Paul picked up the block of wood and his knife, and made a few fierce jabs. "Exactly the way I feel." He looked at Maureen. "'Course, it'd be fun to be excused from school and all."
"Mostly it'd be on Saturdays," Grandpa said drily.
"But suppose," Paul was serious now, "suppose they caught the shippin' fever, or bad coughs from travelin' and going in and out of hot theaters. Or even broke a leg."
All three of them lapsed into silence. No one knew what to say. Maureen screwed the cap onto the ink bottle as if she would never have need of it again. Paul threw his piece of wood into the stove and closed his knife. The silence was a growing power. Grandpa sat down and crossed his arms, using his paunch as a ledge. He looked up at the ceiling and across at the clock. He picked up one of the birth announcements and studied it. The corners of his mouth twisted into a smile of sympathy and understanding. "It'd be chancy," he admitted. "Mighty chancy."
"But suppose," Paul spoke slowly, earnestly, "suppose we let Misty and the colt go to just one theater, and if they come home feeling frisky, they could go again. But if they got sick or were off their feed for just one day, they'dneverhave to go again."
Grandpa's eyes shone like twin meteors. "Sometimes I think you two is the livin' image o' me! I'm so proud of ye I could strut like one o' our peacocks in full sail. I'll take it up with the Council first thing in the—"
Bong! Bong!... The clock struck the hour of ten, and with the lastbongthe telephone rang shrilly. Grandpa clapped a hand to his forehead, then grabbed for his shoes. "Great balls o' fire! I plumb forgot to pick up yer Grandma from the meetin' house. You answer, Maureen. I'm gone!"
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.
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 markedSpecial, 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'sbiggerthan Christmas," Paul said.
"Who they for?" Grandpa wanted to know.
"Some are for you, Mr. Beebe, and some for Paul and Maureen."
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:
"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."
"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."
"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 downWindywith 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:
"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.'
"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.'
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:
"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."
"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."
Mr. Conant made a second checkmark afterWindy. "Two forWindy," 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:
"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?"
"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?"
"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:
"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."
"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."
"Hmmm," Paul said approvingly. "See what I mean, Maureen?Sand Piperwould 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:
"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?"
"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?"
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:
"If I owned Misty, I would name her colt 'Stormy.'"
"If I owned Misty, I would name her colt 'Stormy.'"
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 WindsandRip TideandSea WingsandOcean MistandMisty's ShadowandMini MistandFoggyandCloudy—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:
"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."
"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."
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 forStormy?"
"Twenty-two, Paul."
"All those in favor ofStormyplease say Aye."
The Ayes were loud and clear.
Maureen heaved a great sigh. "Oh, Paul, now we can fill in the announcements."
It was unanimous! The Town Council, the Firemen, the Ladies' Auxiliary, Preacher Britton, and of course the Postmaster—everyone approved the nameStormy. Stormy, they said, was the one good thing to come out of the storm.
News of the Misty Disaster Fund swept the Eastern Shore. Theater owners all up and down the coast wanted to present the famous ponies on their mission of mercy.
Now that Paul and Maureen had agreed to a tryout, they entered into the project with enthusiasm. "It's got to be good!" Paul kept repeating. "If children are going to spend their allowance money, they're entitled to a real show."
"Why, Paul, the movie of Misty is a beautiful show," Maureen said in a hurt tone.
"Sure it is. But lots of folks have seen it. What they want now is to see Misty herself and little Stormy. Even the Mayor says so."
The performance in the big city of Richmond was scheduled for a week from Saturday. That left only ten days to do a million things, big and little.
They scrubbed Misty's stepstool and gave it a fresh coat of paint, bright blue. And the moment it was dry, and a dozen times each day, they made her step up on it and shake hands vigorously, just for practice. Often while she shook hands, Stormy nursed her.
"Makes Misty seem ambi-dextrous," Paul said.
Grandpa chortled. "Reckon you could call it that. I swan, the way that gal shakes hands on the slightest excuse it looks like she's campaignin'."
"She is!" Maureen said. "She's campaigning for the Misty Disaster Fund."
"Maureen, you go get my nippers," Grandpa ordered. "I better trim them hoofs. She's shakin' hands so high she's liable to plant her hoofograph on some little younker's head."
