It was a day like the day before and the day after. The wind wrapped itself around the sod cabin in gusting moans as the pioneer family within carried out their tasks pretending not to hear. They heard the wind, however. It had been their constant companion on the open plains since their journey from Philadelphia two years before in the spring of 1865. Following the covered wagon train of ten, the wind had lifted the drab landscape into billows of dust falling on everyone and everything until there seemed but one color and one sound.

Now Rachel sat on the bed hand-stitching a quilt while her mother hunched over a sewing machine across the room rocking her feet backwards and forwards on a foot treadle that turned the shaft that moved the needle. The thumping counter pointed the wind outside. Laughter and giggling erupted from Rachel's younger brother and sister playing jacks on the floor and it brought a smile to their sister's face, but when she glanced back at their mother she stopped smiling.

Rachel felt that her parents worked too hard. They rarely had fun or relaxation like they had enjoyed in Philadelphia. Now her father was always in the fields. Her mother prepared meals on a wood-stoked stove, did the laundry on a washboard, baked flatbread and sewed clothes to trade for goods in town. Rachel remembered her mother singing and telling stories at one time but that was before she had begun complaining about the wind and the dirt and the mud. Eventually she had stopped complaining, but she had stopped singing, too.

The door swung open and it was Rachel's father. Entering in a puff of dust, he coughed and wiped his forehead. "Mighty hot day out there."

"Well, I've got ale for you and flatbread too," replied his wife. She rose from the sewing machine and began setting the table as her husband eased himself into a chair.

"I know. I could smell it from outside. Smelled so good I came in early. What else have you all been up to while I was clearing rows with Molly and Bell?"

"Rachel's done with her quilt."

"Oh?" Rachel's father turned to look as his older daughter proudly showed off her masterpiece. It was a cheerful blooming of color with stitches outlining the squares.

"That's a mighty fine piece of work." He nodded. "How 'bout us going into town this Saturday. You can show off your quilt, your mother can take her flatbread, and I've got a bushel of onions ready."

The young children whooped excitedly and Michael, the boy, began dancing around the room, lifting his knees and clapping. There was reason for jubilation. The 20-mile trip to town in the buckboard was a once-a-month affair to which everyone in the family looked forward.

The town of Wausa, Nebraska was not unlike other little towns that had sprung up to welcome the pioneers. It was a mix of old and new buildings with wood plank sidewalks and a wide main street of dirt to accommodate trains of oxen. In one of the newer buildings was the general store. Guarding the door was a wooden Indian and next to it hung a bird cage. The family stopped for a moment to look at the yellow bird inside.

When they stepped into the store it was a universe all its own. There was the scent of wood and soap and spice. The walls were lined with racks of crates and mason jars, and along the aisles were bushel barrels of potatoes and apples. In the back neatly propped against the wall were bolts of fabric. While her brother and sister explored the store and her parents spoke with the grocer about their bread and onions, Rachel wandered back outside to look at the bird.

So bright a yellow it was a miniature piece of the sun in that dusty place. It hopped from perch to perch rarely standing still and as it hopped it kept its eyes on Rachel. Suddenly a shadow passed over the girl and startled, she looked up to see a Sioux Indian brave. Her heart beat faster. Indians sometimes came to town to barter although it was discouraged by the shopkeepers. Such a history of warfare existed between Indians and white settlers that no one felt safe. But this Indian was as fascinated by the bird as Rachel. He stared intently and then said something she couldn't understand. Seeing her puzzled face he repeated in English, "It listens to the wind."

Before Rachel could think about what he had said, the Indian turned and walked away. Her parents appeared a moment later, having seen him through the window.

"Are you all right?" asked her father.

Rachel nodded. "He was just looking at the canary."

At that moment the little bird lifted its head, swelled its chest, and sang out a joyous trill. Rachel saw her mother's face light up with delight.

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