Free The Fiddler's Secret by Lois Walfrid Johnson Page B

under a boardwalk. Pushing his nose into the hole, Wellington yapped until the rabbit ran out the other side.
    Again the dog took up the chase. When Peter called him back, Wellington didn’t obey. Upset now, Libby faced Peter, pointed to the dog, and signed her strongest “No!”
    A moment later the rabbit disappeared under a white picket fence. Wellington burrowed under the fence after him. Samson came to a halt and peered between the pickets.
    Along one side of the house, the rabbit raced to a small vegetable garden. When he disappeared, Wellington sniffed his way after him until the rabbit bounded off. This time he got away.
    Libby breathed a sigh of relief. But when Peter called, Wellington still didn’t obey. Off again, he burrowed his nose in the dirt of the garden.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with your dog?” Libby signed.
    â€œHe knows how to drive game from holes in the ground,” Peter answered proudly. “He’s just doing what is natural for him.”
    â€œWell, teach him to do what
isn’t
natural!” Libby said, then felt glad that Peter hadn’t heard. By comparison, Samson was a model dog.
    Now Wellington was digging. As dirt flew out behind his paws, Peter opened the gate and raced into the yard. When he tried to pick up the dog, Wellington leaped away.
    Uh-oh!
Libby thought, but this time even Peter was upset. Already Wellington was digging another big hole. As themound of dirt rose behind the dog, Peter grabbed him.
    While Peter held the dog in his arms, Libby filled in the holes. Soon her hands and feet were covered with dirt. When she finished, she could be glad for only one thing. At least the terrier hadn’t broken off any plants.
    Then Libby discovered that Samson was gone. Hurrying out of the garden, she looked up and down the street. Farther down the block, Caleb and Jordan were watching a man build a large house. His mouth stretched wide in a grin, Samson sat on his haunches beside them.
    As Libby and Peter caught up, Jordan spoke to the carpenter on the ladder.
    â€œYou want to talk with me, son?” the man asked as he climbed down.
    â€œWill you tell me what it’s like for our people to live in Minnesota Territory?” Jordan asked.
    The man offered his hand. “I’m James Thompson.”
    â€œJordan Parker.”
    â€œBeen here long, Jordan?” Mr. Thompson asked.
    â€œCame into St. Paul yesterday. What about you?”
    Mr. Thompson smiled. “Since a long while before you were born. A Methodist missionary needed an interpreter with the Indians, and I started working for him. He bought my papers and set me free.”
    Mr. Thompson slipped his hammer through a loop in his overalls and sat down on a keg of nails. “Do I like living in St. Paul? Yes, I do. I like building houses here. Have you seen how crowded it is?”
    Jordan nodded. “People livin’ in the streets. But someone said if there’s money, a man can build a house in a day.”
    â€œA shack in a day,” Mr. Thompson answered. “Not the kind of houses I build. In winter the wind blows straight down from the north. The cold goes right into your bones. My houses keep people warm.”
    Mr. Thompson looked Jordan in the eyes. “Why do you ask about Minnesota Territory?”
    â€œI want a place where my momma and my daddy and my sisters and my brother can live safe and free. If we have to be cold, we’ll be cold, but will we be free?”
    Mr. Thompson met Jordan’s gaze straight on. “Living in Minnesota Territory is like living anywhere. If you let yourself be free, you will be.”
    That’s a strange answer
, Libby thought. She felt sure Mr. Thompson wasn’t telling Jordan to do whatever he pleased.
What does he mean?
    â€œAre you free to live?” Mr. Thompson asked.
    Jordan nodded. “Free to earn my own way. Free to read and write.”
    â€œFree to vote?”
    Jordan drew himself up.