Contents
Sharing	Little	Tree
Little	Tree
The	Way
Shadows	on	a	Cabin	Wall
Fox	and	Hounds
“I	Kin	Ye,	Bonnie	Bee”
To	Know	the	Past
Pine	Billy
The	Secret	Place
Granpa’s	Trade
Trading	with	a	Christian
At	the	Crossroads	Store
A	Dangerous	Adventure
The	Farm	in	the	Clearing
A	Night	on	the	Mountain
Willow	John
Church-going
Mr.	Wine
Down	from	the	Mountain
The	Dog	Star
Home	Again
The	Passing	Song
The	Education	of	Little	Tree
Forrest	Carter
Foreword	by	Rennard	Strickland
University	of	New	Mexico	Press
Albuquerque
ISBN	for	this	digital	edition:	978-0-8263-1694-3
©	1976	by	Forrest	Carter;	Copyright	renewed	2004
©	2008	by	India	Carter	LLC
All	rights	reserved.
University	of	New	Mexico	Press	edition	reprinted	by	arrangement	India	Carter
LLC
An	Eleanor	Friede	Book
Library	of	Congress	Cataloging-in-Publication	Data
Carter,	Forrest
The	education	of	Little	Tree.
Reprint.	Originally	published:	New	York:	Delacorte	Press.
©	1976.	With	new	foreword.
1.	Carter,	Forrest—Biography—Youth.
2.	Novelists,	American—20th	century—Biography.
3.	Cherokee	Indians—Biography.	I.	Title.
[ps3553.a777z464	1986]	813.54	85-28956
ISBN	0-8263-2809-1
For	The	Cherokee
Sharing	Little	Tree
Granma	said	when	you	come	on	something	good,	first	thing	to	do	is
share	it	with	whoever	you	can	find;	that	way,	the	good	spreads	out
where	no	telling	it	will	go.	Which	is	right.
In	reissuing	Forrest	Carter’s	The	Education	of	Little	Tree,	the	University	of
New	Mexico	Press	is	doing	exactly	what	Granma	advised	young	Little	Tree.	The
Press	is	sharing	an	important	book.	Little	Tree	is	one	of	those	rare	books	like
Huck	Finn	that	each	new	generation	needs	to	discover	and	which	needs	to	be
read	and	reread	regularly.	The	Education	of	Little	Tree	is	a	fine	and	sustaining
book,	wonderfully	funny	and	deeply	poignant.
Little	Tree’s	author,	Forrest	Carter,	wrote	a	number	of	important	books
including	the	popular	Outlaw	Josey	Wales;	he	wrote	one	great	book,	The
Education	of	Little	Tree.	Originally	to	have	been	called	“Me	and	Grandpa,”	Little
Tree	is	Carter’s	autobiographical	remembrances	of	life	with	his	Eastern
Cherokee	hill	country	grandparents.	But	Little	Tree	is	more,	much	more	than	a
touching	account	of	1930s	depression-era	life.	This	book	is	a	human	document
of	universal	meaning.	The	Education	of	Little	Tree	speaks	to	the	human	spirit
and	reaches	the	very	depth	of	the	human	soul.
Everyone	who	has	ever	read	The	Education	of	Little	Tree	seems	to
remember	when	and	where	and	how	they	came	to	know	the	book.	Whether	they
saw	it	in	the	autobiography	section	of	a	chain	bookseller,	or	heard	it	reviewed	as
“Book	of	the	Week”	on	a	television	book	show,	or	found	it	on	the	gift	table	at	a
tribal	souvenir	shop	while	passing	through	an	Indian	reservation,	Little	Tree’s
readers	passionately	remember	these	first	meetings.	For	The	Education	of	Little
Tree	is	a	book	from	which	one	never	quite	recovers.	After	reading	Little	Tree
one	never	again	sees	the	world	in	quite	the	same	way.
Upon	publication	in	1977	The	Education	of	Little	Tree	was	widely	reviewed
and	universally	acclaimed.	Reviewers	as	diverse	as	those	of	The	New	York	Times
and	local	mountain	weeklies	saw	in	The	Education	of	Little	Tree	an	inspirational,
autobiographical	remembrance	of	a	young	Indian	boy	which	might	provide	a
fresh	perspective	for	a	mechanistic	and	materialistic	modern	world.	Thus	Little
Tree	found	its	first	and	most	loyal	readership	among	those	who	cared	about	the
young,	about	“growing	up,”	about	the	Indian,	about	the	earth,	and	about	the
relationship	of	man	and	the	earth.
Soon	Little	Tree	began	to	find	fans	among	other	groups.	Teenagers	took	to
the	book	almost	as	a	cult.	The	values	as	well	as	the	prose	touched	many	who
didn’t	usually	read.	Younger	children	found	Little	Tree	on	their	own.	Librarians
began	to	find	Little	Tree	missing	from	the	shelves.	Students	of	Native	American
life	discovered	the	book	to	be	as	accurate	as	it	was	mystical	and	romantic.
Elementary-school	teachers	learned	that	Little	Tree	fascinated	their	seemingly
world-weary	charges.	But	most	generally	the	love	of	Little	Tree	passed	from
reader	to	reader	with	the	increasingly	hard-to-find	borrowed	copy	of	the	book.
With	this	University	of	New	Mexico	Press	edition,	The	Education	of	Little
Tree	is	again	available.	Old	and	new	readers	can	once	more	share	this	incredibly
touching	and	deeply	moving	story	which	informs	the	heart	and	educates	the
spirit.
Rennard	Strickland
Little	Tree
Ma	lasted	a	year	after	Pa	was	gone.	That’s	how	I	came	to	live	with	Granpa	and
Granma	when	I	was	five	years	old.
The	kinfolks	had	raised	some	mortal	fuss	about	it,	according	to	Granma,
after	the	funeral.
There	in	the	gullied	backyard	of	our	hillside	shack,	they	had	stood	around
in	a	group	and	thrashed	it	out	proper	as	to	where	I	was	to	go,	while	they	divided
up	the	painted	bedstead	and	the	table	and	chairs.
Granpa	had	not	said	anything.	He	stood	back	at	the	edge	of	the	yard,	on	the
fringe	of	the	crowd,	and	Granma	stood	behind	him.	Granpa	was	half	Cherokee
and	Granma	full	blood.
He	stood	above	the	rest	of	the	folks;	tall,	six-foot-four	with	his	big,	black
hat	and	shiny,	black	suit	that	was	only	worn	to	church	and	funerals.	Granma	had
kept	her	eyes	to	the	ground,	but	Granpa	had	looked	at	me,	over	the	crowd,	and
so	I	had	edged	to	him	across	the	yard	and	held	onto	his	leg	and	wouldn’t	turn
loose	even	when	they	tried	to	take	me	away.
Granma	said	I	didn’t	holler	one	bit,	nor	cry,	just	held	on;	and	after	a	long
time,	them	tugging	and	me	holding,	Granpa	had	reached	down	and	placed	his
big	hand	on	my	head.
“Leave	him	be,”	he	had	said.	And	so	they	left	me	be.	Granpa	seldom	spoke
in	a	crowd,	but	when	he	did,	Granma	said,	folks	listened.
We	walked	down	the	hillside	in	the	dark	winter	afternoon	and	onto	the	road
that	led	into	town.	Granpa	led	the	way	down	the	side	of	the	road,	my	clothes
slung	over	his	shoulder	in	a	tow	sack.	I	learned	right	off	that	when	you	walked
behind	Granpa,	you	trotted;	and	Granma,	behind	me,	occasionally	lifted	her
skirts	to	keep	up.
When	we	reached	the	sidewalks	in	town,	we	walked	the	same	way,	Granpa
leading,	until	we	came	to	the	back	of	the	bus	station.	We	stood	there	for	a	long
time;	Granma	reading	the	lettering	on	the	front	of	the	buses	as	they	came	and
went.	Granpa	said	that	Granma	could	read	fancy	as	anybody.	She	picked	out	our
bus,	right	on	the	nose,	just	as	dusk	dark	was	settin’	in.
We	waited	until	all	the	people	were	on	the	bus,	and	it	was	a	good	thing,
because	trouble	set	up	the	minute	we	set	foot	inside	the	door.	Granpa	led	the
way,	me	in	the	middle	and	Granma	was	standing	on	the	lower	step,	just	inside
the	door.	Granpa	pulled	his	snap-purse	from	his	forward	pants	pocket	and	stood
ready	to	pay.
“Where’s	your	tickets?”	the	bus	driver	said	real	loud,	and	everybody	in	the
bus	set	up	to	take	notice	of	us.	This	didn’t	bother	Granpa	one	bit.	He	told	the	bus
driver	we	stood	ready	to	pay,	and	Granma	whispered	from	behind	me	for	Granpa
to	tell	where	we	were	going.	Granpa	told	him.
The	bus	driver	told	Granpa	how	much	it	was	and	while	Granpa	counted	out
the	money	real	careful—for	the	light	wasn’t	good	to	count	by—the	bus	driver
turned	around	to	the	crowd	in	the	bus	and	lifted	his	right	hand	and	said,	“How!”
and	laughed,	and	all	the	people	laughed.	I	felt	better	about	it,	knowing	they	was
friendly	and	didn’t	take	offense	because	we	didn’t	have	a	ticket.
Then	we	walked	to	the	back	of	the	bus,	and	I	noticed	a	sick	lady.	She	was
unnatural	black	all	around	her	eyes	and	her	mouth	was	red	all	over	from	blood;
but	as	we	passed,	she	put	a	hand	over	her	mouth	and	took	it	off	and	hollered	real
loud,	“Wa	…	hooo!”	But	I	figured	the	pain	must	have	passed	right	quick,
because	she	laughed,	and	everybody	else	laughed.	The	man	sitting	beside	her
was	laughing	too	and	he	slapped	his	leg.	He	had	a	big	shiny	pin	on	his	tie,	so	I
knew	they	was	rich	and	could	get	a	doctor	if	they	needed	one.
I	sat	in	the	middle	between	Granma	and	Granpa,	and	Granma	reached
across	and	patted	Granpa	on	the	hand,	and	he	held	her	hand	across	my	lap.	It	felt
good,	and	so	I	slept.
It	was	deep	into	the	night	when	we	got	off	the	bus	on	the	side	of	a	gravel
road.	Granpa	set	off	walking,	me	and	Granma	behind.	It	was	cracking	cold.	The
moon	was	out,	like	half	of	a	fat	watermelon,	and	silvering	the	road	ahead	until	it
curved	out	of	sight.
It	wasn’t	until	we	turned	off	the	road,	onto	wagon	ruts	with	grass	in	the
middle,	that	I	noticed	the	mountains.	Dark	and	shadowed,	they	were,	with	the
half-moon	right	atop	a	ridge	that	lifted	so	high	it	bent	your	head	back	to	look.	I
shivered	at	the	blackness	of	the	mountains.
Granma	spoke	from	behind	me,	“Wales,	he’s	tiring	out.”	Granpa	stopped
and	turned.	He	looked	down	at	me	and	the	big	hat	shadowed	his	face.
“It’s	better	to	wear	out	when	ye’ve	lost	something,”	he	said.	He	turned	and
set	off	again,	but	now	it	was	easier	to	keep	up.	Granpa	had	slowed	down,	so	I
figured	he	was	tired	too.
After	a	long	time,	we	turned	off	the	wagon	ruts	onto	a	foot	trail	and	headed	dead
set	into	the	mountains.	Seemed	like	we’d	come	straight	up	against	a	mountain,
but	as	we	walked,	the	mountains	seemed	to	open	up	and	fold	in	around	us	on	all
sides.
The	sounds	of	our	walking	began	to	echo,	and	stirrings	came	from	around
us,	and	whispers	and	sighs	began	to	feather	through	the	trees	like	everything	had
come	alive.	And	it	was	warm.	There	was	a	tinkle	and	a	bobble	and	swishing
beside	us,	a	mountain	branch	rolling	over	rocks	and	making	pools	where	it
paused	and	rushed	on	again.	We	were	into	the	hollows	of	the	mountains.
The	half-moon	dropped	out	of	sight	behind	the	ridge	and	spewed	silver
light	over	the	sky.	It	gave	the	hollow	a	gray-light	dome	that	reflected	down	on
us.
Granma	began	to	hum	a	tune	behind	me	and	I	knew	it	was	Indian,	and
needed	no	words	for	its	meaning	to	be	clear,	and	it	made	me	feel	safe.
A	hound	bayed	so	sudden,	I	jumped.	Long	and	mourning,	breaking	into
sobs	that	the	echoes	picked	up	and	carried	farther	and	farther	away,	back	into	the
mountains.
Granpa	chuckled,	“That’d	be	ol’	Maud—ain’t	got	the	smell	sense	of	a	lap
dog—dependent	on	her	ears.”
In	a	minute,	we	were	covered	up	with	hounds,	whining	around	Granpa	and
sniffing	at	me	to	get	the	new	scent.	Ol’	Maud	bayed	again,	right	close	this	time,
and	Granpa	said,	“Shet	up,	Maud!”	And	then	she	knew	who	it	was	and	she	came
running	and	leaping	on	us.
We	crossed	a	foot	log	over	the	spring	branch	and	there	was	the	cabin,
logged	and	set	back	under	big	trees	with	the	mountain	at	its	back	and	a	porch
running	clear	across	the	front.
The	cabin	had	a	wide	hall	separating	the	rooms.	The	hall	was	open	on	both
ends.	Some	people	call	it	a	“gallery,”	but	mountain	folks	call	it	a	“dogtrot,”
because	the	hounds	trotted	through	there.	On	one	side	was	a	big	room	for
cooking,	eating	and	settin’,	and	across	the	dogtrot	on	the	other	side	were	two
bedrooms.	One	was	Granpa	and	Granma’s.	The	other	was	to	be	mine.
I	laid	out	on	the	springy	softness	of	deer	hide	webbing,	stretched	in	the	frame	of
hickory	posts.	Through	the	open	window,	I	could	see	the	trees	across	the	spring
branch,	dark	in	the	ghost	light.	The	thought	of	Ma	came	rushing	on	me	and	the
strangeness	of	where	I	was.
A	hand	brushed	my	head.	It	was	Granma	sitting	beside	me,	on	the	floor;	her
full	skirts	around	her,	the	plaited	hair	streaked	with	silver	falling	forward	of	her
shoulders	and	into	her	lap.	She	watched	out	the	window	too,	and	low	and	soft
she	began	to	sing:
They	now	have	sensed	him	coming
The	forest	and	the	wood-wind
Father	mountain	makes	him	welcome	with	his	song.
They	have	no	fear	of	Little	Tree
They	know	his	heart	is	kindness
And	they	sing,	‘Little	tree	is	not	alone.’
Even	silly	little	Lay-nah
With	her	babbling,	talking	waters
Is	dancing	through	the	mountains	with	her	cheer
‘Oh	listen	to	my	singing,
Of	a	brother	come	amongst	us
Little	Tree	is	our	brother,	and	Little	Tree	is	here.’
Awi-usdi	the	little	deer
And	Min-e-lee	the	quail-hen
Even	Kagu	the	crow	takes	up	the	song
‘Brave	is	the	heart	of	Little	Tree
And	kindness	is	his	strength
And	Little	Tree	will	never	be	alone.’
Granma	sang	and	rocked	slowly	back	and	forth.	And	I	could	hear	the	wind
talking,	and	Lay-nah,	the	spring	branch,	singing	about	me	and	telling	all	my
brothers.
I	knew	I	was	Little	Tree,	and	I	was	happy	that	they	loved	me	and	wanted
me.	And	so	I	slept,	and	I	did	not	cry.
The	Way
It	had	taken	Granma,	sitting	in	the	rocker	that	creaked	with	her	slight	weight	as
she	worked	and	hummed,	while	the	pine	knots	spluttered	in	the	fireplace,	a	week
of	evenings	to	make	the	boot	moccasins.	With	a	hook	knife,	she	had	cut	the	deer
leather	and	made	the	strips	that	she	wove	around	the	edges.	When	she	had
finished,	she	soaked	the	moccasins	in	water	and	I	put	them	on	wet	and	walked
them	dry,	back	and	forth	across	the	floor,	until	they	fitted	soft	and	giving,	light	as
air.
This	morning	I	slipped	the	moccasins	on	last,	after	I	had	jumped	into	my
overalls	and	buttoned	my	jacket.	It	was	dark	and	cold—too	early	even	for	the
morning	whisper	wind	to	stir	the	trees.
Granpa	had	said	I	could	go	with	him	on	the	high	trail,	if	I	got	up,	and	he
had	said	he	would	not	wake	me.
“A	man	rises	of	his	own	will	in	the	morning,”	he	had	spoken	down	to	me
and	he	did	not	smile.	But	Granpa	had	made	many	noises	in	his	rising,	bumping
the	wall	of	my	room	and	talking	uncommonly	loud	to	Granma,	and	so	I	had
heard,	and	I	was	first	out,	waiting	with	the	hounds	in	the	darkness.
“So.	Ye’re	here.”	Granpa	sounded	surprised.
“Yes,	sir,”	I	said,	and	kept	the	proud	out	of	my	voice.
Granpa	pointed	his	finger	at	the	hounds	jumping	and	prancing	around	us.
“Ye’ll	stay,”	he	ordered,	and	they	tucked	in	their	tails	and	whined	and	begged
and	ol’	Maud	set	up	a	howl.	But	they	didn’t	follow	us.	They	stood,	all	together	in
a	hopeless	little	bunch,	and	watched	us	leave	the	clearing.
I	had	been	up	the	low	trail	that	followed	the	bank	of	the	spring	branch,	twisting
and	turning	with	the	hollow	until	it	broke	out	into	a	meadow	where	Granpa	had
his	barn	and	kept	his	mule	and	cow.	But	this	was	the	high	trail	that	forked	off	to
the	right	and	took	to	the	side	of	the	mountain,	sloping	always	upward	as	it
traveled	along	the	hollow.	I	trotted	behind	Granpa	and	I	could	feel	the	upward
slant	of	the	trail.
I	could	feel	something	more,	as	Granma	said	I	would.	Mon-o-lah,	the	earth
mother,	came	to	me	through	my	moccasins.	I	could	feel	her	push	and	swell	here,
and	sway	and	give	there	…	and	the	roots	that	veined	her	body	and	the	life	of	the
water-blood,	deep	inside	her.	She	was	warm	and	springy	and	bounced	me	on	her
breast,	as	Granma	said	she	would.
