The Bluebird and the Sparrow (4 page)

Oh, no,
thought Berta.
She’s gonna sing it all wrong again.

She tried to put her hands over her ears as she hurried from the room, her storybook clutched in one arm. She’d never get to show off how she could read. But suddenly she didn’t care. She flung the book into the corner of the hallway and rushed up the stairs toward the little attic room where Grandmother kept the visitor’s toy box. She wasn’t anxious to play—but the room was the only haven she knew of where she would be left alone.

It wasn’t so much that her little sister would sing the song all wrong, but the fact that the effort, no matter how poorly presented, would be acclaimed and applauded. That drove Berta to flee the coziness of Grandmother’s Christmassy living room.

It was chilly in the unheated toy room. There was no warm fireplace ablaze with yule log. Shivering, Berta slumped down onto the rag rug that circled the floor. Her eyes turned to the big metal trunk holding all the dress-up things that Grandmother had given them to play with. She didn’t feel like playing dress-up. Besides, it wasn’t fun to play all alone. She wished Ada would come. She wished—she shivered again.

She slowly picked herself up from the floor and crossed to the window. Absentmindedly she began to scratch away at the frost on the pane. The cold made her fingers tingle, but she kept right on scratching—making the see-through spot grow bigger and bigger.

There was nothing to see when she finally could peep through. Just snow-covered fields and snow-covered bushes and a snow-covered road. She turned from the window, her shoulders slumped. Then a thought brought a smile to her face, a shine to her eyes.

I’m a helper,
she thought.
Mama says so. I’ll go down to the kitchen and help Granna.

With quick steps she left the room. It would be good to get into the warmth of the kitchen—away from the chilling cold of the small attic room. It would be good to be a helper. To earn some of her grandmother’s praise. Suddenly Christmas Day looked much brighter.

She was breathless when she hurried into the kitchen, where her grandmother bent over an open oven removing a Christmas goose from the heat. Already Aunt Cee and Mama were there. Berta was sorry to see them, but she passed them by and stood before her grandmother.

“I came to help you, Granna,” she said with pride.

Her grandmother looked up from the steaming goose and smiled.

“How nice,” she responded. Then she added as she reached up to wipe her hand across her brow, “But I’m not sure the kitchen is the place for a pretty dress like you’re wearing. You might splatter grease on it or—”

Berta’s disappointment showed quickly on her face.

“But I might find a job for you,” continued her grandmother. “Let’s see. How about … ” she hesitated as she looked around the kitchen. “I know. You can put some walnuts in that dish—for toasting after dinner.”

It didn’t sound like a very important job to Berta. Granna was lifting the goose onto a large platter. Mother was mashing creamy potatoes in a big kitchen kettle, and Aunt Cee was dishing vegetables into one of Granna’s rose-colored bowls.

Berta looked down at her pretty dress. Glenna’s Christmas dress had brought her nothing but praise, but her dress, with its ribbons and lace, had kept her from being a real helper. She didn’t like the dress. She would never wear it again.

———

Carefully Berta pressed the cookie cutter into the rolled-out dough. Each press of the tin circle was placed with exactness. Mama said that it was important to learn how to do things right. Mama always praised effort.

“How are you doing?” asked her mother from her left.

“These are all done,” answered Berta.

“Mine too,” said Glenna.

Berta cast a quick glance toward the spot where Glenna worked beside her.

“Glenna,” she said, exasperation edging her voice. “You did it all wrong. You cut cookies out of cookies. Look. That’s not right. You’re s’pose to put them side by side. Not over top.”

Glenna looked up with hurt in her eyes.

“Mama,” Berta turned to her mother, “you’ll never be able to make them cook. They’re all in small pieces.”

“That’s fine,” said her mother, drawing near. “We can bake little cookie-pieces.” She smiled.

Glenna’s face brightened.

“But look—” whined Berta. “They’re—chopped.”

“Well … if we need to, we’ll just roll the dough again,” said her mother.

She leaned against the table and wiped her hands on the nearby towel as she surveyed the work of her youngest.

“Let’s do that,” she decided. “I’ll roll the dough again and you can help Glenna cut the cookies.”

“She don’t know how,” said Berta.

