On the Banks of Plum Creek

She heard pa shouting,"Jiminy crickets!It's raining fish-hooks and hammer handles!

Snow as fine and grainy as sugar covered the windows in and sifted off to the floor and did not melt.

All day the storm lasted. The windows were white and the wind never stopped howling and screaming. It was pleasant in the warm house. Laura and Mary did their lessons, then Pa played the fiddle while Ma rocked and knitted, and bean soup simmered on the stove. All night the storm lasted, and all the next day. Fire-light danced out of the stove's draught, and Pa told stories and played the fiddle.

Pa took her hand and comforted it in his big one. He said, “We must do the best we can, Laura, and not grumble. What must be done is best done cheerfully.

Mary was too scared to move. Laura was too scared to stand still.

After Laura and Mary had washed and wiped the dishes, swept the floor, made their bed, and dusted, they settled down with their books. But the house was so cosy and pretty that Laura kept looking up at it. The black stove was polished till it gleamed. A kettle of beans was bubbling on its top and bread was baking in the oven. Sunshine slanted through the shining windows between the pink-edged curtains. The red-checked cloth was on the table. Beside the clock on its shelf stood Carrie’s little brown-and-white dog, and Laura’s sweet jewel-box. And the little pink-and-white shepherdess stood smiling on the wood-brown bracket.

When gloomy clouds across the sky Cast shadows o'er the land, Bright rays of hope illumine my path, For Jesus holds my hand.

Oh, Charles!” Ma said. “What will we do?” Pa slumped down on a bench and said, “I don’t know.

Mary was too scared to move. Laura was too scared to stand to still.

Pa straightened up. His dim eyes brightened with a fierce light, not like the twinkle Laura had always seen in them. “But I do know this, Caroline,” he said. “No pesky mess of grasshoppers can beat us! We’ll do something! You’ll see! We’ll get along somehow.” “Yes, Charles,” said Ma. “Why not?” said Pa. “We’re healthy, we’ve got a roof over our heads; we’re better off than lots of folks. You get an early dinner, Caroline. I’m going to town. I’ll find something to do. Don’t you worry!

were peaceful after that July day when the grasshoppers

they could always decide what to do. They would not have to obey Pa and Ma any more.

Well, Caroline, it's pleasant to be with a crowd of people all trying to do the right thing, same as we are.

Then Laura said, “I wish I was an Indian and didn’t have to wear clothes.” “Laura!” said Ma. “And on Sunday!

They heard the voices howling and shrieking in the wind, and the house creaking, and the snow swishing. “This will never do!” said Ma. “Let’s play bean-porridge hot! Mary, you and Laura play it together, and, Carrie, you hold up your hands. We’ll do it faster than Mary and Laura can!” So they all played bean-porridge hot, faster and faster until they could not say the rhymes, for laughing.

At the first Thanksgiving dinner the poor Pilgrims had nothing to eat but three parched grains of corn. Then the Indians came and brought them turkeys, so the Pilgrims were thankful. Now, after they had eaten their good, big Thanksgiving dinner, Laura and Mary could eat their grains of corn and remember the Pilgrims. Parched corn was good. It crackled and crunched, and its taste was sweet and brown.

At last Ma drew a long breath. “It is all so tame and peaceful,” she said. “There will be no wolves or Indians howling tonight. I haven’t felt so safe and at rest since I don’t know when.

Laura was astonished. This was such a different-looking creek, too, so gentle in the sun between its low, grassy banks. The path stopped