"Why, Luce!" said Billy; and he walked out of the kitchen without another word. He was grieved, Lucinda ran after him.

"Billy!" she said.

"What?" said Billy, chopping away furiously at a big pine log.

"I didn't mean that I wouldn't go if you thought best; only that I hated to leave the folks. Of course, I expect we'll go when the time comes. You needn't get mad."

"Oh, I ain't mad," said poor Billy; "but it sounded kind o'

disappintin', I tell yer. I like the folks's well's you do; but a man wants to have his own place, and his children a growin' up round him; but I shan't ask you to go till you're ready: you may rest 'sured o' that." And with this half way making up, Lucinda had to be satisfied.

Before the second summer was over, Mr. March was quite ready to acknowledge that it would have been wiser to follow his wife's advice, and lay up all the money which they did not absolutely need to spend. Just as the crops were well up, and bidding fair to be as large as before, there came all of a sudden, in a night, a great army of gra.s.shoppers and ate everything up. You little children in the East who have seen gra.s.shoppers only a few at a time, as you walk through the fields in the summer, cannot have the least idea of how terrible a thing an army of gra.s.shoppers can be. It comes through the air like a great cloud: in less than a minute, the ground, the fences, the trees, the bushes, the gra.s.s, the door-steps, the outsides of the windows, are all covered thick with them; millions and millions of millions, all eating, eating, as fast as they can eat. If you drive over a road where they are, they rise up in great ma.s.ses, their wings making a whistling noise, and horses are afraid to go along. Think of that: a great creature like a horse afraid of such little creatures as gra.s.shoppers! n.o.body would believe without seeing it, how a garden or a field looks after one of these gra.s.shopper armies has pa.s.sed over it. It looks as bare and brown as if it had been burned with fire. There is not left the smallest bit of green leaf in it. This is the way all Mr. March's fields looked in one week after the gra.s.shoppers came into the valley. All the other farmers' fields were in the same condition. It was enough to make your heart ache to look at them. After there was nothing more left to eat, then the great army spread its wings and moved on to the South.

Mr. March looked around him in despair. It had all happened so suddenly he was confused and perplexed. It was almost like having your house burn down over your head. In one week he had lost a whole year's income. It was too late for the things to grow again before the autumn frosts which come very early in the valley.

This was real trouble. However, Mr. and Mrs. March kept up good courage, and hoped it would never happen again. They sold their pretty new carriage and all the other things that they could spare, to get money to buy food for themselves and for the cattle; and they told Billy and Lucinda that they could not afford to keep them any longer.

"We must do all our own work this winter, Billy," said Mr. March; "if you don't get any thing better to do, I'll be glad of you next summer; but this winter we have got to be as saving as possible. Rob will help me, and Nelly'll help her mother: we must put our shoulders to the wheel like the rest."

Billy was not surprised to hear this. On the morning the gra.s.shoppers appeared, he had said to Lucinda:--

"Luce, do you see those pesky varmints? They'll jest clean out this valley in about ten days, 'n' you 'n' me may's well pack our trunks.

There won't be victuals for any extra mouths here this year, I tell you; I shouldn't wonder if it jest about broke Mr. March up. He hain't got any ready money to fall back on. He paid down about all he had for this place, 'n' he's spent a sight this last year. Blamed if I don't wish I hadn't asked him for a thing. He's the generousest man ever was. It's a shame he should have such luck. I don't count on next summer nuther, for the ground'll be chuck full of the nasty beasts' eggs: ten to one they'll be worse next year than they are this: there's no knowin'. We might's well get married, Luce, an' if there's any thing doing in the valley at all, I can allers get it to do."

So, early in the autumn Billy and Lucinda were married, and went to live in "Cobbs's Cabin," a little log cabin about two miles from Mr.

March's place, on the road to Rosita. The winter was a long and a hard one: hay was scarce and dear; and all sorts of provisions were sold at higher prices than ever before. The March family, however, were well and in good spirits. Nelly and Rob enjoyed working with their father and mother,--Rob in the barn and out in the fields, and Nelly in the house. They still studied an hour every day, and recited to their father in the evening. Rob studied Latin, and Nelly studied arithmetic; and their mother read to them every night a few pages of history, or some good book of travels. Rob did not love to study, and did only what he must; but Nelly grew more and more fond of books every day. She did not care for her dolls any longer. Even the great wax doll which Mrs. Williams had given her was now very seldom taken out of the box. All Nelly wanted to make her happy was a book: it seemed sometimes as if it did not make much difference to her what sort of a book. She read every thing she could find in the house; even volumes of sermons she did not despise; and it was an odd thing to see a little girl twelve years old reading a big, old leather bound volume of sermons. Rob used to laugh at her and say:--

"Oh, pshaw, Nell! what makes you read that? Read Mayne Reid's stories: they're worth while. What do you want to read sermons for, I'd like to know?" And Nelly would laugh too, and say:--

"Well, Rob, they aren't so nice as stories; but I do like to read them. It's like hearing papa preach."

To which Rob would reply, in a cautious whisper:--

"Well, I'm glad we don't have to hear papa preach any more. I hate sermons. I'm never going to church again's long's I live; and, when I'm a man, I sha'n't make my boys go to church if they don't want to."

