CONTENTS
1. Braids and Ribbons
2. The Silver Plane
3. A Mill Day
4. The Picture-Takers’ Plans
5. Caught in the Pony-Way
6. Horse-Doctor Paul
7. The Best Kind of Winkers
8. A Wild One for Wild-Pony Paul
9. Off in a Swirl of Mist
10. All Alone at Tom’s Cove
11. The Little Tyke
12. Risky Doin’s
13. No Ornery Colt for Us
14. The Gentleman from Kentucky
15. A Hauntin’ Smell o’ Myrtle Leaves
16. Let’s Do Something
17. Open the Gate
About the Author
To
IRVING JACOBY
LAST PONY PENNING, I went to Chincoteague a second time. My purpose was to work with the movie men who were planning to film the book of Misty. I had no thought of writing another Chincoteague story. Misty, I thought, was complete in itself. Let the boys and girls dream their own wonderful sequels.
And then all my resolves burst in midair. Early on the morning after Pony Penning, a lone colt with a crooked star on his forehead was found at Tom’s Cove. His mamma “lay on her broadside, dead.”
Except for the sea mews and the striker birds, the colt was quite alone, one little wild thing, helpless against the wild sea.
And there, in that wild moment at Tom’s Cove, the story of Sea Star was born of itself.
M. H.
Chapter 1
BRAIDS AND RIBBONS
PAUL WAS separating each silver hair in Misty’s tail. At his feet lay a little pile of blackberry brambles which he had removed, one by one.
With an air of secrecy he looked around quickly to make sure no outsider could overhear what he was about to say. But he and his sister, Maureen, were quite alone in the barnyard of Pony Ranch — except for the wild fowl and the ponies. There was no need at all to whisper, but Paul did whisper, and he seemed to be laughing at a private little joke of his own.
“How’d you like to see Misty’s tail braided?”
“Braided!” Maureen dropped the gunny sack with which she was brushing Misty’s coat and stared. “How silly! Whoever heard of a wild Chincoteague pony with a braided tail!”
“Nobody except you and me.” Paul looked around again, chuckling to himself. “Nobody’ll ever know except the guinea hens and ducks and geese, and who listens to them?”
Surprise crept into Maureen’s voice. “How’d you guess, Paul?”
“Guess what?”
“That I’ve been hankering to do Misty up like those pictures we saw in the paper, the ones of the horses at the big show?”
Paul laid the comb he had been using on Misty’s rump.
“Mental telegraphy, of course. Miss Vic says when two people think the same thing it’s mental telegraphy.”
“She does?”
“Yes. And I believe it!” Paul’s voice no longer whispered. It chortled in amusement. “For two nights now I’ve been dreaming Misty was a famous steeplechaser, and we had to braid her tail and mane and trim off her fetlocks and whiskers and clean her coat until if you patted her hip you couldn’t raise a single puff of dust. Not a puff.”
Maureen dipped a corner of the gunny sack in a pail of water and began scrubbing Misty’s knees.
Her words came jerking out to the motion of the scrubbing. “We’ll tie her braids with fancy ribbons. We’ll put a wreath of flowers round her neck—like Grandpa says they do at the big races over on the main.”
Paul giggled. “Grandpa’d say we’re chuckleheads, but let’s do it, anyway! Then we’ll take pictures in our mind, and afore anyone else sees her we’ll shake out her tail and her mane and let the wind rumple ’em all up so she looks exactly like a Chincoteague pony again.”
Though scores of ponies came and went on Grandpa Beebe’s Pony Ranch, Misty stayed. For she belonged to Paul and Maureen. They talked to her as if she were human, and often it seemed that she talked back! Now, as if she understood their plans, she spun around, kicked the comb from her back, burst through the unfastened rope fence, and headed for the marshland, her mane tossing in the sea breeze.
Disturbed by her motion, the barnyard went wild with noise. Guinea hens, geese, ducks — wild ones and tame ones flew into the air with a great clatter. A bunch of ponies in the corral who, a moment before, had been dozing in the sun, alerted and were off, following the silver direction-flag of Misty’s tail.