As for Stormy, working on her was pure joy. Every night after school Paul and Maureen curried and combed her, not to make her less fuzzy, but to get her used to something besides Misty's tongue. And gradually they halter-broke her. Of course, there wasn't a halter anywhere on the island—or even in Horntown or Pocomoke—tiny enough to fit. Paul had to make one out of wickie rope, just as he had done for Misty when she was a baby. And after a little urging Grandma gave up her favorite piece of chest flannel to wrap around the noseband of the halter.
"Just feel of it now, Grandma," Paul exclaimed. "It's as soft as the lamb's wool they use for racehorse colts."
"Don't need to feel it. I know," Grandma said drily.
Stormy accepted the halter with only a little head tossing. Occasionally as she was being led about, she turned to gaze at Skipper and the kid as much as to say: "Hey, you! Why can you two run free?"
For answer they blatted and barked and dared her to join in the fun. But Misty wouldn't let her. When they came too close, she leaped at them, lashing out with her forefeet, head low, teeth bared. They quickly got the message, scattered in panic, and stayed away for hours.
As Saturday approached, everything was ready except the old truck. How ugly and drab it seemed for a movie star and her filly! It needed paint and polish and a new floor and a new top. But there was no money and no time to do anything about it.
Then late on Friday, just before darkness closed in, Mr. Hancock arrived looking pleased as a boy. He took a long bundle from his car and with a proud flourish unrolled two enormous pieces of canvas. On each he had painted a life-size picture of Misty and Stormy. "To cover the sides of your truck," he said proudly. "I want the folks in Richmond to know that us Chincoteaguers do things up right."
Now even the truck was resplendent and gay!
By six o'clock the next morning, chores were done and Grandpa and the children were loading up the truck. Grandma and Skipper, Nanny and the kid were clustered about, watching, as Misty walked up the ramp in eager anticipation. She could smell the sweet hay aboard and the juicy slices of a Delicious apple tucked here and there. Little Stormy skittered along after her, with Paul and Maureen on either side, arms spread-eagled to keep her from falling off.
"I feel so left-behind," Grandma said, folding and unfolding her hands in her apron. "Like a ... well, like a colt that's bein' weaned."
Grandpa was about to break into laughter, but when he saw Grandma's woebegone face, he came over to her, his voice full of tenderness. "Tide o' life's flowin' normal again, eh, Idy? The goin' out and the comin' in."
"Sure, Grandma," Maureen said, "and we'll be home afore dark."
"And hungry as bears," added Paul.
Grandma blinked hard. "I reckon the storm's brought us so close I hate to lose sight o' ye, even for a day." Big tears began running down her face.
"Idy!" Grandpa bellowed. "You come with us. Call up them Auxiliary ladies and tell 'em you can't sew on the children's band uniforms today. What if the old ones did float out to sea? Tell the kids to play in their birthday suits! Tell 'em anything. Tell 'em we can't load and unload the ponies without your help."
Suddenly the tension was gone. Grandma wiped her tears with a corner of her apron and began laughing at the thought of her lifting the ponies. "Now be off with you. I can't stand out here all day. I got a pile of work to do."
But as the truck swung out of the drive, she didn't go into the house. Her eyes followed it to the road, as she continued wrapping and unwrapping her arms in her apron. Then suddenly she took off the apron and waved good-bye.
Paul turned and waved back. He could see Grandma growing smaller and farther away, standing in front of the sign that said "Misty's Meadow." And even while he was feeling sorry for her, having to do up the dishes and go to the Ladies' Auxiliary and all, his mind raced ahead to Richmond. In sudden panic he wondered, Would there be anyone at the theater at all? Maybe the day was too nice, and children would be shooting marbles and flying kites and playing baseball, and they had seen the movie anyway.
In Richmond, a hundred and twenty miles away, children of all ages were waking up, springing out of bed, aware that this morning held a delicious sense of adventure and wonder. They dressed more quickly than usual and fretted at grown-ups who dilly-dallied over breakfast. They wanted to be sure of getting to the theater on time.
A few of the children could boast of having seen real actors making personal appearances, and some had even seen animal actors like Trigger and Lassie. But no one ever had seen the live heroes of a story that had really and truly happened. It was almost too exciting to think about.