The	cold	air	steamed	my	breath	in	clouds	and	the	spring	branch	fell	far
below	us.	Bare	tree	branches	dripped	water	from	ice	prongs	that	teethed	their
sides,	and	as	we	walked	higher	there	was	ice	on	the	trail.	Gray	light	eased	the
darkness	away.
Granpa	stopped	and	pointed	by	the	side	of	the	trail.	“There	she	is—turkey
run—see?”	I	dropped	to	my	hands	and	knees	and	saw	the	tracks:	little	sticklike
impressions	coming	out	from	a	center	hub.
“Now,”	Granpa	said,	“well	fix	the	trap.”	And	he	moved	off	the	trail	until	he
found	a	stump	hole.
We	cleaned	it	out,	first	the	leaves,	and	then	Granpa	pulled	out	his	long	knife
and	cut	into	the	spongy	ground	and	we	scooped	up	the	dirt,	scattering	it	among
the	leaves.	When	the	hole	was	deep,	so	that	I	couldn’t	see	over	the	rim,	Granpa
pulled	me	out	and	we	dragged	tree	branches	to	cover	it	and,	over	these,	spread
armfuls	of	leaves.	Then,	with	his	long	knife,	Granpa	dug	a	trail	sloping
downward	into	the	hole	and	back	toward	the	turkey	run.	He	took	the	grains	of
red	Indian	corn	from	his	pocket	and	scattered	them	down	the	trail,	and	threw	a
handful	into	the	hole.
“Now	we	will	go,”	he	said,	and	set	off	again	up	the	high	trail.	Ice,	spewed
from	the	earth	like	frosting,	crackled	under	our	feet.	The	mountain	opposite	us
moved	closer	as	the	hollow	far	below	became	a	narrow	slit,	showing	the	spring
branch	like	the	edge	of	a	steel	knife,	sunk	in	the	bottom	of	its	cleavage.
We	sat	down	in	the	leaves,	off	the	trail,	just	as	the	first	sun	touched	the	top
of	the	mountain	across	the	hollow.	From	his	pocket,	Granpa	pulled	out	a	sour
biscuit	and	deer	meat	for	me,	and	we	watched	the	mountain	while	we	ate.
The	sun	hit	the	top	like	an	explosion,	sending	showers	of	glitter	and	sparkle
into	the	air.	The	sparkling	of	the	icy	trees	hurt	the	eyes	to	look	at,	and	it	moved
down	the	mountain	like	a	wave	as	the	sun	backed	the	night	shadow	down	and
down.	A	crow	scout	sent	three	hard	calls	through	the	air,	warning	we	were	there.
And	now	the	mountain	popped	and	gave	breathing	sighs	that	sent	little
puffs	of	steam	into	the	air.	She	pinged	and	murmured	as	the	sun	released	the
trees	from	their	death	armor	of	ice.
Granpa	watched,	same	as	me,	and	listened	as	the	sounds	grew	with	the
morning	wind	that	set	up	a	low	whistle	in	the	trees.
“She’s	coming	alive,”	he	said,	soft	and	low,	without	taking	his	eyes	from
the	mountain.
“Yes,	sir,”	I	said,	“she’s	coming	alive.”	And	I	knew	right	then	that	me	and
Granpa	had	us	an	understanding	that	most	folks	didn’t	know.
The	night	shadow	backed	down	and	across	a	little	meadow,	heavy	with	grass	and
shining	in	the	sun	bath.	The	meadow	was	set	into	the	side	of	the	mountain.
Granpa	pointed.	There	was	quail	fluttering	and	jumping	in	the	grass,	feeding	on
the	seeds.	Then	he	pointed	up	toward	the	icy	blue	sky.
There	were	no	clouds	but	at	first	I	didn’t	see	the	speck	that	came	over	the
rim.	It	grew	larger.	Facing	into	the	sun,	so	that	the	shadow	did	not	go	before	him,
the	bird	sped	down	the	side	of	the	mountain;	a	skier	on	the	treetops,	wings	half-
folded	…	like	a	brown	bullet	…	faster	and	faster,	toward	the	quail.
Granpa	chuckled.	“It’s	ol’	Tal-con,	the	hawk.”
The	quail	rose	in	a	rush	and	sped	into	the	trees—but	one	was	slow.	The
hawk	hit.	Feathers	flew	into	the	air	and	then	the	birds	were	on	the	ground,	the
hawk’s	head	rising	and	falling	with	the	death	blows.	In	a	moment	he	rose	with
the	dead	quail	clutched	in	his	claws,	back	up	the	side	of	the	mountain	and	over
the	rim.
I	didn’t	cry,	but	I	know	I	looked	sad,	because	Granpa	said,	“Don’t	feel	sad,
Little	Tree.	It	is	The	Way.	Tal-con	caught	the	slow	and	so	the	slow	will	raise	no
children	who	are	also	slow.	Tal-con	eats	a	thousand	ground	rats	who	eat	the	eggs
of	the	quail—both	the	quick	and	the	slow	eggs—and	so	Tal-con	lives	by	The
Way.	He	helps	the	quail.”
Granpa	dug	a	sweet	root	from	the	ground	with	his	knife	and	peeled	it	so
that	it	dripped	with	its	juicy	winter	cache	of	life.	He	cut	it	in	half	and	handed	me
the	heavy	end.
“It	is	The	Way,”	he	said	softly.	“Take	only	what	ye	need.	When	ye	take	the
deer,	do	not	take	the	best.	Take	the	smaller	and	the	slower	and	then	the	deer	will
grow	stronger	and	always	give	you	meat.	Pa-koh,	the	panther,	knows	and	so
must	ye.”
And	he	laughed,	“Only	Ti-bi,	the	bee,	stores	more	than	he	can	use	…	and	so
he	is	robbed	by	the	bear,	and	the	coon	…	and	the	Cherokee.	It	is	so	with	people
who	store	and	fat	themselves	with	more	than	their	share.	They	will	have	it	taken
from	them.	And	there	will	be	wars	over	it	…	and	they	will	make	long	talks,
trying	to	hold	more	than	their	share.	They	will	say	a	flag	stands	for	their	right	to
do	this	…	and	men	will	die	because	of	the	words	and	the	flag	…	but	they	will
not	change	the	rules	of	The	Way.”
We	went	back	down	the	trail,	and	the	sun	was	high	over	us	when	we
reached	the	turkey	trap.	We	could	hear	them	before	we	saw	the	trap.	They	were
in	there,	gobbling	and	making	loud	whistles	of	alarm.
“Ain’t	no	closing	over	the	door,	Granpa,”	I	said.	“Why	don’t	they	just	lower
their	heads	and	come	out?”’
Granpa	stretched	full	length	into	the	hole	and	pulled	out	a	big	squawking
turkey,	tied	his	legs	with	a	throng	and	grinned	up	at	me.
“Ol’	Tel-qui	is	like	some	people.	Since	he	knows	everything,	he	won’t
never	look	down	to	see	what’s	around	him.	Got	his	head	stuck	up	in	the	air	too
high	to	learn	anything.”
“Like	the	bus	driver?”	I	asked.	I	couldn’t	forget	the	bus	driver	fussing	at
Granpa.
“The	bus	driver?”	Granpa	looked	puzzled,	then	he	laughed,	and	kept
laughing	while	he	stuck	his	head	back	in	the	hole,	pulling	out	another	turkey.
“I	reckin,”	he	chuckled,	“like	the	bus	driver.	He	did	kind	of	gobble	now,
come	to	think	of	it.	But	that’s	a	burden	fer	him	to	tote	around,	Little	Tree.
Nothing	fer	us	to	burden	our	heads	about.”
Granpa	laid	them	out	on	the	ground,	legs	tied.	There	were	six	of	them,	and
now	he	pointed	down	at	them.	“They’re	all	about	the	same	age	…	ye	can	tell	by
the	thickness	of	the	combs.	We	only	need	three	so	now	ye	choose,	Little	Tree.”
I	walked	around	them,	flopping	on	the	ground.	I	squatted	and	studied	them,
and	walked	around	them	again.	I	had	to	be	careful.	I	got	down	on	my	hands	and
knees	and	crawled	among	them,	until	I	had	pulled	out	the	three	smallest	I	could
find.
Granpa	said	nothing.	He	pulled	the	throngs	from	the	legs	of	the	others	and
they	took	to	wing,	beating	down	the	side	of	the	mountain.	He	slung	two	of	the
turkeys	over	his	shoulder.
“Can	ye	carry	the	other?”	he	asked.
“Yes,	sir,”	I	said,	not	sure	that	I	had	done	right.	A	slow	grin	broke	Granpa’s
bony	face.	“If	ye	was	not	Little	Tree	…	I	would	call	ye	Little	Hawk.”
I	followed	Granpa	down	the	trail.	The	turkey	was	heavy,	but	it	felt	good
over	my	shoulder.	The	sun	had	tilted	toward	the	farther	mountain	and	drifted
through	the	branches	of	the	trees	beside	the	trail,	making	burnt	gold	patterns
where	we	walked.	The	wind	had	died	in	that	late	afternoon	of	winter,	and	I	heard
Granpa,	ahead	of	me,	humming	a	tune.	I	would	have	liked	to	live	that	time
forever	…	for	I	knew	I	had	pleased	Granpa.	I	had	learned	The	Way.
Trailing	through	the	mountains	in	the	winter’s	evening	sun
Walking	through	the	patterns	on	the	trail
Sloping	towards	the	cabin;	been	on	the	turkey	run
It’s	a	heaven	that	the	Cherokee	knows	well.
Watch	along	the	mountain	rim	and	see	the	morning	birth
Listen	for	the	wind	song	through	the	tree
Feel	the	life	a’springing	from	Mon-o-lah,	the	earth
And	you’ll	know	The	Way	of	all	the	Cherokee.
Know	the	death	in	life	is	here	with	every	breaking	day
That	one	without	the	other,	cannot	be
Learn	the	wisdom	of	Mon-o-lah,
and	then	you’ll	know	The	Way
And	touch	the	soul	of	all	the	Cherokee.
Shadows	on	a	Cabin	Wall
In	the	evenings	of	that	winter,	we	sat	in	front	of	the	stone	fireplace.	Lighter
knots,	taken	from	the	centers	of	rotted	stumps,	sputtered	and	flickered	from	the
thick,	red	resin,	throwing	on	the	wall	shadows	that	jumped	and	contracted,	only
to	leap	up	again,	making	the	walls	come	alive	with	fantastic	etchings	appearing
and	disappearing,	growing	and	receding.	There	were	long	silences	while	we
watched	the	flames	and	the	dancing	shadows.	Then	Granpa	would	break	the
silence	with	some	of	his	comments	on	the	“readings.”
Twice	a	week,	every	Saturday	and	Sunday	night,	Granma	lit	the	coal	oil
lamp	and	read	to	us.	Lighting	the	lamp	was	a	luxury,	and	I’m	sure	it	was	done	on
account	of	me.	We	had	to	be	careful	of	the	coal	oil.	Once	a	month,	me	and
Granpa	walked	to	the	settlement,	and	I	carried	the	coal	oil	can	with	a	root	stuck
in	its	snout,	so	that	not	a	drop	was	spilled	on	the	way	back.	It	cost	a	nickel	to	fill
it,	and	Granpa	showed	a	lot	of	trust	in	me,	letting	me	carry	it	all	the	way	back	to
the	cabin.
When	we	went,	we	always	carried	a	list	of	books	made	out	by	Granma,	and
Granpa	presented	the	list	to	the	librarian,	and	turned	in	the	books	that	Granma
had	sent	back.	She	didn’t	know	the	names	of	modern	authors,	I	don’t	suppose,
because	the	list	always	had	the	name	of	Mr.	Shakespeare	(anything	we	hadn’t
read	by	him,	for	she	didn’t	know	the	titles).	Sometimes	this	caused	Granpa	a	lot
of	trouble	with	the	librarian.	She	would	go	and	pull	out	different	stories	by	Mr.
Shakespeare	and	read	the	titles.	If	Granpa	still	couldn’t	remember	by	the	title,
she	would	have	to	read	a	page—sometimes	Granpa	would	tell	her	to	keep
reading,	and	she	would	read	several	pages.	Sometimes	I	would	recognize	the
story	before	Granpa,	and	I	would	pull	on	his	pants	leg	and	nod	at	him	that	we
had	read	that	one,	but	it	got	to	where	it	was	kind	of	a	contest—Granpa	trying	to
say	before	I	recognized	it,	and	then	changing	his	mind,	and	this	got	the	librarian
all	confused.
She	fretted	some	at	first,	and	asked	Granpa	what	he	wanted	with	books	if	he
couldn’t	read,	and	Granpa	explained	that	Granma	read	us	the	books.	After	that
she	kept	her	own	list	of	what	we	had	read.	She	was	nice	and	smiled	when	we
came	in	the	door.	Once	she	gave	me	a	stick	of	red	striped	candy	which	I	saved
until	we	were	outside.	I	broke	it	in	two	and	split	with	Granpa.	He	would	only
take	the	little	piece,	as	I	didn’t	break	it	exactly	even.
We	kept	the	dictionary	checked	out	all	the	time,	as	I	had	to	learn	five	words
a	week,	starting	at	the	front,	which	caused	me	considerable	trouble,	since	I	had
to	try	to	make	up	sentences	in	my	talk	through	the	week	using	the	words.	This	is
hard,	when	all	the	words	you	learn	for	the	week	start	with	A,	or	B	if	you’re	into
the	B’s.
But	there	were	other	books;	one	was	The	Decline	and	Fall	of	the	Roman
Empire	…	and	there	were	authors	like	Shelley	and	Byron	that	Granma	hadn’t
known	about,	but	the	librarian	sent	them	along.
Granma	read	slowly,	bending	her	head	to	the	book	with	her	long	hair	plaits
trailing	to	the	floor.	Granpa	rocked	with	a	slow	creak,	back	and	forth,	and	when
we	got	to	an	exciting	place,	I	always	knew,	because	Granpa	stopped	rocking.
When	Granma	read	about	Macbeth,	I	could	see	the	castle	and	the	witches
taking	shape	in	the	shadows,	alive	on	the	cabin	walls,	and	I’d	edge	closer	to
Granpa’s	rocker.	He’d	stop	rocking	when	Granma	got	to	the	stabbings	and	the
blood	and	all.	Granpa	said	none	of	it	would	come	about	if	Lady	Macbeth	had
minded	doing	what	a	woman	was	supposed	to	do	and	kept	her	nose	out	of	the
business	that	rightly	ought	to	have	been	done	by	Mr.	Macbeth,	and	besides,	she
wasn’t	much	of	a	lady,	and	he	couldn’t	figure	out	why	she	was	called	such,
anyhow.	Granpa	said	all	this	in	the	heat	of	the	first	reading.	Later	on,	after	he	had
mulled	it	over	in	his	mind,	he	commented	that	something	was	undoubtedly
wrong	with	the	woman	(he	refused	to	call	her	Lady).	He	said,	however,	he	had
seen	a	doe	deer	one	time,	that	was	in	heat	and	couldn’t	find	a	buck,	go	slap-dab
mad,	running	into	trees	and	finally	drowning	herself	in	the	creek.	He	said	there
was	no	way	of	knowing,	because	Mr.	Shakespeare	didn’t	indicate	as	such,	but	it
all	could	be	laid	at	the	door	of	Mr.	Macbeth—and	indications	was	along	that	line
—as	the	man	seemed	to	have	trouble	doing	just	about	anything.
He	worried	about	it	considerable,	but	finally	settled	on	laying	the	biggest
part	of	the	fault	on	Mrs.	Macbeth,	because	she	could	have	taken	out	her	heat-
meanness	in	other	ways,	such	as	buttin’	her	head	agin’	a	wall,	if	nothing	else,
instead	of	killing	folks.
Granpa	taken	the	side	of	Julius	Caesar	in	his	killing.	He	said	he	couldn’t	put
his	stamp	on	everything	Mr.	Caesar	done—and,	in	fact,	had	no	way	of	knowing
all	he	had	done—but	he	said	that	was	the	low-downest	bunch	he’d	ever	heard	of,
Brutus	and	all	the	others,	the	way	they	went	slipping	up	on	a	feller,
outnumbering	him	and	stabbing	him	to	death.	He	said	if	they	had	a	difference
with	Mr.	Caesar,	they’d	ought	to	made	theirselves	known	and	settled	it	square
out.	He	got	so	het	up	about	it	that	Granma	had	to	quiet	him	down.	She	said	we
was,	all	present,	in	support	of	Mr.	Caesar	at	his	killing,	so	there	wasn’t	anybody
for	him	to	argue	with,	and	anyhow,	it	happened	so	long	ago,	she	doubted	if
anything	could	be	done	about	it	now.
But	where	we	run	into	real	trouble	was	over	George	Washington.	To	understand
what	it	meant	to	Granpa,	you	have	to	know	something	of	the	background.
Granpa	had	all	the	natural	enemies	of	a	mountain	man.	Add	on	to	that	he
was	poor	without	saying	and	more	Indian	than	not.	I	suppose	today,	the	enemies
would	be	called	“the	establishment,”	but	to	Granpa,	whether	sheriff,	state	or
federal	revenue	agent,	or	politician	of	any	stripe,	he	called	them	“the	law,”
meaning	powerful	monsters	who	had	no	regard	for	how	folks	had	to	live	and	get
by.
Granpa	said	he	was	a	“man,	full-growed	and	standing”	before	he	knowed	it
was	agin’	the	law	to	make	whiskey.	He	said	he	had	a	cousin	who	never	did
know,	and	went	to	his	grave-mound	not	knowing.	He	said	his	cousin	always
suspicioned	that	the	law	had	it	in	for	him	because	he	didn’t	vote	“right”;	but	he
never	could	figure	exactly	which	was	the	right	way	to	vote.	Granpa	always
believed	that	his	cousin	fretted	himself	into	an	early	grave,	worrying	at	voting
time	which	was	the	way	to	vote,	in	order	to	clear	up	his	“trouble.”	He	got	so
nervous	about	it,	he	taken	to	heavy	drinking	spells,	which	eventually	killed	him.
