Free Little Town On The Prairie by Laura Ingalls Wilder Page B

was not much troubled about the blackbirds. He said he had about cleaned them out of the oats, he had shot a hundred or more. “Likely they'll do some harm to the corn, but that can't be helped,” he said.
    “There are so many of them,” Laura said. “Pa, if you don't get a corn crop, can—can Mary go to college?”
    Pa looked bleak. “You think it's as bad as that?”
    “There's so many of them,” said Laura.
    Pa glanced at the sun. “Well, another hour can't make much difference. I'll see about it when I come to dinner.”
    At noon he took his shotgun to the cornfield. He walked between the corn rows and shot into the cloud of blackbirds as it rose. Every shot brought down a hail of dead birds, but the black cloud settled into the corn again. When he had shot away all his cartridges, the swirl of wings seemed no thinner.
    There was not a blackbird in the oatfield. The y had left it. But they had eaten every kernel of oats that could be dug out of the shocks. Only straw was left.
    Ma thought that she and the girls could keep them away from the corn. The y tried to do it. Even Grace ran up and down the rows, screeching and waving her little sunbonnet. The blackbirds only swirled around them and settled again to the ears of corn, tearing the husks and pecking away the kernels.
    “You'll wear yourselves out for nothing, Caroline,”
    said Pa. “I'll go to town and buy more cartridges.”
    When he had gone, Ma said, “Let's see if we can't keep them off till he gets back.”
    The y ran up and down, in the sun and heat, stum-bling over the rough sods, screeching and shouting and waving their arms. Sweat ran down their faces and their backs, the sharp cornleaves cut their hands and cheeks.
    Their throats ached from yelling. And always the swirling wings rose and settled again. Always scores of blackbirds were clinging to the ears, and sharp beaks were tearing and pecking.
    At last Ma stopped. “It's no use, girls,” she said.
    Pa came with more cartridges. All that afternoon he shot blackbirds. The y were so thick that every pellet of shot brought down a bird. It seemed that the more he shot, the more there were. It seemed that all the blackbirds in the Territory were hurrying to that feast of corn.
    At first there were only common blackbirds. The n came larger, yellow-headed blackbirds, and blackbirds with red heads and a spot of red on each wing. Hundreds of them came.
    In the morning a dark spray of blackbirds rose and fell above the cornfield. After breakfast Pa came to the house, bringing both hands full of birds he had shot.
    “I never heard of anyone's eating blackbirds,” he said, “but these must be good meat, and they're as fat as butter.”
    “Dress them, Laura, and we'll have them fried for dinner,” said Ma. “There's no great loss without some small gain.”
    Laura dressed the birds, and at noon Ma heated the frying-pan and laid them in it. The y fried in their own fat, and at dinner everyone agreed that they were the tenderest, most delicious meat that had ever been on that table.
    After dinner, Pa brought another armful of blackbirds and an armful of corn.
    “We might as well figure that the crop's gone,” he said. “This corn's a little too green, but we'd better eat what we can of it before the blackbirds get it all.”
    “I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner!” Ma exclaimed. "Laura and Carrie, hurry and pick every ear that's possibly old enough to make dried corn.
    Surely we can save a little, to eat next winter."
    Laura knew why Ma had not thought of that sooner; she was too distracted. The corn corp was gone. Pa would have to take from his savings to pay taxes and buy coal. The n how could they manage to send Mary to college this fall?
    The blackbirds were so thick now that between the corn rows their wings beat rough against Laura's arms and battered her sunbonnet. She felt sharp little blows on her head, and Carrie cried out that the birds were pecking her. The y seemed to