The employees of the Byrd Theater, too, felt an enthusiasm they could not define. By nine o'clock the manager arrived, just out of the barber chair. He was followed closely by the projectionist, who disappeared into his cubicle under the ceiling. Then came the cashier, the popcorn-maker, and the ticket-taker, followed by the musicians with their cellos and piccolos and kettledrums.
And last of all, the ushers and the doorman in bright blue uniforms with gold braid and buttons.
By ten minutes after nine all was in readiness: the lights blazing, the film threaded properly, the orchestra tuning up, popcorn popping and filling the lobby with its tantalizing smell; and, most important, a special ramp was snubbed up tight against the stage. To test it, the manager stomped up the ramp and stomped back down again as if he were a whole cavalcade of horses. "Solid as the Brooklyn Bridge!" he said in satisfaction.
By nine-fifteen the ushers took their posts, the doorman opened the plate-glass doors, and down in the pit the orchestra began playing "Pony Boy, Pony Boy, won't you be my Pony Boy?" At the same time the pretty cashier climbed to her perch in her glass cage.
By nine-sixteen she was looking out the porthole saying, "How many, please?" "Thank you." "How many, please?" "Thank you." Her fingers flew to make change and tear off the right number of tickets.
No one, not even the manager, was prepared for the swarms of people coming all at once—Boy Scouts and Cub Scouts, Girl Scouts and Brownies, Campfire Girls and Bluebirds, classes from schools, from churches, from orphanages, families of eight and ten, with neighbor children in tow. It was a human river, so noisy with shuffling and shouting that even the drums in the orchestra could scarcely be heard.
By nine-forty every seat on the first floor was taken. By nine-fifty the balcony was filling up, and by one minute to ten there was not a seat left anywhere, not even in the second balcony. From floor to ceiling the theater was packed.
At the stroke of ten the asbestos curtain went up, the ponderous red velvet curtains parted, and the house lights dimmed, except for the tiny red bulbs at the exits. With a crash of cymbals the music stopped. A hush spread over the theater and rose like heat waves from a midsummer hayfield.
Then in all that breathless quiet the picture flashed on the screen, and suddenly Time ceased to exist. A thousand people were no longer in a darkened theater. They were transported to a wind-rumpled island with sea birds crying and wild ponies spinning along the beach. By pure magic they were playing every role. They were roundup men spooking out the wild ponies from bush and briar, and suddenly coming upon the Phantom with her newborn foal, Misty. And then theywerethat foal, struggling to swim across the channel, struggling to keep from being sucked down into a whirlpool. And in a flash they were a daring tow-headed boy, jumping into the sea, grabbing Misty's forelock, pulling her to safety.
Even the ushers in the aisle were caught up in the spell—cheering when the Phantom raced Black Comet and won; laughing when Misty came flying out of Grandma's kitchen; gulping their tears when Paul bade farewell to the beautiful wild mare who was Misty's mother.
An unmistakable sniffling filled the theater as THE END flashed upon the screen. Grownups and children smiled at each other through their tears as if they had come through a heartwarming experience together.
Then a handful of boys in the balcony began shouting: "We want Misty. We want Stormy!" And the whole audience took up the chant.
From the wings the manager walked briskly onto the stage. His face was one wide happy smile. He raised his hand for silence. "Boys and girls!" he spoke into the microphone. "Thank you for coming to this gala performance. All of the proceeds today—every penny you paid—will be used to restore the island of Chincoteague and to rebuild the herds of wild ponies on Assateague."
The applause broke before he had finished. He opened his lips to say more, but the same handful of boys shouted, "We want Misty. We want Stormy." And again the whole audience joined in. "We want Misty. We want Stormy!"
When the chant showed no signs of diminishing, the manager shrugged helplessly, then signaled to the stagehand. As if he had waved a wand, the lights went out, one by one, until the theater was in total blackness. An utter quiet fell as a slender beam of light played up and down the left aisle. It steadied at a point underneath the balcony.
And there, from out of the darkness into the shaft of light stepped two ponies. They were led by a spry-legged old man and flanked by a boy and a girl, but no one saw them for they were lost in shadow. Every eye was riveted on the two creatures tittupping down the aisle—one so sure-footed and motherly, one so little and wobbly.