Granpa	laid	his	death	at	the	door	of	the	politicians,	who,	he	said,	were
responsible	for	just	about	all	the	killings	in	history	if	you	could	check	up	on	it.
In	reading	the	old	history	book	in	later	years,	I	discovered	that	Granma	had
skipped	the	chapters	about	George	Washington	fighting	the	Indians,	and	I	know
that	she	had	read	only	the	good	about	George	Washington	to	give	Granpa
someone	to	look	to	and	admire.	He	had	no	regard	whatsoever	for	Andrew
Jackson	and,	as	I	say,	nobody	else	in	politics	that	I	can	call	to	mind.
After	listening	to	Granma’s	readings,	Granpa	began	to	refer	to	George
Washington	in	many	of	his	comments	…	holding	him	out	as	the	big	hope	that
there	could	be	a	good	man	in	politics.
Until	Granma	slipped	up	and	read	about	the	whiskey	tax.
She	read	where	George	Washington	was	going	to	put	a	tax	on	whiskey-
makers	and	decide	who	could	make	whiskey	and	who	couldn’t.	She	read	where
Mr.	Thomas	Jefferson	told	George	Washington	that	it	was	the	wrong	thing	to	do;
that	poor	mountain	farmers	didn’t	have	nothing	but	little	hillside	patches,	and
couldn’t	raise	much	corn	like	the	big	landowners	in	the	flatlands	did.	She	read
where	Mr.	Jefferson	warned	that	the	only	way	the	mountain	folk	had	of	realizing
a	profit	from	their	corn	was	to	make	it	into	whiskey,	and	that	it	had	caused
trouble	in	Ireland	and	Scotland	(as	a	matter	of	fact	that’s	where	Scotch	whiskey
got	its	burnt	taste—from	fellers	having	to	run	from	the	King’s	men	and	leaving
their	pots	to	scorch).	But	George	Washington	wouldn’t	listen,	and	he	put	on	the
whiskey	tax.
It	hit	Granpa	deep.	He	stopped	his	rocker	but	he	didn’t	say	anything,	just
stared	into	the	fire	with	a	lost	look	in	his	eyes.	Granma	felt	sorry	about	it	for
after	the	reading	she	patted	Granpa	on	his	shoulder	and	slipped	her	arm	around
his	waist	as	they	went	off	to	bed.	I	felt	might	near	as	bad	about	it	as	Granpa.
It	was	a	month	later,	when	me	and	Granpa	was	on	the	way	to	the	settlement	that
I	realized	how	he	had	been	taken	under.	We	had	walked	down	the	trail,	Granpa
leading,	onto	the	wagon	ruts	…	and	then	alongside	the	road.	Every	once	in	a
while	a	car	passed	us	but	Granpa	never	looked	around	for	he	never	accepted	a
ride.	But	of	a	sudden,	a	car	pulled	up	beside	us.	It	was	an	open	car,	without
windows,	and	had	a	canvas	top	on	it.	The	man	inside	was	dressed	up	like	a
politician	and	I	knew	Granpa	wouldn’t	ride,	but	I	got	a	surprise.
The	feller	leaned	over	and	hollered	above	the	chugging	sound,	“Want	a
ride?”
Granpa	stood	for	just	a	minute,	then	said,	“Thankee,”	and	got	in,	motioning
for	me	to	get	in	the	back.	Down	the	road	we	went,	and	it	was	exciting	to	me	at
how	fast	we	covered	ground.
Now	Granpa	always	stood	and	sat	straight	as	an	arrow,	but	sitting	in	the	car
with	his	hat	on,	he	was	too	tall.	He	refused	to	slouch,	so	he	was	forced	to	bend,
back	straight,	toward	the	windshield.	This	gave	him	the	appearance	of	studying
the	driving	of	the	politician	at	the	wheel,	as	well	as	the	road	ahead.	It	made	the
politician	nervous,	I	could	tell,	but	Granpa	didn’t	pay	him	any	mind	whatsoever.
Finally,	the	politician	said,	“Going	into	town?”
Granpa	said,	“Yep.”	We	rode	along	some	more.
“Are	you	a	farmer?”
“Some,”	Granpa	said.
“I’m	a	professor	at	the	State	Teachers	College,”	the	professor	said,	and	I
thought	he	sounded	right	uppity	about	it,	though	I	was	surprised	and	pleased	that
he	wasn’t	a	politician.	Granpa	didn’t	say	anything.
“Are	you	Indian?”	the	professor	asked.
“Yep,”	Granpa	said.
“Oh,”	said	the	professor,	like	that	explained	me	and	Granpa	entirely.
Of	a	sudden,	Granpa	whirled	his	head	toward	the	professor	and	said,	“What
do	you	know	about	George	Washington	puttin’	on	the	whiskey	tax?”	You	would
of	thought	that	Granpa	had	reached	over	and	slapped	the	professor.
“The	whiskey	tax?”	he	shouted,	real	loud.
“Yep,”	Granpa	said,	“the	whiskey	tax.”
The	professor	looked	red	and	nervous	of	a	sudden,	and	it	dawned	on	me
that	he	might	have	had	something	personal	to	do	with	puttin’	the	whiskey	tax	on
himself.
“I	don’t	know,”	he	said.	“Do	you	mean	the	General	George	Washington?”
“Was	they	more	than	one?”	Granpa	asked	him,	surprised.	It	surprised	me
too.
“Noooo,”	the	professor	said,	“but	I	don’t	know	anything	about	it.”	Which
sounded	kind	of	suspicious	to	me,	and	I	could	see	it	didn’t	set	well	with	Granpa
either.	The	professor	looked	straight	ahead,	and	it	seemed	to	me	we	was	going
faster	and	faster.	Granpa	was	studying	the	road	ahead	through	the	windshield,
and	I	knew	right	then	why	we	had	taken	the	ride.
Granpa	spoke	again,	but	his	tone	didn’t	hold	much	hope,	“Do	ye	know	if
General	Washington	ever	got	a	lick	on	the	head—I	mean	in	all	them	battles
maybe	a	rifle	ball	hit	him	on	the	side	of	the	head?”	The	professor	didn’t	look	at
Granpa	and	was	acting	more	nervous	all	the	time.
“I,	that	is,”	he	stuttered,	“I	teach	English	and	I	don’t	know	anything	about
George	Washington.”
We	reached	the	edge	of	the	settlement	and	Granpa	said	we	would	get	out.
We	wasn’t	anywheres	near	into	where	we	was	going.	When	we	got	out	on	the
side	of	the	road,	Granpa	taken	off	his	hat	to	thank	the	professor,	but	he	didn’t
hardly	wait	for	us	to	hit	the	ground	before	he	spun	off	in	a	cloud	of	dust.	Granpa
said	it	was	about	the	kind	of	manners	he	expected	from	folks	like	that.	He	agreed
that	the	professor	acted	suspicious,	and	that	he	could	have	been	a	politician
making	out	to	be	a	professor.	He	said	lots	of	politicians	moved	around	amongst
honest	people	claiming	they	wasn’t	politicians.	But,	Granpa	said,	you	couldn’t
discount	him	being	a	professor,	for	he	had	heard	that	more	of	them	was	crazy
than	not.
Granpa	said	he	figured	George	Washington	took	a	lick	on	the	head	some
way	or	other	in	all	his	fighting,	which	accounted	for	an	action	like	the	whiskey
tax.	He	said	he	had	an	uncle	once	that	was	kicked	in	the	head	by	a	mule	and
never	was	quite	right	after	that;	though	he	said	he	had	his	private	opinion	(never
stated	public)	that	his	uncle	used	that	on	occasion;	like	the	time	a	feller	come
home	to	his	cabin	and	caught	his	uncle	in	bed	with	the	feller’s	wife.	He	said	his
uncle	run	out	in	the	yard	on	all	fours,	hunkered	down	like	a	hog	and	commenced
to	eat	dirt.	But,	he	said,	nobody	could	tell	whether	he	was	puttin’	it	on	or	not	…
leastwise,	the	feller	couldn’t.	Granpa	said	his	uncle	lived	to	a	ripe	age	and	died
peaceable	in	his	bedstead.	Anyway,	he	said	it	wasn’t	for	him	to	judge.	The
condition	of	George	Washington	sounded	reasonable	to	me	and	could	of
accounted	for	some	of	his	other	troubles.
Fox	and	Hounds
It	was	late	of	a	winter	afternoon	when	Granpa	took	ol’	Maud	and	Ringer	into
the	cabin	because	he	said	he	didn’t	want	them	embarrassed	before	the	other
hounds.	I	figured	something	was	to	happen.	Granma	already	knew.	Her	eyes
were	twinkling	like	black	lights	and	she	put	a	deer	shirt	on	me,	just	like
Granpa’s,	and	placed	her	hand	on	my	shoulder	like	she	done	him,	and	I	felt
might	near	growed-up.
I	didn’t	ask,	but	I	hung	around.	Granma	gave	me	a	sack	with	biscuits	and
meat	and	said,	“I’ll	sit	on	the	porch	tonight	and	listen;	and	I	will	hear	you.”
We	went	into	the	yard	and	Granpa	whistled	up	the	dogs	and	off	we	set,	up
the	hollow	by	the	spring	branch.	The	hounds	ran	back	and	forth,	hurrying	us	up.
Granpa	kept	his	hounds	for	only	two	reasons.	One	was	his	corn	patch	where
every	spring	and	summer,	he	assigned	ol’	Maud	and	Ringer	to	stay	and	guard
against	deer,	’coon,	hogs	and	crow	getting	all	his	corn.
Like	Granpa	said,	ol’	Maud	had	no	smell	sense	at	all	and	was	practical
worthless	on	a	fox	trail;	but	she	had	keen	hearing	and	eyesight,	and	this	gave	her
something	she	could	do	and	take	pride	in	knowing	she	was	of	worth.	Granpa
said	if	a	hound	or	anybody	else	has	got	no	feeling	of	worth,	then	it’s	a	bad	thing.
Ringer	had	been	a	good	trail	dog.	He	was	getting	old	now.	His	tail	was
broke,	which	made	him	look	disheartened,	and	he	couldn’t	see	nor	hear	very
well.	Granpa	said	he	put	Ringer	with	ol’	Maud	so	he	could	help	and	feel	that	he
was	of	worth	in	his	old	age;	that	it	sort	of	dignified	him,	which	it	did	for	Ringer
walked	around	right	stiff-legged	and	dignified,	especially	during	the	periods
when	he	was	working	at	the	corn	patch.
Granpa	fed	ol’	Maud	and	Ringer	at	the	barn	up	in	the	hollow	during	corn
raising	time,	for	this	wasn’t	far	from	the	corn	patch.	They	stayed	there	faithful.
Ol’	Maud	was	Ringer’s	eyes	and	ears.	She	would	see	something	in	the	corn
patch	and	take	off	after	it,	raising	howls	like	she	owned	that	corn	patch,	and
Ringer	would	follow,	doing	the	same.
They’d	go	crashing	through	the	corn;	and	maybe	ol’	Maud	would	run	right
past	a	’coon	if	she	didn’t	see	it,	for	she	sure	couldn’t	smell	it	…	but	Ringer,
following	behind	her,	could.	He’d	put	his	nose	to	the	ground	and	go	braying	after
that	’coon.	He’d	run	that	’coon	out	of	the	patch	and	hold	onto	his	trail	by	smell
until	he	run	into	a	tree.	Then	he’d	come	back	kind	of	sad;	but	him	and	ol’	Maud
never	give	up.	They	done	their	job.
The	other	reason	Granpa	kept	hounds	was	for	pure	fun,	trailing	fox.	He
never	used	dogs	to	hunt	game.	He	didn’t	need	them.	Granpa	knew	the	watering
and	feeding	places,	the	habit	and	trails,	even	the	thinking	and	character	of	all	the
game,	far	better	than	any	hound	could	learn.
The	red	fox	runs	in	a	circle	when	he	is	chased	by	hounds.	With	his	den	in
the	center,	he	will	start	on	a	circle	swing	that	measures	maybe	a	mile,	sometimes
more,	across	the	middle.	All	the	time	he’s	running,	he’ll	use	tricks:	backtracking,
running	in	water	and	laying	false	trails;	but	he’ll	stick	to	the	circle.	As	he	grows
tired,	he	will	make	the	circle	smaller	and	smaller,	until	he	retreats	to	his	den.	He
“dens	up,”	they	call	it.
The	more	he	runs,	the	hotter	he	gets,	and	his	mouth	sweats	out	stronger
smells	that	the	dogs	pick	up	on	the	trail,	and	so	get	louder	with	their	baying.	It	is
called	a	“hot	trail.”
When	the	gray	fox	runs,	he	runs	in	a	figure	8,	and	his	den	is	just	about
where	he	crosses	his	trail	each	time	to	make	the	8.
Granpa	knew	the	thinking	of	the	’coon	too	and	laughed	at	his	mischievous	ways,
and	swore	a	solemn	oath	that,	on	occasion,	the	’coon	had	laughed	at	him.	He
knew	where	the	turkey	ran,	and	could	track	a	bee	from	water	to	hive	with	a	look
of	his	eye.	He	could	make	the	deer	come	to	him,	because	he	knew	his	curious
nature;	and	he	could	ease	through	a	covey	of	quail	without	stirring	a	wing.	But
he	never	bothered	them,	except	for	what	he	needed	and	I	know	they	understood.
Granpa	lived	with	the	game,	not	at	it.	The	white	mountain	men	were	a
hardy	lot	and	Granpa	bore	with	them	well.	But	they	would	take	their	dogs	and
clatter	all	over	the	mountains	chasing	game	this	way	and	that,	until	everything
run	for	cover.	If	they	saw	a	dozen	turkey,	why	they	killed	a	dozen	turkey,	if	they
could.
But	they	respected	Granpa	as	a	master	woodsman.	I	could	see	it	in	their
eyes	and	the	touching	of	their	hat	brims	when	they	met	him	at	the	crossroads
store.	They	stayed	out	of	Granpa’s	hollows	and	mountains	with	their	guns	and
dogs,	whilst	they	complained	a	lot	about	the	game	getting	scarcer	and	scarcer
where	they	was.	Granpa	often	shook	his	head	at	their	comments	and	never	said
anything.	But	he	told	me.	They	would	never	understand	The	Way	of	the
Cherokee.
With	the	dogs	loping	behind,	I	trotted	close	behind	Granpa,	because	it	was
that	mysterious,	exciting	time	in	the	hollows	when	the	sun	had	sunk	and	the	light
faded	from	red	to	shady	blood,	and	kept	changing	and	darkening,	as	if	the
daylight	was	alive	but	dying.	Even	the	dusk	breeze	was	sly	with	a	whisper	as	if	it
had	things	to	tell	that	it	couldn’t	say	out	open.
The	game	was	going	to	its	beds	and	the	night	creatures	was	coming	out	for
the	hunt.	As	we	passed	the	meadow	by	the	barn,	Granpa	stopped	and	I	stood
practical	under	him.
An	owl	was	flying	toward	us	down	the	hollow,	moving	in	the	air	no	higher
than	Granpa’s	head;	and	passed	right	by,	making	no	sound,	not	a	whisper	nor
whir	of	wing	and	settled	silent	as	a	ghost	in	the	barn.
“Screech	owl,”	Granpa	said,	“the	one	ye	hear	sometimes	at	night	that
sounds	like	a	woman	paining.	Going	to	catch	some	rats.”	I	sure	didn’t	want	to
disturb	that	ol’	owl	and	rat	catching,	and	kept	Granpa	between	me	and	the	barn
as	we	passed.
Dark	fell	in	close,	and	the	mountains	moved	in	on	either	side	as	we	walked.
Before	long,	we	came	to	a	Y	in	the	trail,	and	Granpa	taken	the	left.	Now	there
was	no	more	room	for	the	trail	except	right	on	the	edge	of	the	spring	branch.
Granpa	called	this	the	“Narrows.”	Seemed	like	you	could	stretch	out	your	arms
on	either	side	and	touch	the	mountains.	Straight	up	they	went,	dark	and	feathered
with	treetops,	and	left	a	thin	slice	of	stars	above	us.
Way	off,	a	mourning	dove	called,	long	and	throaty,	and	the	mountains
picked	it	up	and	echoed	the	sound	over	and	over,	carrying	it	farther	and	farther
away	until	you	wondered	how	many	mountains	and	hollows	that	call	would
travel—and	it	died	away,	so	far,	it	was	more	like	a	memory	than	a	sound.
It	was	lonesome,	and	I	trotted	right	up	on	Granpa’s	heels.	None	of	the
hounds	stayed	behind	me,	which	I	wished	they	would.	They	stayed	ahead	of
Granpa,	running	back	to	him	now	and	then,	whining	and	wanting	him	to	send
them	off	trailing.
The	Narrows	sloped	upward,	and	before	long	I	could	hear	big	water
running.	It	was	a	creek	that	crossed	what	Granpa	called	“Hangin’	Gap.”
We	moved	off	the	trail,	up	into	the	mountain	above	the	creek.	Granpa	sent
the	dogs	off.	All	he	had	to	do	was	point	and	say,	“Go!”	and	off	they	went,	giving
little	yelps,	like	young’uns	going	berry	picking	Granpa	said.
We	sat	down	in	a	pine	thicket	above	the	creek.	It	was	warm.	Pine	thickets
give	off	heat,	but	if	it’s	summertime,	you	want	to	sit	amongst	oak	or	hickory	or
some	such,	because	pine	gets	plumb	hot.
The	stars	were	watering	and	moving	around	in	the	creek,	riding	on	ripples
and	splashes.	Granpa	said	we	could	commence	to	listen	for	the	hounds	in	a	little
while,	when	they	picked	up	ol’	Slick’s	trail.	That’s	what	he	called	the	fox.
Granpa	said	we	was	in	ol’	Slick’s	territory.	He	said	he	had	knowed	him
about	five	years.	Most	people	think	that	all	fox	hunters	kill	foxes,	but	it’s	not
true.	Granpa	never	killed	a	fox	in	his	life.	The	reason	for	fox	hunting	is	the
hounds—to	listen	to	their	trailing.	Granpa	always	called	off	the	hounds	when	the
fox	denned	up.
