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WIND SONG BY CAROL MOORE
I
t was a day like the day before and the day after. The windwrapped itself around the sod cabin in gusting moans as the pioneer family within carried out their tasks pretending not tohear. They heard the wind, however. It had been their constantcompanion on the open plains since their journey fromPhiladelphia two years before in the spring of 1865. Followingthe covered wagon train of ten, the wind had lifted the drablandscape into billows of dust falling on everyone and everythinguntil there seemed but one color and one sound.
 
 Now Rachel sat on the bed hand-stitching a quilt while her mother hunchedover a sewing machine across the room rocking her feet backwards andforwards on a foot treadle that turned the shaft that moved the needle. Thethumping counter pointed the wind outside. Laughter and giggling eruptedfrom Rachel's younger brother and sister playing jacks on the floor and it brought a smile to their sister's face, but when she glanced back at their mother she stopped smiling.Rachel felt that her parents worked too hard. They rarely had fun or relaxationlike they had enjoyed in Philadelphia. Now her father was always in the fields.Her mother prepared meals on a wood-stoked stove, did the laundry on awashboard, baked flatbread and sewed clothes to trade for goods in town.Rachel remembered her mother singing and telling stories at one time but thatwas before she had begun complaining about the wind and the dirt and the
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mud. Eventually she had stopped complaining, but she had stopped singing,too.
 
The door swung open and it was Rachel's father. Entering in a puff of dust, hecoughed and wiped his forehead. "Mighty hot day out there."
 
"Well, I've got ale for you and flatbread too," replied his wife. She rose fromthe sewing machine and began setting the table as her husband eased himself into a chair.
 
"I know. I could smell it from outside. Smelled so good I came in early. Whatelse have you all been up to while I was clearing rows with Molly and Bell?"
 
"Rachel's done with her quilt."
 
"Oh?" Rachel's father turned to look as his older daughter proudly showed off her masterpiece. It was a cheerful blooming of color with stitches outliningthe squares.
 
"That's a mighty fine piece of work." He nodded. "How 'bout us going intotown this Saturday. You can show off your quilt, your mother can take her flatbread, and I've got a bushel of onions ready."
 
The young children whooped excitedly and Michael, the boy, began dancingaround the room, lifting his knees and clapping. There was reason for  jubilation. The 20-mile trip to town in the buckboard was a once-a-monthaffair to which everyone in the family looked forward.
 
The town of Wausa, Nebraska was not unlike other little towns that hadsprung up to welcome the pioneers. It was a mix of old and new buildingswith wood plank sidewalks and a wide main street of dirt to accommodatetrains of oxen. In one of the newer buildings was the general store. Guardingthe door was a wooden Indian and next to it hung a bird cage. The familystopped for a moment to look at the yellow bird inside.
 
When they stepped into the store it was a universe all its own. There was thescent of wood and soap and spice. The walls were lined with racks of cratesand mason jars, and along the aisles were bushel barrels of potatoes andapples. In the back neatly propped against the wall were bolts of fabric. Whileher brother and sister explored the store and her parents spoke with the grocer about their bread and onions, Rachel wandered back outside to look at the bird.
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So bright a yellow it was a miniature piece of the sun in that dusty place. Ithopped from perch to perch rarely standing still and as it hopped it kept itseyes on Rachel. Suddenly a shadow passed over the girl and startled, shelooked up to see a Sioux Indian brave. Her heart beat faster. Indianssometimes came to town to barter although it was discouraged by theshopkeepers. Such a history of warfare existed between Indians and whitesettlers that no one felt safe. But this Indian was as fascinated by the bird asRachel. He stared intently and then said something she couldn't understand.Seeing her puzzled face he repeated in English, "It listens to the wind."
 
Before Rachel could think about what he had said, the Indian turned andwalked away. Her parents appeared a moment later, having seen him throughthe window.
 
"Are you all right?" asked her father.
 
Rachel nodded. "He was just looking at the canary."
 
At that moment the little bird lifted its head, swelled its chest, and sang out a joyous trill. Rachel saw her mother's face light up with delight.
 
Rachel traded her quilt for the canary and never regretted it because the little bird entertained them endlessly. Sir Gallant, they called him because he did battle with the wind. The louder the wind the more loudly he sang,competition so fierce that sometimes everyone burst out laughing. Sir Gallantlifted their spirits turning dust days back into sunshine days.
 
Rachel thought about what the Indian had said. She'd heard the wind butunlike the canary she'd never listened to it. Now when she tried she could hear music in the moaning. Of course the music was faint and hidden in the background and she needed her imagination, but it was there if she trulylistened. She began humming the sounds she heard. "That's a pretty tune" her mother commented one day, "what song is that?" Rachel didn't reply, unsurehow to explain, and her mother didn't press the question. Soon she, too, beganhumming.
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