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Show Chapter Seven It's hard to write today. My hands are sore. Mama had me stringing beans yesterday and I'm not used to doing that any more. I suppose I should really try to do more schoolwork. But I can't concentrate on anything for very long. All I can think about are these useless legs, bent underneath me, good for nothing. I'm good for nothing-I wonder what good I will ever be to anyone. Stringing beans and writing in a journal can't fill up a lifetime, can they? Oh, Lord, what is going to become of me? Frank, if you were here, I bet you'd know what to do. Poor Papa, he tries to hide it, but I can see it in his eyes. He thinks I m never going to walk again. But I will! I know I will! But how? How? How? When the Colonel comes to vist and he tells us all those stories I hate the thought that I'll never see anything or meet any famous people or go to a big city. Lord, it just Isn't fair! Maybe I'll get Papa to take me down to the post office tomorrow. I'm really getting tired of this yard. It seems funny to think of Papa as a postmaster. He seems to like it though. The Colonel was sure good about that - imagine writing to President Roosevelt . . . With the growing settlement of Cowley came some of civilization's other privileges: stores, church buildings and school. Nettie's wander-loving nature was not suited to school, but of course, there was no question but that she would attend, and she enjoyed |