Granpa	said	that	when	things	had	got	monotonous	for	ol’	Slick	he	had	gone
so	far	as	to	come	and	set	in	the	edge	of	the	cabin	clearing,	trying	to	get	Granpa
and	the	hounds	to	trail	him.	It	sometimes	caused	Granpa	all	manner	of	trouble
with	the	hounds,	as	they	yelped	and	bayed,	with	ol’	Slick	leading	them	up	the
hollow.
Granpa	said	he	liked	to	slip	up	on	ol’	Slick	when	he	was	cantankerous	and
not	in	the	mood	for	trailing.	When	a	fox	wants	to	den	up,	he	will	use	ingenious
tricks	to	throw	off	the	hounds.	When	he	is	playful,	he	will	play	all	over	the
countryside.	He	said	the	best	part	was	that	ol’	Slick	would	know	he	was	being
paid	back	for	sashaying	around	the	cabin	and	troubling	Granpa.
Sure	enough,	the	moon	broke	over	the	mountain,	a	quarter	used	up.	It	sprinkled
patterns	through	the	pines	and	splashed	lights	off	the	creek,	and	made	thin	silver
boats	of	the	fog	tearings	sailing	slow	through	the	Narrows.
Granpa	leaned	back	against	a	pine	and	spraddled	out	his	legs.	I	done	the
same	thing,	and	put	the	vittle	sack	right	by	me	as	it	was	my	responsibility.	Not
far	off	a	big	bay	sounded,	long	and	hollow.
“That’s	ol’	Rippitt,”	Granpa	said,	and	laughed	low,	“and	it’s	a	damn	lie.
Rippitt	knows	what’s	wanted	…	but	he	can’t	wait,	so	he	makes	out	like	he’s	hit	a
trail-scent.	Listen	to	how	falsified	his	bay	sounds.	He	knows	he’s	a’lying.”	Sure
enough,	it	did	sound	that-a-way.
“He’s	damn	shore	lying,”	I	said.	Me	and	Granpa	could	cuss	when	we	wasn’t
around	Granma.
In	a	minute	the	other	hounds	let	him	know,	as	they	howled	around	him,	not
baying.	In	the	mountains	they	call	such	a	“bluffer	dog.”	There	was	silence	again.
In	a	little	while	a	deep	bay	broke	the	stillness.	It	was	long	and	far	off,	and	I
knew	right	then	it	was	the	real	thing,	because	it	carried	excitement	in	it.	The
other	hounds	took	it	up.
“That	was	Blue	Boy,”	Granpa	said,	“up	and	comin’	to	have	the	best	nose	in
the	mountains;	and	that’s	Little	Red	right	behind	him	…	and	there’s	Bess.”
Another	bay	chimed	in,	this	one	kind	of	frantic.	Granpa	said,	“And	there’s	ol’
Rippitt,	gittin’	in	on	the	last.”
They	was	in	full	voice	now,	moving	farther	and	farther	away,	their	chorus
echoing	backward	and	forward	until	it	sounded	like	hounds	all	around.	Then	the
sound	disappeared.
“They’re	on	the	backside	of	Clinch	Mountain,”	Granpa	said.	I	listened	hard,
but	I	couldn’t	hear	anything.
A	nighthawk	went	“SEEeeeeeee!”	from	the	side	of	the	mountain	behind	us,
cutting	the	air	with	a	sharp	whistle.	Across	the	creek,	a	hoot	owl	answered	him,
“WHO	…	WHO	…WHOAREYouuuuu!”
Granpa	laughed	low.	“Owl	stays	in	the	hollow,	hawk	stays	on	the	ridges.
Sometimes	ol’	hawk	figures	there’s	easy	pickins	around	the	water	and	ol’	owl
don’t	like	it.”
A	fish	flopped	a	splash	in	the	creek.	I	was	beginning	to	get	worried.
“Reckin,”	I	whispered	to	Granpa,	“that	them	hounds	is	lost?”
“Nope,”	Granpa	said,	“we’ll	hear	’em	in	a	minute,	and	they’ll	come	out	on
t’other	side	of	Clinch	Mountain	and	run	across	that	ridge	in	front	of	us.”
Sure	enough	they	did.	First	they	sounded	far-off,	then	louder	and	louder;
and	they	came,	baying	and	yelping,	longways	along	the	ridge	facing	us	and
crossed	the	creek	somewhere	down	below.	Then	they	came	along	the	side	of	the
mountain	behind	us	and	set	off	again	for	Clinch	Mountain.	This	time	they	ran	on
the	near	side	of	Clinch	Mountain	and	we	heard	them	all	the	way	across	it.
“Ol’	Slick	is	tightening	up	the	circle,”	Granpa	said,	“this	time,	after	they
cross	the	creek,	ol’	Slick	may	lead	’em	right	in	front	of	us.”	Granpa	was	right.
We	heard	them	splashing	across	the	creek	not	far	below	us	…	and	while	they
was	splashing	and	baying	Granpa	set	up	straight	and	grabbed	my	arm.
“There	he	is,”	Granpa	whispered.	And	there	he	was.	Coming	along	through
willow	poles	on	the	creek	bank,	it	was	ol’	Slick.	He	was	trotting,	with	his	tongue
hanging	out	and	a	bushy	tail	dangling	kind	of	careless	behind	him.	He	had
pointed	ears,	and	he	jogged	along	real	pickety,	taking	his	time	to	go	around	a	pile
of	brush.	Once	he	stopped,	lifted	a	front	paw	and	licked	it;	then	he	turned	his
head	back	toward	the	baying	of	the	hounds	and	came	on.
Down	in	front	of	me	and	Granpa,	there	were	some	rocks	that	stuck	up	in	the
water,	five	or	six	of	them	that	went	out	nearly	to	the	middle	of	the	creek.	When
ol’	Slick	reached	where	the	rocks	were,	he	stopped	and	looked	back,	like	he	was
judging	how	far	away	the	hounds	was.	Then	he	sat	down,	calm	as	you	please
with	his	back	to	us,	and	just	sat	there,	looking	at	the	creek.	The	moon	glinted	red
off	his	coat,	and	the	hounds	was	coming	closer.
Granpa	squeezed	my	arm.	“Watch	him	now!”	Ol’	Slick	jumped	from	the
creek	bank	out	onto	the	first	rock.	He	stopped	there	a	minute	and	danced	on	the
rock.	Then	he	jumped	to	the	next	one	and	danced	again,	then	the	next	and	the
next	until	he	reached	the	last	one,	nearly	in	the	middle	of	the	creek.
Then	he	came	back,	jumping	from	rock	to	rock,	until	he	reached	the	one
closest	to	the	creek	bank.	He	stopped	and	listened	again;	then	stepped	into	the
water	and	splashed	up	the	creek,	until	he	was	out	of	sight.	He	sure	cut	the	time
close,	because	he	had	no	more	than	disappeared	when	here	come	the	hounds.
Blue	Boy	was	leading	with	his	nose	right	on	the	ground.	Ol’	Rippitt	was
crowding	him,	and	Bess	and	Little	Red	was	bunched	right	behind.	Now	and
then,	one	of	them	would	raise	their	nose	and	give	out	a
“OOOWOOOOoooooooooh!”	that	tingled	your	blood.
They	came	to	where	the	rocks	went	out	into	the	creek	and	Blue	Boy	never
hesitated;	out	he	went,	jumping	from	rock	to	rock,	and	the	rest	of	them	right
behind.
When	they	reached	the	last	rock	in	the	middle	of	the	creek,	Blue	Boy
stopped	but	ol’	Rippitt	didn’t.	He	jumped	right	in,	like	there	wasn’t	no	doubt
about	it,	and	started	swimming	for	the	other	bank.	Bess	jumped	in	behind	him
and	started	swimming	too.
Blue	Boy	raised	his	nose	and	commenced	to	sniff	the	air,	and	Little	Red
stayed	there	on	the	rock	with	him.	In	a	minute	here	come	Blue	Boy	and	Little
Red	jumping	back	on	the	rocks	toward	us.	They	reached	the	bank,	and	Blue	Boy
led	the	way.	Then	he	hit	ol’	Slick’s	trail	and	bayed	long	and	loud,	and	Little	Red
chimed	in.
Bess	reversed	herself	while	she	was	still	swimming	and	come	back,	while
ol’	Rippitt	was	running	up	and	down	the	other	bank	at	a	total	loss.	He	was
howling	and	yelping	and	running	back	and	forth	with	his	nose	on	the	ground.
When	he	heard	Blue	Boy,	he	hit	the	creek	water	in	a	dive	and	swam	so	hard	he
splashed	water	over	his	head	until	he	made	it	to	the	bank	and	taken	up	the	trail
behind	the	rest	of	them.
Me	and	Granpa	laughed	so	hard	we	nearly	fell	off	the	mountain.	I	did	lose
my	foot-bracing	hold	on	a	pine	sapling	and	rolled	into	cocklebur	bushes.	Granpa
pulled	me	out	and	we	was	still	laughing	while	we	picked	the	burrs	out	of	my
hair.
Granpa	said	he	knowed	ol’	Slick	would	pull	that	trick,	and	that’s	why	he
chose	the	place	for	us	to	set.	He	said	that,	without	a	doubt,	ol’	Slick	had	set	close
by	and	watched	the	dogs	his	own	self.
Granpa	said	the	reason	ol’	Slick	had	waited	so	long	for	the	hounds	to	get
close	is	that	he	wanted	his	scent	to	be	fresh	on	the	rocks,	figuring	that	the
hounds’	feelings	would	take	over	from	their	sense,	when	they	got	excited.	It
worked	too,	with	ol’	Rippitt	and	Bess;	but	not	with	Blue	Boy	and	Little	Red.
Granpa	said	he	had	many’s	the	time	seen	that	same	kind	of	thing,	feelings
taking	over	sense,	make	as	big	a	fools	out	of	people	as	it	had	ol’	Rippitt.	Which	I
reckin	is	so.
It	had	broke	day	and	I	hadn’t	even	noticed.	Me	and	Granpa	moved	down	to
the	creek	bank	clearing	and	et	our	sour	biscuits	and	meat.	The	dogs	was	baying
back	around	and	coming	along	the	ridge	in	front	of	us.
The	sun	topped	the	mountain,	sparkling	the	trees	across	the	creek	and
brought	out	brush	wrens	and	a	red	cardinal.
Granpa	slid	his	knife	under	the	bark	of	a	cedar	tree	and	made	a	dipper	by
twisting	one	end	of	the	bark.	We	dipped	water	from	the	creek,	cold,	where	you
could	see	the	pebbles	on	the	bottom.	The	water	had	a	cedary	taste	that	made	me
hungrier,	but	we	had	et	all	the	biscuits.
Granpa	said	ol’	Slick	might	come	up	the	farther	creek	bank	this	time,	and
we	would	get	to	see	him	again;	but	we	would	have	to	sit	quiet.	I	didn’t	move,	not
even	when	the	ants	crawled	up	on	my	foot,	though	I	wanted	to.
Granpa	saw	them,	and	said	it	was	all	right	to	brush	them	off—ol’	Slick
wouldn’t	see	me	do	that.	Which	I	did.
In	a	little	while	the	hounds	were	below	us	again,	down	the	creek,	and	then
we	saw	him,	lazying	up	the	creek	bank	on	the	other	side	with	his	tongue	hanging
out.	Granpa	give	a	low	whistle	and	ol’	Slick	stopped	and	stared	across	the	creek
at	us.	He	stood	there	a	minute,	with	his	eyes	crinkled	up	like	he	was	grinning	at
us;	then	he	snorted	and	trotted	on	out	of	sight.
Granpa	said	ol’	Slick	snorted	because	he	was	disgusted,	being	caused	all
this	inconvenience.	I	remembered	ol’	Slick	had	it	coming	to	him.
Granpa	said	some	fellers	told	that	they	had	heard	about	foxes	“swapping
out,”	but	he	had	actually	seen	it.	He	said	years	ago,	he	had	been	fox	trailing	and
was	sittin’	on	a	hillock	above	a	meadow	clearing.	He	said	the	fox,	a	red	one,
come	along	with	the	hounds	behind	him	and	stopped	at	a	hollow	tree	and	give	a
little	bark.	He	said	another	fox	come	out	of	that	hollow	tree,	and	the	first	one	got
in.	Then	the	second	fox	trotted	off,	leading	the	dogs	on	the	trail.	He	said	he
moved	close	to	that	tree	and	could	hear	that	ol’	fox	actually	snoring	while	the
hounds	was	passing	a	few	feet	from	him.	He	said	that	ol’	fox	had	so	much
confidence	in	hisself	that	he	didn’t	give	a	lick-damn	how	close	them	dogs	come
around	him.
Here	comes	Blue	Boy	and	the	pack	up	the	creek	bank.	They	bayed	every
step	or	two	…	it	was	a	strong	trail.	They	passed	out	of	sight	and	in	a	minute,	one
bay	split	off	from	the	rest	and	broke	up	into	yelps	and	howls.
Granpa	cussed.	He	said,	“Damn!	Ol’	Rippitt	is	trying	to	cut	acrost	again	and
cheat	on	ol’	Slick.	He’s	gone	and	got	hisself	lost.”	In	the	mountains,	such	is
known	as	a	“cheater	hound.”
Granpa	said	we	would	have	to	set	up	a	hollering	and	baying	ourselves	to
guide	ol’	Rippitt	back	to	us,	and	that	would	call	off	the	trailing,	because	the	other
dogs	would	come	too.	So	we	did.
I	couldn’t	give	the	long	holler	like	Granpa—it	was	almost	like	a	yodel—but
I	did	tolerable	well,	Granpa	said.
In	a	little	while	here	they	come,	and	ol’	Rippitt	was	ashamed	of	what	he	had
done.	He	hung	back	behind	the	others;	hoping,	I	reckin,	that	he	would	pass
unnoticed.	Granpa	said	it	served	him	right	and	maybe	this	time	it	would	learn
him	that	you	can’t	cheat	without	making	unnecessary	trouble	for	yourself.
Which	proves	out	as	reasonable.
The	sun	had	slanted	into	the	afternoon	when	we	left	Hangin’	Gap,	back
down	the	Narrows	toward	home.	The	dogs	dragged	their	feet	in	the	trail	and	I
knew	they	were	tired.	I	was	too	and	would	have	had	a	hard	time	making	it	if
Granpa	hadn’t	been	so	tuckered	that	he	walked	along	slow.
It	was	dusk	evening	when	we	sighted	the	cabin	clearing	and	Granma.	She
was	out	on	the	trail	to	meet	us.	She	picked	me	up,	though	I	could	have	made	it,
and	put	an	arm	around	Granpa’s	waist.	I	guess	I	was	tuckered,	for	I	fell	asleep	on
her	shoulder	and	didn’t	know	when	we	got	to	the	cabin.
“I	Kin	Ye,	Bonnie	Bee”
Looking	back,	I	guess	me	and	Granpa	was	pretty	dumb.	Not	Granpa,	when	it
come	to	mountains	or	game	or	weather	or	any	number	of	things.	But	when	you
got	into	words	and	books	and	such,	well,	me	and	Granpa	took	the	decision	to
Granma.	She	straightened	it	out.
Like	the	time	the	lady	asked	us	for	directions.
We	had	been	to	the	settlement	and	was	on	our	way	back	home,	and	pretty
heavy	loaded.	We	had	so	many	books	that	we	split	them	up.	Granpa	was	put	out
about	the	number	of	books.	He	said	the	librarian	was	pushing	too	many	on	us
every	month,	and	he	was	getting	different	people	tangled	up	in	the	stories.
For	the	past	month	he	had	been	arguing	that	Alexander	the	Great	sided	with
the	big	bankers	at	the	Continental	Congress	and	tried	to	undercut	Mr.	Jefferson.
Granma	had	been	telling	him	that	Alexander	the	Great	was	not	politicking	at	that
time,	and	as	a	matter	of	fact,	was	not	living	at	that	time.	But	Granpa	had	it	stuck
in	his	mind,	so	we	had	to	get	the	book	back	on	Alexander	the	Great.
Granpa	was	tolerable	sure	that	the	book	would	prove	out	as	to	what	Granma
said.	I	was	tolerable	sure	myself	as	I	had	never	known	Granma	to	miss	when	it
come	to	knowing	what	was	in	books.
So,	in	the	back	of	our	minds,	all	the	time,	we	knew	Granma	was	right	and
Granpa	had	come	down	pretty	heavy	on	the	idea	that	it	was	getting	too	many
books	that	was	the	cause	of	the	confusion.	Which	sounded	reasonable	to	me.
Anyhow,	I	was	carrying	one	of	Mr.	Shakespeare’s	books	and	the	dictionary,
along	with	the	can	of	coal	oil.	Granpa	had	the	rest	of	the	books	and	a	can	of
coffee.	Granma	loved	coffee	and	I	figured,	like	Granpa,	that	the	coffee	would
help	out	when	we	got	to	Alexander	the	Great,	for	the	entire	thing	had	been	a
worriment	to	Granma	for	the	solid	month.
We	was	on	the	road	from	the	settlement,	me	walking	behind	Granpa,	when	a	big
black	car	pulled	up	beside	us	and	stopped.	It	was	the	biggest	car	I	had	ever	seen.
There	were	two	ladies	and	two	men	in	the	car,	and	it	had	glass	windows	that	slid
right	down	into	the	door.
I	had	never	seen	such	before,	nor	had	Granpa,	for	we	both	watched	the
window	while	it	slid	out	of	sight	as	the	lady	cranked	on	it.	Later,	Granpa	told	me
that	he	inspected	it	right	close	and	there	was	a	narrow	slit	in	the	door	that
allowed	the	glass	to	go	down.	I	didn’t	see	it,	for	I	was	not	tall	enough.
The	lady	was	fine	dressed	with	rings	on	her	fingers	and	big	bobbles	that
hung	down	from	her	ears.
“Which	way	do	we	go	to	get	to	Chattanooga?”	she	asked,	and	you	couldn’t
hardly	hear	the	motor	running	on	the	car.
Granpa	set	the	coffee	can	down	on	the	ground	and	balanced	his	books	on
top	of	it	so	they	wouldn’t	get	dirty.	I	set	down	my	coal	oil	can;	for	Granpa
always	said	that	if	you	was	spoken	to,	treat	such	with	proper	respect	and	give
full	attention	to	what	was	being	said.	After	we	had	done	that,	Granpa	lifted	his
hat	to	the	lady,	which	seemed	like	it	made	her	feel	bad	for	she	hollered	at
Granpa,	“I	said,,	which	way	do	we	go	to	get	to	Chattanooga?	Are	you	deef?”
