Free The Curious World of Calpurnia Tate by Jacqueline Kelly

written in the telegrapher’s strange choppy diction.
    â€œRead it, Callie,” said Sul Ross.
    â€œIt says, ‘Alive by God’s grace, stop. House gone, stop. Living in tent on beach, stop. Love Gus Sophronia Aggie Finch, stop.’”
    We stared at one another. Mother sobbed into her handkerchief, unable to speak. Viola fetched the bottle of tonic and a tablespoon, saying, “Miz Tate, you take this now. You had a shock to your system.”
    *   *   *
    E VEN AFTER THE GOOD NEWS , Mother continued somewhat pale and worried, waiting to hear from two of her childhood friends, but really, the rest of us were bearing up pretty well and going about the business of our daily routines.
    There were nature walks and field trips with Granddaddy. There were vetch seeds to germinate. There was Sir Isaac Newton, a black-spotted newt I’d found in a drainage ditch, who now lived on my dresser in a shallow glass baking dish with a mesh-wire lid. (My dresser was getting crowded, what with my precious hummingbird’s nest in a glass box and assorted feathers and fossils and small bones.) I had to keep an eye on Sir Isaac, since he frequently tried to escape despite the fat flies I supplied him with. One morning I found him in the far corner under my bed, so covered in dust that I had to take him downstairs and wash him off at the kitchen pump.
    Viola took one look and shrieked, “What in Jesus’s name is that?”
    â€œThere’s no need to pitch a fit. It’s a black-spotted newt, also known as Diemyctylus meridionalis. Don’t worry, he’s completely harmless. This species is actually beneficial to man in that it eats flies and other pests, so—”
    â€œI don’t care what it is, you get it out of my sink!”
    â€œI just need to—”
    â€œYour momma see that thing in here, she’ll have my job.”
    â€œWhat? Don’t be silly.” The thought of Mother firing Viola was beyond comprehension. She had been with us forever, since before I’d been born, since before even Harry had been born. The entire household would collapse without her.
    â€œNothing silly about it. Out of my kitchen. Now!”
    Miffed, I took Sir Isaac out to the horse trough, where he splashed about happily enough.
    And there was my budding friendship with Polly the Parrot, cemented for good the day I presented him with a whole peach of his very own. He practically purred with pleasure. He even liked the stone and kept it to sharpen his beak on.
    I wondered if he would like a lady parrot to keep him company, and if so, how would we ever find one? Granddaddy had told me Polly could live to be a hundred. The thought of him doing so without one of his own kind made me sad, even though Mr. O’Flanagan took good care of him. He often carried him outside in warm weather and sprayed him with a hose; Polly spread his wings under the fountain and gyrated in ecstasy. Then Mr. O’Flanagan set him on his perch in the sun next to the old codgers in front of the gin who were still reliving the War on a daily basis. They would stop their ruminating long enough to engage in conversation with Polly, trying to teach him to say “The South will rise again!” But Polly would have none of it; he loved only Mr. O’Flanagan and would have no other master. I noticed that the bird now spoke with an Irish accent. When he dropped one of his foot-long crimson feathers, Mr. O’Flanagan saved it for me. What a treasure! I’d bet no other girl in Texas had one on her dresser.
    One night after dessert, Mother pulled a letter from her bodice, saying, “Father and Harry have finally arrived at the coast. Tomorrow they board the steamship Queen of Brazoria to take them to Galveston. I know that all our thoughts and prayers are with them.”
    A solemn hush fell over the table except for J.B., the baby, who piped up with, “Dada’s going on a boat? Can