“It’s not a pony, Uncle Edward, but I know you meant well.” Erin kissed his cheek and returned to her home, Gray Lace Cottage, with his gift under her arm.
“That’s her third atlas. Not bad for a six year old,” laughed his older brother.
Edward joined in the humor while he adjusted the bit on Jenny’s muzzle. “Maybe I’ll return with a pony.”
“Don’t you dare! Catherine has proclaimed that ponies are for ten year olds, and she’ll kick you out of her will if you bring one any sooner.” Trevor bent over to check the wheels on his brother’s buggy. “Listen, you can’t just drive out of here, drop off a birthday present, and leave. It’ll be dark soon.”
“I can and I must. I’m expecting trouble, Trev.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Have you heard of Harold Mensing?”
“The priest in Plainville?”
“Preacher, Trev, they call them preachers in this country. We’re not in jolly old England anymore.”
“Quite yes, of course”, his smile faded. “I have heard he’s stirring up a ruckus about labor in the farm fields. Is that right?”
“That’s right. He announced from the pulpit last Sunday, ‘Farmers, pay your labor by quality of race.’ Trevor, he wants us to pay white field hands more or not hire Africans at all.”
“Good God, Edward, our harvest!” A warm summer breeze of Lake Wheatley ruffled his hair, and he thrust his hands on his hips. “What we do? We need that help. Unfortunately that man sounds powerful.”
Eleanor Tatum 
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