Lost in a Cornfield
Cleary, Kate M.
Cleary, Kate M.
"Lost in a Cornfield"
St. Nicholas 18 (Sept. 1891): 812-817
[Illustrated by W. H. Drake]
Note: I have closed contractions, "do n't" becoming "don't" etc.
Page 812
THERS would probably have thought
Petunia just an ordinarily
nice little girl. But her father, and her mother,
and her two big brothers, and the girl, and
the hired man, and her grandfather, and her
grandmother, and Aunt Lila, and Uncle Carl,
and their hired man were quite convinced that
no other child ever existed one half as sweet,
and smart, and bright, and beautiful, and altogether
lovable as she.
Her father's house was in Northern Kansas, and her grandfather's homestead in Southern Nebraska. The little town on the State line was all that divided them.
"Hurry, Pet!" called her mother one morning in September. "We are going to Grandpa's."
Laughing and shouting with delight Petunia
ran for her sun-bonnet and tied it on her yellow
head. It was such fun to go to Grandpa's.
The gentle red and white Jersey calf was a
source of endless delight to her. And the hens
at Grandpa's did not lay their eggs in an old
barn as they did at home, but in dozens of queer
little boxes, nailed up under the eaves of the
thatched shed. And it was such a bit of frolic
Page 813
to climb up and peek in, and nearly break one's neck in doing so. Then Uncle Carl would, if he happened to be at the farm, carry her down to the mill on his shoulder. Petunia loved to see the foamy white cataract, sparkling and dashing down into the cool, green sheet below. Petunia always called the spray "snow," which was what it most resembled.
Her father brought around the team and farm-wagon. He lifted her in behind, where a "comfort" was spread. Then he helped her mother to the high seat in front, climbed up beside her, shook the reins, and away they went.
It was very early in the morning. Indeed, the sun himself had not been up long. A sky of pale, bright blue globed down on the bluffs and valleys. Pet, looking up, thought she was looking into a great, big, blue bowl turned upside down. It was speckled here and there -- just like a robin's egg. Here, on the high Kansas land, one could see so far away. Off to the northwest a grayish haze lay upon the hills. On both sides were great forests of corn. The stalks were all in regular rows, like battalions of soldiers. Pet didn't think that. She wouldn't have known what a battalion of soldiers meant unless you told her -- and perhaps not even then. For she was such a little thing, only two years and a half old in June.
"T'ank you," she said to the fat meadow-lark with the pretty yellow vest, who, perched on a post, trilled out a gay, sweet song as she passed.
"It won't be long 'fore we's at Dranpa's!" she told herself gleefully.
All they had to do was to drive down the steep hill that dipped and curved so queerly, cross the Kansas bridge, and then the railroad track, pass through the little town of Bubble, keep on straight north, rumble between the walnut-trees over the bridge above Rose Creek, drive east about a mile, turn to the left, and keep on, up and down the rolling road, till, within hearing and almost within sight of the old mill, one came on it -- the little house where Grandpa lived. It was all very easy indeed to do -- when one knew how.
Very tall were the sunflowers by the roadside. "Big as giants, I dess," Pet said. Above their great, coarse, dull green leaves their golden disks with hearts of brownest velvet nodded quite condescendingly down on the trio in the wagon.
"Dood-mornin'!" Pet said frequently in reply to their bowing, for she was a very polite little girl.
It would be very warm by and by, but now the morning air was delicious, -- pure and cool and sweet.
At her grandpa's they were all so glad to see Petunia. She was the only child in the family, and the darling of them all. Do you wonder how so many people lived in such a tiny house? A great many western farmers live in very small houses. Not, of course, because land is scarce or dear, but because when they begin farming they need so many horses and machines, that they think they will manage with any kind of a house for a while. And they always intend, when the sheds and stables are all built, and the crops are good, to erect a fine, comfortable dwelling. This the majority of them do. That is why, in driving through Kansas and Nebraska, you so often see large, new frame-houses, almost invariably painted white with green shutters, and in the rear of each a long, low, log or sod structure, now used for a shed or hen-house, but formerly the abode of the family. Sometimes, as in the case of Petunia's grandfather, those who have homesteaded the land live till old in the first little house. Pet's Uncle Carl worked in Bubble, and spent only Sunday at the farm. Her Aunt Lila taught school on the next section. The hired man slept in the barn. There was no one in the house over night except Pet's grandfather and his wife, and Aunt Lila. When Pet came on a visit she slept with her aunt.
That day -- Sunday -- Uncle Carl was at home. So after he had taken Pet down to the mill, after she had seen the Jersey calf, and had brought in a pail of warm, pinkish eggs she had found in the queer boxes under the eaves of the shed, and had eaten four of Grandma's cookies, she announced her intention of going out to see the corn grow, or, as she herself said it: "doin' out to see the torn drow."