“My stars!” laughed Maureen. “That Misty’s got the sharpest ears and the knowingest mind of any pony I ever did see. Look at her. She’s gone wild as her mother—bucking and leaping and kicking her heels at our plan.”
Watching Misty, Paul and Maureen thought a moment of her mother, the famous wild Phantom on near-by Assateague Island. Then Paul said, “But Misty is not really wild; in two minutes she’ll be back, asking for those braids and ribbons.”
Maureen did quick little capers of her own, mimicking Misty. She stumbled over the pail, spilling out half of the water before she rescued it. “Look at her!” she said, a little out of breath. “She’s the same color as the flowers of the kinks bush. And she floats on the wind, like they do.” A note of anxiety showed in her voice as she went on. “You think the other ponies get jealous of Misty?”
“ ’Course not. They don’t ever get jealous of a leader. Grandpa says it’s the first time he’s seen a mare colt to be the leader.”
They watched the older ponies trying to follow Misty’s antics. The more Misty galloped and bucked and twisted her body into the air, the more Paul’s and Maureen’s laughter rippled out over the marshland of Chincoteague Island.
“The big ones are clumsy as woods cows beside our Misty!” Maureen said.
Now Paul threw his head back and let out a shrill whistle. It was as if he had roped Misty with his voice. She jammed to a halt. Her head and tail went up. Then she wheeled and came flying in, the rest of the band stringing out behind her.
Maureen and Paul ran for the gate. When the entire bunch was safely inside, they fastened it securely.
Misty flew on past them to the entrance of her stall. There she settled down to earth like a bird after flight. She watched the other ponies go to a big open shed which they shared. Then she stood waiting at her manger, waiting for the little reward of corn and the pleasant scratchy feeling of the gunny sack.
Maureen went back to work, this time on Misty’s muddy hocks. “We got to hurry, Paul,” she said, “before Grandpa gets back from Watson Town. I promised him I’d do Grandma’s work today.”
Paul did not answer Maureen. His words were for Misty’s furry ears. “You’re fierce and wild and wonderful when you come in all blown, your nose snortin’ white flames like a dragon. I wonder if even Man o’ War could have been as exciting looking.”
Maureen stopped scrubbing and stood up in thought. “No, Paul,” she said slowly. “I reckon even Man o’ War didn’t have as much fire.”
Misty, impatient with all the talk, moved over to a wash tub that was turned upside down and placed her forefeet on it. “Here, you!” she seemed to say. “Do I have to do all my tricks for a few kernels of corn?”
She lifted a forefoot high, pawing the air.
Paul caught it and shook it vigorously. “How do, Misty,” he said, bowing very gravely. “I failed to see you in church last Sunday. Hope you weren’t ailing.”
Misty lipped Paul’s straw-like hair to see if there was any taste to it. Finding none, she nudged his head out of the way and reached for the niblets of corn that he now produced from his pocket.
From all over the farmyard chickens and hens came running, p
ecking up the little kernels Misty dropped.
“Now she’s clean and had a good run; so we can ready her for the show,” Paul said. “That is, if you can find any ribbons.”
Maureen was in and out of the weathered house beyond the corral before Paul had three strands of forelock ready to braid.
“Here’s lots of ribbons,” she called. “They came tied around Grandma’s presents when she was in the hospital. She brought them home for me to do my hair, but I’ve been saving them up for Misty.” She spread them out on the up-turned wash tub. “Let’s use all different colors.”
Misty liked the attention she was getting. She preferred the company of humans to that of the other ponies. They tried to sneak her ear corn, and nose into her water barrel. But the boy and the girl—they neither snatched her food nor drank her water. They brought it instead!
She nipped their clothes playfully as the friendly, awkward hands braided and looped her mane and forelock.
“My fingers get all twisted,” Paul complained, “but if stable boys over on the main can do it, so can I.”
“Why, your braids look better than mine, Paul. You’ve looped yours underneath instead of over on top. But my bows are tied better, I think. Now let’s do her tail.”
