Albion cried when his father left. I was disappointed, because it did not seem brave of him. Heathcliff would not have cried. Nor was Albion handsome. He was slight of stature to the point of scrawniness. Aunt Becka guessed that he had often been hungry. His hair was unkempt, “nappy,” Aunt Jane called it. He had a gap between his front teeth, and one was the color of used dishwater. When he grinned I was put in mind of a chipmunk. But his eyes, at least, were fine, brown and warm as coffee.

He was shy with us for a long time. Flora was the best with him. We sat and listened while she drew him out to talking, her voice low and gentle. He said his mother had died only a few months earlier, also of a fever. They buried her on a hillside. No, he didn’t know where exactly; it was in Harlan County. They had been on the road since he was eight years old. His daddy lost a farm on Blackberry Creek in West Virginia.

“Daddy cant afford no land of his own. Says he cant work for nobody else. So, he’s a drummer.”

“How do you go to school?” Flora asked.

“Aint never been.”

“Cant read at all?” asked Ben.

“No, sir.”

“I can teach you.”

Albion traced a quilt pattern with his fingertip.

“Dont know as how I’m anxious to learn.”

“Why ever not?” Aunt Becka said sharply.

He ducked his head. “I’m afeard I’ll learn so much new things I’ll forgit what I know. I know lots of stories and all. Got em stored in my head. New things might run em clean out.”

“Aint you wanting to learn about new places?” I asked.

“I been lots of places,” he said softly. “I want my own place. Maybe then…” His voice trailed off.

“I reckon that’s enough questions,” Flora said. “We’re a-wearing this poor fellow out.”

He smiled at her gratefully, sank back onto his pillows, and closed his eyes.

He stayed in his bed until barefoot weather in May. Then one day he wobbled outside, sank down onto the front stoop and turned his face up to the sunshine. Soon he was walking around, and by June he was helping with the chores. Mostly he worked with me, caring for the animals and thinning the corn.

Our cornfield covered five acres of bottom land between the Homeplace and the Aunt Jane Place. I moved ahead of Albion along the rows, stooped to pull the smallest shoots and toss them aside. I paused often to wait for him because hoeing was slower work. Albion put me in mind of the scarecrow spread-eagled on its high post. His shirt was too big and slipped off one shoulder as he hoed. His bony, pointed elbows punched the air. He sang as he hoed about a noble lady who left her rich husband to run off with the gypsies. I wont go back, my dearest dear, I wont go back, my honey, for I’d rather have a kiss from gypsum’s lips than all your land and money. He sang of Barbry Allen and how she spurned her lover so that he died brokenhearted, and how Barbry died soon after. Daddy, Daddy, dig my grave, oh dig hit deep and narrow, young Jemmie died for love today, and I shall die tomorry. A thorn grew from Barbry’s grave, and a rose from her sweet lover’s, and the two twined together. That’s how the rose got thorns, Albion said.