The Waltons 2 - Trouble on the Mountain Read Online Free

defiantly.
    John-Boy glanced at each of them and smiled. It was apparent that Fred Hansen was not one of Grandpa’s favorite people. “Did you know him, Grandma?”
    “Oh, yes,” she said smugly. “Quite well.”
    “Quite well! Hah! Should’ve seen the two of ’em. Sashaying around the dance floor, showing off fancy steps. That’s all they ever done.”
    “Now, Zeb,” Grandma said gently, “I may have danced a lot with Fred, but I always saved a special waltz for you.”
    “And you were so worn out by that time you couldn’t keep up with me.”
    John-Boy wasn’t certain if Grandpa was really irritated or just feigning indignation for the fun of it. But Olivia quickly put an end to it.
    “I expect we’d better get these dishes cleaned up. And we could use more wood in the stove-box, John-Boy.”
    In his room that night John-Boy made only a brief entry in his notebook: Rec’d story back from Collier’s Magazine. They do not read handwritten manuscripts.
    It seemed like some kind of milestone in his writing career—at least it was his first practical lesson on how to prepare a manuscript.
    “John-Boy?”
    John-Boy looked up. The door was open a few inches, and his grandmother was peering in.
    “Come on in, Grandma.”
    She smiled. “Just thought I’d come up and talk, if you had a mind to.”
    “Sure. Sit down.”
    She took the chair in the corner and looked around as though she had never seen the room before. “I truly feel bad about their sending back your story, John-Boy. I’m sure it’s a fine story.”
    “Thank you, Grandma.”
    “What is it you wrote about?”
    John-Boy gave her a brief outline of the story. It was based on a true incident—one Christmas Eve when his father was late getting home and everyone was worried about him. There had been a heavy snowstorm, and Olivia was afraid he might be out drinking somewhere. But that had not been the case at all, and when he finally came he had presents for everybody. It was about the best Christmas any of them could remember.
    When John-Boy finished, Grandma shook her head. “I just don’t know why they wouldn’t print a beautiful story like that.”
    “Well, maybe they will, Grandma. Some day I reckon I can get it typed and send it to them again.”
    She nodded, then fidgeted with a piece of ribbon in her hand, suggesting there was something else on her mind.
    “John-Boy, your Grandpa has already given you what you’ll inherit from him.”
    John-Boy nodded. “The meadow. And I treasure that, Grandma.” The entire mountain and some of the surrounding land had once been owned by Zebulon Walton and his brothers. But John-Boy’s grandfather had been the only one to hold on to his share of the property.
    “I won’t be leaving you anything like that when I die, John-Boy. Land or money.”
    “Well, I’ve always thought of the meadow as being from both of you, Grandma. Besides,” John-Boy smiled, “I’ve known you. That’s about as nice a present as anybody could ever get.”
    The answer pleased her. “You know, John-Boy, my family were always storytellers. Long before we had the luxuries like electric lights and radios, and all this modernism, we used to sit by the fireplace and take turns telling stories. Ghost stories, witch stories, and way-back stories of Indians and long-ago wars. Things that happened in the history of our family. I’ve kept them all, and now they’re mellow in my mind and ready to tell again.”
    “Grandma, Miss Hunter said that the talent of writing is a gift. Maybe now I know where that gift came from.”
    “All those stories I remember. I’ll tell ’em to you, John-Boy. That will be my inheritance to you.”
    John-Boy couldn’t help thinking about the many times he had taken his grandparents’ presence for granted. She and Grandpa were always there, and they were old, and it was easy to forget they had lived full, rich lives, and had experienced more trials and hardships, and more joys and happiness