Misty snatched little colt naps as they worked on her tail. A fresh wind from the sea fanned her face. It fluttered the ribbons on her forelock and mane. Every little while she would shake her head and make the braids dance. Then she would give a high horselaugh into the pleasant July morning.
When the tail was tied in red and pink and blue ribbons, Maureen went off to gather an armful of flowers from the patch of Bouncing Bess at the side of the house. The stems were thick and strong, and she braided them so that the flower heads came close together, making a huge pink wreath.
“It’s funny,” she thought to herself, “I’ve done this often in my mind. The Bouncing Bess. Grandma’s ribbons. The skinny little braids. It’s as if we’d planned it all out together.”
On the way back, she tried the wreath around her own neck.
“Prettier than a wreath of roses, don’t you think, Paul?”
“Bigger, anyway,” he said.
Together they placed the flowers around Misty’s neck. Then they stood back, running their eyes over the picture before them—the wreath hanging down almost to Misty’s knees, the tiny silver braids with dozens of gaily colored bows.
Paul grinned broadly, both a little ashamed and a little proud of his handiwork. “Jumpin’ grasshoppers! No one would know her from a blue ribbon winner. Why, her pedigree is busting out all over!” He half-closed his eyes, reciting, “Misty—out of the Phantom by the Pied Piper.”
“Who before that?”
“Pied Piper out of the Wild Wind by the Wild Waves . . . Out of . . . ”
Maureen’s laughter bubbled. “We haven’t got time to go all the way back to the ponies that swam ashore from the wrecked galleon. Come on! Let’s make believe I’m the man who leads the winner before the grandstand, and you’re the jockey.”
A handful of ribbon lay at Paul’s feet. Quickly he picked out a wide band of purple satin and fastened it across his shirt like a jockey. Then he climbed up close to Misty’s withers so he would not be too heavy for her. He bowed to the imaginary crowds, bowed again and again, as Maureen led Misty around the corral. Now he was accepting the imaginary silver cup while the people went mad with applause. He closed his eyes, listening to the sound of it. It was deafening. It roared and roared in his ears until they hurt.
“Paul! Paul!” Maureen shouted above the noise. “Open your eyes. It’s a plane. Heading toward us. It’s going to land. Paul! Right here at Pony Ranch!”
Chapter 2
THE SILVER PLANE
PAUL STARTED from his daydreams. Misty was trembling under him, prancing in fear. He slid off and blindfolded her with his hands. The spear of light in the sky was a silver plane. It came darting in, landing down meadow, taxiing toward them.
As it settled to a stop, three men scrambled out. One stayed with the plane. The other two came walking toward Pony Ranch, looking around and about them like men who had suddenly landed from Mars.
Maureen gazed awestruck. “Reckon something’s the matter of their engine?” she asked.
Paul looked and gave a nod. “Or maybe they meant to land at the Government base on the other side of the island.” He turned Misty loose and started for the plane at a dead run. Maureen was close at his heels.
Now that the whirring monster was still, Misty was full of curiosity, too. Ears pricked forward, she jog-trotted alongside Paul and Maureen, the wreath bobbing against her chest. The other ponies followed at a cautious distance, but when they reached the gate, Misty drove them back. Then she rejoined the boy and girl.
“It’s like history,” Paul said as he ran. “Columbus and his party lands and the natives go out to meet them.”
Maureen laughed nervously, “They don’t look to me like faraway people.”
Now the two men and the boy and girl were close enough to study each other. Uncertainly they all stopped in their tracks and stood very still on the narrow spit of land. In the sudden quiet the sound of rustling grasses and channel waves skipping into shore grew loud and distinct.
Paul and Maureen waited, listening.
“Good morning,” said one of the men, with a smile as warming as sunlight.
“How do,” nodded Paul and Maureen solemnly.
The man who had spoken was low-voiced, and his blue eyes were very young and very old. The look he gave them was not the look a grownup gives to boys and girls, but one that friends save for each other. “My name is Van Meter,” he said, “and this is my associate, Mr. Jacobs.”