Granpa	said,	“No,	ma’am,	my	hearin’	and	health	is	fine	today,	thank	ye.
How’s	your’n?”	And	Granpa	meant	it;	for	it	was	custom	to	inquire	about	such	as
how	people	was	feeling.	Me	and	Granpa	was	a	little	surprised	when	the	woman
acted	like	it	made	her	mad,	but	that	could	have	been	because	the	other	folks	in
the	car	was	laughing	at	something	she	must	have	done.
She	hollered	louder,	“Are	you	going	to	tell	us	how	to	get	to	Chattanooga?”
“Why	yes,	ma’am,”	Granpa	said.
“Well,”	the	lady	said,	“tell	us!”
“Well,”	Granpa	said,	“first	off,	ye’re	headed	wrong,	which	is	east.	Ye	want
to	go	west.	Now	not	dead	west,	but	sly	off	jest	a	shade	to	the	north,	about	where
that	big	ridge	is,	over	yonder	…	and	that	ought	to	take	ye	there.”	Granpa	lifted
his	hat	again,	and	we	bent	to	take	up	our	loads.
The	lady	stuck	her	head	out	of	the	window.	“Are	you	for	real?”	she
hollered.	“What	road	do	we	take?”
Granpa	straightened	up,	surprised.	“Why,	I	reckin	whichever	one	goes	west,
ma’am—bearing	in	mind	to	sly	off	toward	the	north.”
“What	are	you,	a	couple	of	foreigners?”	the	lady	hollered.
Now	this	set	Granpa	back;	it	did	me	too,	for	I	had	never	heard	that	word,
and	I	don’t	think	Granpa	had	either.	He	looked	at	the	lady	for	a	dead	minute,	and
then	he	said,	real	firm,	“I	reckin.”
The	big	car	taken	off,	still	headed	the	way	it	had	been	going,	which	was
east,	and	the	wrong	way.	Granpa	shook	his	head	and	said	in	his	seventy-odd
years,	he	had	struck	up	with	some	crazy	people,	but	the	lady	proved	up	to	any	of
them.	I	asked	Granpa	if	she	could	have	been	a	politician,	but	he	said	he	had
never	heard	of	a	lady	being	a	politician—though	she	could	have	been	the	wife	of
one.
We	turned	off	onto	the	wagon	ruts.	Always,	on	the	way	back	from	the
settlement,	when	we	got	on	the	wagon	ruts,	I	commenced	to	think	of	something
to	ask	Granpa.	He	always	stopped	when	he	was	spoken	to,	as	I	say,	to	give	full
consideration	to	whatever	was	said.	This	gave	me	a	chance	to	catch	up.	I	reckin	I
was	little	for	my	age	(five	going	on	six)	for	the	top	of	my	head	come	just	above
Granpa’s	knees,	and	I	was	always	in	a	continual	trot	behind	him.
I	had	fallen	back	a	good	ways	and	was	trotting	hard,	so	I	had	to	might	near
holler,	“Granpa,	have	ye	ever	been	to	Chattanooga?”
Granpa	stopped.	“Noooo,”	he	said,	“but	I	nearly	went	there	oncet.”	I	caught
up	and	set	down	my	coal	oil	can.
“Must	have	been	twenty	…	maybe	thirty	years	ago,	I	reckin,”	Granpa	said.
“I	had	an	uncle,	Enoch	was	his	name,	youngest	of	Pa’s	brothers.	He	was	gittin’
age	on	him,	and	when	he	liquored	up	would	ofttimes	git	addled	in	the	head	and
wander	off.	Well,	Uncle	Enoch	disappeared	which	he	oft	did	on	high	lonesomes,
back	in	the	mountains,	but	this	time	it	stretched	out	to	three	er	four	weeks.	Set	us
to	sending	inquiries	with	travelers.	Word	come	back	that	he	was	in	Chattanooga,
in	jail.	I	was	set	to	go	and	fetch	him	out,	when	he	showed	up	at	the	cabin.”
Granpa	paused	to	give	thought	to	it,	and	begun	to	laugh.	“Yessir,	he	showed
up	barefooted,	with	nothing	but	some	old	floppy	britches	on	that	he	had	to	hold
up	with	one	hand.	He	looked	like	he	had	been	set	upon	by	boar	’coons	…	he	was
that	skint	up.	Turned	out,	he	had	walked	back	ever	step	of	the	way	through	the
mountains.”	Granpa	stopped	to	laugh,	and	I	set	down	on	the	coal	oil	can,	which
rested	my	legs.
“Uncle	Enoch	said	he	had	got	liquored	up	and	didn’t	recollect	about	how	he
got	there;	but	he	woke	up	in	a	room	in	a	bed	with	two	women.	He	said	he	had
just	commenced	to	climb	out	of	bed	and	disassociate	hisself	from	them	when	a
banging	set	up	on	the	door	and	a	big	feller	busted	in.	The	feller	was	mad	and
said	one	of	the	women	was	his	wife	and	the	other’n	was	his	sister.	Seems	like
Uncle	Enoch	had	somehow	or	other	got	associated	with	practical	the	entire
family.
“Uncle	Enoch	said	the	women	set	up	and	commenced	to	holler	fer	him	to
pay	the	feller	something,	and	said	the	feller	was	hollering,	and	Uncle	Enoch	was
casting	about	trying	to	find	his	pants.	Though	he	doubted	there	was	any	money
in	the	pockets,	he	knowed	he	had	a	cuttin’	knife;	fer	the	feller	’peared	like	he
meant	business.	But	he	couldn’t	find	his	pants,	having	no	way	in	the	world	of
knowing	what	he	done	with	them,	and	there	was	nothing	else	fer	him	to	do	so	he
leapt	out	a	window.	Trouble	was,	the	window	was	two	stories	up,	and	Uncle
Enoch	hit	spraddled	out	in	gravel	and	rock;	that’s	how	he	got	skint	up.
“He	hadn’t	a	stitch	of	clothes	on,	but	he	found	a	window	shade,	having
brought	it	down	with	him.	He	said	he	wrapped	the	window	shade	’round	his
private	parts,	and	set	about	to	hide	until	dark.	Trouble	was,	he	couldn’t	find	no
place	to	hide;	stepped	out	slap	in	the	middle	of	a	bunch	of	folks	rushing	around
this-a-way	and	that.	He	said	they	had	no	manners	at	all	and	he	liked	to	got	run
over	twicet.	The	law	got	him	and	put	him	in	jail.
“The	next	morning,	they	give	him	some	pants	and	a	shirt	and	shoes	too	big
fer	him,	and	put	him	out	with	some	more	fellers	sweeping	up	the	streets.	Uncle
Enoch	said	they	was	less	than	a	round	dozen	of	them,	all	told,	doing	the
sweeping,	and	he	didn’t	see	any	way	in	the	world	they	could	ever	git	that	place
cleaned	up.	He	said	people	was	throwing	things	down	on	the	streets	faster	than
they	could	sweep	it	up.	He	said	he	saw	no	point	at	all	to	the	thing,	and
determined	he	would	leave.	First	chancet	he	got,	he	broke	and	run.	Feller
grabbed	his	shirt,	but	he	run	out	of	it;	run	out’n	his	shoes	too,	but	he	held	up	his
pants.	He	said	he	run	into	some	trees	and	hid	out	’til	dark,	when	he	got	his
bearings	by	the	stars	and	struck	out	fer	home.	Taken	him	three	weeks	to	make	it
acrost	the	mountains,	grazing	on	acorns	and	hickor’nuts	like	a	hog.	Cured	Uncle
Enoch’s	liquoring	…	wouldn’t	never	go	near	a	settlement	again,	far	as	I	know.
Nope,”	Granpa	said,	“I	never	been	to	Chattanooga;	ain’t	goin’	neither.”
I	made	up	my	mind	right	then	that	I	wasn’t	ever	going	to	Chattanooga
myself.
We	was	at	supper	that	night	when	it	crossed	my	mind	to	ask	Granma	and	so	I
said,	“Granma,	what	is	foreigners?”
Granpa	stopped	eating,	but	he	didn’t	look	up	from	his	plate.	Granma	looked
at	me	and	then	at	Granpa.	Her	eyes	twinkled.	“Well,”	she	said,	“foreigners	is
people	that	happen	to	be	someplace	where	they	wasn’t	born.”
“Granpa	said,”	I	explained,	“that	he	reckined	we	was	foreigners.”	And	I
told	about	the	lady	in	the	big	car	and	how	she	had	said	we	was	foreigners,	and
Granpa	said	he	reckined.	Granpa	pushed	his	plate	back.	“I	reckined	that	we
wasn’t	borned	down	there	on	the	side	of	the	road,	which	made	us	foreigners	to
them	parts.	Anyhow	it’s	another	one	of	them	dadblamed	words	[he	always	used
“dadblamed”	instead	of	“damn”	in	front	of	Granma]	that	we	can	do	without.
There	is,	I	have	always	said,	too	dadblamed	many	words.”
Granma	agreed	that	there	was.	Granma	didn’t	want	to	get	into	the	word
business.	She	had	never,	for	example,	got	the	words	“knowed”	and	“throwed”
disentangled	with	Granpa.	He	said	that	“knew”	was	something	you	got	which
nobody	had	ever	used,	and	that	the	word,	therefore,	was	“knowed.”	And	he	said
“threw”	was	how	you	got	from	one	side	of	a	door	to	the	other	side,	and	therefore
it	was	“throwed.”	He	wouldn’t	budge	on	it,	as	what	he	said	made	sense.
Granpa	said	if	there	was	less	words,	there	wouldn’t	be	as	much	trouble	in
the	world.	He	said	privately	to	me	that	there	was	always	some	damn	fool	making
up	a	word	that	served	no	purpose	except	to	cause	trouble.	Which	is	reasonable.
Granpa	favored	the	sound,	or	how	you	said	a	word,	as	to	its	meaning.	He	said
folks	that	spoke	different	words	could	feel	the	same	thing	by	listening	to	the
sound	of	music.	Granma	agreed	with	him,	because	that’s	the	way	they	talked	to
each	other.
Granma’s	name	was	Bonnie	Bee.	I	knew	that	when	I	heard	him	late	at	night
say,	“I	kin	ye,	Bonnie	Bee,”	he	was	saying,	“I	love	ye,”	for	the	feeling	was	in	the
words.
And	when	they	would	be	talking	and	Granma	would	say,	“Do	ye	kin	me,
Wales?”	and	he	would	answer,	“I	kin	ye,”	it	meant,	“I	understand	ye.”	To	them,
love	and	understanding	was	the	same	thing.	Granma	said	you	couldn’t	love
something	you	didn’t	understand;	nor	could	you	love	people,	nor	God,	if	you
didn’t	understand	the	people	and	God.
Granpa	and	Granma	had	an	understanding,	and	so	they	had	a	love.	Granma
said	the	understanding	run	deeper	as	the	years	went	by,	and	she	reckined	it
would	get	beyond	anything	mortal	folks	could	think	upon	or	explain.	And	so
they	called	it	“kin.”
Granpa	said	back	before	his	time	“kinfolks”	meant	any	folks	that	you
understood	and	had	an	understanding	with,	so	it	meant	“loved	folks.”	But	people
got	selfish,	and	brought	it	down	to	mean	just	blood	relatives;	but	that	actually	it
was	never	meant	to	mean	that.
Granpa	said	when	he	was	a	little	boy	his	Pa	had	a	friend	who	ofttimes	hung
around	their	cabin.	He	said	he	was	an	old	Cherokee	named	’Coon	Jack,	and	he
was	continually	distempered	and	cantankerous.	He	couldn’t	figure	out	what	his
Pa	saw	in	old	’Coon	Jack.
He	said	they	went	irregular	to	a	little	church	house	down	in	a	hollow.	One
Sunday	it	was	testifying	time,	when	folks	would	stand	up,	as	they	felt	the	Lord
called	on	them,	and	testify	as	to	their	sins	and	how	much	they	loved	the	Lord.
Granpa	said	at	this	testifying	time,	“’Coon	Jack	stood	up	and	said,	‘I	hear
tell	they’s	some	in	here	been	talking	about	me	behind	my	back.	I	want	ye	to
know	that	I’m	awares.	I	know	what’s	the	matter	with	ye;	ye’re	jealous	because
the	Deacon	Board	put	me	in	charge	of	the	key	to	the	songbook	box.	Well,	let	me
tell	ye:	any	of	ye	don’t	like	it,	I	got	the	difference	right	here	in	my	pocket.’”
Granpa	said,	shore	enough,	’Coon	Jack	lifted	his	deer	shirt	and	showed	a
pistol	handle.	He	was	stomping	mad.
Granpa	said	that	church	house	was	full	of	some	hard	men,	including	his	Pa,
who	would	soon	as	not	shoot	you	if	the	weather	changed,	but	nobody	raised	an
eyebrow.	He	said	his	Pa	stood	up	and	said,	“’Coon	Jack,	every	man	here	admires
the	way	ye	have	handled	the	key	to	the	songbook	box.	Best	handling	ever	been
done.	If	words	has	been	mistook	to	cause	ye	discomfort,	I	here	and	now	state	the
sorrow	of	every	man	present.”
’Coon	Jack	set	down,	total	mollified	and	contented,	as	was	everybody	else.
On	the	way	home,	Granpa	asked	his	Pa	why	’Coon	Jack	could	get	away	with
such	talk,	and	Granpa	said	he	got	to	laughing	about	’Coon	Jack	acting	so
important	over	the	key	to	the	songbook	box.	He	said	his	Pa	told	him,	“Son,	don’t
laugh	at	’Coon	Jack.	Ye	see,	when	the	Cherokee	was	forced	to	give	up	his	home
and	go	to	the	Nations,	’Coon	Jack	was	young,	and	he	hid	out	in	these	mountains,
and	he	fought	to	hold	on.	When	the	War	’tween	the	States	come,	he	saw	maybe
he	could	fight	that	same	guvmint	and	get	back	the	land	and	homes.	He	fought
hard.	Both	times	he	lost.	When	the	War	ended,	the	politicians	set	in,	trying	to	git
what	was	left	of	what	we	had.	’Coon	Jack	fought,	and	run,	and	hid,	and	fought
some	more.	Ye	see,	’Coon	Jack	come	up	in	the	time	of	fighting.	All	he’s	got	now
is	the	key	to	the	songbook	box.	And	if	’Coon	Jack	seems	cantankerous	…	well,
there	ain’t	nothing	left	for	’Coon	Jack	to	fight.	He	never	knowed	nothing	else.”
Granpa	said,	he	come	might	near	crying	fer	’Coon	Jack.	He	said	after	that,
it	didn’t	matter	what	’Coon	Jack	said,	or	did	…	he	loved	him,	because	he
understood	him.
Granpa	said	that	such	was	“kin,”	and	most	of	people’s	mortal	trouble	come
about	by	not	practicing	it;	from	that	and	politicians.
I	could	see	that	right	off,	and	might	near	cried	about	’Coon	Jack	myself.
To	Know	the	Past
Granma	and	Granpa	wanted	me	to	know	of	the	past,	for	“If	ye	don’t	know	the
past,	then	ye	will	not	have	a	future.	If	ye	don’t	know	where	your	people	have
been,	then	ye	won’t	know	where	your	people	are	going.”	And	so	they	told	me
most	of	it.
How	the	government	soldiers	came.	How	the	Cherokee	had	farmed	the	rich
valleys	and	held	their	mating	dances	in	the	spring	when	life	was	planted	in	the
ground;	when	the	buck	and	doe,	the	cock	and	peahen	exulted	in	the	creation
parts	they	played.
How	their	harvest	festivals	were	held	in	the	villages	as	frost	turned	the
pumpkins,	reddened	the	persimmon	and	hardened	the	corn.	How	they	prepared
for	the	winter	hunts	and	pledged	themselves	to	The	Way.
How	the	government	soldiers	came,	and	told	them	to	sign	the	paper.	Told
them	the	paper	meant	that	the	new	white	settlers	would	know	where	they	could
settle	and	where	they	would	not	take	land	of	the	Cherokee.	And	after	they	had
signed	it,	more	government	soldiers	came	with	guns	and	long	knives	fixed	on
their	guns.	The	soldiers	said	the	paper	had	changed	its	words.	The	words	now
said	that	the	Cherokee	must	give	up	his	valleys,	his	homes	and	his	mountains.
He	must	go	far	toward	the	setting	sun,	where	the	government	had	other	land	for
the	Cherokee,	land	that	the	white	man	did	not	want.
How	the	government	soldiers	came,	and	ringed	a	big	valley	with	their	guns,
and	at	night	with	their	campfires.	They	put	the	Cherokees	in	the	ring.	They
brought	Cherokees	in	from	other	mountains	and	valleys,	in	bunches	like	cattle,
and	put	them	in	the	ring.
After	a	long	time	of	this,	when	they	had	most	of	the	Cherokees,	they
brought	wagons	and	mules	and	told	the	Cherokees	they	could	ride	to	the	land	of
the	setting	sun.	The	Cherokees	had	nothing	left.	But	they	would	not	ride,	and	so
they	saved	something.	You	could	not	see	it	or	wear	it	or	eat	it,	but	they	saved
something;	and	they	would	not	ride.	They	walked.
Government	soldiers	rode	before	them,	on	each	side	of	them,	behind	them.
The	Cherokee	men	walked	and	looked	straight	ahead	and	would	not	look	down,
nor	at	the	soldiers.	Their	women	and	their	children	followed	in	their	footsteps
and	would	not	look	at	the	soldiers.
Far	behind	them,	the	empty	wagons	rattled	and	rumbled	and	served	no	use.
The	wagons	could	not	steal	the	soul	of	the	Cherokee.	The	land	was	stolen	from
him,	his	home;	but	the	Cherokee	would	not	let	the	wagons	steal	his	soul.
As	they	passed	the	villages	of	the	white	man,	people	lined	the	trail	to	watch
them	pass.	At	first,	they	laughed	at	how	foolish	was	the	Cherokee	to	walk	with
the	empty	wagons	rattling	behind	him.	The	Cherokee	did	not	turn	his	head	at
their	laughter,	and	soon	there	was	no	laughter.
