Laura: (reciting her essay) "My Mother." My sister Mary is going to tell you how Pa brought us west, and how hard he worked. And I don't mean to take anything from him by telling you that Ma worked plenty hard herself. Still does. She cooks, and cleans, and sews, and cares of the lot of us, Pa included. I remembered once when I was little, coming down with the fever. Ma stayed up beside me all night long. I slept some, but she, never. Anytime I'd open my eyes, she'd be there, smiling, holding a cold cloth to my head. Now, with Mary and me "sprouting up," which is what Ma calls it, if there's ever the least littlest noise in the night, Ma would come climbing up the ladder, into the the loft, to make sure we're all right. I reckon there's times when she gets bone tired, but you'd never know it. Her smile is the last thing I see before I close my eyes and the first thing I want to see in the morning. Ma's been selling eggs to the mercantile, and she saved enough money to buy some yard goods for a new dress. This morning, Mary and me found out she made dresses for the two of us instead. That's because she loves us. That's the kind of mother Ma is, and that's why we love her so much.