A Long Road on a Short Day Read online

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Frontispiece

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Read More from Gary D. Schmidt

  About the Authors

  About the Illustrator

  Connect with HMH on Social Media

  Clarion Books • 3 Park Avenue, New York, New York 10016

  Text copyright © 2020 by Gary D. Schmidt • Illustrations copyright © 2020 by Eugene Yelchin

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  Clarion Books is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

  hmhbooks.com

  The illustrations in this book were done in colored pencils, watercolor, gouache and were digitally assembled.

  Cover design by Sharismar Rodriguez

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Schmidt, Gary D., author. | Stickney, Elizabeth, author. | Yelchin, Eugene, illustrator.

  Title: A long road on a short day / Gary D. Schmidt and Elizabeth Stickney; illustrated by Eugene Yelchin. Description: Boston ; New York : Clarion Books, [2020] | Audience: Ages 7 to 9. | Audience: Grades 2–3.

  Summary: On a short winter day, Samuel and his father enter into a series of trades with neighbors and strangers until they come home with a brown-eyed milk cow for Mama. • Identifiers: LCCN 2019039826 (print) | LCCN 2019039827 (ebook) • ISBN 9780544888364 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780358378570 (ebook)

  Subjects: CYAC: Barter—Fiction. | Fathers and sons—Fiction. Determination (Personality trait)—Fiction. Country life—Fiction. Winter—Fiction. • Classification: LCC PZ7.S3527 Lo 2020 (print) | LCC PZ7.S3527 (ebook)

  DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019039826

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019039827

  v1.1020

  For Dinah Stevenson,

  editor extraordinaire

  and friend

  —G.D.S.

  To Ezra—E.Y.

  One

  Early on a white January morning, Samuel’s mother said, “I do wish we had a brown-eyed cow to give us milk for the baby.”

  Samuel’s father set down his mug.

  “And for your tea,” she said.

  Samuel’s father smiled and got up from the table. He took his best Barlow knife from the mantel and said to Samuel, “Dress warm if you’re coming with me.”

  Samuel ran to get his coat off the hook. “Where are we going, Papa?”

  “To find that brown-eyed cow for your mother,” Papa said.

  Mama pulled Samuel’s scarf into a warm knot and hugged him. “Take some apples with you,” she said. “You’ll be hungry.”

  Samuel and Papa each took two apples. Then they said goodbye to Mama and baby Ella and headed out into the cold.

  The sky was dark with clouds, and the wind was blowing the high pines back and forth. They passed their barn, where Star stood warm under his blanket, chewing hay. They passed their ice house, already filled with clear ice for next summer. They passed their maple sugar hut, where next month they’d boil and boil the sap away for syrup.

  “Keep up,” said Samuel’s father. He looked up at the gray clouds. “It’s a long road on a short day.”

  Samuel looked up at the gray clouds too. Then he hurried after Papa.

  Two

  The road led them to Frank Snow’s place, where Hallie Girl, Mr. Snow’s collie, was up on her toes, wagging her tail and yipping to let Mr. Snow know about their visitors. They followed her to the tie-up behind the Big Barn, where Mr. Snow was milking Daisy, a black-and-white heifer.

  “They say a storm is on its way,” Mr. Snow said. “What business takes you from a warm fireside?”

  “I’m looking to make a trade,” Samuel’s father said, eyeing Daisy. He took out his shiny Barlow knife.

  Mr. Snow stood up from the milking stool. He took Papa’s knife and opened it. He ran his finger along the sharp blade. “Jonathan,” he said, “I’d have use for a knife good as this. Would you take two tin lanterns in exchange?”

  “I’d like to see them,” Papa said.

  “They’re hanging on the wall in the back shed,” Mr. Snow said. “Samuel, would you bring them for your father to look at?”

  Samuel and Hallie Girl found the lanterns just where Mr. Snow said they would be. He carried them back to the tie-up, stopping to throw three snowballs to Hallie Girl, who caught each one and ate it.

