Strawberry Moon by Becky Citra

1

    â€œPapa’s back!” shouted Max. His boots clattered across the cabin floor. He burst through the door.
    I hurried outside. Papa drove our wagon up the road to our cabin. A woman in a stiff black dress and a black bonnet sat beside him on the high wooden seat. I swallowed nervously. Grandmother!
    The last time I had seen Grandmother was three years ago, when Papa and Max and I stood on the dock in England with our trunks and bags. It had been a cold springday in 1835. Grandmother had come to see us off on our trip to Canada. Her face had been icy with disapproval. She had not hugged Max or me good-bye.
    Her last words had been to Papa. “You’ll regret this, John.”
    Papa and Max and I had traveled thousands of miles away from England and Grandmother. We sailed across the ocean in a huge ship. We traveled along winding rivers and bumped over rough roads through dark forests, until we came to our homestead beside the blue lake.
    For three years, Papa worked hard to build our farm. We had a sturdy log cabin, fields, a garden and a barn for the horses and Nettie, our cow.
    â€œIt’s the best farm in Upper Canada!” Papa liked to boast.
    Now Grandmother had come to visit us. Papa helped her down off the wagon. Her black dress rustled. Grandmother’s daughter Charlotte, my mother, had died when I was four years old. Papa had told me that Grandmother had been sad eversince, and that’s why she always wore black dresses.
    Papa passed her a cane with a silver top. “What do you think, Agatha?” he said.
    Grandmother’s steel gray eyes flickered past me. I don’t think she even saw the sparkling lake or the blue wildflowers or Papa’s new field, freshly plowed.
    I know she saw the rows and rows of black stumps. She stared at them for a long time. Then she shuddered and said, “It’s worse, much worse, than I ever imagined.”
    Papa’s face fell.
    â€œDid you have a nice trip, Grandmother?” said Max. Papa had told him before he left to be sure to ask.
    â€œNo, I didn’t,” said Grandmother. “My insides have been completely scrambled up on these dreadful roads.”
    Max grinned, and Grandmother glared at him.
    Suddenly something black and white shot out from under the steps. Star!
    He danced in a circle around Grand-mother’s feet, barking shrilly. Grandmothe gasped. She flapped her black shawl wildly. Star grabbed one end and tugged.

    â€œStar!” bellowed Papa.
    Grandmother’s cane whipped through the air.
Whoomph!
She smacked Star across the haunches. Star yelped and slunk toward the cabin.
    â€œI cannot abide dogs with fleas,” said Grandmother coldly.
    â€œStar doesn’t have fleas!” said Max.
    â€œAll dogs have fleas,” said Grandmother.
    â€œBut—,” began Max. Papa looked at him sharply, and Max kept quiet. He ran over to Star and crouched beside him, stroking his neck. His chin stuck out, the way it did when he thought something was unfair.
    â€œI’m sorry,” said Papa. “I can’t understand what got into the dog.” He sounded exhausted. “I’ll put the horses away, and Max, you can help me with Grandmother’s trunk and boxes.”
    I looked in the back of the wagon, and my heart sank. Grandmother had brought enough luggage to stay for months! One especially big wooden crate was nailed shut firmly.
    â€œEllie, you take Grandmother inside.” Papa smiled. “Knowing you, I’m sure you have a wonderful supper ready for us.”
    For the first time, Grandmother looked right at me. “The child has certainly grown,” she said.
    And you have shrunk, I wanted to say back. It was true. The grandmother I remembered had seemed so tall and straight. Now I was almost as tall as she was. I smiled.
    â€œI don’t like sly looks on a young girl’s face,” said Grandmother. “And what on earth is that on your feet?”
    I