Skylark Read Online Free Page B

and Papa moved back. Sarah put her arm around Papa as the barn burned. They stood there watching for a long time. Papa turned once to look away from the fire and I could see his eyes, shining red from the fire.
    I had never seen Papa’s face so sad.
     
    The sun came up in the morning the way it always did. But everything had changed. The barn was gone, only a few blackened timbers standing. The cows walked in the yard, the sheep in the cornfield, looking for green grass. I stood at my window and watched Sarah and Papa talking by the clothesline. I saw her shake her head, no. I saw Papa take her hand. She shook her head again. Then Papa put his arms around her.
    I knew we would have to go away.
    They told us at dinnertime.
    “Maine?” said Caleb. “Are you coming, too, Papa?”
    Papa shook his head and looked at Sarah.
    “I have to stay here,” he said softly. “I can’t go away from the land.”
    “Can Seal and the dogs come?” Caleb asked.
    Papa shook his head.
    “They’ll be happier here,” he said. “I’ll take care of them.”
    “What will you do while we’re gone, Papa?” asked Caleb.
    “I’ll miss you,” Papa said softly, reaching out to take Caleb’s hand. He looked at me, then, and as if he knew I would cry if I spoke, he took my hand, too.
    “What will happen to us?” I asked after a moment.
    Papa looked at Sarah, and his words were for her.
    “We will write letters,” he said, his voice soft. “We’ve written letters before, you know.”

10
    W e traveled three days and nights on the train across the dry prairies. We passed packed wagons. We passed through towns and cities. We slept to the clackety sound of the train and woke with the red sun. Caleb was excited, looking out the window. Sarah was tired and sad. Sometimes I read to her from my journal.
    “‘When Sarah came, she wore a yellow bonnet,’” I read. “‘She brought Seal to us. The corn was high and the wheat all yellow. We lay down with the sheep in the fields, and Sarah taught us how to swim.
    “‘When they were married, my mother, Sarah, wore a dress soft like mist, and a veil. I think Papa cried. . . .’”
    Sarah turned to me. “Did he?” she asked, her voice soft. “Did he cry?”
    I smiled and Sarah closed her eyes. I covered her with a shawl.
    We went over a bridge, the river shining in the sun.
    Caleb turned from the window. “Sarah?”
    Sarah opened her eyes.
    “Is this the way you came?” he asked.
    Sarah looked out at the land. “Yes, Caleb,” she said softly. “This is the way I came.”
     
    Maine was green. When we got off the train, Sarah stood still. She looked at the train station, and at the trees, and at the people.
    “Sarah?” I said.
    “It’s all right, Anna,” said Sarah. “It’s just what you wrote in your book. I’ve come back to what I knew first.”
    “Sarah! Sarah Wheaton!”
    A man waved to Sarah. He wore a vest and a gold chain across it.
    Sarah smiled.
    “Chub!” she said. “You’re still here!”
    The man hugged Sarah.
    “Where would I be?” he said. “Except dead, maybe. Are the hens meeting you?”
    Sarah laughed.
    “No. And I’m Sarah Witting now. These are my children, Anna and Caleb. Can you take us there?”
    “Get in.”
    We got in Chub’s car, open all around, with shining brass trim and wood on the side.
    “I’ve never been in a car before,” whispered Caleb.
    “It’s about time you were,” said Chub. “Want to drive?”
    “No,” said Caleb, looking alarmed. Then he smiled at Chub. “I won’t tell the aunts you call them hens, either.”
    Chub laughed. He started the car. We passed green grass and green trees and flowers blooming in green gardens as we drove to the house where Sarah had lived.
    And then we saw the sea.
    “All that water!” said Caleb, running down the lawn of the aunts’ house. Sarah and I looked out over the water: at cliffs that went down to the sea; at birds that flew over us; at boats with white sails like