They all laughed heartily at this quaint
announcement of the little girl, but not till the
small figure in the blue gingham (that Aunt
Lila herself had made) and the pink plaid
sun-bonnet had disappeared. It was a regular
Page 814
custom with Petunia, this "doin' out to see the torn drow!" Her grandfather had a half-section, three hundred and twenty acres, all planted in corn.
When Pet was there in April she watched the men plowing. She liked to see the stream of wee, hard, yellow grains drop three and three in the furrows.
Early in May all over the land were seen pencilings of bright green. These looked like little knots of wavy ribbon, running up and down, but always in precise and even lines, at the sides of the dusky furrows of upturned earth. Through it were scattered thousands of pale-tinted, straggly blossoms.
In June the young corn was as high as Pet's waist. Wild roses rioted underneath its emerald tufts, the full-blown ones soft pink, and the buds deep crimson.
In July it was far taller than Uncle Carl, but just as green as ever. There had been plenty of rain, followed by very hot sunshine. That was why it had grown so splendidly.
Pet took much interest in her grandfather's crop. She used on every visit to go out, just as she did on this particular morning, and with her head on one side critically note its progress. Then she would return to the house, and very gravely express her opinion on the subject.
To-day she was not a little puzzled. The long, lovely green streamers were green no more. They were not thick either. They had become yellow and thin. When they rustled they crackled like paper. The corn itself was swathed in ever so many wrappings that looked like stiff crinkly silk. And the fine, soft tassels that waved in the fresh morning breeze were golden, too.
To be sure their corn had changed also, as had all they had passed in coming over from Kansas. But she had been fancying her grandfather's would look quite the same as usual. The sun was high up now. She could feel the warmth on the top of her head. How lovely and cool it looked in under the corn! So very tall the corn was! Even when Pet pushed back her sun-bonnet, and stared straight up, she could hardly see the top of it. She thought it would be nice to walk in there, to keep on and on, till she came to the end of the long, narrow path, then turn around and come right back. Petunia didn't know anything about the "ten thousand men who marched up a hill and then marched down again," but she meant to do practically the same thing. So she entered one of the aisles, -- not as wide as those you see in a church, -- and she walked on and on between the stiff, high, golden stalks.
Such a lovely place as that corn-forest was! The sun couldn't shine in there to burn the top of one's head! And the long shimmering ribbons, and the fuzzy silken tassels, all seemed murmuring together in a queer, soft, brisk, breezy sort of way. On and on between the rows of corn the feet in the stubby little shoes went plodding; on and on!
"My!" panted Petunia, "me mus' be pitty near de end now! Dacious! dere are a butterfly!"
A butterfly, indeed, a big, creamy butterfly, with spots of brown and rose all over his wide-spread wings. And he was the laziest butterfly Petunia ever saw. He sailed along so slowly she was quite sure she could catch him. He wheeled away to the left. After him the sturdy little legs went racing. As she almost touched him, he floated upward, and lit over her head. For some time she stood looking up at him, and waiting for him to come down. Finally, she shook the cornstalk. He did not seem to like the disturbance, for away down the narrow road he flew, with Petunia in full chase.
All at once he disappeared. Where did he go? To save her life Petunia couldn't tell. Very still and sorrowful she stood, and looked -- everywhere. As she was peering between the great thick stalks at each side she suddenly caught her breath with a sharp little gasp of pleasure.
"Oh, doodness!" she exclaimed, clasping her wee hands, "what a nice wabbit!"
Not ten feet away, with his long, pointed ears
and funny little bit of a bushy, white tail erect,
sat a large, gray jack-rabbit. Petunia imagined
he looked like her own dog, "Dixie." She
would like to make friends with him. She
wished she could pat him on the head. Perhaps
she could coax him home with her!
Gently but directly she went toward him. As
she came near, he straightened up, and looked
Page 815
in astonishment at the little girl smiling at him. Then, with one terrific bound (Petunia fancied that he had jumped over her head), he was off and away!
Two big tears trembled out, and hung shining on her brown lashes.
"Butterfly gone, an' wabbit gone!" she sobbed. She was very tired. She really did not know how tired she was. She had walked a long way. She had run so hard. And it had become hot in the corn by this time. Not the blistering warmth of the midday sun that was torturing without, but a close, heavy, dank heat, caused by the thickness of the corn and the moisture of the earth.
"Dess me go home now an' get some moah tookies!" she decided. She turned, as she supposed, in the direction of her grandfather's house. In reality she was going farther and farther away. She walked on. Still more tired and hungry she grew. It was so far back. She wished she had not come such a long way. Suddenly she stopped. She heard a rush through the air, the whir of wings. Down, almost at her feet, whirled a covey of quail. She did not try to catch them. She was afraid they would vanish, as did the butterfly and the jack-rabbit. But she stood very still and watched them as they stalked about in state.
