“Fried guinea’s breast in my dinner bucket,” Father said. “I could hardly believe my eyeballs. I loaded two cars of coal extra after I’d et.”

We were sitting on the woodpile, between supper-time and dark. Martins flew up from the lower ridges, where clouds were banked yellow as fall maples. There was still light enough for Mother and Euly to study the third grade spelling book. They sat high on the poplar logs, out of the baby’s reach, for he wanted to pull at the pages.

“This speller’s not belongen to me,” Euly had said. “See what it says on the kiver, ‘Property of the State of Kentucky.’”

“You won’t be eating fancy victuals in the week middle from now on,” Mother said. “I’m going to learn myself to spell the words I’ve forgot, and a sight o’ them I’ve never come across. A body ought to be able to spell things they lay hands to every day, and things going by. Take them martin-birds flying there. I’ve seen martins all my born days, but I can’t say the letters to their name.”

“Kin you spell ‘swampstem’?” Father chuckled.

“How do that word go?” Fletch asked.

“Crooked s, rugged m, s, t, ‘swampstem.’ “

Fletch laughed, popping his hands.

“I’m uneasy Jonce Weathers is going to get spelled down before the year is up,” Father said. “They run two teachers off from Flat Creek School last year.” Euly had told Father about Bee Mauldraugh, proud in knowing I was out of the room when Jonce struck Bee, and that I saw none of it.

“A little devilment is natural amongst chaps,” Father said. “I’m not blaming the scholars. It’s their folks forever tearing up the patch, putting fool notions in their heads. I figure a man ought to rack his own jennies, and stop piddling in other fellers’ business.”

“I allus wanted my chaps to read and spell and figure,” Mother said. “Allus put a lot of store by that. Another rusty cut and they’ll close the school shore. As long as we keep living here, Flat Creek School is their only chance earthy.”

Night came up the hill, settling into the ridge pockets. The martins melted into the dark. “Time to hit the shucks,” Father said, rattling poplar bark under his feet, but he made no move to go inside. The baby clucked where he sat between Father’s knees.

I squatted on the chopping block, thinking of Jonce’s promise. “If I had me a mine lamp, I could help scare bats,” I said. “Bats a-hanging by the bushels in the churchhouse loft, messing the floor at night. Jonce is going to smoke them out tomorrow.”

“Jonce says a bat ain’t a bird,” Euly said.