No Small Victory Read Online Free Page A

room that they would live in until next spring. The parlour, where they’d packed away the lovely green-and-brown furry chesterfield and chair that Grandpa O’Carr had bought Mum, was much too cold.
    The only heat in the house this winter would be coming from their old kitchen stove, which her parents had just hooked up this morning. Their old house hadn’t had a furnace in the cellar either, but both her grandparents’ houses had one. It was wonderful to have a furnace, for it heated all the rooms and made even the bedrooms warm.
    â€œJust porridge and turnips,” said Mum as she held the pan above Bonnie’s plate.
    Bonnie groaned. “Is there anything else?”
    â€œBonnie! No more talk like that!” said Mum sharply. “You’d better get used to it because that’s all we’re likely to have all winter.” Mum gave a grunt of disgust as she set the pan in the warming oven above the stove.
    â€œHow about potatoes? And all those peas and tomatoes from back home in Massassaga?”
    â€œThe potato crop failed. Remember? And the peas and tomato crops were poor, too. We sold what we could and put the money toward our debts. We are very fortunate to have so many turnips, at least.”
    â€œBut we had lots and lots of McIntosh apples! That was a good crop this year.”
    â€œYes,” said Dad, carefully hooking wire around the now hot stovepipe to secure it where it ran along the ceiling, “but we had to sell most of them to pay for our move, and we have to keep some money back to cover vet bills if the cows get sick this winter.”
    Dad stepped off the stool and set the hammer and wire on the edge of the table. “You know, Bonnie, our ancestors went through a much rougher time—the hungry year! They’d have been thankful for turnips. In the spring, they even ate the buds off certain trees!”
    Bonnie knew she’d better not say anymore. Her Loyalist ancestors had nearly starved in 1787. She’d heard about the story before. But that didn’t stop her from thinking horrible thoughts. What would they be eating come spring?
    Brrr-iiing, Brrr-brrr!
    Bonnie leapt from her chair in fright.
    Brrr-iiing, Brrr-brrr!
    â€œWhat is that?” Bonnie asked. It sounded like an angry, oversized bullfrog.
    â€œIt’s our telephone.” Dad beamed. “And it’s our ring—a long and two shorts!”
    â€œA telephone!” exclaimed Bonnie with delight. She had always wanted to talk on one. But who would phone them out here?
    Bonnie followed her father to the big telephone high up on the wall right beside the front window. It was a foot-high wooden box with two shiny bells at the top. There was a mouthpiece just below the bells and an earpiece in a holder on its left side.
    â€œBrowns’ residence,” said Dad, as if they lived in a palace.
    Bonnie rolled her eyes. If only the caller could see all the packing boxes and the half-hooked-up stove! Then they wouldn’t think too much of the Browns’ “residence.” A cough tickled her throat and burst out, dry and hacking.
    â€œSshhhh, Bonnie!” Mum hissed from behind her. “Do you want folks to think you’ve caught consumption already?”
    â€œBy George!” Dad said. “That’ll be great. Count me in.”
    A low mumble came through the earpiece but even close by, Bonnie could not make out the words.
    â€œRight, I’ll meet you before long at the…Well, at the…you know.”
    What was Dad plotting? Bonnie wondered.
    â€œWell, what was that all about, Thomas?” Mum said sternly from beside the stove.
    â€œOh, I’ve just hatched a little plan with our next-door neighbour, Herb Johnson.”
    â€œWhat kind of a plan?” said Mum, reaching for the poker behind the stove.
    â€œWe’re going fishing.”
    â€œFishing?” Mum’s brown eyes opened wide in alarm. “That’s illegal.