From a thousand throats came the whispered cry, "There they are!" And the murmuring grew in power like water from a dike giving way. The children in the balconies almost fell over the railing in their urgency to see. And down below, those on the aisle reached out with their arms, and those not on the aisle crowded on top like a football pile-up, and the fingers of all those hands stretched out to feel the furry bodies.
The theater manager cried out in alarm: "Don't touch the ponies—you might be kicked!" But it was like crying to the sun to stop shining or the wind to stop blowing.
With his body Paul tried to protect Stormy and Misty. But they didn't want protection. They were enjoying every minute of their march down the aisle.
And now the little procession has reached the ramp to the stage. Misty walks up calmly, in almost human dignity, and with only a little pushing from behind, Stormy joins her. The stage is ablaze with light so that the audience is nothing but a black blur, far away and quiet now. Misty looks around her at the big bright emptiness. It is bigger than her stall at home, bigger even than Dr. Finney's stable. Her eyes give only a passing glance to the artificial palm trees. Then they pounce on the one thing she recognizes. Her stepstool! In seeming delight she goes over and steps up with her forefeet, nickering to Stormy: "Come to me, little one."
Stormy shows a moment of panic. Her nostrils flutter in a petulant whinny. Then, light as thistledown, she skitters across the stage. And with all those faces watching, she nuzzles up to her mother and begins nursing, her little broomtail flapping in greedy excitement.
So deep a silence hangs over the theater that the sounds of her suckling go out over the loud speakers and carry up to the second balcony. In quiet ecstasy each child is hugging Stormy to himself in wonder and love.
Done with her nursing the filly turns her head, wiping her baby whiskers on Paul's pants leg. The audience bursts into joyous laughter.
The spell is broken. Misty jostles her foal and nips along her neck just in fun; then she licks her vehemently as if to make up for that long separation during the ride from Chincoteague.
All this while none of the human creatures on the stage had spoken a word. But suddenly Grandpa was over his stage fright. "If Misty ain't careful," he bellowed to the last row in the balcony, "she'll erase them purty patches off'n Stormy."
The children shrieked. When at last they had quieted down, Grandpa thanked them in behalf of all the people of Chincoteague, and the ponies that were left, and the new ones which their money was going to buy.
"And Stormy thanks you, too." Grandpa set her up on the stepstool alongside her mother, and they posed with their heads close together even when a flash bulb popped right in their faces.
Then Grandpa selected one boy from the audience and one girl and invited them up on the stage so that Misty could shake their hands and so thank everyone. Eagerly the two children ran up the ramp, but once on the stage they suddenly froze, their arms rigid at their sides. It was Misty who without any prompting offered her forefoot first. Then timid hands reached out, one at a time, to return the gesture. But again it was Misty who did the pumping and enjoyed the whole procedure.
Grandpa threw back his head and howled. Still chuckling he explained, "In my boy-days I was an organ-pumper on Sundays. If only I'd of had a smart pony like Misty, she could've done it fer me!"
Then a man went up the aisles with a microphone, and children asked their questions right into it.
"Was Misty really in your kitchen during the storm?"
"Was it funny to see a pony looking out your kitchen window, instead of Grandma?"
"Why are colts mostly legs?"
"How many days old is Stormy?"
"How many ponies will the firemen buy with our money?"
"Will they go wild again on Assateague?"
"Did Grandma get mad at Misty messing in the house?"
"Did Wings live through the storm?"
Grandpa patiently answered each question, with a nod and smile of agreement from Paul and Maureen. With dozens of eager hands still waving for attention, time ran out. The musicians started playing "America, the Beautiful," while Misty and Stormy went down the ramp and up the other aisle this time so that more hands could reach out and touch.
The sun seemed brighter than ever when the little procession reached the door of the theater. Paul and Maureen drew a deep breath. It had been a rousing, heart-lifting performance, and they knew they had never been so happy.
It was afternoon before Misty and Stormy were loaded into the truck for the long drive home. All the way Grandpa and the children sat in quiet contentment, too full for words. They rode in silence, each one tasting his own memories of the performance, each one filled to the brim with a deep, almost spiritual happiness.
