A voice sprang across the bench. “Hold thar, Bully!” The mule stopped in his tracks, and I went spinning over the plow. I got up, unhurt. A bellow came out of the stickweed patch; it was a laugh near too big for a throat to utter.

I looked in time to see Uncle Jolly rise to his feet, then crumple to the ground. He threshed among the weeds, his arms beating air, laughing in agony. He jerked; he whooped and hollered. He got up twice, falling back slack-jointed and weak. A squall of joy flowed out of him.

And when Uncle Jolly had his laugh out, he came across the field, weaving drunkenly. The mule watched him come, lowering his head, acting a grain nervous. Uncle Jolly sniggered when he reached us, and I saw a fresh throe boiling inside of him, ready to burst. The mule raised his head suddenly. He licked his yellow tongue square across Uncle Jolly’s mouth.

“I bet that there’s a wild enough taste,” I said, scornfully.

“SHE’s a traipsing fool,” Uncle Jolly said, jerking his thumb toward Grandma. “I never saw the beat, a-setting out agin daylight, treading the dark, God knows where.”

It was July. Grandma sat before the kitchen stove, drying the morning dew from her shoes. She sighed a little, being tired from her walk, and watched Uncle Jolly grit roasting ears for breakfast. He had brought a dozen down from the bench field and cornsilks were scattered about like brown locks of a woman’s hair.

“It’s no wonder rheumatiz’s driving sprigs in your bones,” Uncle Jolly complained. “There I was, coming off the bench, me thinking you were abed, and beholt! You come doddling along the ridge.”

Grandma wove her hands together on her knees. “I been walking on these legs seventy-eight years,” she said. “I’m figuring to walk a few more miles. I hain’t going to set around and let rheumatiz tie ’em in a pinch knot. Hain’t wear that breaks a door hinge, hit’s rust.”

“You put me in mind o’ Walking John Gay,” Uncle Jolly grunted. He rubbed a small-grained ear over the gritter. Corn milk drained into the pan, washing the shreds into the batter. He was going to fry fritters.

I asked: “Who is Walking John Gay? Somewhere I heered that name.”

Uncle Jolly didn’t answer, wanting Grandma and me to think he was angry. He threw a cob across the room into the wood box and grabbed another ear, ripping it over the gritter. The table was splattered with corn milk. Suddenly he jerked a hand away, whistling between his teeth. He jabbed a finger into his mouth.

“Just take your time, son,” Grandma counseled. “Hain’t nobody starving to death.”

Uncle Jolly chose another ear, spinning it on the gritter. His nose wrinkled, but he didn’t laugh. He puckered his lips; he looked as mean-mad as he could. “A little flesh and blood mixed in the batter ought to make fritters taste a sight better,” he said. “They hain’t more than a half-acre o’ bark skinned off my hand.”