The first Friday in May, 1934, Josephine Barkley slouched in her desk in a four-room school in Millard County Utah. She stared at the fifth grade geography book lying open on her desk. Her eyes read the words, but her mind continued to wrestle with her problem. She ran her fingers through her short-cropped, copper-colored curls and looked down at her print dress. Three more weeks and she could change this dress and the long cotton stockings and shoes for bib overalls and bare feet. But that wouldn't make her problem go away.

Jo gave up trying to study geography and sat up straight to look out the window. A tumbleweed skipped free across the yard to pile up with others along the south fence. Leaves on the cottonwood trees reflected the bright sunlight as they danced in the breeze. Laying her problem aside for the moment, Jo began to plan how she could beat the boys to the favorite spot on the south side of the building. On these cool spring days, the girls liked to play house there, but the boys wanted that spot for their marble game.

I'd rather play marbles. Why do boys get to do all the fun things?

Jo looked across the room at her friend, Rebecca Sanberg. She longed for straight brown hair done in a Dutch bob like Becky's. It would be a lot easier to comb than her tangles of red curls. Jo took a tablet out of her desk and scribbled a note to Becky. She made sure to push hard enough on the last period to break her pencil lead. As she passed Becky's desk on her way to the pencil sharpener, she secretly slipped her the note.

Soon the bell rang for afternoon recess. Desk seats banged as Jo and Becky's eager classmates rose to dash for freedom.

“Please be seated,” the teacher said. “Remember the new rule? Work areas must be tidy before you're excused.”

A groan went round the room. Jo and Becky sat quietly with hands folded, not a scrap of paper on or near their desks.

“Jo and Becky, you may go.” The teacher smiled at the girls.

Jo returned her smile and held herself to a walk until she stepped outside. Then she raced Becky to the south side of the building. They began drawing the rooms of their playhouse in the dirt. Other fifth grade girls joined them.

“Hey, that's our spot.” Bobby came puffing around the corner of the school house, followed by other boys. “We're gonna play marbles.”

“Not today, short stuff. We got here first.” Jo grinned at Bobby and went on making the playhouse. Bobby and his friends scuffed out the lines.

“Come on, leave us alone,” Jo said. “We don't mess up your marble games.”

The boys continued to destroy the playhouse.

“Robert Henry Blackwood,” Jo said, hands clenched on her hips, “if you don't leave our playhouse alone, I'm gonna rub your nose in the dirt.”

“You can't rub my nose in the dirt. Your old swaybacked nag can't compete with my Flaxen, neither.”

“Quit picking on Marybel!” Jo doubled up her fists and stepped toward Bobby.

“Make me.”

Tears stung Jo's eyes. She swung a right and caught Bobby squarely on the nose. Blood gushed over his lips. Bobby returned the punch to Jo's left eye just as the principal, Mr. Mayberry, came around the corner of the school building. He gave Bobby a clean handkerchief to hold over his nose and marched them into his office.

“What's this all about?” Mr. Mayberry removed his glasses and glared at Jo and Bobby. “You know we don't allow fighting on the playground.”

Jo looked at Bobby. His nose had stopped bleeding. She scraped her toe at the ink spot on the wood floor of the office and said nothing.

“Go clean up and come back here,” Mr. Mayberry said. “I want an explanation. Then I'll decide how to punish you.”

In the girls' room, Jo splashed cold water on her face and tried to smooth her tangled curls.

“Josephine Sue Barkley,” she said to the freckled face in the mirror, “do you realize what you've done? You've let that red hair get you in trouble again.”

Jo knew about the short piece of garden hose Mr. Mayberry kept in his office. Everybody knew. She could take a licking with the rubber hose, but how could she stand the hurt that would fill her mother's eyes? Jo wet her handkerchief and put it over her swollen left eye.

What would she tell Mr. Mayberry? She couldn't tell him the real reason for her anger. That hurt too much. She loved Marybel, but Marybel was too old to take to the county fair. There was no way Dad could buy her a younger horse. There just wasn't any money. Jo sighed and returned to the office.

“Who hit first?” Mr. Mayberry asked.

“She did.”

“Why did you hit him?”

“She didn't like it when—” Bobby started to answer but Jo withered him with a look.

“Bobby and the other boys were teasing us,” Jo said. “I got mad and slugged him. I'm sorry.”

“Well, this is a first offense. If you'll shake hands and promise not to do it again, I'll let you go. Remember, though, if you fight again, it will be the rubber hose for both of you.”

The afternoon dragged by. Jo couldn't keep her mind on her lessons. Jo would rather take a whopping with rubber hose than face her family. How can I explain my black eye to Mom? What will Dad say? Will Clyde tease me? The bell interrupted her thoughts.

Jo stuffed her books in her desk and ran to get on the bus. The high school kids sat in the back, talking and laughing. Jo looked for her brother, then remembered Dad said he would pick Clyde up at the high school in town today.

