Fletch wiped his mouth with a sleeve. “Hit’s well,” he said. He got up and stood before Darb, though he did not draw the hand forth. He looked curiously at the great head leaning toward him. “I bet you can’t spell ‘swampstem,’” he said. “I bet.”

“I can’t for a fact,” Darb said. “Sit on my lap and larn me.”

“Now, no,” Fletch replied, drawing away. He was ashamed to sit on folks’ knees. He went instead to squat on the floor beside Old Bartow.

“My chaps are finicky,” Father said. “Think they’re grown before the scab peels off their nabels.”

“I kin spell ‘stovepipe,’” Darb said.

“How do them letters go?” Fletch asked.

“I hain’t a-telling.”

Darb’s face darkened. “I ought to be a-going,” he said. “Jist drapped by for a minute.” But he did not rise. He swung the rocker, facing Father. The chair creaked bitterly, a round loosened in its peghole. “I been fotching an ax over the camp tonight.”

Father sat very still. How small he looked beside Darb Sorrels.

“I’ve stopped a’ready at Crown Shepherd’s, Reece Haggin’s, and Tom Clearfield’s,” Darb went on. “I got six more places to call.” His eyes searched the floor, un-seeing, “On account o’ Jace, hit’s punished me most to fire Reece Haggin. A shame to turn a witty out to graze.”

Mother listened as though she had not heard aright. Father had not told her of the lay-offs and the movings because of her illness and worry about Grandma.

“Next place I stop will be Kell Haddix’s.”

Father’s cheeks grew ashen. He looked blue-pale and wizened, like a last year’s dogtick stalk. “Reckon my time’s come,” he said.

Darb considered a moment, and shook his head. “Not quite yet,” he said. “Not yet.”

“Where air folks a-going?” Mother asked. Her voice was hollow, inquiring. Then suddenly she glanced at Father, her eyes large with hope. “Could we go back to Little Angus?” she said. “I’d be content. The first rented land ever I felt was belongen to me. And the baby is buried there.”

Fletch spoke in the corner. “I recollect we lived on Little Angus. Recollect once they was three gnat balls flying in the yard. I shet my eyes and stuck my head inside one ball.”

“Once a whirly wind come threshing a field,” Euly recalled. “I ran to it. Hit spun me winding.”

“I recollect the martins,” I said. “I recollect—”

“That farm was sold for taxes,” Father said impatiently. “Logging company bought, knocked walls out o’ the house and set a sawmill inside.”

Darb stood. “I’m bound to be going. Six doors I got to knock on before bedtime.”

Fletch scuttled out of the corner. “You hain’t told me how to spell ‘stovepipe,’” he reminded.

Darb scratched into the thick of his hair. “Stove?” He seemed to have forgotten. “Ah, yes, ‘stovepipe/ Stove to my rikkle, to my stickle, to my y, p, e, pipe.”