The third summer began just as the one before it had begun, with a great promise of fine crops; but they were no sooner fairly under way, than the gra.s.shoppers came again, and ate them all up. This was very discouraging. Mr. March did not know what to do. He sold a good many of his cows; and, before the summer was over, he sold some of his books; but that money did not last long, and they were really very poor. Now came the time when Nelly's little head began to be full of plans for earning money. She asked her mother, one day, to let her go up into Rosita and sell some eggs.

Mrs. March looked at her in surprise.

"Why, Nell," she said, "you couldn't walk so far."

"Oh, yes, I could," said Nelly. "Rob and I often walk up to the top of the hill: it's only a little way from Billy's house, and we often go there; and I know I could sell all our eggs,--and some b.u.t.ter too, if we could make enough to spare. I'd like to, too. I think it would be good fun."

"I'll ask your father," replied Mrs. March. "I don't think he'd be willing: but if we could get a little money that way, it would be very nice. We don't need half the eggs."

When Mrs. March told her husband of Nelly's proposition, his cheeks flushed.

"What a child Nelly is!" he exclaimed. "I can't bear to have her go round among those rough miners. I've often thought myself of carrying things up there to sell; but I thought my time was worth more on the farm than any thing I could make selling eggs. Oh, Sarah!" he exclaimed, "I never thought we should come to such a pa.s.s as this."

"Now, Robert, don't be foolish," said Mrs. March, gayly. "There isn't the least disgrace in selling b.u.t.ter and eggs. I'd as soon earn a living in that way as in any other. But I wouldn't like to have Nelly run any risk of being rudely treated."

"I don't believe she would be," said Mr. March; "her face is enough to make the roughest sort of a man good to her. You know how Billy worshipped her; and he's a pretty rough fellow on the surface. I think we might let her try it once, and see what happens."

And so it came to pa.s.s, that, early in the third summer of their stay in Wet Mountain Valley, Nelly set off one morning at six o'clock with a basket on her arm, holding three dozen of eggs and two pounds of b.u.t.ter, which she was to carry up into Rosita to sell.

Rob pleaded hard to go too, but his father would not consent.

"Nelly will do better by herself," he said. "You will be sure to get into some sc.r.a.pe if you go."

"I don't care," said Rob, as he bade Nelly good-by: "you just wait till trout time: see if I don't make him let me go then. I can make more money selling trout than you can off eggs, any day. A gentleman told me one day when he drove by where I was fishing, one day last summer, that he'd give me forty cents a pound for all I had in my basket; and I told him I wasn't fishing to sell: I was real mad. I didn't know then we were going to sell things; but, if we are, I may as well sell trout; the creek's full of them."

"Well, we are going to sell things, I tell you," said Nelly: "I don't know what else there is for us to do. We haven't got any money; I think papa's real worried, and mamma too; and you and I've just got to help. It's too bad! I don't see what G.o.d made gra.s.shoppers for."

"To catch trout with," said Rob, solemnly: "there isn't any thing else half so good."

Nelly laughed, and set off at a brisk pace on the road to Rosita.

Her father stood in the barn door watching her. As her little figure disappeared, he said aloud:--

"G.o.d bless her! she's the sweetest child a man ever had!"

It was almost five miles from Mr. March's house to Rosita. For the first half of the way, the road lay in the open valley, and had no shade; but, as soon as it began to wind in among the low hills, it had pine-trees on each side of it; the little house where Billy and Lucinda lived stood in a nook among these pines. Nelly reached this house about seven o'clock, just as Billy and Lucinda were finishing their breakfast. She walked in without knocking, as she always did.

"Bless my soul alive!" exclaimed Billy. "Why, what on airth brings you here, to this time o' day, Nelly?"

Nelly had placed her basket on the floor and sat down in a rocking chair and was fanning herself with her sun-bonnet. Her face was very red from the hot sun, but her eyes were full of fun.

"Going up to Rosita, Billy," she said. "Guess what I've got in the basket."

"A kitten," said Lucinda: "your mother promised me one."

"Oh, dear, no!" said Nelly; "a weasel ate them up last Sat.u.r.day night: all but one; and that one the old cat must keep. Guess again."

Billy did not speak. He guessed the truth.

"Your luncheon," said Lucinda.

"Yes," said Nelly, "my luncheon's in there, on the top; but underneath I've got eggs and I've got b.u.t.ter. I'm going to sell them in Rosita, and mamma said I was to stop and ask you what price I ought to tell the people. She didn't know."

Billy walked hastily out of the room and slammed the door behind him. This was what Long Billy always did when he felt badly about any thing. His first idea was to get out in the open air. Lucinda looked after him in astonishment. She did not think of any reason why he should feel sorry about Nelly's selling the b.u.t.ter and eggs, but she saw something was wrong with him.

"Why, you don't say so, Nelly!" she replied. "Well, I dare say you'll make a nice little penny. Eggs is thirty cents, and b.u.t.ter thirty-five to forty: your mother's ought to be forty. What're you goin' to do with the money?"

"Why, it isn't for myself!" said Nelly, in a tone of great astonishment: "it's for papa and mamma. I don't want any for myself.

But you know we don't have hardly any money now; and I asked mamma to let me see if I couldn't get some in Rosita. Rob's going to sell trout too, by and by: as soon as they're plenty."

Billy came back into the room now; and, looking away from Nelly, he said:--

"See here, child: you let me carry them things up to town for ye. Ye stay here with Luce. I've got to go up anyway to-day or to-morrow.

It's too fur for ye to walk."