Today is Tuesday.
Everything from the little house was in the wagon, except the beds and tables and chairs. They didn’t need to take these, because Pa could always make new ones. There was thin snow on the ground. The bare trees stood up against the frosty stars. But in the east sky was pale and through the gray woods came lanterns with wagons and horses, bringing Grandpa and Grandma and aunts and uncles and cousins. Mary and Laura clung tight to their rag dolls and did not say anything. The cousins stood around and looked at them. Grandma and all the aunts hugged and kissed them and hugged and kissed them again, saying goodbye. Pa hung his gun to the wagon bows inside the canvas top, where he could reach it quickly from the seat. He hung his bullet-pouch and powder-horn beneath it. He laid the fiddle-box carefully between pillows, where jolting would not hurt the fiddle. The uncles helped him hitch the horses to the wagon. All the cousins were told to kiss Mary and Laura, so they did. Pa picked up Mary and then Laura, and set them on the bed in the back of the wagon. He helped Ma climb up to the wagon-seat, and Grandma reaches up and gave her Baby Carrie. Pa swung up and sat beside Ma, and Jack, the bridle bulldog, went under the wagon.
