From the Improvement Era,, February 1933 –

Wedding Ring and Cow Bell

By Elsie Petersen

Marie welcomed the snow as she walked toward Olaf Monson’s, the soft flakes seemed like tender caresses from a sympathetic heaven above.

She walked fast as the snow would permit, straight to the home of Olaf Monson. He had a score of cows. She knew he would sell her one. Yes sell — but would he trade? Fear gripped her. She knew him more by reputation than by fact for a hard-working, hard-headed old man, who lived alone in a small log hut. She knew that he dealt only in money, or in trades that were to his distinct advantage. She eyed her wedding ring skeptically.

He was standing in the corral, rubbing down the sleek back of a Jersey cow, as Marie entered his yard.

“Good morning, Brother Monson,” she began pleasantly. Olaf stared as though not able to believe his eyes.

“It’s quite a snow we’re having,” she tried again.

“Yes. What do you want?” he asked abruptly, making no pretense at polite conversation.

“I — I have come to buy a cow,” Marie stated simply and added more to encourage herself than to impress Olaf, “A good milking cow.”

“You are going to have two cows, then?” Olaf surprised her by asking.

“No,” Marie gulped, “Spot, our cow, died last night.” Olaf met the statement with no sign of sentiment.

“I see. Well, pick out one you like from those three by the water trough. They’re all good milkers.

“Have you got one with a spot on its forehead?”

“What?” Olaf was dumbfounded at this, “I don’t know. What difference does that make?”

“None,” Marie answered somewhat abashed. “I just thought I’d like to have one with a spotted head.” But it so turned out that none of the cows among the good milkers bore a spot. Marie made her selection, and followed Olaf into the house to seal the bargain. Her heart beat frightfully — what if he wouldn’t trade!

“You haven’t asked me about the price,” he began at once.

“No,” Marie agreed, “I must ask you to consider a trade.”

“A trade? I don’t deal in anything but cash, or well-secured lands.”

“But what I have to offer you is better than either, or both.” He eyed her questioningly, then rose as though to leave.

“In Blue Lake Valley there is nothing better than cash or lands. I am a hard-working man. I am in debt to no one. I allow no one to be in debt to me.”

Marie flushed. “You misunderstand. I;have no wish to be in debt to you — or to anyone. I merely want to exchange —”

“Well, what is it? What is this thing that is worth more than cash or lands?”

Marie hesitated only an instant, then looking him squarely in the eyes, she said softly, “My wedding ring,” and ached as she drew the shining gold band from her finger.

Olaf stood dumb. His face softened, reddened, melted. Marie caught her breath in terror. He was going to refuse!

“It’s real gold,” she cried wildly, “Solid gold. Christian gave it to me in Denmark. It is all hand-engraved, too.” He took the ring gingerly. Marie watched him, fascinated, then tore her gaze away and rushed toward the door.

“I’ll send Jerry at noon,” she called and fled fearful lest he call her back. Olaf stood mute, staring at the gold band in his great red palm.

Marie hurried home in a jumble of emotions. They would have milk. She had traded her wedding ring for a cow! They would have milk — she had traded — the two thoughts chased about in a confusion in her mind. Suddenly the humor of the situation struck her. Wedding ring — and — a cow bell! She had mastered herself by the time she reached home.

Marie was just removing newly baked loaves of sweet bread from the oven when Jerry came in from school, breathless, having rushed ahead of his sisters. He looked anxiously at his mother.

“What about Spot,” he whispered.

Marie caught him to her in a wave of tenderness. How proud she was of his fine manly qualities, of the sweet manner in which he had accepted the many duties ordinarily performed by his father.

“Didn’t I tell you that I’d take care of everything?”

“You mean we’ve got a cow?”

“Yes, but you and I are the only ones to know about it — until your father recovers.”

“All right, but where’d you get her, Mother?” He was all impatience.

‘You’d never guess in a decade,” she teased.

“Where? Where?” he fairly danced in his excitement.

“From Olaf Monson.”

“Not that old skinflint?”