Jo slid into an empty seat. When Bobby got on, she turned and stared out the window. As the bus bounced and jounced over the country roads, Jo watched alfalfa fields flip by. After a long five miles, the bus stopped at the Barkley gate where Tippy, Jo's dog, waited.

Jo crawled under the barbwire and gathered Tippy in her arms. The black and white mongrel licked her face. Jo scrambled to her feet. Tippy looked up at her, his head cocked to one side. With his white ear up and his black ear down and his white-tipped tail wagging eagerly, he made Jo laugh.

“Oh, Tippy, you're just a mutt, but I like you better than Bobby's Shepp. So what if he's a full-blooded German Shepherd? I'll race you to the house.”

Jo took off down the winding driveway. She imagined running through a tunnel as the tall greasewood bushes, with their sharp thorns and green, needle-like leaves cast long shadows across her path. Around the last bend sat a bright yellow, two-room house. A screen-porch stretched the length of the west end. Soon, summer'll be here and I can sleep out there. Another screen-porch went all the way along the south side. One end, enclosed with canvas, was Clyde's bedroom year round.

“Sorry, pardner,” Jo said, when they reached the door of the back porch, “you have to wait here. House rules, you know. I'll be back.”

The smell of fresh-baked bread greeted Jo. The fire had gone out in the kitchen range, but the stove was still warm. Mom was not in sight. Jo knew she would be in the garden at the far end of the driveway, planting beans and corn. A towel covered six loaves of bread on the dining table. Jo lifted the towel and sniffed, then started to cross the room to the worktable for a bread knife. She touched the swelling around her eye. I'm in enough trouble already without getting butter on my school dress, better change clothes first.

Jo dashed into the other room. Sometimes the family called it the front room, but Mom and Dad's bed took up a big part of the space. Jo's cot stood by the window. She yanked off her dress and threw it on her bed then pulled on her shirt and bib overalls.

Jo returned to the kitchen and sliced herself a piece of bread. She spread a thick layer of homemade butter on it, followed by a sprinkling of sugar.

Jo sat on the back step and shared her snack with Tippy. She savored the sweet, buttery taste. “How am I going to tell Mom about my black eye?” Jo lifted the dog's chin with her left hand and gazed into his sober brown eyes as if she could find her answer there. “Shall I go tell her right now and get it over with? Maybe if I offer to help in the garden...” Tippy thumped his tail as if he understood.

Jo shoved the last bite of bread and butter into her mouth and let Tippy clean her hands with his tongue. She walked the few steps to the pump and took the tin cup off the hook. A few hard pulls on the long pump handle brought water gushing out the spout. She gulped the cool water then swished the last bit around in the cup and threw it out on the dirt.

Jo hung the cup on its hook and turned to check the cement stock tank. The minnows she and Bobby put in the tank last week were still swimming around. None had turned belly up as some had done last summer.

Jo headed for the corral with Tippy at her heels. As she passed the granary where Dad stored grain to feed the livestock, kingbirds were busy building their nest. They always built it on the high ledge above the granary window.

Jo saw the work horses and milk cows at the far end of the pasture. Marybel stood alone in the corral, dozing. Jo watched her quietly for a few moments.

“Marybel, you are old and swaybacked. You can't compete with Bobby's young, long-legged Flaxen.”

When Jo spoke, Marybel lifted her head and ambled toward the fence. Jo crawled into the corral to meet the old mare halfway. She threw her arms around Marybel's neck and buried her face in her mane.

“Oh, Marybel,” Jo whispered, “it's not that I don't love you. You know I do. But I wish I had a younger horse that could get out and move. I'd show that Bobby who could take the blue ribbon.”

With one hand on Marybel's mane, Jo led the old mare around in front of the barn, an open shed made of straw with supporting poles and woven wire to enclose the straw walls. It stood in the northeast corner of the corral with the open side to the east. It provided shelter for the stock in winter and shade in summer.

Jo crawled through the barbwire fence and threw a forkful of hay into the corral. She stood the fork at the base of the stack and nestled against the sweet smelling hay with Tippy's head in her lap.

Jo liked the familiar barnyard smells of horse and cow and dry alfalfa. Even the unique fragrance of manure added its touch. She barely noticed the constant twittering of sparrows as they built their nests in the straw walls of the shed. From the cattails below the corral came the trill of red-winged blackbirds. The chomp, chomp, chomp of Marybel eating hay blended with the bird songs to form a soothing background. Jo snuggled her back into the haystack and dreamed of the ranch she would own someday. It would be just like the ranch in Tabiona Valley where Uncle Clint and his family lived. Then she'd have a whole string of good horses.

“Jo-ooo, come to supper.” Mom's familiar call jarred Jo back to reality. She jumped up and dashed for the house. Suddenly, she remembered the fight with Bobby and the black eye she would have to explain. How could she make Mom understand?