Bushy

Until Bushy Sukolt was four years old she had lived with her father and mother in the town of Afton, Iowa. Mr. Sukolt was of the firm of Sukolt & Block, the largest iron foundry of the State. Mr. Block dipped into politics, just enough to bring in big contracts to enrich the firm, and Mr. Sukolt was satisfied to fill all orders that Block’s business methods secured. The office of Mr. Block was in the town and Mr. Sukolt’s headquarters were at the foundry, and in this way the partners saw very little of each other.

The death of Mr. Block, which happened when Bushy was about four years old, caused an examination of the accounts, and it was discovered that he had, unknown to Bushy’s father, issued a large amount of paper in the firm’s name. This was fast approaching maturity and was enough to make an assignment necessary.

Bushy’s mother, a frail, delicate woman, could not survive the trouble, and in three months after the failure she was buried in the little churchyard of Afton.

Mr. Sukolt, feeling he could no longer remain in a place where he had known so much sorrow, gladly became one of a geological party, bound for the Rocky Mountains. His intention had been to leave Bushy for three or four years in the care of a Mrs. Golden, a dear friend of the family. But on the day before his departure, as Tom Cole, who was going with Mr. Sukolt as a driver, was loading the wagon with the necessary articles for such a journey, Bushy was found rolled up in some blankets that were to be put into the wagon.

As Tom pulled her out she pushed her bushy hair back from her eyes and said:

“Don’t oo touch me! Don’t oo touch me; I’s doin’ wiv my papa’s tachel.”

Tom eyed her a second, as if debating within himself whether it would be safe to approach such a fiery little piece of humanity; then, gathering her up in his arms, he carried her out to the wagon where Mr. Sukolt was superintending the loading.

“Mr. Sukolt, Bushy says she is going with your satchel. I found her almost melted, hidden in them blankets. It beats me how she got there. I brought ’em down only a few minutes ago myself, and I know she wasn’t in ’em then.”

“I twawled in when you was eatin’ bwead and milk in de tichen,” sobbed Bushy.

Mr. Sukolt, taking her from Tom, kissed her chubby hands a dozen times. She cuddled down in his arms and tried to hide her face in his bosom.

“Does Bushy love papa so much?” He hugged her closer to him. “But never mind, dear; when I come back I will bring you the biggest dolly you ever saw—one that will cry ‘wah, wah!’ just like a real baby. Won’t that be fine?”

Her only reply was to snuggle yet closer, thus feeling that he could not possibly put her away from him.

He looked at Bushy, at the wagon, at the house, and again at Bushy; then he seemed to gaze off into the unexplored regions of the Rockies. He was so long quiet, and the expression of his face so sad that Tom, growing uneasy, turned to the wagon and pretended to adjust some of the luggage, his one object being to hide the tears that would trickle down his wrinkled face.

The long silence caused Bushy to raise her head and with childish curiosity peep into her father’s face. At that moment it became resolute. Calling to Tom he said: “Pack no more just now; pile everything here by the wheel, and then go to Warren’s for that box of provisions; I wish to speak to Mrs. Golden about Bushy.”

“Oh, I’s all weddy, papa!” cried Bushy. Wriggling out of his arms and running to the blankets, she pulled from under them a little roll. “See, papa; see! I’ve dot my ove’shoes. I’ve dot my sun bonny. I’ve dot my nightie.” And here one of the sobs that had been coming up her little throat, to her surprise found its way out and cut her words short. She stood before him with a shoe in one hand and a nightgown in the other, her tear-stained but now happy face looking up into his for the sign of approbation her little heart felt she would receive for her thoughtfulness.

“My baby! my baby!” he cried, snatching her up and tossing her on his shoulder. “Go with papa’s satchel? Of course you will! How could I for a moment think of leaving you—you, the only joy in the wide, wide world now left to me?” and they started for the house.

“I’s doin’! I’s doin’! I’s doin’!” came from the child’s sweet lips, as she waved the nightgown to express her happiness and patted her father’s head rather roughly with her shoe, which she still clung to, her little heels digging vigorously into his big, broad chest.

“’Oorah! ’oorah! ’oorah!”

“Mrs. Golden—where are you, Mrs. Golden? Come here; we want you—Bushy and I. Yes, it is Bushy and I from henceforth, for where I go Bushy shall go, and where Bushy can’t go I won’t go!” he exclaimed, as he handed her over to good, old Mrs. Golden. Her startled face showed she was thinking: “The man’s gone clean mad! Poor fellow!”