“Jerry, how unkind.”

“Ah, well — you know that’s what everybody in town calls him.”

“Well, it’s all a mistake. He’s a mighty fine man. I’ll send a note to your teacher when the children go back; you can go after our new cow, and have her here by the time school is out.”

Jerry swelled under “the children.” But it was true, he was almost a man, came up to his mother’s shoulder. And hadn’t he done a man’s chores ever since his father had been ill? He was strutting a bit as his sisters came in. An hour later Jerry Larsen climbed atop Olaf Monson’s gate. He was a bit hesitant about going in. Local rumor classed Olaf as a very formidable old man — especially since the death of his mother two years ago. Nevertheless, Jerry’s mother had told him that Olaf was all right, so he clutched the loaf of fresh bread his mother had sent Olaf, and gazed about the corral. Olaf was not in sight. The cows were bunched together in one corner. He wondered which was to be their cow, and hoped she’d have a spot on her forehead.

A faint line of smoke curled from the chimney. Olaf must be in the house. Jerry dropped lightly to the ground and made fresh tracks through the deepest snow to Olaf’s door. His knock was more noise than courage and was answered by a brusk, “Come in.”

Timidly Jerry entered. Olaf, bearded of face and towering in figure, was standing with his back to an open fire intent upon Jerry’s entrance.

“How do you do,” Jerry greeted. Olaf grunted a response. Jerry shuffled over-shoed feet.

“My mother sent this loaf of bread.” Still no word from the towering man.

“It’s fresh, just came out of the oven.” Silence.

“Sure tastes good with butter ‘n’ sugar,” Olaf chuckled.

“Well, suppose we try it,” he grinned.

“I didn’t know men liked sugar on bread.”

“Ah, yes, Jerry. Men are just little boys trying to be serious. My mother used to make me bread and sugar, too.”

“Oh. Who makes your bread now?

“I do. But it’s not the same. See — ” and he held up a heavy, dark loaf.

“Golly,” Jerry exclaimed. “It’s as heavy as lead. Whyn’t you get my mother to make your bread, she’ll be glad to.”

Olaf eyed Jerry suspiciously. Had his mother sent him there to get his trade? Jerry met his inquiring gaze with bland frankness. Olaf turned away. “Well, maybe I will, but I won’t pay any store prices.”

“Aw — I never thought of pay,” Jerry’s face reddened.

The sun was shining red behind dark clouds as Jerry bade Olaf adieu.

“Give this to your Mother,” the older man mumbled, and handed Jerry a sealed envelope. “And don’t open it!” Then as an afterthought, “Say — Jerry — if your mother wants to sell me bread — fresh, mind you — every time she bakes — tell her I’ll give her two cents a loaf.” Jerry looked startled. The amount seemed fabulous to him — who had to save consistently to acquire fifteen cents for spending money on the Fourth of July.

“Well, three cents, then,” Olaf grumbled. “But they better be big loaves.”

“All right, I’ll ask her. Goodbye. See you bakin’ day.”

“Don’t lose the envelope,” Olaf called. Jerry eyed it curiously, felt it over carefully, there was something in one corner. Maybe Olaf was sending money in advance for the bread. But it didn’t feel like money.

“Moo-oo,” this from the cow in a loud disgruntled tone brought Jerry into immediate action, and removed what curiosity he felt about the contents of the envelope.

Look what a lot of milk she gives,” Jerry exclaimed that evening as he brought a brimming pail to his mother who was waiting in the corral for him.

“Yes, she’s a fine cow,” his mother said.

“Let’s call her ‘Ring,’ Mother. Lookit — she’s got a regular wedding ring on her forehead.” Marie nodded silently, and closed her fingers about a penciled note that read,

“To Christian Larsen —

“Received from Olaf Monson, March 14, 1886, one cow, for which I will pay $20 (twenty dollars) when my crops are in next fall.

“Signed

“Marie — ”

“Yes, ‘Ring’ would be a very appropriate name,” Marie agreed and glanced at a gleaming gold band that again marked her marriage finger.