The others caught up.
“Now what you done?” Ma asked. “Now what you done?”
“He tried to grab my fl’ar.”
Winfield sobbed,
“I—on’y wanted one—to—stick on my nose.”
“Give him one, Ruthie.”
“Leave him find his own.
This here’s mine.”
“Ruthie!
You give him one.”
Ruthie heard the threat in Ma’s tone, and changed her tactics.
“Here,” she said with elaborate kindness. “I’ll stick on one for you.” The older people walked on.
Winfield held his nose near to her.
She wet a petal with her tongue and jabbed it cruelly on his nose. “You little son-of-a-bitch,” she said softly.
Winfield felt for the petal with his fingers, and pressed it down on his nose.
They walked quickly after the others.
Ruthie felt how the fun was gone. “Here,” she said. “Here’s some more.
Stick some on your forehead.”
From the right of the road there came a sharp swishing.
Ma cried,
“Hurry up.
They’s a big rain.
Le’s go through the fence here.
It’s shorter.
Come on, now!
Bear on, Rosasharn.”
They half dragged the girl across the ditch, helped her through the fence.
And then the storm struck them.
Sheets of rain fell on them.
They plowed through the mud and up the little incline.
The black barn was nearly obscured by the rain.
It hissed and splashed, and the growing wind drove it along.
Rose of Sharon’s feet slipped and she dragged between her supporters.
“Pa!
Can you carry her?”
Pa leaned over and picked her up.
“We’re wet through anyways,” he said. “Hurry up.
Winfiel’—Ruthie!
Run on ahead.”
They came panting up to the rain-soaked barn and staggered into the open end.
There was no door in this end.
A few rusty farm tools lay about, a disk plow and a broken cultivator, an iron wheel.
The rain hammered on the roof and curtained the entrance.
Pa gently set Rose of Sharon down on an oily box.
“God Awmighty!” he said.
Ma said,
“Maybe they’s hay inside.
Look, there’s a door.” She swung the door on its rusty hinges.
“They is hay,” she cried. “Come on in, you.”
It was dark inside.