“Hit’s a sight to have such a passel of victuals after living tight as a tow-wad,” Mother said. “If Saul Hig-night hadn’t laid claim to the heifer, we’d had milk and butter too. The baby might o’ lived.” Mother cried while telling about the heifer. “He heard the calf was alive and sent a man to fotch it. He was ashamed to come a-claiming himself.”

We raised thirty-six dommers. They scarcely pecked at the bran we threw out, for there was such a plenty of food in the fields and patches. You could holler “chickeroo” the day long and they wouldn’t come.

Tomatoes ripened faster than could be canned. The old apple trees in the bottom were burdened. We peeled and sulphured three bushels of Mclntoshes. Fall beans were strung and hung with peppers and onions on the porch. The cushaws were a wonder to see, bloated with yellow flesh. The crook-neck gourds on the lot fence grew too large for water dippers. They were just right to hang on martin poles.

“If we stay on here, I’m going to have me a mess o’ martins living in them gourds,” I told Mother.

“We’ll just settle down awhile if your poppy is a-mind to,” Mother said. “A sight the rations we’ve got.”

With the crops laid by, we cleared a patch of ground on the Point around the baby’s grave. Mother took up a bucket of white sand from the Flaxpatch sandbar, patting it on the mound with her hands. “We’re going to have a funeralizing for the baby in September,” she said. “Your poppy will be agin it, but we’re going to, whether or no. I’ve already spoke for Brother Sim Mobberly. He’s coming all the way from Troublesome Creek. I reckon we’ve got plenty to feed everybody.”

There was nothing more to do in the garden and fields, and during this first rest since spring Mother began to grieve over the baby. Euly told us that she cried in the night. We spoke quietly. There was no noise in the house. The bottle-flies on the windows and katydids outside sang above our speaking. With Mother suddenly on edge, and likely to cry at a word, we played all day on the hills. Euly ran about the coves like a young fox, coming in before supper with a poke of chestnuts and chinquapins. I found her playhouse once in a haw patch. Eight corncob poppets sat on rock chairs, eating giblets of cress from mud dishes. I skittered away, Euly never knowing I had been near.