And	as	the	Cherokee	walked	farther	from	his	mountains,	he	began	to	die.
His	soul	did	not	die,	nor	did	it	weaken.	It	was	the	very	young	and	the	very	old
and	the	sick.
At	first	the	soldiers	let	them	stop	to	bury	their	dead;	but	then,	more	died—
by	the	hundreds—by	the	thousands.	More	than	a	third	of	them	were	to	die	on	the
Trail.	The	soldiers	said	they	could	only	bury	their	dead	every	three	days;	for	the
soldiers	wished	to	hurry	and	be	finished	with	the	Cherokee.	The	soldiers	said	the
wagons	would	carry	the	dead,	but	the	Cherokee	would	not	put	his	dead	in	the
wagons.	He	carried	them.	Walking.
The	little	boy	carried	his	dead	baby	sister,	and	slept	by	her	at	night	on	the
ground.	He	lifted	her	in	his	arms	in	the	morning,	and	carried	her.
The	husband	carried	his	dead	wife.	The	son	carried	his	dead	mother,	his
father.	The	mother	carried	her	dead	baby.	They	carried	them	in	their	arms.	And
walked.	And	they	did	not	turn	their	heads	to	look	at	the	soldiers,	nor	to	look	at
the	people	who	lined	the	sides	of	the	Trail	to	watch	them	pass.	Some	of	the
people	cried.	But	the	Cherokee	did	not	cry.	Not	on	the	outside,	for	the	Cherokee
would	not	let	them	see	his	soul;	as	he	would	not	ride	in	the	wagons.
And	so	they	called	it	the	Trail	of	Tears.	Not	because	the	Cherokee	cried;	for
he	did	not.	They	called	it	the	Trail	of	Tears	for	it	sounds	romantic	and	speaks	of
the	sorrow	of	those	who	stood	by	the	Trail.	A	death	march	is	not	romantic.
You	cannot	write	poetry	about	the	death-stiffened	baby	in	his	mother’s
arms,	staring	at	the	jolting	sky	with	eyes	that	will	not	close,	while	his	mother
walks.
You	cannot	sing	songs	of	the	father	laying	down	the	burden	of	his	wife’s
corpse,	to	lie	by	it	through	the	night	and	to	rise	and	carry	it	again	in	the	morning
—and	tell	his	oldest	son	to	carry	the	body	of	his	youngest.	And	do	not	look	…
nor	speak	…	nor	cry	…	nor	remember	the	mountains.
It	would	not	be	a	beautiful	song.	And	so	they	call	it	the	Trail	of	Tears.
All	of	the	Cherokee	did	not	go.	Some,	skilled	in	the	ways	of	mountains,	fled	far
back	into	the	bosom	of	her	hollows,	the	raceways	of	her	ridges,	and	lived	with
their	women	and	children,	always	moving.
They	set	traps	for	game	but	sometimes	dared	not	go	back	to	the	traps,	for
the	soldiers	had	come.	They	dug	the	sweet	root	from	the	ground,	pounded	the
acorn	into	meal,	cut	poke	salat	from	the	clearings,	and	pulled	the	inner	bark	from
the	tree.	They	fished	with	their	hands	under	the	banks	of	the	cold	creeks	and
moved	silent	as	shadows,	a	people	who	were	there	but	not	seen	(except	by	a
flicker	of	illusion),	not	heard;	and	they	left	little	signs	of	their	living.
But	here	and	there	they	found	friends.	The	people	of	Granpa’s	Pa	were
mountain	bred.	They	did	not	lust	for	land,	or	profit,	but	loved	the	freedom	of	the
mountains,	as	did	the	Cherokee.
Granma	told	how	Granpa’s	Pa	had	met	his	wife,	Granpa’s	Ma,	and	her
people.	He	had	seen	the	faintest	of	signs	on	the	banks	of	a	creek.	He	had	gone
home	and	brought	back	a	haunch	of	deer	and	laid	it	there	in	a	little	clearing.
With	it,	he	had	laid	his	gun	and	his	knife.	The	next	morning	he	came	back.	The
deer	haunch	was	gone,	but	the	gun	and	the	knife	were	there,	and	lying	beside
them	was	another	knife,	a	long	Indian	knife,	and	a	tomahawk.	He	did	not	take
them.	Instead	he	brought	ears	of	corn	and	laid	them	by	the	weapons;	he	stood
and	waited	a	long	time.
They	came	slowly	in	the	late	afternoon.	Moving	through	the	trees	and
halting	and	then	coming	forward	again.	Granpa’s	Pa	reached	out	his	hands,	and
they,	a	dozen	of	them—men,	women,	children—reached	out	their	hands	and	they
touched.	Granma	said	they	each	had	to	reach	across	a	long	way	to	do	it,	but	they
did.
Granpa’s	Pa	grew	up	tall	and	married	the	youngest	of	the	daughters.	They
held	the	hickory	marriage	stick	together	and	put	it	in	their	cabin,	and	neither	of
them	broke	it	as	long	as	they	lived.	She	wore	the	feather	of	the	red-winged
blackbird	in	her	hair	and	so	was	called	Red	Wing.	Granma	said	she	was	slender
as	a	willow	wand	and	sang	in	the	evenings.
Granma	and	Granpa	spoke	of	his	Pa	in	his	last	years.	He	was	an	old	warrior.
He	had	joined	the	Confederate	raider,	John	Hunt	Morgan,	to	fight	the	faraway,
faceless	monster	of	“guvmint,”	that	threatened	his	people	and	his	cabin.
His	beard	was	white.	Age	was	overtaking	his	gauntness;	and	now	when	the
winter	wind	bit	through	the	cracks	of	his	cabin,	the	old	hurts	came	to	life.	The
saber	slash	that	ran	the	length	of	his	left	arm;	the	steel	had	hit	the	bone,	like	a
meat	axe.	The	flesh	had	healed,	but	the	bone	marrow	thumped	with	pain	and
reminded	him	of	the	“guvmint”	men.
He	had	downed	half	a	jug	that	night	in	Kain’tuck,	while	the	boys	heated	a
ramrod	over	the	fire	and	seared	the	wound	and	stopped	the	blood.	He	had
climbed	back	in	the	saddle.
The	ankle	was	the	worst	of	it.	He	hated	the	ankle.	It	was	big	and
cumbersome	where	the	minnie	ball	had	chewed	it	in	passing.	He	hadn’t	noticed
it	at	the	time.	It	had	been	the	wild	exuberance	of	a	cavalry	charge	that	night	in
Ohio.	The	fever	for	combat,	that	marked	his	breed,	was	running	high.	There	was
no	fear,	only	exultation,	as	the	horse	moved	fast	and	light	over	the	ground,	as	the
wind	whipped	a	storm	in	his	face.	Exultation	that	brought	the	rebel	Indian	yell
rumbling	from	his	chest	and	out	his	throat,	screaming,	savage.
That’s	why	a	man	could	get	half	his	leg	mangled	and	not	know	it.	Not	until
twenty	miles	farther	on,	when	they	reconnoitered	in	the	dark	of	a	mountain
hollow,	and	he	stepped	from	the	saddle	and	his	leg	buckled	under	him,	the	blood
sloshing	in	his	boot	like	a	full	well	bucket,	did	he	notice	the	ankle.
He	relished	thinking	of	that	charge.	The	memory	of	it	softened	his	hatred
for	the	cane—and	the	limp.
The	worst	of	the	hurts	was	in	the	gut;	in	his	side,	near	the	hip.	That’s	where
the	lead	was	never	taken	out.	It	gnawed,	like	a	rat	chewing	at	a	corn	crib,	night
and	day;	and	never	stopped.	It	was	eating	away	at	his	insides;	and	soon	now,
they	would	stretch	him	out	on	the	floor	of	the	mountain	cabin	and	cut	him	open,
like	a	butchered	bull.
The	putridness	would	come	out;	the	gangrene.	They	would	not	use
anesthetics,	just	a	swig	from	the	mountain	jug.	And	he	would	die	there	on	the
floor,	in	his	blood.	No	last	words;	but	as	they	held	his	arms	and	legs	in	the	death
throes,	the	old	sinewy	body	would	bow	up	from	the	floor,	and	the	wild	scream	of
the	exulting	rebel’s	challenge	to	hated	government	would	come	from	his	throat
and	he	would	die.	Forty	years	it	had	taken	the	“guvmint”	lead	to	kill	him.
The	century	was	dying.	The	time	of	blood	and	fighting	and	death;	the	time
he	had	met,	and	by	which	he	had	been	measured,	was	dying.	There	would	be	a
new	century,	with	another	people	marching	and	carrying	their	dead,	but	he	knew
only	the	past—of	the	Cherokee.
His	oldest	son	had	ridden	off	to	the	Nations;	the	next	oldest	dead	in	Texas.
Now,	only	Red	Wing,	as	in	the	beginning,	and	his	youngest	son.
He	could	still	ride.	He	could	jump	a	Morgan	horse	over	a	five-rail	fence.	He
still	bobbed	the	horses’	tails,	out	of	habit,	to	leave	no	tail	hair	on	the	brush	to	be
followed.
But	the	pains	were	worse	and	the	jug	didn’t	quieten	them	as	it	had.	He	was
coming	to	the	time	of	being	spread-eagled	on	the	floor	of	the	cabin.	And	he
knew	it.
The	fall	of	year	was	dying	in	the	Tennessee	mountains.	The	wind	bit	the	last	of
the	leaves	from	hickory	and	oak.	He	stood,	that	winter	afternoon	with	his	son,
halfway	down	the	hollow;	not	admitting	that	he	couldn’t	climb	the	mountain
anymore.
They	watched	the	naked	trees,	stark	on	the	ridge	against	the	sky;	as	though
they	were	studying	the	winter	slant	of	sun.	They	would	not	look	at	each	other.
“Reckin	I’ll	not	be	leavin’	ye	much,”	he	said,	and	laughed	soft,	“best	ye
could	git	from	that	cabin	would	be	to	touch	a	lighter	knot	to	it	fer	a	hand
warming.”	His	son	studied	the	mountain.	“I	reckin,”	he	said	quietly.
“Ye’re	a	man,	full	and	with	family,”	the	old	man	said,	“and	I’ll	not	hold	ye
to	a	lot	…	’ceptin’	we	stretch	our	hand	to	clasp	any	man’s	as	quick	as	we’ll
defend	what	we	was	give	to	believe.	My	time	is	gone,	and	now	the	time	will	be
something	I	don’t	know,	fer	you.	I	wouldn’t	know	how	to	live	in	it	…	no	more’n
’Coon	Jack.	Mind	ye’ve	little	to	meet	it	with	…	but	the	mountains’ll	not	change
on	ye,	and	ye	kin	them;	and	we	be	honest	men	with	our	feelings.”
“I	mind,”	the	son	said.	The	weak	sun	had	set	behind	the	ridge,	and	the	wind
bit	sharp.	It	came	hard	for	the	old	man	to	say	…	but	he	did.	“…	and	…	I	…	kin
ye,	son.”
The	son	did	not	speak,	but	he	slipped	his	arm	around	the	old,	skinny
shoulders.	The	shadows	of	the	hollow	were	deep	now	and	blurred	the	mountains
black	on	either	side	of	them.	They	walked	slowly	in	this	fashion,	the	old	man
touching	his	cane	to	the	ground,	down	the	hollow	to	the	cabin.
It	was	the	last	walk	and	talk	Granpa	had	with	his	Pa.	I	have	been	many
times	to	their	graves;	close	together,	high	on	a	ridge	of	white	oak,	where	the
leaves	fall	knee-deep	in	autumn,	until	they	are	whipped	away	by	mean	winter
winds.	Where	only	the	hardiest	Indian	violets	poke	tiny	and	blue	around	them	in
the	spring,	timid	in	their	presence	before	the	fierce	and	lasting	souls	who
weathered	their	time.
The	marriage	stick	is	there,	hickory	and	gnarled,	unbroken	still,	and	filled
with	the	notches	they	carved	in	it	each	time	they	had	a	sorrow,	a	happiness,	a
quarrel	they	had	mended.	It	rests	at	their	heads,	holding	them	together.
And	so	small	are	the	carved	names	in	the	stick,	you	must	get	down	on	your
knees	to	read:	Ethan	and	Red	Wing.
Pine	Billy
In	the	wintertime,	we	carried	leaves	and	put	them	on	the	corn	patch.	Back	in	the
hollow,	past	the	barn,	the	corn	patch	flattened	out	on	either	side	of	the	spring
branch.	Granpa	had	cleared	it	a	little	ways	up	the	sides	of	the	mountain.	The
“slants,”	as	Granpa	called	the	sloping	sides	of	the	corn	patch,	didn’t	raise	good
corn,	but	he	planted	it	anyhow.	There	wasn’t	much	flat	ground	in	the	hollow.
I	liked	gathering	the	leaves	and	putting	them	in	the	tow	sacks.	They	were
light	to	carry.	Me	and	Granpa	and	Granma	would	help	each	other	fill	the	sacks.
Granpa	would	carry	two,	and	sometimes	three	sacks.	I	tried	to	carry	two,	but
couldn’t	make	much	headway	at	it.	Knee-deep	for	me,	the	leaves	were	like	a
brown	snowfall	on	the	ground,	dappled	with	the	yellow	paint	of	maple	leaves,
and	the	red	of	bee	gum	and	sumach	bushes.
We	would	come	out	of	the	woods	and	scatter	the	leaves	over	the	field.	Pine
straw	too.	Granpa	said	some	pine	straw	was	necessary	to	acid	the	ground—but
not	too	much.
We	never	worked	so	long	or	hard	that	it	got	tedious.	We	usually	was
“drawed	off,”	as	Granpa	put	it,	to	something	else.
Granma	would	see	yellowroot	and	dig	that	up;	and	that	led	her	to	some
ginseng,	or	iron	root	…	or	calum	…	or	sassafras	…	or	lady’s	slipper.	She	knew
them	all,	and	had	a	remedy	for	any	ailment	of	which	I	have	ever	heard.	Her
remedies	worked	too;	though	some	of	the	tonics	I	would	as	soon	not	have	drunk.
Me	and	Granpa	usually	run	across	hickor’nuts,	or	chinkapins	and	chestnuts;
sometimes	black	walnuts.	It	wasn’t	that	we	special	looked	for	them,	it	just
seemed	to	happen.	Between	our	eating	and	gathering	nuts	and	roots,	and	seeing	a
’coon	or	watching	a	peckerwood,	our	leaf	carrying	would	get	down	to	practical
nothing.
As	we	would	walk	down	the	hollow	in	evening	dusk,	all	of	us	loaded	with	nuts
and	roots	and	such,	Granpa	would	cuss	under	his	breath	where	Granma	couldn’t
hear	him,	and	then	he’d	announce	that	next	time	we	was	not	going	to	get
“drawed	off”	to	such	foolishness;	and	were	going	to	spend	the	whole	time
carrying	leaves.	Which	always	sounded	mighty	dismal	to	me;	but	it	never
happened.
Sack	by	sack,	we	got	the	field	covered	with	leaves	and	pine	straw.	And	after
a	light	rain,	when	the	leaves	clung	to	the	ground	just	enough,	Granpa	would
hitch	up	ol’	Sam,	the	mule,	to	the	plow;	and	we	turned	the	leaves	under	the
ground.
I	say	“we,”	because	Granpa	let	me	plow	some.	I	had	to	reach	up	over	my
head	to	hold	the	handles	of	the	plow	stock,	and	spent	most	of	my	time	pulling	all
my	weight	down	on	the	handles	to	keep	the	plow	point	from	going	too	deep	into
the	ground.	Sometimes	the	point	would	come	out	of	the	ground,	and	the	plow
would	skitter	along,	not	plowing.	Ol’	Sam	was	patient	with	me.	He	would	stop
while	I	pulled	and	strained	at	getting	the	plow	upright,	and	then	would	move
ahead	when	I	said,	“Giddup!”
I	had	to	push	up	on	the	handles	to	make	the	plow	point	go	into	the	ground;
and	so,	between	the	pulling	down	and	the	pushing	up,	I	learned	to	keep	my	chin
away	from	the	crossbar	between	the	handles,	for	I	was	getting	continual	licks
that	jolted	me	up	pretty	bad.
Granpa	followed	along	behind	us,	but	he	would	let	me	do	it.	If	you	wanted
ol’	Sam	to	move	to	the	left,	you	said,	“Haw!”	and	if	you	wanted	him	to	move	to
the	right,	you	said,	“Gee!”	Ol’	Sam	would	meander	off	a	little	to	the	left	and	I
would	holler,	“Gee!”;	but	he	was	hard	of	hearing	and	would	keep	meandering.
Granpa	would	take	it	up,	“Gee!	Gee	GEE!	DAMMITOHELL!	GEE!”	and	ol’
Sam	would	come	back	to	the	right.
Trouble	was,	ol’	Sam	heard	this	so	much,	that	he	begun	to	connect	up	the
total	geeing	and	the	cussing,	and	would	not	go	right	until	he	heard	all	of	it;
figuring	natural,	that	to	go	right,	it	took	the	whole	amount.	This	led	to
considerable	cussing,	which	I	had	to	take	up	in	order	to	plow.	This	was	all	right
until	Granma	heard	me	and	spoke	hard	to	Granpa	about	it.	This	cut	down	on	my
plowing	considerable	when	Granma	was	around.
Ol’	Sam	was	blind	in	his	left	eye,	so	when	he	reached	the	end	of	the	field,
he	would	not	turn	around	going	to	his	left,	figuring	he	might	bump	into
something.	He	would	always	turn	to	his	right.	When	you’re	plowing,	turning	to
the	right	works	good	at	one	end	of	the	field;	but	at	the	other,	it	seems	you	have	to
turn	a	full	circle,	dragging	the	plow	completely	out	of	the	field	into	bushes	and
briers	and	such.	Granpa	said	we	had	to	be	patient	with	ol’	Sam,	as	he	was	old
and	half-blind,	so	I	was,	but	I	dreaded	every	other	turn	at	the	end	of	the	field;
especially	when	there	was	a	thicket	of	blackberry	bushes	waiting	on	me.