Mr. Jacobs was a tall man, and his eyes were dark and deep like the sheltering coolness of a pine grove. “How do,” he said, repeating Paul’s and Maureen’s way of greeting.
Misty broke the awkward pause that followed. A bug flew into her nose and she snorted it out so fiercely that her braided forelock flew straight up.
They all laughed and the strangeness was gone.
“This must be Pony Ranch,” said Mr. Jacobs, looking at the fences and sheds as if he carried a blueprint of them in his mind.
“It is!” exclaimed Maureen.
“And you must be Paul and Maureen Beebe.”
The boy and girl nodded in wide-eyed amazement.
“But this pony,” said Mr. Van Meter, his eyes taking in the wreath of Bouncing Bess and the braids and ribbons, “it can’t be! No, it can’t possibly be—Misty!”
Paul picked up a piece of marsh grass and twiddled it between his fingers. “It is Misty,” he said, embarrassed by the silly ribbons and wreath.
Mr. Van Meter was plainly disappointed. As he turned his head he caught a glimpse of a little herd of wild ponies frisking along the beach of neighboring Assateague Island. He gestured toward the wind-blown creatures. “I expected to find Misty with her mane and tail blowing in the wind,” he said, talking more to himself than to the others. “And I hoped she’d have some of the mystery of the sea in her look.”
“Oh, but she does!” exclaimed Paul and Maureen together. Quickly they lifted the wreath of flowers from her neck and began loosening her braids.
Maureen glanced up shyly as she worked, “We just wanted to see how she’d look if she won a big race over on the main.”
“And how do you think she looks?” asked Mr. Jacobs.
The boy and girl were shaking out the strands of hair.
“You say, Maureen.”
“No, you, Paul. Do you like Misty all prissied up with ribbons and things?”
Paul answered easily. “Even before we started, we knew we’d like her better with her mane and tail free.”
“Good! So do I.” Mr. Van Meter smiled with his eyes. “Now, will you take us to meet your Grandpa Beebe?”
“He’s gone up the island to Watson Town. Grandma’s been having trouble with her biddies, and he wanted to talk t
o Miss Vic about them.”
“Oh.”
“He sometimes gets hung up talking,” explained Maureen, “but nearly always he comes back pretty quick.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Mr. Jacobs, “we could talk to Mrs. Beebe until he gets back.”
Paul shook his head. “She’s gone to Richmond with Clarence Lee.”
“Yes,” added Maureen proudly. “Our uncle, Clarence Lee, Jr., is going to go to college. He may learn so much he could be a preacher!”
The strangers seemed to be turning matters over in their minds. There was a little pause before they spoke. “Perhaps you would like to hear our mission,” Mr. Van Meter finally said.
“Oh!” Maureen looked surprised. “Are you missionaries?”
Paul snorted. “ ’Course not, Maureen. Whenever are you going to grow up? Mr. Van Meter means that maybe we’d like to know why they came to our island. And how they know all about us and Misty,” he added.
Maureen blushed. “Please to come and sit down on the benches underneath the pine trees,” she invited politely.
Together they walked over to the pine grove at the side of the house while Misty, free of her wreath and halter, kicked up her heels and trotted off to sniff and snort at the strange silver bird resting on her private exercise ground.
The two men watched her with a pleased expression. Then Mr. Van Meter took a snapshot out of his billfold and passed it to Paul and Maureen. “These are my two children,” he said. “Last Christmas they were given a book that told the legend of a Spanish galleon wrecked long ago in a storm, and how her cargo of Moor ponies swam ashore to Assateague Island, and how descendants of those ponies are living wild and free on the island today.”
Paul and Maureen looked up from the picture. “That’s just how it happened,” said Maureen.
“Don’t talk, Maureen. Listen. Listen to what’s coming. Maybe it’s going to be something good.”
“It is good,” Mr. Van Meter went on. “My boy and girl kept telling me about the roundup of the wild ponies you people of Chincoteague have every year.”