Under the wagon for its shade, keeping to the exact pace of the mules, walking or trotting, was one of the hound dogs. Only Juanita recognized him and knew that he was called Bone. He had come along because he was bored and because no one had stopped him from joining the party. There was nothing for the hunting dogs to do at that season but beg a biscuit at the kitchen steps—although well fed, hound dogs are greedy—or to rush barking in mock attack at a hen or two, and this only when there were no people about to kick them for their mischief.

Because it was a family picnic, Sarah had told Sugar to take the wagon around to the back door of Oaks, and he did. By the time he called, “Whoa!” there was no need for it. The mules had stopped by the kitchen door of their own accord, and the dog Bone had smelled a bitch in heat and trotted off, following his nose. Edna and Adam and the other children were waiting there for them, having been fully alerted by Violet.

A little time was pleasantly wasted by the social calls of:

“Well, get down and come in for a while!”

“Are you ready? We have a good day for it, don’t we?”

“Hot!”

“Oh, not so bad!”

“You’re right, could be worse. Hotter later, though.”

“Well—”

Sarah took off her sun bonnet and loosened her hair to cool her head.

“I’ve got a horn,” Adam said.

Roman hopped down from the back of the wagon and lifted Rachel down beside him. “Let’s see it.”

Adam politely handed the flute to Roman. Although no one cared about the flute, they all crowded around because it made a focus for their initial getting together. Aside from Sugar, who had got down from his driver’s seat and begun to talk teasingly to Violet, who was pretending to look coolly over his right shoulder into the horizon that had never interested her before, the others surrounded Roman: Sarah and Rachel and Juanita, Adam and James and Doreen and Annabel. Even Edna hesitated a moment in her checking of the contents of the food baskets. “Play it,” she said to Roman.

After looking it over and fingering it, Roman put the flute to his lips and sounded several notes. He played the same notes again, more quickly and surely, the repetition giving authority to his improvised performance. Then he ventured new sounds, and when he was out of breath, he took the flute from his lips and looked around him. The others sighed, as if gratified by the music he had produced. Edna nodded her head decisively. “Roman,” she said, “the flute is yours.”