“That’s why you’ll teach her. You know how. You can show your sister.”

“But
I’m
the helper,” protested Berta.

She didn’t like Glenna learning the things she had been taught. It meant that Glenna was butting in.

“Yes,” answered her mother. “You are my big helper. But we—you and I—we need to teach Glenna how to help, too. She can be our little helper.”

While she spoke, Mrs. Berdette was re-rolling the cookie dough. Soon it was spread evenly before them.

“There now,” she said, smiling at Berta. “You take Glenna’s hand and help her cut some cookies.”

Reluctantly Berta reached for the small hand. Glenna beamed at her big sister and allowed her hand to be guided for cut after cut.

“You see,” said Berta, “you gotta place ‘em beside. Not top of.”

Glenna giggled.

“Now you cut one,” ordered Berta.

Glenna reached her hand out to the cookie dough, her eyes still on Berta’s face.

“No—not like that,” cut in Berta sharply. “You’re making it over top again.”

Glenna jerked her attention back to the dough.

“Like this,” said Berta, taking the small hand again.

Then she turned to her mother with an exasperated sigh.

“I don’t think she’s ever gonna learn right,” she said with impatience. “I think I better be the only helper.”

Her mother smiled.

“Just you wait and see,” she responded with a little chuckle. “With you teaching your little sister, I’ll have two good helpers before you know it.”

Berta knew that the words were a compliment. She didn’t quite understand them, but she suddenly felt important. She turned back to her little sister and helped the small hand press a new cut firmly into the dough spread out before them.

Chapter Four

School Days

Berta loved her little school in Allsburg. From the very first day she was a good scholar and came home each afternoon excited at the prospect of showing her mother what she had learned. Then it was a long, difficult wait until her father came home from work so she might proudly present her new knowledge to him as well. Both her mother and her father gave lavish praise as she read and recited and worked sums to show them how much she was learning. Soon she was encouraged to read bedtime stories to Glenna.

Glenna was a good listener, and Berta found herself enjoying her audience of one. Glenna’s big blue eyes never left her sister’s face as the story progressed. She pressed close against Berta’s side, hanging on each turn of the new adventure.

Story-time extended to any time they could find some minutes together—from the moment Berta came bouncing in from her day of learning to the hour they were both sent off to bed. Glenna was always willing for a story, and Berta was more than ready to show off her skills.

Mrs. Berdette beamed at the pair of them, her expression showing her pride in Berta, her helper, who was so sweet as she entertained her little sister with the story hours. And Berta was such an apt student. Her reading skills could only benefit young Glenna, who was quickly developing a love for books as well—even though they were still childish tales.

The day came when Glenna joyously fell in step beside Berta and hippity-hopped her way down the short boardwalk to the farm lane that led to the road beyond. They turned to wave as Mrs. Berdette stood and watched the pair of them go. They didn’t see the tears wiped heedlessly on the hem of her apron.

“You must listen carefully and obey,” Berta was informing her younger sister. “You mustn’t talk and you can’t … ”

The voice faded away into the distance. Glenna was still vigorously nodding her head to all Berta’s instructions.

Glenna also turned out to be a very good student. She was quick to pick up the words in the books and before a year had passed was reading her own stories in the simple primers.

This was difficult for Berta. She missed the story hours. She missed Glenna, pushed up against her, her eyes growing larger as the action of the story unfolded.

One Thursday afternoon the girls came hurrying in from their classes without even passing into the kitchen to greet their mother and enjoy their cookies and milk. Over her shoulder Glenna told her mother she had a new primer and couldn’t wait to read the stories. The two deposited their coats and lunch boxes on the corner table, and Berta took a seat on the settee while Glenna scrambled up beside her.

Berta held out her hand for the new book, but Glenna protectively moved it out of her reach.

“I’ll read it,” she said firmly.

“No, Glenna—let me read,” argued Berta.

“But I want to read it myself,” replied Glenna, her voice low.

“But I know more words than you,” continued Berta.

“Teacher said I should practice,” Glenna said with a shake of her curls. “An’ I’m supposed to listen and obey.”

Those had been Berta’s instructions.

“You—you can practice—after,” said Berta, not giving in.