  “What do you think, Samuel?” Papa asked. “Are these a good trade for a Barlow knife?”

  Samuel took off his mittens and ran a finger along the sides of one of the lanterns. He opened and shut the little door and opened and shut it again. Then he did the same with the second lantern.

  Samuel looked up at his father. “I think it would be a good trade.”

  Mr. Snow and Papa smiled and shook hands. Mr. Snow shook Samuel’s hand too.

  Hallie Girl yipped again—and when Samuel knelt down and let her lick his face, he wished, just a little bit, it wasn’t a brown-eyed cow his mother was wanting.

  Three

  It was a whole lot colder when Samuel and his father left Mr. Snow’s tie-up, each carrying a tin lantern. The clouds weighed down the sky, and Samuel wondered if the blowing trees would bend over beneath all that gray.

  “Is our trading done?” Samuel asked.

  Papa looked up at the dark sky. “The storm may hold off yet,” he said. “We’ll stop to see the Perrys.”

  The first flakes of snow began to fall.

  Samuel put out his tongue and tried to catch them.

  “Keep up,” said Papa. “It’s a long road . . .”

  “. . . on a short day,” said Samuel.

  They turned onto Stone Hill Road and up to the Perrys’ house. In the dark of the barn, Mr. Perry was threshing beans with his son, Georgie. “Welcome, Jonathan,” said Mr. Perry. “I haven’t seen a soul come up this road for a week or more—and none with tin lanterns!” He leaned against his flail.

  “From Frank Snow,” said Papa. “Good as new.”

  Samuel held his lantern up for Mr. Perry to see.

  “We have kittens in the farther stall,” said Georgie.

  Papa nodded, and Samuel ran to find them. They were all black as night and hard to see in the shadows, so Samuel and Georgie knelt down and Samuel held out his hand. But the kittens arched their backs and hissed and ran against the back of the stall—all the kittens except one, who had a little bit of white around his nose. He tottered toward Samuel and leaned his head against his fingers.

  They didn’t have long to play. Samuel’s father called before he had even held the white-nosed kitten.

  Papa was still standing with Mr. Perry by the threshed beans, but he wasn’t holding the two tin lanterns. Those were hanging from a beam. A bright candle was shining in each one, and the barn wasn’t so dark anymore.

  They walked together to the Perrys’ house, and in the kitchen, Mrs. Perry handed Samuel a warm sugar doughnut. “Next time you’ll come for a longer visit, Jonathan,” she said.

  Papa nodded.

  “We can play with the kittens,” said Georgie. “Maybe by then, they’ll be old enough to leave their moth
er and you can take one home.”

  Samuel nodded, and he thought about the kitten with the little bit of white around his nose and wished again, just a little bit, it wasn’t a brown-eyed cow his mother was wanting.

  Then Mr. Perry handed Samuel’s father a large blue book. “I hope you enjoy poetry,” he said to Samuel.

  Papa put the book under his coat.

  Samuel, who did not want to lie, stayed as quiet as the white-nosed kitten.

  Four

  Samuel and his father waved goodbye to the Perrys, and when they reached Stone Hill Road, Samuel asked, “Did you make a good trade for Mr. Snow’s lanterns?”

  “I did—if we find someone in town interested in a book of British and American poems.” He took the book from under his coat. Even under the gray sky, the gilt-edged pages flashed with light.

  “Will we keep the book if no one wants it?”

  “Your mother would be a little pleased if we did,” said Papa. “But she’d be a little disappointed too.”

  Samuel tried to match his father’s pace as they headed into town. More than a few snowflakes fell onto Samuel’s nose and eyelashes, and he brushed them off with his wool mittens until the mittens started to get wet.

  It wasn’t too long before they came to a tall brick house, the first one in town.

  “The Widow Mitchell’s?” said Samuel.

  Papa and Samuel walked up her porch steps. “If she speaks to you, Samuel, you know how to be polite.”

