“Oh, I declare,” says Mama, “to think that a family of mine should quarrel on the Fourth of July, or the day after, over Stella-Rondo leaving old Mr. Whitaker and having the sweetest little adopted child! It looks like we’d all be glad!”

“Wah!” says Stella-Rondo, and has a fresh conniption fit.

“He left her—you mark my words,” I says. “That’s Mr. Whitaker. I know Mr. Whitaker. After all, I knew him first. I said from the beginning he’d up and leave her. I foretold every single thing that’s happened.”

“Where did he go?” asks Mama.

“Probably to the North Pole, if he knows what’s good for him,” I says.

But Stella-Rondo just bawled and wouldn’t say another word. She flew to her room and slammed the door.

“Now look what you’ve gone and done, Sister,” says Mama. “You go apologize,”

“I haven’t got time, I’m leaving,” I says.

“Well, what are you waiting around for?” asks Uncle Rondo.

So I just picked up the kitchen clock and marched off, without saying “Kiss my foot” or anything, and never did tell Stella-Rondo good-bye.

There was a nigger girl going along on a little wagon right in front.

“Nigger girl,” I says, “come help me haul these things down the hill, I’m going to live in the post office.”

Took her nine trips in her express wagon. Uncle Rondo came out on the porch and threw her a nickel.

And that’s the last I’ve laid eyes on any of my family or my family laid eyes on me for five solid days and nights. Stella-Rondo may be telling the most horrible tales in the world about Mr. Whitaker, but I haven’t heard them. As I tell everybody, I draw my own conclusions.

But oh, I like it here. It’s ideal, as I’ve been saying. You see, I’ve got everything cater-cornered, the way I like it. Hear the radio? All the war news. Radio, sewing machine, book ends, ironing board and that great big piano lamp—peace, that’s what I like. Butter-bean vines planted all along the front where the strings are.

Of course, there’s not much mail. My family are naturally the main people in China Grove, and if they prefer to vanish from the face of the earth, for all the mail they get or the mail they write, why, I’m not going to open my mouth. Some of the folks here in town are taking up for me and some turned against me. I know which is which. There are always people who will quit buying stamps just to get on the right side of Papa-Daddy.

But here I am, and here I’ll stay. I want the world to know I’m happy.