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what came out of it, and broke the carrots off instead of pulling them with persuasion or troweling.—But she probably meant that Mother would do the best, which was true enough in more ways than cooking.

4
    THE ninth of April came on a day of corn ploughing. We had battered about all night scarcely asleep, and so heard Dad get up as he always did at four, and supposed that his heart was pounding like ours. It was a queer day outside, I remember—thunder-storms and a hot sun coming between them and a wind shifting to the north with coldness, and there were long streaks of light across the wild plums that were about to flower. . . . The cake was beautiful and high, and the icing dripped out from the layers. Kerrin ate the part run out around the plate but did not break at the crust, and it looked like the tower of Babel with its layers dwindling into a muffin on the top.
    At six that evening Dad came in and shouted out, “Where’s the food, you women?” and sounded so young and cheerful that we climbed on him as we had not done in weeks. Mother looked suddenly younger, too and Cale barked loud as he would at some stranger.She brought in the ham stuck about with cloves, and the brown-sugar smell filled the room and moved out the dark spring coldness that had crawled in through the window cracks. “I’m going to put soybeans up in the north field,” Father said. “They’re cheap and nourishing.”
    â€œYou ought to hire a boy to help in the planting,” Mother said, “—someone with more sense than these around.” Father looked at her as though she were one of us talking. “Max Rathman’s good enough,” he said. “What’s wrong with Max? A man doesn’t need to plant by textbook, Willa.” I saw him looking at Merle, and saw she was feeding Cale with a piece of ham, shoving it down his mouth with her fat rough hands; and there were words in Dad’s throat ready to come charging up, but they stayed in his mouth and did not come this time. “Max is good enough for a while, I guess,” Mother said very fast. She shook her head at Merle, but not till he’d looked away. “Let’s bring the cake in now,” I whispered. I wanted to light the candles and help her to carry it in, because I had made a part—not much, but sprinkling raisins on here and there. Merle kept watching me to know if it was time to say the poem, and her eyes kept followingme about with the question. Then I saw Kerrin take a big piece of uneaten bread and sneak it down to Cale, and I looked at Father and saw the words that he hadn’t said all ready to rush out on her. He got red, but only a heavy sigh came out. “What’s the matter?” Mother asked. She was out in the closet where the cake was hidden, but heard the sound and silence that came after. “It’s a crumb got stuck,” I said. I was trembling inside and afraid, but nothing happened. Then we let Merle bring the cake in on its platter, and her face looked like a big candle itself, looming above the little flames, and Dad grinned but didn’t shout as we thought he should.
    He cut us big slices, firm and wedge-shaped like the tall pieces of a pie, and a bigger one for Mother, and then we thought it was time for the presents to be given. Merle jumped up and looked at me eager, with her mouth all shaped and ready to begin, but I shook my head because I thought maybe Kerrin would like to be the first, and besides I was tormented with curiosity to know what it was that she’d been doing. And afterward I wished that God had sewed up my mouth, because of the look on Merle’s face, trusting and disappointed. “You be the first one, Kerrin,” Isaid. Father looked pleased but puzzled and wondering what was to come. Kerrin got up, fierce and excited in her eyes, and pulled a small heavy thing out of her sweater pocket. She held it out toward him but kept her