  Samuel nodded. He could be polite. Even if no one he knew had ever been in the Widow Mitchell’s house. No one.

  He wondered if Georgie Perry would even believe him.

  The Widow Mitchell answered the door when Samuel’s father knocked. Her white hair was drawn into a tight bun at the back of her head, so tight it made her eyes look angry. Her dress was black, and a high collar cramped right up to her chin. She carried a black walking stick.

  “What’s all this?” she asked.

  “You might remember me, Mrs. Mitchell. Jonathan Hallett. I repaired your fence last spring.”

  “I don’t remember you at all,” said the Widow Mitchell. She pointed her black walking stick at Samuel. “And who is this boy tramping snow onto my porch?”

  Samuel thought he had forgotten how to breathe.

  Five

  “This is my son,” said Papa.

  The Widow Mitchell looked at Samuel.

  “And does your son have a name?” she said.

  “My name is Samuel, Mrs. Mitchell.”

  “Is it now?” she said. “My husband’s name was Samuel.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Samuel. “I’ll sweep off the porch, if I may borrow a broom.”

  The Widow Mitchell looked up at the clouds. “No need,” she said. “A great deal more will be coming down before long.”

  “We’ve stopped to see if you might be interested in a trade,” said Papa.

  The Widow wrapped her dark shawl around herself. “I rarely trade,” she said.

  “So I understand,” said Papa. “But I remember your library, and I wondered if you might be interested in a collection of poetry.” He brought the Perrys’ book out from under his coat.

  The Widow Mitchell looked at the book. “You had better come inside,” she said. “You as well, Samuel.”

  Samuel followed his father down the hallway. He passed paintings and small tapestries hanging on the walls. He passed mantels with silver candlesticks. He passed floors with thick red carpets. Finally, in a brightly lit room, the Widow Mitchell sat in a rocking chair and took the book. She opened it and began to read. Papa and Samuel waited, their hats in their hands.

  “This is a splendid collection,” said the Widow at last, “and a splendid book.”

  “I’m pleased you think so,” said Papa.

  The Widow looked at Samuel. “Samuel, in the kitchen, on a table by the window, there is a blue-and-white pitcher. Bring it here.”

  Samuel found the kitchen, and the pitcher, and brought it back to the bright room. He brought it back very carefully.

  “I purchased this pitcher last spring, but I find it is too heavy for me to use when it is full.”

  Papa took the pitcher from Samuel. He turned it over in his hands.

  “Samuel,” said the Widow, “since you’ve come with your father this morning, you may just as well offer an opinion. Would you see the pitcher as a fair trade for this book?”

  Samuel knew his mother would be happy with the blue-and-white pitcher, and it would not be too heavy for her to lift—even if it were full of creamy milk.

  “I think it would be a fair trade,” he said.

  Samuel’s father nodded.

  “That is that, then,” said the Widow Mitchell.

  Six

  The Widow Mitchell was right: when they left her house, a dusting of snow had already covered the porch.

  “Are we going home now, Papa?” asked Samuel.

  “I wonder if Mr. Lewis would trade for the pitcher,” said Papa.

  “We’re going to trade until we get ourselves a brown-eyed milk cow, aren’t we?”

  Papa looked up at the clouds. It was already past noon and they had only four hours of daylight left. Maybe not even that. “We’ll see what Mr. Lewis has to say,” said Papa.

  But they had only gone a little way when they heard the sound of bells behind them. Samuel turned and saw Dr. Fulton’s sleigh, pulled by a black mare. At first, Samuel thought the mare must be tired, the sleigh came on so slowly. But soon he saw what was holding her back. A fleecy ewe trailed on a short rope behind the sleigh.

  “Jonathan, Samuel,” nodded Dr. Fulton. “You’re brave folks, walking so far from your place on a day such as this.” He brushed away the snow that had collected on the brim of his felt hat.