More intense the heat grew. It was not near night-time, but for a moment Petunia had fancied it must be, because of the sudden darkness. Suddenly came a sweeping coolness -- like a chilly wind. The corn rustled. Pet thought it must be angry about something. Every streamer seemed to be chattering loudly and harshly, and doing battle with its brother. The quail swung up, and circled away. Petunia heard overhead a quick, sharp pattering. A few drops plashed on her sun-bonnet. Suddenly there was a blaze of flame. She was dazed. She could not see at all. Then out bellowed an awful roar that seemed to the little girl to shake the ground.
Pet was fearfully afraid of thunder, and she began to cry and to run. But the rain poured more heavily, the corn swayed and crashed, the lightning blazed on, and the thunder apparently did not cease for one whole minute at a time. Poor little Petunia! She could find no way out of the forest of corn. Crazed with fright she hurried this way and that. Once she slipped and fell. Looking up she saw a huge hawk whirling overheard. So she staggered to her feet again, and ran on -- anywhere. She remembered that hawks ate young chickens. How did she know they would not hurt little children?
No way was there out of that forest of gold. At least there was none that Pet could find. North she ran; and south; and east; and west. Corn, corn! -- there was nothing but corn. To the right, to the left, before and behind. If she could even see through it -- or over it! In a vague kind of way she remembered when it was so small and weak she could have pulled many a root of it up with her own tiny hands. Now every stalk of corn seemed like a tree in her path.
How the storm kept beating down, down! Her legs ached so she could hardly move them.
"Oh, Mama!" she shrieked. "Oh, Papa! Pet f'i'tened -- so, so f'i'tened!" Only the storm roared back an answer. Then she saw such terrifying things. A lithe brown animal, like a very long mouse, ran before her. She screamed louder than ever, for she was more afraid of gophers than of anything else. She stepped on an ant-hill. A hundred infinitesimal black specks went scurrying across her feet. A mottled frog opened his mouth so wide she thought he meant to swallow her. So she kept on running, stumbling, picking herself up, and falling again. The storm died away. The sun shone out for a little while. Then the terrible twilight came. The night closed down -- down.
Poor Petunia could run no more. When she fell now, she was too tired to get up. So she lay there like a little hurt bird that would never fly again.
Such a time as there was at the farmhouse
when Petunia was missed! It was almost the
hour for dinner. Every room was searched.
The barn was searched. Uncle Carl ran to the
neighbors' houses. No one had seen her. No
one could imagine what had become of her.
They were all afraid she might have wandered
down to the mill-stream, and fallen in. Her
mother cried with terror as the day wore on and
Page 816
no trace was found of her. Then Grandpa remembered how she had gone out to see the corn grow. Perhaps she had wandered in, and was lost in that vast, waving field! "God help us!" murmured her father. "There's a whole half-section in corn. She may be dead before we find her!"
The news that Petunia was lost was sent to all the farmhouses around. By the time the storm burst, seven men on horseback were, at different points, picking their way through the corn. The drenching rain, the crashing thunder, the blinding lightning, the approaching night they dreaded not at all. Each thought only of the poor little baby lost somewhere in that wilderness of stalks, terrified at their strange whisperings, and wondering perhaps why no one came to take her home.
Very carefully had every one to make his way, lest his horse should tread on her. There was no use calling while the storm lasted. Their voices could not be heard above its roar. When it was over they shouted, and listened -- and shouted again.
Twilight came -- then darkness. They lit the lanterns tied to their saddles, and holding them low plodded on and on.
It was nine o'clock!
It was ten o'clock! And overhead a great white moon went sailing up the sky. Its radiance glistened across the wet corn till it was all one vast and tremulous sea of gold. Suddenly, breaking the stillness of the night, Grandpa's strong old voice rang out triumphantly: "Found! Found, boys! Found!"
Petunia's father gave a cheer that rang up
to the blue Nebraska sky, a veritable pæan of
praise. The other men heard the joyful cry,
Page 817
and sent back echoing shouts, answering the glad tidings.
At first, when Pet awoke she could not remember where she was. The corn -- and the moon -- and the men -- and the horses! And the lanterns dancing like fireflies! What did they mean? Why was she there in that strange place at night?
But when her grandfather dismounted, and lifted her up before him on the saddle, she remembered what had happened, and a delightful sense of security came stealing over her. She was stiff and sore. But she managed to turn and clasp both her tired little arms around his neck. Her tear-stained cheek, blackened with prairie-mold, she cuddled close down upon his breast.
"Oh, Dranpa," she sobbed, "I don't want to see the -- torn -- drow -- any -- more!"
Then she went to sleep again.
| Kate M. Cleary Home Page | Susanne K. George Home Page | UNKearney |