A Winning Spirit. Valerie Tripp

Brad, had helped her. Molly had worked in the Victory garden every Tuesday morning from ten to eleven o’clock. She had crawled on her hands and knees through rows of green seedlings, pulling weeds. The rows were as strict and straight as soldiers on parade. Each one was labeled with a colorful seed packet on a stake. The seed packets showed fat carrots, plump red tomatoes, and big green peas.

      But by fall, after months in the hot sun, the pictures on the seed packets had faded away. The packets hung on the stakes like limp white flags of surrender. Mrs. Gilford’s Victory garden had not been quite as victorious as she had hoped. All but the toughest vegetables had been beaten by the dry summer. The carrots were thin and wrinkled. The tomatoes were as hard as nuts. The peas were brown. But that did not defeat Mrs. Gilford. She would never give up and open a tin can. She had a rather successful crop of radishes, lima beans, and turnips, so that’s what they would eat.

      As Molly stared at the turnips on her plate, she remembered Mrs. Gilford saying, “Wasting food is not only childish and selfish, it is unpatriotic. Think of your poor father off in some strange land. Maybe he didn’t have enough to eat tonight. And you turn up your nose at fresh turnips. You will not leave this table until those turnips are gone. Completely.”

      Now it was almost nine o’clock. It was getting cold in the kitchen. Molly was lonely. She was tired of thinking about how unpatriotic she was. She looked at the turnips, lifted a tiny forkful, and put it in her mouth. Just then Ricky burst through the swinging kitchen door.

      “How do you like eating old, cold, moldy brains?” he teased. Then he ran out.

      Molly swallowed the turnips fast, then gulped down a whole glass of water. Old, cold, moldy brains was exactly what the turnips were like. She would not eat one speck more.

      “Ricky, you rat!” she said. “I’m going to get you!” She started to get up from the chair.

      From behind the door Ricky chanted, “Nyah, nyah, nyah-nyah nyah! You can’t leave the table. You haven’t finished your turnips!”

      “Ricky, stop it!” yelled Molly. But Ricky was right. The turnips were still on her plate, and she was stuck. To make matters worse, Molly heard her mother calling good-bye to the car-sharing group she rode with from Red Cross headquarters.

      Now Mom will be mad at me, too, thought Molly. Now she’ll never make a Cinderella dress for my Halloween costume. Now everyone in the house will be mad at me for making Mom upset. And all because of these terrible turnips.

      Mrs. McIntire walked in the back door, looked at Molly, looked at the plate, and knew immediately what had happened. “Well, Molly,” she said. “I see we had the first turnips from the Victory garden for dinner tonight.”

      “Mom,” said Molly, “I hate turnips. I know I do. And Mrs. Gilford says I can’t leave the table until I eat them. I’ll be here until I die, because I will never eat these. Never. I really mean it.”

      “I see,” said Molly’s mother. “Do you mind if I join you for a while? Not until you die, of course—just while I have a cup of tea. And while I’m heating up the stove, why don’t I reheat those turnips for you? They certainly don’t look very good when they’re cold like that.”

      “It won’t help,” said Molly.

      But Mrs. McIntire scooped up the turnips and put them in a frying pan. “I’ll just smooth out these lumps. And I think we can spare a little bit of our sugar and butter rations to add to the turnips,” she said, almost to herself. “And a little cinnamon, too.”

      Soon a delicious, spicy aroma filled the kitchen. The kettle whistled, and Mrs. McIntire made her tea. She spooned the turnips back onto Molly’s plate and put the plate in front of Molly.

      The hot steam from the turnips warmed Molly’s face and clouded her glasses. She took a deep breath, raised a small forkful to her lips, and tasted it. It wasn’t so bad. In fact, it was pretty good—sweet, cinnamony, and kind of like applesauce. It felt good going down, not at all like old, cold, moldy brains. She ate another forkful.

      Mrs. McIntire sat down with her tea. “When I was about your age,” she said, “my mother made sardines on toast for dinner one night. Little oily dead fish on toast! I refused to eat them. But my mother said I could not leave the table until the sardines were gone. Gone was exactly what she said. So when she wasn’t looking I put each sardine, one by one, into my napkin. Then I stuck my napkin into my pocket. When my mother saw my empty plate she was surprised, but she excused me from the table.

      “I used to play checkers with my father every night after dinner. That night it was very hard to concentrate on the game. Our two cats, Bessy and May, yowled and meowed and climbed all over me. They smelled the sardines. Finally, when I had one hand on Bessy and the other hand on a checker, May pulled the napkin out of my pocket. The sardines spilled out all over the rug. Bessy and May gobbled them up.”

      “Oh, Mom!” laughed Molly.

      “Oh, Molly,” sighed Mrs. McIntire. “Sometimes we have to do things whether we like it or not. There aren’t always cats around who will eat the sardines.” She reached across the table and brushed Molly’s bangs out of her eyes. “I know this war is hard on you children. And I know you miss your father. I miss him, too.”

      “Everything is so different with Dad gone,” said Molly. “Nothing is the way it used to be anymore.”

      “The war has changed things,” said Mrs. McIntire. “But some things are still the same. Isn’t Ricky still Ricky?”

      “He sure is,” said Molly. “Still dumb old Ricky.”

      “And you are still my olly Molly,” Mrs. McIntire said. “And I am still me.” She gave Molly’s hand a squeeze.

      Molly smiled. The turnips were gone. Mom was not mad. Mrs. Gilford wouldn’t think that Molly was ruining her war effort.

      “Thanks, Mom,” she said as she gave her mother a hug. Molly walked carefully up the stairs to bed, pretending she was wearing a long, floaty pink skirt that swished as she took each step.

      Hula Dancers

       CHAPTER 2

      he next morning dawned all gold and blue and windy. This is perfect Halloween weather, Molly thought as she woke up. At breakfast Mrs. Gilford didn’t say anything about the turnips, but she made French toast, which was a sign that all was forgiven.

      It was Thursday, and Molly’s friends Linda and Susan were coming home with her after school. They were going to plan their Halloween costumes. They had made a secret pact not to discuss their ideas until they got to Molly’s house. “Someone might copy us if they heard our idea,” said Molly. Linda and Susan agreed. Besides, it was fun to have a secret pact—it was sort of like being soldiers and keeping battle plans away from enemy spies.

      As they walked home after school, they met Alison Hargate, who was one of their classmates. She asked, “What are you three going to be for Halloween?”

      “We can’t tell,” said Molly. “It’s a surprise.”

      “Oh,” said Alison.

      Linda said, “But it’s great. It’s really a great idea.”

      Susan chimed in, “Yes! It’s wonderful! We’re going to have the best Halloween costumes ever.”

      Alison looked impressed. Molly was a little worried. The girls hadn’t even agreed on what they were going to be. The mystery was making their costumes get a lot of attention. They were really going to have to make good costumes, or everyone would tease them.

      “What are you going to be, Alison?” Molly