“Stands to reason they’ve got to come off,” Darb said, his voice hoarse in trying to speak low.

“Might’s well get it over then.”

I looked at Fletch, and he was awake. He had heard. I spoke small into his ear. “Uncle Toll never cried when his finger was cut. Him just a baby too. Grandma said he never.”

“I hain’t scared,” Fletch said. His lips were trembling.

“If’n you won’t cry,” I promised, “tomorrow I’ll show you the pattern of a man’s insides. I got a picture-piece shows.”

“I hain’t scared.”

Father approached the bed, an opened pocket knife flat against his leg. The veins were swollen where he grasped the handle. I felt bound to see this thing happen. Fletch would want me to see. But I chilled with fear, and backed away.

It was over in an eye-bat. I saw nothing. Fletch made no sound.

Darb began to tear strips of flour sacking for bandage. “I tell you this chap’s got nerve,” he grinned. “I never saw the beat.”

Jace and Kell went to look at the severed fingers. They lay on a trunk. Old Bartow sprang upon the trunk to look too. “A thing like that makes a feller reckon,” Kell groaned.

“Little man,” Darb said. “There’s two gentle mules in my lot longing for riders. I’d be proud to have you and your brother come ride them sometime. Come when the notion strikes.”

“Air them beasts still alive?” Kell asked. “I heered you was going to be rid––”

“Not yet,” Darb answered.

Father whirled suddenly, glaring at Jace. “Put that there back on the trunk,” he said. “Put back!”

“Born witty,” Arlie Crouch blurted in disgust.

Fletch sat up in bed. His face was grave as an old man’s. He held the bandaged hand before him. “How long hit’s going to take growing me two fingers back?” he asked.

THE robins came back in February and black-headed cocks walked the camp yards. Robin hens grew fussy, pushing their pale breasts out as though shaping their nests already. The cold spells at Old Christmas and during the week Ruling Day fell were the only times I had need to put on my red woven coat. A4iners cursed the warmth. They shook heads so fiercely cap lamps oft would go out. They eyed the sun-ball and quarreled. “Mines can’t keep open long’s folks don’t burn fires.” “Sweating in February, hit’s agin nature.” “Why, my babby-child has got a heat rash.” They spoke of remembered winters, winters when ice choked the creeks, when timbers broke under its weight. They measured hands on hips, marking the snow’s depth, swearing oaths as tokens of truth.