2018.06.29

It's Friday.

All over the prairie meadow larks were rising, singing, flying straight up into the sky. The wind was blowing warmer, but Laura was cold. Suddenly Ma jumped up and seized the handle of the windlass. She tugged at it with all her might. The rope strained and the windlass creaked. Laura thought that Pa had keeled over, down in the dark bottom of the well, and Ma couldn’t pull him up. But the windlass turned a little, and then a little more, Pa’s hand came up, holding to the rope. His other hand reached above it and took hold of the rope. Then Pa’s head came up. His arm held on the the windlass. Then somehow he got to the ground and sat there. The windlass whirled around and there was a thud deep down in the well. Pa struggled to get up and Ma asked him to sit still and asked Laura to get some water quickly. Laura ran. She came hurrying back, lugging the pail of water. Pa and Ma were both turning the windlass. The rope slowly wound itself up, and the bucket came up out of the well, and tied to the bucket and the rope was Mr. Scott. His arms and legs and his head hung and wobbled, his mouth was partly open and his eyes half shut. Pa tugged him onto the grass. Pa rolled him over and he flopped where he was rolled. Pa felt his wrist and listened at his chest and then Pa lay down beside him. Pa said that Scott was breathing and Scott would be all right, in the air and he was all right too, and he was plumb tuckered out. Ma scolded that she should think he would be, and of all the senseless performances. She covered her face with her apron and burst out crying. That was a terrible day.