The pine trees were throwing long shadows and the sun was slipping into Chincoteague Bay when they arrived back at Pony Ranch. Grandma came hurrying out to meet them, her eyes asking a dozen questions. She waited expectantly for the news, but all she got was a "Hi, Grandma. It was great!"
Grandma buttoned her sweater against the evening breeze and sat down to watch the unloading. "No use pressin' now; else I'll only get half the story," she told herself. "Allus the ponies come first. I'll bide my time." Nanny shouldered up to her, butting very gently. Unconsciously Grandma tucked her skirt out of Nanny's reach. Then she settled herself to watch and wait.
Grandpa and the children were like actors working in pantomime. Each one knew exactly what to do. Paul lowered the tailgate of the truck and led Misty down to the fence. Grandpa picked up Stormy, carried her out and set her beside Misty. Maureen took off Stormy's halter. Then she and Paul quickly went around to the gate to let the bars down. But before even the top one was lowered, Misty did something she had done only as a yearling. From a standing start she leaped nimbly over the bars and landed inside. Then she turned around as if wondering what to do about her youngster. Stormy let out a frightened squeal, then with head and tail low, she scrambled under the bars and found her mother.
The twilit quiet ended in a crash of noise. A gaggle of geese rose in a honking cloud, the peacock let out a hair-chilling scream, Skipper yelped, the goats blatted. Even Grandpa swelled the racket. "By thunder!" he boomed. "'Twas quieter in that there movie house with a thousand kids screeching."
In the midst of all the confusion Misty let Stormy nurse, but only for a matter of seconds. After the long hours of being a sedate mother, she suddenly had to be a wild pony again. She took off down the pasture in a quick streaking run, Stormy hopping along behind.
"Look at that little tyke go!" Paul exclaimed.
Maureen cried out in sudden alarm as Misty began crow-hopping, twisting, swerving, kicking at the sky. "Stormy'll get hurt!" she screamed.
But Stormy was trying out little kicks of her own, kiting away, falling to her knees, picking herself up, yet always keeping out of reach.
"She knows just how far to stay away," Paul laughed proudly.
"Why, they're brimful of spirit after all the doin's!" Grandma exclaimed. "Wisht I felt like that."
"Ifeel spry as a hopper-grass," Grandpa boasted.
"So do I," Maureen said.
"I don't," Paul declared. "I feel better ... and bigger ... and wilder."
"How do you mean, Paul?" Grandma asked.
He pointed a finger to the darkening sky. "See that gull 'way up yonder heading into a cloud?"
"Uh-hmm."
"Well, I can fly up there right alongside him."
Grandma took off her spectacles to study the white soaring wings tipped with the last gold of the sun. "You can?" She smiled at him in pleased wonder. "Even without wings?"
Paul nodded, embarrassed, not knowing how to explain.
There was a strained silence. At last he spoke in a hushed voice, "Grandma, today in the theater I felt and knew things I never knew before."
Grandpa put an arm around Paul and another around Maureen. "I know jes' what he means, Idy. And I don't think no one—not their teacher, nor the postmaster, and mebbe not even Preacher Britton—could really put it to words. Idy, to those city kids in Richmond, today was like a fairy story come to life. It meant something real to 'em. And you'd of thought Misty and Stormy was borned actors, the way they played their parts." He sighed in deep satisfaction. "Fer oncet everything come out jes' 'zackly perfect. And fer oncet in my lifetime I'm too happy to eat."
Misty and Stormy seemed to feel the same way. Their kicking and cavorting done, they turned tail on their friends and walked down the meadowland toward their pine grove by the sea.
It was like the end of a play, their walking off, slow-footed and contented, side by side. Without benefit of words they were playing the last scene. It was good to be out under the big sky. And good to breathe in the fresh, clean air. And how cool the marshy turf felt to their feet. Home was a good place to be.
Misty and little Stormy showed no ill effects, even the next day, because of their trip to the theater. They were, as Grandpa Beebe said, "borned actors." They seemed to burst into bloom like the daffodils after the storm. And so they traveled to more and more theaters. Each time they seemed eager to go, eager to meet their enraptured audiences, and deliriously happy to come back home.
