Free Soft Rain by Cornelia Cornelissen

Hawk Boy shivered inside his coat. Soft Rain rubbed his hands between hers until Father reminded them to hurry along. They ran, sliding and slipping, to catch up with Mother and Aunt Kee.
    The day the snow stopped, Father said, “Tomorrow we will hunt again. A white farmer brought us word of deer close by.”
    The sun shone as the hunters left, and soon after, the travelers passed through a small town. Soft Rain stopped to stare at a little building with a bell on top.
    “Is it a school or a church?” Hawk Boy asked.
    “Maybe both,” Soft Rain answered. “It’s probably just for white children, though,” she said, remembering the white children’s school at home.
    “Father told me we’re going to build a school in the West. I will help,” Hawk Boy said.
    A school for them in the West! Soft Rain hoped it was true. For a while she forgot about the bitter cold. But the town was far behind them before they came to a fire. By then even her eyelids felt cold,and Hawk Boy’s lips were blue. Soft Rain dared to stop, even though she could barely see the last wagon and the backs of the stragglers.
    She and Hawk Boy first warmed their hands and faces, then they turned their backs to the fire. That was when they saw the two white children, a boy and girl, standing at the edge of the woods staring at them.
    “They’re coming toward us,” Hawk Boy said. “Look, the boy is hiding behind the girl.” He quickly stepped slightly behind Soft Rain.
    The girl held an apple in her outstretched hand. Soft Rain looked longingly at it but shook her head.
    Peering around Soft Rain, Hawk Boy whispered, “Take it.”
    With a glance at her brother, Soft Rain stretched out her own hand and took the red fruit. “Thank you for the apple,” she said, handing it to Hawk Boy.
    “You speak English!” the girl gasped.
    “I learned in school. Is that
your
school we saw this morning?”
    “When the weather is good, we go—my brother and I,” she answered.
    “This is
my
brother, Hawk Boy. Our school closed,” Soft Rain said.
    Poking her brother, who was bigger than Hawk Boy, the girl said, “Thomas, give it to her.”
    The boy reached inside his coat and handed Soft Rain another apple. Hawk Boy was already eating his.
    “I’ll save it to share with my family,” Soft Rain said, putting it in her pouch.
    “There’s more. Come with us.” The girl led them back to the trees where she and her brother had stood. “Papa saw the Indians on the road yesterday. He said, ‘They’re cold and hungry. We must give them what we can spare.’
    “So we packed this,” she said, pointing her foot at a large cloth bag on the ground. “But when I tried to talk to people at the fire, everyone except you hurried away.” Spreading the wooden handles apart, she opened the bag and took out a heavy blue dress.
    “This was my last winter’s dress. Mama made it, and look—she sewed on a pocket.” When Soft Rain looked puzzled, she added, “For keeping things in. I outgrew it, but you’re shorter than I am.” While still talking, she pulled open Soft Rain’s coat. “It’s wool, much warmer than this flimsy cotton dress you’re wearing. And here’s Thomas’s old coat—much warmer than Hawk Boy’s.
    “Oh, and there’s food on the bottom.” Bending down, she put the dress and coat back in the bag, closed it, and stood up quickly. “We have to go, before it gets any darker.”
    “You are very kind. Thank you,” Soft Rain mumbled.
    The two white children hurried off through the trees. Hawk Boy threw the core of the apple away.
I don’t even know her name
, Soft Rain thought.
    “She talked so much. What did she say?” Hawk Boy asked.
    “Her family gave us food and clothing. Hurry, let’s pick up the bag and go. Night is coming, and we must catch up with the others at the next fire.”
    “Agh! It’s heavy!” Hawk Boy grunted as they carried the bag between them, trying to move quickly. It seemed to grow heavier. They put it down