class="chap" /> 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." <hr class="chap" /> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus57.jpg" alt=""/></div> <hr class="chap" /> 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: <div class="blockquot"> "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." </div> "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: <div class="blockquot"> "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.' </div> Isn't that beautiful, folks?" Grandpa looked inquiringly at the children. "To my notion," he hesitated, "it'd be too long a handle fer such a little mite—even if we was to boil it down some." Maureen was impatient. "More, Grandma. More!" "Here's one from a fifth-grader up to Glassboro, New Jersey: <div class="blockquot"> "I am a boy ten and a half years old. This is not a very long letter, but I like the name 'Windy' for Misty's colt." </div> Mr. Conant made a second checkmark after Windy. "Two for Windy," he announced. "Doggone, if this ain't jes' like an election," Grandpa said. "Vote countin' and all." Grandma broke out in smiles. "This one's mostly questions: <div class="blockquot"> "Dear Paul and Maureen, "How are you? I am fine. I read in the paper that Misty is safe. "How do you pronounce your island's name? "If I should come to your island, would you show me how to eat oysters? "How are your Grandpa and Grandma? I think you are one of the greatest families in the U.S.A. "P.S. Do you think you'll have a Pony Penning this year?" </div> "See?" Maureen said. "Folks are asking already, but I just won't answer this one until later. Go on, Grandma." "Here's one from a lady teacher: <div class="blockquot"> "We read in the paper that Misty had a filly and also that 145 ponies died. My heart just sinks. "One of my pupils said that colts have such twinkly legs he thought 'Sand Piper' would be a good name for Misty's baby." </div> "Hmmm," Paul said approvingly. "See what I mean, Maureen? Sand Piper would honor her granddaddy, the Pied Piper." Mr. Conant wrote down the name with one checkmark and a star beside it. "If she was a horse-colt instead of a mare-colt," Maureen said, "I'd like it fine. But we got to think about when she's grown up." Mr. Conant erased the star. Grandma pursed her lips as she read the next letter to herself. "Land sakes, Idy, I'll be a bushy-whiskered old man by the time ye make that one out." "Oh, it's easy to make out," she replied. "The writing's beautiful. It's to you, Clarence." She held it up for all to see. Then she cleared her throat: <div class="blockquot"> "Dear Sir: "I cut a picture from the state paper yesterday of Misty's filly, born Sunday, March 11th. The caption said she was foaled at an animal hospital, but I am hoping that someone in your town can give me more information about her. Is she healthy? And is she for sale?" </div> There was a stunned silence. Grandpa's face went red and the cords of his neck bulged. Mr. Conant looked at him in alarm. "Mr. Beebe," he said, "I know the answer to that one. If you'll allow me, I'd like to do the replying." Grandpa didn't trust himself to speak. He managed a nod of thanks. "Grandma, try another!" Maureen urged. "Here's a real short one," Grandma said cheerily, "and it says: <div class="blockquot"> "If I owned Misty, I would name her colt 'Stormy.'" </div> Paul's eyes met Maureen's and held. Then he leaped up from his chair, stood on his head, and cried, "Yahoo!" In an instant he was right side up again. He shouted the name, "STORMY!" Then he whispered it very softly, "Stormy." Maureen clapped her hands. "Why, it sounds good both ways!" Promptly Mr. Conant wrote it down. "I'll give this one two stars," he said. And still there were more letters and more names—Gale Winds and Rip Tide and Sea Wings and Ocean Mist and Misty's Shadow and Mini Mist and Foggy and Cloudy—until at last they were down to one letter. Grandpa loosened his suspenders, yawning and stretching. "Out with that last one, Idy. Sandman's workin' on me, both barrels." Grandma's face lighted with pleasure. "Why, it's signed by a whole bunch of school children over to Reistertown, Maryland." She adjusted her spectacles and began: <div class="blockquot"> "Our class read the book about Misty. Now we are reading about the awful storm that flooded your island. We are glad Misty was not drowned. As soon as we heard the news about her colt, we decided to write you. We think you should name her 'Stormy' because she was born in a storm. Would you like that? We would. We had a secret ballot, and 'Stormy' won first place with twenty votes." </div> Paul drew in his breath. "That does it!" he said. "Remember, Maureen? Sometimes they name 'em for markings, sometimes for ancestors, and the third way is for natural phenom ... happenings of Nature." "Like the storm?" "Exactly." Paul got up from the table and spoke now in great seriousness. "Mr. Conant, how many votes do we have for Stormy?" "Twenty-two, Paul." "All those in favor of Stormy please say Aye." The Ayes were loud and clear. Maureen heaved a great sigh. "Oh, Paul, now we can fill in the announcements." <hr class="chap" /> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/ch.jpg" alt=""/></div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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