“But I want to know what the stories say.”

“I will read them to you. Then you’ll know.”

Glenna looked disappointed. “But I want to learn the surprise.”

“What surprise?”

“The surprise at the end of the story.”

Berta reached for the book. “You will learn the surprise when I read it. I’m bigger. I’m supposed to help you.”

“I don’t need your help anymore,” Glenna asserted loudly, her book still held out of Berta’s reach.

Berta made a dive for the book and grabbed it from Glenna’s clutching hand. There was the sickening sound of paper tearing just as Mrs. Berdette entered the room from the kitchen to see what all the fuss was about.

“Girls!” she exclaimed, her eyes taking in the scene.

Glenna burst into tears at the sight of the damage to her new book.

Berta’s eyes were filled with angry defiance. “She wouldn’t let me read,” she defended. “She hid her book—way over.”

“I wanted to read it,” cried Glenna. “I wanted to read it to myself.”

“And look what has happened. A damaged book—that your father will need to pay for,” scolded Mrs. Berdette, pointing to the torn page.

It was a sobering thought.

“And your teacher will be most disappointed that you have treated a book so,” their mother went on. “And I am disappointed as well. I thought you both had learned how to care for books.”

Glenna’s blue eyes filled with tears of shame. Her book was torn; her mother was unhappy. Her father would be unhappy, too, and her teacher would most surely scold.

“It’s Glenna’s fault,” said an angry and defiant Berta.

“Mama—I’m sorry,” sobbed Glenna. “I’m sorry. I’ll let Berta read. I promise,” and she scooted down from the settee and ran to her mother, burying her face against the calico apron.

“Just a minute,” said Mrs. Berdette, one hand resting on the young girl’s shoulder. “I’m not sure Glenna should take the blame here.”

Her eyes held Berta’s. Berta lifted her chin, her dark eyes flashing.

“It
was
her fault,” she argued.

Mrs. Berdette sat in a chair and moved the sobbing Glenna up against her knee.

“Now hush,” she told the young child. “Hush—while we try to sort this out.”

Glenna stood up, the sobs turning to noisy gulps as she wiped at tears with the backs of her hands.

“Now—let’s start at the beginning,” said her mother. “Whose book is it?”

No one spoke.

“Whose book?” she asked again.

At last Berta spoke. “Glenna’s, but—”

Mrs. Berdette held up her hand. Berta refrained from speaking further.

“And Glenna wished to read her own book?” asked Mrs. Berdette to clarify the point.

“I’m s’posed to read to her,” declared Berta, her voice still showing her anger.

“I’m sorry,” said Glenna in a shaky voice.

“Now wait,” continued Mrs. Berdette. The two girls turned silent again.

“It was … very nice of you to read to Glenna, Berta. She has enjoyed listening to the stories that you read. But now she can read on her own. She doesn’t need your help with the primers. She likes to discover what the words say—all by herself. Can you understand that?”

Berta refused to acknowledge the words of her mother. Mrs. Berdette turned back to the young Glenna. “So … because you wished to read the book yourself, you held the book away from Berta. Is that right?”

Glenna nodded slowly.

“She reached it way over,” declared Berta hotly.

“So, because you wouldn’t hand it over, Berta decided to grab it from you. Is that right?”

Glenna’s big eyes filled with tears again.

“She wouldn’t share,” accused Berta.

“I didn’t share,” repeated Glenna, the tears spilling over.

“But—” began Mrs. Berdette, and for a moment she seemed at a loss to know how to continue. Finally she began slowly, “It’s nice to share. It’s what God wishes of us. He wants us to be … generous. Kind. Loving toward one another. But … but you don’t always have to give what another demands. There are some … rights—of ownership. Rights that must be recognized. Do you understand?”

Neither girl nodded.

“Berta,” Mrs. Berdette went on, “you were wrong to try to force the book away from your sister. It was her book. She was assigned to do the reading. You are responsible for causing the torn page. I expect your father may want to take the cost from your piggy bank.”

Berta sat bolt upright. She had been hoarding every penny she was given. She hadn’t yet decided what she wished to do with the money, but she had reveled in watching the little sum slowly grow.