It's Wednesday.

Chapter nineteen: A SCREAM IN THE NIGHT

The days were short and gray now, the nights were very dark and cold. Clouds hung low above the little house and spread low and far over the bleak prairie. Rain fell, and sometimes snow was driven on the wind. Hard little bits of snow whirled in the air and scurried over the humped backs of miserable grasses. And next day the snow was gone. Every day Pa went hunting and trapping. In the cozy, firelit house Mary and Laura helped Ma with the work. Then they sewed quilt-patches. They played Patty Cake with Carrie, and they played Hide the Thimble. With a piece of string and their fingers, they played Bean Porridge Hot. Facing each other, they clapped their hands together and against each other’s hands, keeping time while they said: “Bean porridge hot, Bean porridge cold, Bean porridge in the pot, Nine days old. Some like it hot, Some like it cold, Some like it in the pot, Nine days old. I like it hot, I like it cold, I like it in the pot, Nine days old.” That was true. No supper was so good as the thick bean porridge, flavored with a small bit of salt pork, that Ma dipped onto the tin plates when Pa had come home cold and tired from his hunting. Laura liked it hot, and she liked it cold, and it was always good as long as it lasted. But it never really lasted Nine days. They ate it up before that. All the time the wind blew, shrieking, howling, wailing, screaming, and mournfully sobbing. They were used to hearing the wind. All day they heard it, and at night in their sleep they knew it was blowing. But one night they heard such a terrible scream that they all woke up. Pa jumped out of bed, and Ma asked him what it had been. Pa said that it was a woman screaming. He was dressing as fast as he could. And he said that it had sounded like it had come from Scott’s. Ma exclaimed what could be wrong.