One	time,	Granpa	was	pulling	and	dragging	the	plow	around	through	a
mass	of	nettles,	and	stepped	in	a	stump	hole.	It	was	a	warm	day,	and	yellow
jackets	had	a	nest	in	that	hole.	They	got	up	Granpa’s	britches	leg	and	he	taken
off	hollering	for	the	spring	branch.	I	saw	the	yellow	jackets	come	out,	and	I
taken	off	too.	Granpa	flattened	out	in	the	spring	branch,	slapping	at	his	britches
and	cussing	ol’	Sam.	He	might	near	lost	his	patience.
But	ol’	Sam	stood	patient	and	waited	until	Granpa	got	over	it.	Trouble	was,
we	couldn’t	get	near	the	plow.	The	yellow	jackets	was	all	stirred	up	and
swarming	around	that	plow.	Me	and	Granpa	got	out	in	the	middle	of	the	field
and	Granpa	would	try	to	get	ol’	Sam	to	come	forward,	away	from	the	yellow
jacket	nest.
Granpa	would	call,	“Come	on,	Sam—come	on,	boy,”	but	ol’	Sam	wouldn’t
move.	He	knew	his	business	and	he	knew	better	than	to	pull	a	plow	laying
sidewise	on	the	ground.	Granpa	tried	everything;	a	considerable	cussing,	and	he
got	down	on	all	fours	and	brayed	like	a	mule.	I	thought	he	brayed	tolerable	close
to	the	sound	of	a	mule;	and	once,	ol’	Sam	leaned	his	ears	forward	and	looked
hard	at	Granpa,	but	he	wouldn’t	move.	I	tried	braying	myself,	but	I	couldn’t
touch	Granpa’s	bray.	When	Granpa	saw	Granma	had	come	up	and	was	watching
us	on	all	fours	in	the	middle	of	the	field	and	braying,	he	quit.
He	had	to	go	into	the	woods	and	get	a	lighter	knot,	which	he	touched	a
match	to	and	pitched	in	the	stump	hole.	This	smoked	the	yellow	jackets	away
from	the	plow.
Going	back	to	the	cabin	that	evening,	Granpa	said	it	had	been	a	worrisome
puzzlement	to	him	for	many	years	whether	ol’	Sam	was	the	dumbest	mule	in	the
world,	or	the	smartest.	I	never	figured	it	out	myself.
I	liked	the	field	plowing,	though.	It	growed	me	up.	When	we	walked	down
the	trail	to	the	cabin,	it	’peared	to	me	that	my	steps	was	lengthening	quite	some
bit	behind	Granpa.	Granpa	bragged	on	me	a	lot	to	Granma	at	the	supper	table
and	Granma	agreed	that	it	looked	like	I	was	coming	on	to	being	a	man.
We	were	at	the	supper	table	one	such	evening,	when	the	hounds	set	up	a	racket.
We	all	went	out	to	the	front	porch	to	see	a	man	coming	across	the	foot	log.	He
was	a	fine	looking	feller,	nearly	tall	as	Granpa.	I	liked	his	shoes	the	best,	they
was	bright	yellow,	high	top,	with	white	socks	rolled	around	and	lump	tied	to
hold	them	up.	His	overalls	struck	him	just	above	the	socks.	He	had	on	a	short
black	coat	and	a	white	shirt	and	had	a	little	hat	that	set	square	on	his	head.	He
was	carrying	a	long	case.	Granma	and	Granpa	knew	him.
“Well,	it’s	Pine	Billy,”	Granpa	said.	Pine	Billy	waved.	“Come	in	and	stay
awhile,”	Granpa	said.
Pine	Billy	stopped	at	the	doorstep.	“Aw,	I	was	just	passing	by,”	he	said	…
and	I	wondered	where	he	was	passing	to,	with	just	mountains	behind	us.
“Ye’re	goin’	to	stay	and	eat	with	us,”	Granma	said,	and	got	Pine	Billy	by
the	arm	and	led	him	up	the	doorsteps.	Granpa	taken	his	long	case	by	the	handle,
and	we	all	went	in	the	kitchen.
I	could	tell	right	off	that	Granpa	and	Granma	liked	Pine	Billy	a	lot.	He	had
four	sweet	’taters	in	his	coat	pockets	and	gave	them	to	Granma.	She	made	them
into	a	pie	right	then,	and	Pine	Billy	et	three	pieces	of	it.	I	got	one,	and	was
hoping	he	would	not	eat	the	last	piece.	We	moved	away	from	the	table	to	set	by
the	fireplace	and	left	the	piece	of	pie	in	a	pan	on	the	table.
Pine	Billy	laughed	a	whole	lot	and	said	I	was	going	to	be	bigger’n	Granpa.
Which	made	me	feel	good.	He	said	Granma	was	purtier’n	the	last	time	he’d	seen
her,	and	this	pleased	Granma;	Granpa	too.	I	commenced	to	feel	right	good	about
Pine	Billy,	even	if	he	had	et	the	three	pieces	of	pie—they	was	his	’taters.
We	all	set	around	the	fire.	Granma	in	her	rocker	and	Granpa	leaning
forward	in	his.	I	figured	something	was	up.	Granpa	asked,	“Well,	what’s	the
news,	Pine	Billy,	that	ye	hear	around?”
Pine	Billy	leaned	back	on	two	legs	of	the	straight-back	chair.	He	took	a
finger	and	thumb	and	pulled	out	his	lower	lip	and	turned	a	little	can	upward,
putting	snuff	in	his	lip.	He	offered	the	can	to	Granpa	and	Granma.	They	shook
their	heads.	Pine	Billy	was	sure	taking	his	time.	He	spit	in	the	fire.	“Well,”	he
said,	“look’s	like	I	might	have	come	up	on	something	that’ll	fix	me	in	good
shape.”	He	spit	in	the	fire	again	and	looked	around	at	all	of	us.
I	didn’t	know	what	it	was,	but	I	could	tell	it	was	important.
Granpa	figured	it	was	too,	for	he	asked,	“What	is	it,	Pine	Billy?”	Pine	Billy
leaned	back	again	and	looked	at	the	roof	rafters.	He	clasped	his	hands	across	his
stomach.
“Must’a	been	last	Wednesday	…	nooo,	it	was	a-Tuesday,	fer	I’d	been
playin’	at	a	Jumpin’	Jody	dance	on	a-Monday	night;	Tuesday	it	was.	I	come
through	the	settlement	on	a-Tuesday.	Ye	know	the	po-liceman	there,
Smokehouse	Turner?”
“Yes,	yes,	I’ve	seed	him,”	Granpa	said,	impatient.
“Well,”	Pine	Billy	said,	“I	was	standing	on	the	corner	there,	talking	to
Smokehouse,	when	this	big,	shiny	car	pulled	into	the	fillin’	station	acrost	the
road.	Smokehouse	didn’t	notice	it	…	but	I	did.	It	had	one	feller	in	it,	and	he	was
dressed	fit	to	kill;	big	city.	He	got	out	of	his	car	and	told	Joe	Holcomb	to	fill	it	up
with	gasoline.	Well,	I	was	watchin’	’em,	all	the	time;	and	he	looked	around,
kind’a	sneaky.	It	hit	me	right	off.	I	says	to	myself,	‘That’s	a	big-city
CRIMINAL.’	Mind	ye,”	Pine	Billy	said,	“I	didn’t	say	it	to	Smokehouse.	I	jest
said	it	to	m’self.	But	to	Smokehouse	I	says,	‘Smokehouse,	ye	know	I’m	agin
turning	anybody	in	to	the	law	…	but	big-city	criminals	is	different,	and	that
feller	over	there	looks	total	suspicious	to	me.’
“Smokehouse	studied	the	feller	and	says,	‘Ye	could	be	right,	Pine	Billy.
We’ll	jest	have	a	look,’	and	he	ambles	acrost	the	road	to	the	feller’s	car.”
Pine	Billy	brought	his	chair	down	on	four	legs	and	spit	in	the	fire	and
studied	the	logs	a	minute.	I	couldn’t	hardly	wait	to	hear	what	happened	to	the
criminal.
Pine	Billy	finished	studying	the	logs	and	said,	“Now	ye	know,	Smokehouse
cain’t	read	ner	write,	and	as	I	can	make	out	lettering	right	fair,	I	follered	him
over,	in	case	I	was	needed.	The	feller	seen	us	comin’	and	got	back	in	his	car.	We
walked	up	and	Smokehouse	leaned	on	his	winder	and	asked	him	politely	what	he
was	doing	in	the	settlement.	The	feller	was	nervous,	I	could	see,	and	said	he	was
on	his	way	to	Floridy.	Which	sounded	suspicious.”
It	sounded	suspicious	to	me	too,	and	I	seen	Granpa	nod	his	head.
Pine	Billy	continued,	“Smokehouse	said,	‘Where	are	ye	from?’	The	feller
said	he	was	from	Chicargo.	Smokehouse	said	he	reckined	that	was	all	right,	but
fer	the	feller	to	git	on	out	of	the	settlement,	and	the	feller	agreed	that	he	would.
Now	in	the	meantime	…”	Pine	Billy	cocked	his	eyes	around	at	Granpa	and
Granma	“…	in	the	meantime,	I	edged	back	behind	the	car	and	lettered	out	his	tag
plate.	I	pulled	Smokehouse	aside,	and	I	told	him,	‘He	says	he’s	from	Chicargo,
but—he’s	got	a	Illinoys	tag	on	his	car.’	Ol’	Smokehouse	was	on	him	like	a	bottle
fly	on	syrup.	He	pulled	that	criminal	out’n	his	car	and	stood	him	up	aside	of	it,
and	asked	him	flat	out	…	‘If	ye’re	from	Chicargo,	what	are	ye	doin’	with	Illinoys
tag	on	yer	car?’	Smokehouse	knowed	he	had	him.	It	caught	the	criminal	flat-
footed;	he	didn’t	know	what	to	say;	caught	’em	in	a	barefaced	lie,	ye	see.	He
tried	to	slick	talk	his	way	out’n	it,	but	I’ll	say	this	fer	ol’	Smokehouse,	he	ain’t
all	that	easy	to	slicker.”
Pine	Billy	was	plumb	excited	now.	“Smokehouse	put	the	criminal	in	jail
and	said	he	would	check	it	out;	probably	a	big	reward,	and	I’ll	git	half	of	it.
From	the	looks	of	the	feller,	it	might	be	a	bigger	reward	than	me	and
Smokehouse	either	one	has	figgered.”
Granma	and	Granpa	both	agreed	that	it	sounded	mighty	promising	and
Granpa	said	he	didn’t	hold	with	big-city	criminals.	Which	I	don’t	neither.	We	all
saw	pretty	plain	that	Pine	Billy	was	as	good	as	rich.
But	Pine	Billy	wasn’t	uppity	about	it.	He	said	there	could	be	the	possibility
that	it	wouldn’t	amount	to	a	very	big	reward.	He	never	put	all	his	eggs	in	one
basket,	ner	counted	his	chickens	before	they	hatched.	Which	is	sensible.
He	said	he	had	done	some	work	on	something	else,	just	in	case.	He	said	the
Red	Eagle	snuff	company	was	holding	a	contest	that	paid	five	hundred	dollars	to
the	winner—practical	enough	to	set	a	man	up	fer	life.	He	said	he	had	got	hold	of
a	entering	paper	and	all	you	had	to	do	was	tell	why	you	liked	Red	Eagle	snuff.
He	said	he	labored	over	it	before	he	filled	it	in,	and	come	up	with	what	he
figured	was	the	winningest	answer	that	could	be	thought	of.
Pine	Billy	said	that	most	folks	entering	would	say	that	Red	Eagle	was	good
snuff,	and	he	said	that	too;	but	he	went	farther	than	that.	He	said	he	put	down
that	it	was	the	best	snuff	of	any	he	had	put	in	his	mouth;	and	furthermore,	he
would	never	put	any	other	kind	of	snuff	in	his	mouth	but	Red	Eagle,	as	long	as
he	lived.	He	said	that	he	used	his	head,	because	when	the	big	men	at	the	Red
Eagle	snuff	company	see	that,	then	they	would	know	they	would	eventually	git
all	their	money	back,	seeing	as	how	Pine	Billy	would	be	continually	using	their
snuff	for	the	rest	of	his	life.	If	they	give	the	money	to	somebody	that	just	said
Red	Eagle	was	good,	and	let	it	go	at	that,	well,	they	was	takin’	a	chance.
Pine	Billy	said	them	big	fellers	didn’t	take	no	chances,	not	with	their
money;	that	was	why	they	was	rich.	He	figured	he	pretty	well	had	the	Red	Eagle
proposition	practically	in	his	pocket.
Granpa	agreed	the	money	looked	right	certain.	Pine	Billy	went	to	the	door
and	spit	out	his	snuff.	He	come	back	by	the	table	and	got	the	piece	of	sweet	’tater
pie.	I	didn’t	mind	as	bad—though	I	still	wanted	it—but	seein’	as	Pine	Billy	was
rich,	he	probably	deserved	it.
Granpa	got	out	his	stone	jug	and	Pine	Billy	took	two	or	three	swigs	and
Granpa	took	one.	Granma	coughed	and	got	her	jug	of	cough	syrup.	Granpa	got
Pine	Billy	to	get	his	fiddle	and	bow,	and	play	“Red	Wing.”	Granpa	and	Granma
tapped	their	feet.	He	sure	could	play	pretty,	and	he	sung	it	too:
Now	the	moon	shines	tonight,	on	pretty	Red	Wing,
The	breezes	sighing;	the	night	birds	crying
While	afar	’neath	the	stars,	her	brave	is	sleeping
While	Red	Wing’s	weeping,	her	heart	away.
I	went	to	sleep	on	the	floor	and	Granma	carried	me	to	bed.	Last	I	heard	was	the
fiddle.	I	dreamed	that	Pine	Billy	came	to	our	cabin	and	he	was	rich	and	had	a
tow	sack	on	his	shoulder.	It	was	full	of	sweet	’taters.
The	Secret	Place
Reckin	a	million	little	critters	live	along	the	spring	branch.
If	you	could	be	a	giant	and	could	look	down	on	its	bends	and	curves,	you
would	know	the	spring	branch	is	a	river	of	life.
I	was	the	giant.	Being	over	two	feet	tall,	I	squatted,	giant-like,	to	study	the
little	marshes	where	trickles	of	the	stream	eddied	off	into	low	places.	Frogs	laid
eggs;	big	crystal	balls	of	jelly	that	had	pollywogs	dotted	all	through	them	…
waiting	for	the	time	to	eat	their	way	out.
Rock	minnows	darted	to	chase	musk	bugs	scuttering	across	the	stream.
When	you	held	a	musk	bug	in	your	hand,	it	smelled	real	sweet	and	thick.
Once	I	spent	a	whole	afternoon	collecting	some	musk	bugs,	just	a	few	in
my	pocket,	for	they	are	hard	to	catch.	I	took	them	to	Granma,	as	I	knew	she
loved	sweet	smells.	She	always	put	honeysuckle	in	her	lye	soap	when	she	made
it.
She	was	more	excited	about	the	musk	bugs	than	I	was,	might	near.	She	said
she	had	never	smelled	anything	so	sweet	and	couldn’t	figger	how	she	had	missed
out	on	knowing	about	musk	bugs.
At	the	supper	table	she	told	Granpa	about	it	before	I	could,	and	how	it	was
the	brandest	new	thing	she	had	ever	smelled.	Granpa	was	struck	dumbfounded.	I
let	him	smell	of	them	and	he	said	he	had	lived	seventy-odd	years,	total	unaware
of	such	a	smell.
Granma	said	I	had	done	right,	for	when	you	come	on	something	that	is
good,	first	thing	to	do	is	share	it	with	whoever	you	can	find;	that	way,	the	good
spreads	out	to	where	no	telling	it	will	go.	Which	is	right.
I	got	pretty	wet,	splashing	in	the	spring	branch,	but	Granma	never	said
anything.	Cherokees	never	scolded	their	children	for	having	anything	to	do	with
the	woods.
I	would	go	far	up	the	spring	branch,	wading	the	clear	water,	bending	low
through	the	green	feather	curtains	of	the	weeping	willows	that	hung	down,
trailing	branch	tips	in	the	current.	Water	ferns	made	green	lace	that	curved	over
the	stream	and	offered	holding	places	for	the	little	umbrella	spiders.
These	little	fellers	would	tie	one	end	of	a	thin	cable	to	the	fern	branch,	then
leap	into	the	air,	spilling	out	more	cable	in	an	umbrella	and	try	to	make	it	across
to	a	fern	branch	on	the	other	side.	If	he	made	it,	he	would	tie	the	cable	and	jump
back—back	and	forth—until	he	had	a	pearly	looking	net	spread	over	the	spring.
These	were	gritty	little	fellers.	If	they	fell	in	the	water,	they	got	swept	along
in	rapids	and	had	to	fight	to	stay	on	top	and	make	it	to	the	bank	before	a	brook
minnow	got	them.
I	squatted	in	the	middle	of	the	spring	branch	and	watched	one	little	spider
trying	to	get	his	cable	across.	He	had	determined	that	he	was	going	to	have	the
widest	pearl	net	anywheres	up	and	down	the	whole	spring	branch;	and	he	picked
a	wide	place.	He	would	tie	his	cable,	jump	in	the	air	and	fall	in	the	water.	He’d
get	swept	downstream,	fighting	for	his	life,	crawl	out	on	the	bank	and	come	back
to	that	same	fern.	Then	he’d	try	again.
The	third	time	he	come	back	to	the	fern	and	walked	out	on	the	end	and	laid
down,	crossing	his	front	arms	under	his	chin,	to	study	the	water.	I	figured	he	was
might	near	give	out—I	was,	and	my	bottom	was	numbing	cold	from	squatting	in
the	spring	branch.	He	laid	there	thinking	and	studying.	In	a	minute	he	got	a
thought,	and	commenced	to	jump	up	and	down	on	the	fern.	Up	and	down.	The
fern	got	to	rising	and	falling.	He	kept	at	it,	jumping	to	move	the	fern	down	and
riding	it	back	up.	Then,	of	a	sudden,	when	the	fern	rose	high,	he	jumped,	letting
out	his	umbrella—and	he	made	it.
