To his very young wife,Mr.Thomas was indeed a man of few words—and those few often puzzling.Long before little Ozro was born,Augusta had discerned,not without dismay and some indignation,that her husband,once he had printed matter within sight,heard not a word she said unless she stamped her foot on the earthen floor of their soddy and cried aloud,"Mr.Thomas!"Then he would look up from his reading to ask pleasantly,"Were you speaking to me,my dear?"If she had just said something it had taken her days,weeks,to gather the courage to say,it was all she could do to keep from crying.She did not cry only because she remembered the first time she had wept because of his all-unintended remoteness.Then he had said repentantly yet teasingly,"I should not have married you when I did,should not have let you talk me into it.I should have waited for you to grow up!"
Righteous wrath had stopped her tears on the instant."Talked him into it"indeed!Had he not told her mother that he had decided when she was only eleven to wait for her to grow up,and to choose no other wife?Had he not soon begun to write her delightful letters,which she answered painstakingly,copybook and Webster's blueback speller at hand?Had he not,when she was fourteen,begun his courting,taking her horseback riding,telling her when they rested their horses that when she was old enough he hoped to marry her and wanted her to begin to get used to the idea?And as for waiting for her to grow up,had she not been almost seventeen when they married?Had she not gone willingly,eagerly,to live with him in his dugout soddy on his claim forty miles away,with never a word against the fear of floods,prairie fires,rattlers,tramps and loneliness?Never a protest against the hard work—the washing and ironing,the carrying in of water from the well and cobs for the little cookstove and the keeping of the little unfloored,one-windowed house—while he rode off over the Kansas prairie swells to teach in his country school or visit the sick of his congregation?Hardly ever any more a cry against his long silences and his almost constant reading in the evenings?Never a complaint against his sometimes answering her smilingly,when she did get his attention,with riddles,quotations from unfamiliar verses,saws,jingles—some of the latter really rather shocking?But no matter what he said or forgot to say,she must remind herself that he was never intentionally unkind to her,that he loved her—as indeed he told her almost daily.She must not let him see her cry if she could help it.And always there was the baby,strong and beautiful,her treasure and boon companion,ever glad to hear her talk to him.
Augusta could not yet bring herself to call her husband by his given name,Willard.（It was only later,after the baby began to call him"Mr.Stomps"in his effort to say"Mr.Thomas,"that she was to let herself call him"Papa."）Yet always when he came back to her from the world of his thoughts and reading he was tender,loving,appreciative.Never did he go from her,on even a short errand,without coming to lay his hands on her shoulders and kiss her brow or the part in her dark hair.If only he could have found it in his heart to talk with her more,or even simply to read aloud to her more often,instead of saying so positively,"This would not interest you,my dear"!
That evening,while supper was on the stove and Mr.Thomas,home from his school,was reading the weekly newspaper,Augusta sat down by the cradle,and while the baby chewed on a harness ring,she told him a story of what she thought was to be.As she talked she knitted and kept the cradle rocking with her foot.
"Yes,darling boy,this is your blanket I am knitting,"she told him."In just a few days now,when school is out and your father's Christmas program has been given,Mr.Thomas will bring the fillies and the buggy around to the door,early in the morning,and I shall wrap you in the blanket,you all handsomely dressed in the new hood and new chamois booties I have made you.I'll carry you out,hand you up to your father,spring up myself,and with you snug in my arms but sitting so you can watch the horses,see the land and the sky and every bird that flies,the lap robe tucked snugly about us,away we'll go across the prairie to Grandpa Dodge's for Christmas.It will be night,dark,when we get there.Pa and Ma and your little aunt Bird and uncle Knowles will come hurrying out to meet us,Pa with the lantern held high.Ma will take you,hug you,and little Bird will be hopping up and down,her braids dancing too,saying,‘Oh,let me see him,hold him!"How she will love you,want to play with you,the whole time we are home!We'll all go into the warm kitchen,and there will be Grandma Rall by the chimney,waiting for me to set you on her knees.You'll look up at her,your brown eyes so wide,not crying,and she'll say,"This child is a Rall!Bless the boy!"
"Pa will come in,after helping Mr.Thomas put the team away,warm his hands over the stove and say,‘Now,let's have a look at this boy!'At first you may be a little afraid of his dark beard,but not for long.How he will love you!How they all will love you and make over you!After supper some of the cousins will come in,and you'll fly from one pair of arms to another,until time for me to rock you to sleep.Yes,we are going home for Christmas,little son!"
Little Ozro threw the harness ring and crowed.And Mr.Thomas looked up from his paper and asked,"What?What are you saying,my dear?"
Mrs.Thomas threw her knitting aside,jumped up,blushed and went to stir the corn-meal mush bubbling in the iron kettle on the stove.She lifted the stove lid and put in more cobs,and the light played on her childishly rounded cheeks and her dark hair."I had no idea you were listening,"she said."I was simply telling Ozro how,in three or four days,we'll be going home for Christmas."
