Free Whistler in the Dark by Kathleen Ernst Page A

“Mother, I have good news. I found some paper! Mr. Boggs said we could use his big roll of wrapping paper!”
    Mother paused, a finger on her chin. “Wrapping paper. Yes, that could work. Our prospectus will look odd, but that’s no matter. Yes.” She nodded with more enthusiasm. “Yes, indeed! Emma, you’re brilliant!”
    A glow spread like warm honey through Emma. But she didn’t have much time to enjoy it, for Mother went to work like a whirlwind. She and Mule Tom had carefully retrieved all of the jumbled type from the sawdust, and Emma went back to work— again —sorting it by letters and sizes. Mother sent Mule Tom to retrieve the heavy roll of paper, and then to the freight office for the waiting keg of ink. When Jeremy arrived, Mother set him to work measuring and cutting the wrapping paper into press-sized pieces.
    Once the typecases were finally organized, Mother set the type herself, snatching each needed letter from the typecase and shaping the pieces into words and sentences. Her speed was astonishing, especially since the type had to be inserted into the tray backward so that it would print correctly when applied to the paper! She used a type stick to make straight lines and kept her articles handy for reference. “You’ll catch on,” Mother said when she noticed Emma staring. “It just takes practice.”
    By late afternoon they were ready to begin printing. Mother showed Jeremy how to moisten each piece of paper with a sponge and how to ink the waiting type. Mule Tom claimed the exhausting job of tugging the lever Mr. Abbott had carved, which brought the paper and inked type together. Emma strung thin cord back and forth above their heads and draped each printed piece of paper over it to dry. They repeated the entire process for the reverse side of the paper.
    â€œI never knew printing a newspaper was such hard work,” Jeremy sighed as the sun began to slip behind the mountains.
    â€œBe glad this is just a single sheet,” Emma muttered. “When we print the full newspapers, each sheet has to be hand-folded and the crease pressed in with a whalebone.”
    He shrugged. “Well, it’s better than digging fence-post holes for my father. Mrs. Henderson, sorry, but I gotta go. I’ve got evening chores waiting.”
    Mother looked startled. “My goodness, is it suppertime already? Emma, would you run and ask Mrs. Sloane if she’d be so kind as to let you bring supper over in a pail?”
    Jeremy and Emma walked together as far as the boardinghouse. “I never met anyone like your mother before,” Jeremy said.
    â€œShe loved helping at my father’s newspaper office. And during the war, she worked for the Sanitary Commission. She likes having a job to do.” Emma tried to keep any hint of resentment from her voice.
    â€œShe sure works hard.” Jeremy’s tone was admiring.
    â€œWell, she wanted to print three hundred copies of the prospectus. She won’t stop until she gets it done.”
    Emma’s prediction came true. After she, Mother, and Mule Tom split a dubious dinner of fried doughnuts and cold beef stew, Mother hung two lanterns from the rafters and they went back to work. Emma helped until her eyes felt sandy and the muscles between her shoulder blades ached. “Mother,” she said finally, “I need to go to bed.”
    â€œOh, Emma!” Mother darted from the press and gave her a quick hug. “Of course, dear. You’ve been simply wonderful today.” Then she hesitated. “I would like to finish up here, though. Would you mind horribly going back by yourself?”
    Emma sighed. She’d spent the day watching Mother stride back and forth in her ridiculous trousers, overseeing her inexperienced workers, greeting the occasional patron who stopped by to ask questions or pay for a subscription. Mother’s hair had straggled down from its bun, and her