Paul crushed oats in Grandma's coffee grinder and mixed them with bran and linseed, all ready for the hot water when Misty came home. He filled the manger with good-smelling hay. He washed the salt block.
"Wouldn't surprise me none if ye licked it clean with yer own tongue," Grandpa laughed as he went by with Nanny's kid tugging at his pants leg.
In the kitchen Maureen was sewing strips of tape on an old blanket. Every now and then she ran to try it on Grandma to see if the ties were in the right place. "If it fits you, Grandma, it'll fit Misty."
Grandma made a wry face. "Reckon I should be complimented," she snorted, "'stead of laying my ears back. Beats me!" she added as she wrapped jelly sandwiches in waxed paper. "There's barely a speck o' meal in the house for biscuits or bread, and scarce a dry thing to cover folks with, but there's allus oats and bran a-plenty, and a royal blanket for Miss Misty."
"Missus Misty!" Maureen corrected.
Grandma disappeared into her bedroom for a moment and came back with a shy smile. "Here's my contribution," she said. "Likely I'll have no more use for this soft baby blanket. With a couple of safety pins to fasten it under her belly, it'll be just the right size for Misty's young'un. That long ride home will be kind o' drafty for a newborn."
By half-past noon Grandpa and Paul and Maureen were waving good-bye to Grandma and were on their way to Pocomoke City. To their amazement, the causeway to the mainland was jammed with a long procession of cars coming from Maryland, Delaware, and even Washington, D.C.
"Why in tarnation they coming to Chincoteague today?" Paul asked, opening up the lunch box.
"I'll tune ye if I catch ye sayin' 'tarnation' again," Grandpa scolded. Then he cackled in laughter. "'Tain't fittin' except fer an old feller like me."
"But why are they?" Maureen wanted to know.