'Most certainly. Lovely spring!'
Aunty Em smiled and murmured confidingly to Dorothy. 'Old settlers,' said Aunty Em. It was the highest mark of approval.
The road suddenly plunged steeply down the hill. Looking straight ahead, Dorothy could see the uppermost branches of the trees, as if she were flying, as if the cart were going to come to roost there. The curtain of leaves seemed to part and down below was the City of Trees and one of its two great rivers.
Trees lined the Kaw on either side, and Dorothy saw the river from above, big and slow and shallow and brown, winding off in either direction, nosing its way into deeper and deeper countryside, lands Dorothy had never seen.
The wagon moved on, down another dip through more trees. Then the road spread out, as if relaxing in sunshine, on the river's bank. There were tall, wispy grasses and pink flowers with leaves like rounded ferns. The soil was gray and baked like the crust of a pie, but the ruts the wheels made were full of glistening mud, crisscrossed with long grains of grass and the bodies of flies.
In the middle of the river, sandbanks rose, like the backs of giant turtles. On the other bank, there were huge, shadowed trees. The wagon bounced up onto stones; the shoreline was macadamized by them. The road began to climb again up the bank toward the bridge. The bridge was made of stone, and its stone supports rose up like towers from the midst of the river. Trees that had been carried by the spring currents were piled up around the towers. The trunks and branches were black, as if they had been charred.
Dorothy and Aunty Em got out and walked the wagon up and over the bridge. Farther downstream, there was the crisscross ironwork of the railroad bridge. The local line was joined there by the Kansas Pacific. Ahead of them was Blue Mont, and the lumberyards and train depots that formed the outer edge of Manhattan.
Instead of going into the town, the wagons turned left. Still walking, Aunty Em guided the mule over the train tracks. With a heave and a hollow thumping, the wagon went up and over the rails.
Beyond the tracks, between them and the Kansas River, there was a meadow of grass, ringed around with oaks and huge cottonwoods. In the middle of the field was a white tent with wagons drawn up all around it. People stood in groups, men permanently holding their hats off their heads. Dorothy wondered if Meeting might be like a circus. Boys in loose shirts ran up and offered to corral the livestock.
'The mule's name is Calliope, son, and she kicks so be careful,' called Aunty Em, striding forward. Her eyes were beginning to gleam.
People knew who she was. They turned, stopped talking, and walked up to greet her. They hugged her, called her Little Em, kissed her breathlessly, called to other friends to hurry, Emma Branscomb was here.
'And I'd like you all to meet my niece, little Dorothy Gael.'
'Why, you must be Millie's little girl,' said a fresh-faced, fat woman bending over, smiling. 'Dorothy, we're so pleased to see you here in Kansas.'
It was the truth. The woman really was pleased. It was the first time anybody had said that they were happy to have Dorothy in Kansas.
Gratitude poured over Dorothy. 'And I'm so pleased to be here!' she piped, hopping up. There was laughter.
'Pretty country, isn't it, Dorothy?'
'Oh yes, Ma'am. We saw lots of flowers.'
More laughter. Dorothy had said something else that was right.
'I tell you, ladies, there are times I have to ask myself if this is a human child or a little angel who's dropped to earth. I can't stop her from doing her chores. She just works and works, sweeping, washing the dishes, taking care of the hens. I've never seen a child like her for helping out.' Aunty Em's hand was firmly on Dorothy's shoulder.
'She must be just such a comfort.' The fat woman looked back up. 'After all that terrible business.'
'Well, we are sent trials in order to test us, Harriet, and there's no bed of thorns that doesn't also bear a rose.' Aunty Em patted Dorothy again.
They began to talk of adult things. Aunty Em pretended that the farm was going well. 'We're thinking of bringing in some hogs.'
'Oh yes, that's good if you can stop them from rooting out the crops.'
'Well, Henry's planted a hedge, keep them in.'
Before the winter there had been a murder. A colored man called George Hunter had killed someone in anger. Everyone said the dead white man had been trouble. But still, it was the first violence around those parts since Monroe Scranton had been lynched for stealing Ed Pillsbury's horses, and that had been back in the sixties. They talked of Negroes crossing the border and wanted to know Aunty Em's opinion.
'The South created the problem and wants us to solve it. And it's our Christian duty to welcome them.'
'Hard enough for anybody making any kind of business work,' said one of the women.
'There's some of them that are as honest and hardworking as you could wish. Edom Thomas for one.'
'Oh, certainly. Some of them Exodusters have settled in right smartly.'
They went from group to group, and people exclaimed, 'Emma! Emma Branscomb!' More greetings, more hugs and kissings and kindly questions. Aunty Em's face became fixed; her smile and bright eyes glazed with happiness. The eyes were famished. Feed me, they seemed to say, I have hungered for this. Dorothy clung on to her hand, feeling forgotten.
'I tell you, I await the Spirit,' said Aunty Em. 'I tell you, after last winter, I need the Spirit.'
'Amen, amen' came the replies, in clusters like flowers.
