“Take a hook to your own weeds,” Father said.

The squat lamp quarreled with a draft. A smoke thread wormed the chimney.

Uncle Jolly balled fists and thumped his knuckles. “Bracky,” he said, “I’ve just about got my cats threshed. Ever hear o’ that pretty girl I fit Les Honey-cutt over? Tina Sawyers? I writ I’d be at her home-place next Sunday, fotching Sim Mobberly and a license. Now you all can come and live with us on Lean Neck.”

“I was born to dig coal,” Father said. “Somewheres they’s a mine working. Fires still burning the world over, and they got to be fed. All the hearthstones in North Americkee hain’t gone cold. I been hearing of a new mine farther than the head o’ Kentucky River, on yon side Pound Gap. Grundy, its name is.” His eyes ran over the room, over the grooved timbers of the floor, the ceiling hanging high with no rafters, the bed, the clock, the smoking lamp. “Hit’s a far piece to Grundy, three days’ travel. Can’t haul all our belongings. We’ll sell and give away. We’ve got to begin over again. We’ve got to start from scratch.”

“You hain’t certain to get work.”

“Nothing hain’t shore this day and time.”

“Hit’s a blind chance.”

“We’ll make the bung fit the barrel.”

“I say find out before setting off.”

“We’re moving from Blackjack to somewheres. Might’s well be Grundy.”

“Be-grabs if you folks hain’t a pack o’ Walking John Gays, allus a-going. Don’t warm one spot o’ ground for long.”

An iron shoe smote a rock. The mule was walking the yard. We followed him with our ears. He nuzzled dry bluing weeds and the egg tree, and sounded a low bray of anxiety. He began to crib teeth on a fence plank.

Uncle Jolly spoke. “I aim to settle. I’ve got me a young mule, new ground cleared, and soon to have a doughbeater fair as ever drew breath. Bees to work my red apple trees, grapevines—” He paused. “And I got me a notion. Read in a magazine-book where a feller can raise and sell squabs. A passel o’ pigeon boxes I’m going to build.”

Father scoffed. “Hit’s printed a feller can catch bull frogs and net butterflies for a living. All foolishness.”

“I kin raise pigeons for a fancy.”

“In jail and out, dinnymiting mill dams, forever plaguing Aus Coggins. I pity the woman you fool.”

“Brackstone, you don’t know square to the world’s end. Aus Coggins allus blamed me. Allus I cussed and swore the contrary. Then I larnt who was punishing Aus.”

“I’d swear it was you in a law-court.”

“Ma cut Aus’s fences, burnt his barns, and strowed salt over his land. His farm got briny as the salt sea.”

Father glared at Uncle Jolly. “Hell’s bangers!” he gasped. He knew it was the truth.