  “You’re out too,” said Papa.

  “But I’m on my way home—home from seeing the newest of our town’s citizens into the world. And I’ve got a sheep in payment from her happy parents, as you can see.”

  Papa took off his glove and ran his hand over the sheep’s back. “This is a fine merino, with a fleece thick and heavy. You’ll likely get a good price for it come spring.”

  “I hope to be rid of the beast before then,” said Dr. Fulton. “You wouldn’t be interested in taking it off my hands?”

  Papa smiled. “Do we have anything to offer, Son?”

  Samuel carefully handed the Widow Mitchell’s pitcher to Dr. Fulton. Then he walked to the mare’s head and stroked her neck. She closed her eyes and leaned down to him.

  “I’d call this a good bargain,” said Dr. Fulton. “Shall we shake hands?”

  Samuel reached into his pocket and found one of the apples. He took off his mitten, spread his palm wide, and held the apple up for the mare. And while Papa untied the merino sheep from the back of the sleigh, and while the mare munched the apple, Samuel wished again, just a little bit, it wasn’t a brown-eyed cow his mother was wanting.

  Seven

  Lewis’s General Store was on the same street as the Widow Mitchell’s house. Mr. Lewis was on the front porch, sweeping as quickly as he could to keep up with the falling snow.

  “You’ll be sweeping until dark if you hope to keep that porch clear,” said Papa.

  “You’re right. But when the snow piles up, customers stay away. So what brings you two into town?”

  “We’re hoping to trade,” said Papa. “We wondered if you might be interested in this merino.”

  Mr. Lewis shook his head. “I don’t trade in livestock,” he said. “You’d be better off going to the farms around town.”

  “I thought of that,” said Papa. “But as I recall, Mrs. Lewis is a fine weaver, and the wool from a merino sheep is soft and strong.”

  Mr. Lewis came down the steps. He took off his glove and ran his fingers over the sheep’s back.

  “I don’t have the space to pasture it,” he said.

  “Sheep don’t take much room. And you could find someone outside of to
wn who’d be glad to keep her for you come spring. Samuel here would be a good one to tend it.”

  Mr. Lewis looked at Samuel. “What do you say, boy? Would you be willing to care for this sheep for me come spring?”

  Samuel looked at the merino. He had cared for roosters and hens and geese. He had kept four snakes and five turtles. He had twice ridden the Chamberlains’ plow horses. There wasn’t a cat he wouldn’t play with. And dogs? Dogs were the best living things God had ever made.

  But sheep, he thought, smelled. And they were stupid.

  “I’d be willing,” Samuel said.

  “Fine. You take the sheep around back while your father and I finish our business. There’s a pen in the old stable where you can put her. And a bale of hay to spread out.” Then Mr. Lewis and Papa went into the store.

  Samuel pulled on the rope. “Come on, sheep,” he said. “Move.”

  The sheep did not move.

  “It’s warm in the stable,” said Samuel, and he tugged a little harder.

  The sheep did not move.

  Samuel went around to the back end of the sheep and pushed.

  The sheep startled forward, and Samuel fell face first into the snow.

  Sheep were really stupid.

  And they smelled.

  Eight

  When Samuel had penned the merino sheep and come out of the stable, Papa was smiling.

  “Samuel, I know exactly where we should go next,” he said, and he handed Samuel a wedge of dark cheese.

  “You traded for cheese?” said Samuel.

  “I hope I’m a better trader than that,” said Papa, and he pulled out a gold pocket watch.

  Samuel wondered if a pocket watch might trade for a mare. Or maybe a sheepdog to help take care of the merino. Or at least a white-nosed kitten.

  “I thought we’d go talk with Mr. Everett about one of his dairy cows,” said Papa. “And if not Everett, perhaps Mr. Buxton beyond him.”

  Samuel’s feet were cold and tired, and they dragged a little in the snow collecting on the road. “It’s a long road, Papa,” said Samuel.