WIDE MEADOWS: A GIFT FOR MOLLY (A CONTINUING SERIES)

Editor's note: This is an installment from a chapter of Jean Bell Mosley's book "Wide Meadows" that was first published in 1960.

Winter comes down from the mountains in a white fury and locks the valley tight in its icy grip. The river slows and comes to a frozen stop. Icicles fringe the eaves of the buildings and a tiny one hangs from Grandpa's mustache when he comes in from the barn. The pumps freeze. The wood box is in constant need of refilling and we stamp and stamp and sputter and blow and allow, in heavy understatement, as how it is right smart cold outside.

Old Nell and Maude make velvet whinnies in their stalls and the cows, their shaggy winter hair portentous of bleak days ahead, munch tunnels far back into the haystacks.

The cold north wind, rebuffed by battened windows, shakes the old house till it creaks and groans, and blows cold breath down the chimney ways. Then softly in the night comes the eider-downy blanket of snow to mute the sounds and put soft white tam-o-shanters atop the fence posts and old field stumps.

By their comings and goings, furry animals, with softly padded feet, stitch together, in the night, the fields and roads and frozen streams as though the valley were in danger of ripping apart.

The word "Christmas" creeps into our conversation and we begin, early, wrapping glasses of jelly, buckets of maple syrup, and boxes of nuts, for some of the city folks may make just one more trip to the farm before Christmas (the roads are well nigh impassable afterwards), and we will have their presents ready, however early. Lou and I begin to cast calculating eyes at cedar trees, choosing this one, discarding that one. There is a wealth to choose from. But we do not go after the tree until the last present is wrapped and tied. For Mama and Grandma we have embroidered dresser scarfs. For sister Lillian we have made blue and pink satin-covered garters, lace trimmed. For Grandpa and Dad we pool our pennies and purchase a fat pouch of tobacco. For each other we may have crayolas, a powder puff, or can of violet-scented talcum powder.

Grandma has been working long hours on her Passage-of-Time quilt, and at last it is in the frames ready to be quilted. But, I remember, all was not well with Grandma at this particular Christmas. She was worried. Molly Layton was coming to the Christmas quilting party and Grandma had no gift for her. For all of the other ladies she had made little presents -- lacey-edged handkerchiefs, quilted pot holders, needlecases, patchwork pillow tops, but for Molly she had made nothing because she hadn't known Molly was coming.

It was more than a year now since Molly had worked for us and the other neighbor ladies, helping with the house cleaning, canning, and cooking. She had left as suddenly as she had come and no one had heard from her since, not until now, when Mrs. Stacey had called up on the day of the quilting party to ask if we remembered Molly Layton and to say that she was there at her house and wanted to come along to help with Grandma's Passage-of-Time quilt.

We remembered Molly, all right. One summer day she had walked in off the road -- run-over shoes, skimpy, faded dress, a large mole on her nose, straight, sun-faded hair hooked behind her ears -- and announced that she had come to do our sewing. When she spoke, we saw that one of her front teeth was missing.

"But I do my own sewing," Mama had told her. "You must have the wrong place."

"No, ma'am," she said, putting her hand over her mouth to hide the defect. "I'll do your cookin' then."

"We-ll," Mama faltered, puzzled at this strange girl. "We got plenty of cooks." She motioned to us girls and Grandma.

"Cleanin'?" Molly asked.

Mama shook her head and said nothing.

"Milkin', then. What about milkin'?" Molly asked.

"Good land! We all milk," Mama replied.

Molly turned then and walked forlornly back to the gate. Her thin shoulders under the faded dress seemed to droop even lower, and we saw her wipe her arm across her eyes as she hooked her fallen hair back over her ear.

"Wait a minute," Mama called as Molly fumbled with the latch. "Come back and have a bite of gingerbread and a glass of milk, anyway."

Molly blew her nose noisily and came back. "Excuse me, ma'am," she said apologetically, for the tears, "but I sure do need a job."

"Well, just sit and rest a while and have a bite to eat. You look all tuckered," Mama said.

"I guess I ought to be. I started out day before yesterday morning, and I've stopped at every house I've seen, and nobody wants any work done, and now I'm way out in the country, where the houses are far apart." The tears started again.

"Where's your folks?" Mama inquired.

"Just me left. That's all." Molly gave a long shivering sigh.

"Well, we're canning beans tomorrow. Maybe you could help us," Mama said.

Next week: Grandma finds a gift for Molly.