Little Amish Matchmaker Read Online Free PDF

Calvin and Michael, the other eighth-grade boy, would discuss the games or bring one to school to trade with each other. But not for long. Calvin would always return to Isaac, saying he’d never have a sled that would beat Isaac’s old wooden Lightning Flyer, and then Isaac’s whole world righted itself.
    At recess, Isaac was waiting in line to fill his drinking cup at the water hydrant when Ruthie stepped behind him. Turning around, Isaac faced her squarely and said, “Ruthie, you don’t have to be ashamed. Did you know a whole pile of people struggle with not being able to talk in front of a crowd?”
    At first anger flashed in her big brown eyes, but then she bobbed her head in acknowledgment. Isaac had never noticed she had freckles on her dark skin.
    “Seriously, Ruthie, you can do it. Just don’t get so nervous.”
    “I’m not nervous.”
    “What is it then?”
    Ruthie shrugged her shoulders.
    “Did you talk to your mam?”
    “Of course not.”
    “Maybe she could help you.”
    “I’d never tell my mam.”
    “Why?”
    A shrug of the shoulders and Ruthie fled. So much for that. He knew he could help her. He had read about that somewhere. He’d ask Sim, too.
    On Saturday, they attended a Christmas horse sale in New Holland. Isaac had barely been allowed to go along, not having swept the loose hay in the forebay the way Dat wanted him to. He had been sternly lectured, the big calloused hand coming down on his shoulder afterward, saying there was no room in the buggy tomorrow morning for boys who didn’t listen.
    Isaac had blinked tears of humiliation and pushed the stiff bristled broom like a person possessed, bending his back low with the effort.
    He hated displeasing Dat. It was just that he had practiced shooting at tin cans with his BB gun, hitting them dead center in the end, after the winter light had faded to gray. Then supper was ready, and he forgot about the forebay.
    That, and Sim had really made him mad, mooning around the barn with his eyes rolling around in his head like a coon hound. He couldn’t even focus them right, cutting his finger with his pocketknife when he opened the twine on the bales of straw. Then Sim blamed Isaac for taking too long watering the pigs.
    “Do you have any idea how much water five pigs can drink?” Isaac had shouted, sending a good-sized snowball flying in Sim’s direction.
    When Sim turned around and started after him, Isaac clapped his straw hat on his head and took off, slipping and sliding, sheer terror lending acceleration to his booted feet. Sim grabbed his coat collar, hauled him back, rolled him in the snow and washed his face thoroughly, the snow melting in icy rivulets down his green shirt collar.
    They sat together then. Isaac wiped his face with his coat sleeve and told Sim he was lucky he wasn’t wearing his glasses, or he’d end up paying for a new pair. Sim laughed and asked how his day at school went.
    “Catherine looked extra pretty, thank you very much,” Isaac answered, narrowing his eyes.
    “I didn’t ask about her.”
    “You did. You don’t care about my day one bit. Catherine is also having a hard time with this Christmas program. I’m the only one who says his poem right.”
    “I bet.”
    “I’m serious.”
    Sim smiled.
    “But that poor Ruthie. You know, Levi Allgyer’s Ruthie. She’s in my grade, and she couldn’t say her poem. Her face was so red, Sim. It was painful to watch. The words just wouldn’t come out.”
    “What did Catherine do?”
    “She was so kind. She just asked Ruthie to go to her seat, and I saw them talking at recess.”
    Then Sim’s eyes got all stupid again, his mouth lopsided and wobbly, and he didn’t hear Isaac when he asked if it was true that you could help someone with a stuttering problem.
    “Right, you can?” Isaac asked louder.
    “Yeah.”
    But Isaac knew Sim hadn’t heard him, so on the way to the horse sale, Isaac scooted forward from the back seat, stuck his head between Dat’s