At the end of the tour there was money enough to start the Volunteer Firemen buying back the ponies sold in other years.
But this is only half the story. While Misty and Stormy were doing their part, boys and girls all over the United States were helping, too. They deluged Chincoteague with a fresh tide—of letters! From big cities and tiny hamlets they came, and tucked inside were pennies, dimes, and dollars.
The letters are stories in themselves:
Here is a check for four dollars and four cents for the Misty Disaster Fund. It is an odd number because we earned it weeding dandelions and they grow odd. We hope the money will come in handy. Please excuse our poor writing. We are doing this in my tree house.We had a lemonade stand and Mother didn't charge us for the lemons. We made three dollars to help restore your herds. We think the new ponies will be glad to go wild again.I was sad to hear of your disastrous flood because I feel like Misty and Phantom and the Pied Piper are my friends. I know that a quarter is just a drop in the bucket, but I hope that enough people send in "drops" to fill it up.The radio said your ponies and chickens drowned. I will send you a surprise with this letter. It is one dollar. I know that isn't much, but that's how much I can give.We all voted to give our class treasury of five dollars to the Misty Disaster Fund so you can buy a whole pony in the name of us fifth graders. We want Pony Penning Day to go on forever.I been picking blueberries all day and here's my fifty cents. Give my regards to Misty.During our Story Hour we set out a jar marked "For Pony Pennies," and we marched around the library until 386 pennies were dropped in.We are a group of 4-H girls, 10 to 16 years old. Every year we have a horse show and we do all the planning, fixing rings, making jumps, and getting prizes and ribbons. From our proceeds this year we want to give a hundred dollars to help replenish the herds that were drowned.
Here is a check for four dollars and four cents for the Misty Disaster Fund. It is an odd number because we earned it weeding dandelions and they grow odd. We hope the money will come in handy. Please excuse our poor writing. We are doing this in my tree house.
We had a lemonade stand and Mother didn't charge us for the lemons. We made three dollars to help restore your herds. We think the new ponies will be glad to go wild again.
I was sad to hear of your disastrous flood because I feel like Misty and Phantom and the Pied Piper are my friends. I know that a quarter is just a drop in the bucket, but I hope that enough people send in "drops" to fill it up.
The radio said your ponies and chickens drowned. I will send you a surprise with this letter. It is one dollar. I know that isn't much, but that's how much I can give.
We all voted to give our class treasury of five dollars to the Misty Disaster Fund so you can buy a whole pony in the name of us fifth graders. We want Pony Penning Day to go on forever.
I been picking blueberries all day and here's my fifty cents. Give my regards to Misty.
During our Story Hour we set out a jar marked "For Pony Pennies," and we marched around the library until 386 pennies were dropped in.
We are a group of 4-H girls, 10 to 16 years old. Every year we have a horse show and we do all the planning, fixing rings, making jumps, and getting prizes and ribbons. From our proceeds this year we want to give a hundred dollars to help replenish the herds that were drowned.
Day by day the Misty Disaster Fund grew and grew. By June the firemen had bought back enough ponies to restore the herds on Assateague. And on the last Wednesday of July the annual roundup and Pony Penning took place just as it has for over a hundred years. Thousands of visitors came, and they marveled at how quickly the new ponies had gone back to their wild ways. The celebration was a rousing success.
Of course Stormy and Misty were on hand where everyone could see and pet them.Theywere not wild at all. Yet they were the heroes of the day.
For their help the author is grateful to
Ralph and Jeanette Beebe, uncle and aunt of Paul and Maureen
Sam Bendheim, Sr., AND Sam Bendheim, Jr., President and Vice President of the Byrd Theaters, Richmond, Va.
The Reverend Raymond Britton, Chincoteague
Warren Conant, Postmaster of Chincoteague, and his wife,Pauline
Mires Hancock, terrapin trapper and wood-carver, Chincoteague
Lt. William Lipham, U.S. Coast Guard
William E. Nichols, Jr., Councilman of Chincoteague
Rosert N. Reed, Mayor of Chincoteague
Tom Reed, naturalist, Chincoteague
Joyce Tarr, map maker, Chincoteague
PRINTED IN U.S.A.