He	was	fired	up	proud	and	leapt	around	after	he	made	it,	until	he	nearly	fell
off.	His	pearl	net	become	the	widest	I	ever	saw.
I	got	to	know	the	spring	branch,	following	it	up	the	hollow:	the	dip
swallows	that	hung	sack	nests	in	the	willows	and	fussed	at	me	until	they	got	to
know	me—then	they	would	stick	out	their	heads	and	talk;	the	frogs	that	sung	all
along	the	banks,	but	would	hush	when	I	moved	close,	until	Granpa	told	me	that
frogs	can	feel	the	ground	shake	when	you	walk.	He	showed	me	how	the
Cherokee	walks,	not	heel	down,	but	toe	down,	slipping	the	moccasins	on	the
ground.	Then	I	could	come	right	up,	and	set	down	beside	a	frog	and	he	would
keep	singing.
Following	the	spring	branch	was	how	I	found	the	secret	place.	It	was	a	little
ways	up	the	side	of	the	mountain	and	hemmed	in	with	laurel.	It	was	not	very	big,
a	grass	knoll	with	an	old	sweet	gum	tree	bending	down.	When	I	saw	it,	I	knew	it
was	my	secret	place,	and	so	I	went	there	a	whole	lot.
Ol’	Maud	taken	to	going	with	me.	She	liked	it	too,	and	we	would	sit	under
the	sweet	gum	and	listen—and	watch.	Ol’	Maud	never	made	a	sound	in	the
secret	place.	She	knew	it	was	secret.
Once	in	the	late	afternoon	me	and	ol’	Maud	was	sitting	with	our	backs
against	the	sweet	gum,	and	watching	when	I	saw	a	flicker	of	something	move	a
ways	off.	It	was	Granma.	She	had	passed	not	far	from	us.	But	I	figured	she
hadn’t	seen	my	secret	place	at	all	or	she	would	of	said	something.
Granma	could	move	quieter	than	a	whisper	through	wood	leaves.	I	followed
her	and	she	was	root	gathering.	I	caught	up	to	help	and	me	and	Granma	set	down
on	a	log	to	sort	the	roots	out.	I	reckined	I	was	too	young	to	keep	a	secret,	for	I
had	to	tell	Granma	about	my	place.	She	wasn’t	surprised—which	surprised	me.
Granma	said	all	Cherokees	had	a	secret	place.	She	told	me	she	had	one	and
Granpa	had	one.	She	said	she	had	never	asked,	but	she	believed	Granpa’s	was	on
top	of	the	mountain,	on	the	high	trail.	She	said	she	reckined	most	everybody	had
a	secret	place,	but	she	couldn’t	be	certain,	as	she	had	never	made	inquiries	of	it.
Granma	said	it	was	necessary.	Which	made	me	feel	right	good	about	having	one.
Granma	said	everybody	has	two	minds.	One	of	the	minds	has	to	do	with	the
necessaries	for	body	living.	You	had	to	use	it	to	figure	how	to	get	shelter	and
eating	and	such	like	for	the	body.	She	said	you	had	to	use	it	to	mate	and	have
young’uns	and	such.	She	said	we	had	to	have	that	mind	so	as	we	could	carry	on.
But	she	said	we	had	another	mind	that	had	nothing	at	all	to	do	with	such.	She
said	it	was	the	spirit	mind.
Granma	said	if	you	used	the	body-living	mind	to	think	greedy	or	mean;	if
you	was	always	cuttin’	at	folks	with	it	and	figuring	how	to	material	profit	off’n
them	…	then	you	would	shrink	up	your	spirit	mind	to	a	size	no	bigger’n	a
hickor’nut.
Granma	said	that	when	your	body	died,	the	body-living	mind	died	with	it,
and	if	that’s	the	way	you	had	thought	all	your	life	there	you	was,	stuck	with	a
hickor’nut	spirit,	as	the	spirit	mind	was	all	that	lived	when	everything	else	died.
Then,	Granma	said,	when	you	was	born	back—as	you	was	bound	to	be—then,
there	you	was,	born	with	a	hickor’nut	spirit	mind	that	had	practical	no
understanding	of	anything.
Then	it	might	shrink	up	to	the	size	of	a	pea	and	could	disappear,	if	the
body-living	mind	took	over	total.	In	such	case,	you	lost	your	spirit	complete.
That’s	how	you	become	dead	people.	Granma	said	you	could	easy	spot
dead	people.	She	said	dead	people	when	they	looked	at	a	woman	saw	nothing
but	dirty;	when	they	looked	at	other	people	they	saw	nothing	but	bad;	when	they
looked	at	a	tree	they	saw	nothing	but	lumber	and	profit;	never	beauty.	Granma
said	they	was	dead	people	walking	around.
Granma	said	that	the	spirit	mind	was	like	any	other	muscle.	If	you	used	it	it
got	bigger	and	stronger.	She	said	the	only	way	it	could	get	that	way	was	using	it
to	understand,	but	you	couldn’t	open	the	door	to	it	until	you	quit	being	greedy
and	such	with	your	body	mind.	Then	understanding	commenced	to	take	up,	and
the	more	you	tried	to	understand,	the	bigger	it	got.
Natural,	she	said,	understanding	and	love	was	the	same	thing;	except	folks
went	at	it	back’ards	too	many	times,	trying	to	pretend	they	loved	things	when
they	didn’t	understand	them.	Which	can’t	be	done.
I	see	right	out	that	I	was	going	to	commence	trying	to	understand	practical
everybody,	for	I	sure	didn’t	want	to	come	up	with	a	hickor’nut	spirit.
Granma	said	your	spirit	mind	could	get	so	big	and	powerful	that	you	would
eventually	know	all	about	your	past	body	lives	and	would	get	to	where	you
could	come	out	with	no	body	death	at	all.
Granma	said	I	could	watch	some	of	how	it	worked	from	my	secret	place.	In
the	spring	when	everything	is	born	(and	always,	when	anything	is	born,	even	an
idea),	there’s	fret	and	fuss.	There’s	spring	storms	like	a	baby	borning	in	blood
and	pain.	Granma	said	it	was	the	spirits	kicking	up	a	fuss	at	having	to	get	back
into	material	forms	again.
Then	there	was	the	summer—our	growed-up	lives—and	autumn	when	we
got	older	and	had	that	peculiar	feeling	in	our	spirits	of	being	back	in	time.	Some
folks	called	it	nostalgia	and	sadness.	The	winter	with	everything	dead	or
seeming	to	be,	like	our	bodies	when	they	die,	but	born	again	just	like	the	spring.
Granma	said	the	Cherokees	knew,	and	had	learned	it	long	ago.
Granma	said	I	would	come	to	know	that	the	old	sweet	gum	tree	in	my
secret	place	had	a	spirit	too.	Not	a	spirit	of	humans,	but	a	tree	spirit.	She	said	her
Pa	had	taught	her	all	about	it
Granma’s	Pa	was	called	Brown	Hawk.	She	said	his	understanding	was
deep.	He	could	feel	the	tree-thought.	Once,	she	said,	when	she	was	a	little	girl,
her	Pa	was	troubled	and	said	the	white	oaks	on	the	mountain	near	them	was
excited	and	scared.	He	spent	much	time	on	the	mountain,	walking	among	the
oaks.	They	were	of	much	beauty,	tall	and	straight.	They	wasn’t	selfish,	allowing
ground	for	sumach	and	persimmon,	and	hickory	and	chestnut	to	feed	the	wild
things.	Not	being	selfish	gave	them	much	spirit	and	the	spirit	was	strong.
Granma	said	her	Pa	got	so	worried	about	the	oaks	that	he	would	walk
amongst	them	at	night,	for	he	knew	something	was	wrong.
Then,	early	one	morning,	as	the	sun	broke	the	mountain	ridge,	Brown
Hawk	watched	while	lumbermen	moved	through	the	white	oaks,	marking	and
figuring	how	to	cut	all	of	them	down.	When	they	left,	Brown	Hawk	said,	the
white	oaks	commenced	to	cry.	And	he	could	not	sleep.	So	he	watched	the
lumbermen.	They	built	a	road	up	to	the	mountain	over	which	to	bring	their
wagons.
Granma	said	her	Pa	talked	to	the	Cherokees	and	they	determined	to	save	the
white	oaks.	She	said	at	night,	when	the	lumbermen	would	leave	and	go	back	to
the	settlement,	the	Cherokees	would	dig	up	the	road,	hacking	deep	trenches
across	it.	The	women	and	children	helped.
The	next	morning,	the	lumbermen	came	back	and	spent	all	day	fixing	the
road.	But	that	night,	the	Cherokees	dug	it	up	again.	This	went	on	for	the	next
two	days	and	nights;	then	the	lumbermen	put	up	guards	on	the	road	with	guns.
But	they	could	not	guard	all	the	road,	and	the	Cherokees	dug	trenches	where
they	could.
Granma	said	it	was	a	hard	struggle	and	they	grew	very	tired.	Then	one	day,
as	the	lumbermen	were	working	on	the	road,	a	giant	white	oak	fell	across	a
wagon.	It	killed	two	mules	and	smashed	the	wagon.	She	said	it	was	a	fine,
healthy	white	oak	and	had	no	reason	to	fall,	but	it	did.
The	lumbermen	gave	up	trying	to	build	the	road.	Spring	rains	set	in	…	and
they	never	came	back.
Granma	said	the	moon	waxed	full,	and	they	held	a	celebration	in	the	great
stand	of	white	oaks.	They	danced	in	the	full	yellow	moon,	and	the	white	oaks
sang	and	touched	their	branches	together,	and	touched	the	Cherokee.	Granma
said	they	sang	a	death	chant	for	the	white	oak	who	had	given	his	life	to	save
others,	and	she	said	the	feeling	was	so	strong	that	it	almost	picked	her	up	off	the
mountain.
“Little	Tree,”	she	said,	“these	things	you	must	not	tell,	for	it	will	not	help	to
tell	them	in	this	world	that	is	the	white	man’s.	But	you	must	know.	And	so	I	have
told	you.”
I	knew	then	why	we	only	used	the	logs	that	the	spirit	had	left	for	our
fireplace.	I	knew	the	life	of	the	forest	…	and	the	mountains.
Granma	said	that	her	Pa	had	such	understanding	that	she	knew	he	would	be
strong	…	where	he	would	know,	in	his	next	body	life.	She	said	she	hoped	soon
she	would	be	strong	too;	then	she	would	know	him,	and	their	spirits	would
know.
Granma	said	that	Granpa	was	moving	closer	to	the	understanding	without
knowing	it,	and	they	would	be	together,	always,	their	spirits	knowing.
I	asked	Granma,	reckin	if	I	could	get	that	way	so	I	wouldn’t	be	left	behind.
She	taken	my	hand.	We	walked	a	long	way	down	the	trail	before	she
answered.	She	said	for	me	always	to	try	to	understand.	She	said	I	would	get
there	too,	and	I	might	even	be	ahead	of	her.
I	said	I	didn’t	care	a	thing	in	the	world	about	being	ahead.	It	would	suit	me
might	near	total	if	I	could	just	catch	up.	It	was	kind	of	lonesome,	always	being
left	behind.
Granpa’s	Trade
In	all	his	seventy-odd	years,	Granpa	had	never	held	a	job	in	public	works.
“Public	works,”	to	mountain	folks,	meant	any	kind	of	job	that	paid	for	hire.
Granpa	couldn’t	tolerate	regular	hire.	He	said	all	it	done	was	used	up	time
without	satisfaction.	Which	is	reasonable.
In	1930,	when	I	was	five	years	old,	a	bushel	of	corn	sold	for	twenty-five
cents;	that	is,	if	you	could	find	anybody	that	would	buy	a	bushel	of	corn.	Which
was	not	likely.	Even	if	it	had	sold	for	ten	dollars	a	bushel,	me	and	Granpa	could
not	have	made	a	living	at	it.	Our	corn	patch	was	too	little.
Granpa	had	a	trade	though.	He	said	every	man	ought	to	have	a	trade	and
had	ought	to	take	pride	in	it.	Granpa	did.	His	trade	was	handed	down	on	the
Scotch	side	of	his	family	for	several	hundred	years.	Granpa	was	a	whiskey-
maker.
When	you	bring	up	whiskey-making,	most	folks	outside	the	mountains	give
it	a	bad	name.	But	their	judgments	are	allowed	at	on	what	big-city	criminals	do.
Big-city	criminals	hire	fellers	to	run	off	whiskey,	not	caring	what	kind	of
whiskey	it	is,	just	so	they	run	off	a	lot	of	it—and	fast.	Such	men	will	use	potash
or	lye	to	“turn”	their	mash	quick	and	give	their	whiskey	a	good	“bead.”	They’ll
run	their	whiskey	through	sheet	iron	or	tin	and	truck	radiators,	which	has	all
kinds	of	poisons	and	can	kill	a	man.
Granpa	said	such	fellers	ought	to	be	hung.	Granpa	said	you	could	make	bad
judgments	about	any	trade,	giving	it	a	bad	name,	if	you	judged	by	the	worst	that
was	carrying	on	the	trade.
Granpa	said	his	clothes	suit	was	as	spankin’	good	as	the	day	he	married	up
in	it,	fifty-odd	years	ago.	He	said	the	tailor	that	made	it	had	taken	pride	in	his
work;	howsoever,	there	was	tailors	that	didn’t.	Your	judgment	of	the	tailoring
trade	was	dependent	on	which	kind	of	tailor	ye	went	by.	Same	as	the	whiskey-
making	trade.	Which	is	right.
Granpa	would	never	put	anything	in	his	whiskey,	not	even	sugar.	Sugar	is	used
to	stretch	out	the	whiskey	and	make	more	of	it;	but	Granpa	said	it	was	not	pure
whiskey	when	this	was	done.	He	made	pure	whiskey;	nothing	but	corn	in	the
makins.
He	also	had	no	patience	at	all	with	aging	whiskey.	Granpa	said	he	had	heard
all	his	life	this	’un	and	that	’un	mouthing	off	about	how	much	better	aged
whiskey	was.	He	said	he	tried	it	oncet.	Said	he	set	some	fresh	whiskey	back	and
let	it	set	for	a	week	and	when	he	tasted	of	it,	it	didn’t	taste	one	lick-damn
different	from	all	the	other	whiskey	he	made.
Granpa	said	that	where	folks	got	that	at	was	letting	whiskey	set	in	barrels
for	a	long	time	until	it	picked	up	the	scent	and	color	of	the	barrels.	He	said	if	a
damn	fool	wanted	to	smell	of	a	barrel,	he’d	ought	to	go	stick	his	head	in	one	and
smell	of	it,	then	go	git	hisself	a	drink	of	honest	whiskey.
Granpa	called	such	people	“barrel	sniffers.”	He	said	he	could	put	stump
water	in	a	barrel	and	let	it	set	long	enough	and	sell	it	to	such	folks,	and	they
would	drink	it	because	it	smelled	like	a	barrel.
Granpa	was	right	put	out	about	the	whole	whiskey	barrel	mess.	He	said	the
thing	was	likely	started—if	it	could	be	checked	out—by	big	shots	that	could
afford	settin’	their	whiskey	up	for	years	at	a	time.	This	way	they	squeezed	out
the	little	man	who	couldn’t	afford	to	set	his	whiskey	back	to	git	a	barrel	smell.
He	said	they	spent	a	creekfull	of	money	to	sell	their	whiskey	as	having	a	better
barrel	smell	than	anybody	else’s,	and	so	total	fooled	a	lot	of	’possum-headed
idjits	that	they’d	ought	to	drink	it.	But	there	was	still	sensible	folks,	Granpa	said,
who	had	not	taken	up	barrel	sniffin’,	and	so	the	little	man	could	still	git	by.
Granpa	said	that	since	whiskey-making	was	the	only	trade	he	knowed,	and
since	I	was	five	coming	on	to	six,	then	he	reckined	I	would	have	to	learn	that
trade.	He	advised	that	when	I	got	older,	I	might	want	to	switch	trades	but	I	would
know	whiskey-making,	and	could	always	have	a	trade	to	fall	back	on	in	times
when	I	was	pushed	otherwise	to	make	a	living.
I	seen	right	off	that	me	and	Granpa	had	a	fight	on	our	hands	with	the	big
shots	that	was	pushing	barrel	sniffin’	whiskey;	but	I	was	proud	that	Granpa	had
taken	me	in	to	learn	the	trade.
Granpa’s	still	was	back	up	in	the	Narrows	where	the	spring	branch	run	out
of	the	creek.	It	was	set	back	in	laurels	and	honeysuckle	so	thick	that	a	bird
couldn’t	find	it.	Granpa	was	proud	of	it,	for	it	was	pure	copper:	the	pot	and	the
cap	arm	and	the	coil,	which	was	called	a	“worm.”
It	was	a	little	still	as	stills	go,	but	we	didn’t	need	a	big	one.	Granpa	only
made	one	run	a	month,	which	always	come	out	to	eleven	gallons.	We	sold	nine
gallons	to	Mr.	Jenkins,	who	run	the	store	at	the	crossroads,	at	two	dollars	a
gallon	which	you	can	see	was	a	lot	of	money	for	our	corn.
It	bought	all	the	necessaries	and	put	a	little	money	back	besides,	and
Granma	kept	that	in	a	tobacco	sack	stuffed	down	in	a	fruit	jar.	Granma	said	that	I
had	a	share	in	it,	for	I	was	working	hard	and	learning	the	trade	too.
Our	two	gallons	we	kept	there.	Granpa	liked	to	have	some	in	his	jug	for
occasional	liquorin’	and	settin’	in	before	company,	and	Granma	used
considerable	of	it	in	her	cough	medicine.	Granpa	said	it	was	also	necessary	for
snake	bite,	spider	bite,	heel	bruises	and	lots	of	things	like	that.
I	seen	right	off	that	stillin’—if	you	done	it	proper—was	hard	work.
Most	people	making	whiskey	used	white	corn.	We	didn’t	have	any.	We	used
Indian	corn,	which	is	the	only	kind	we	grew.	It	is	dark	red	and	give	our	whiskey
a	light	red	tint	…	which	nobody	else	had	any	like.	We	was	proud	of	our	color.
Everybody	knew	it	when	they	saw	it.
We	would	shell	the	corn,	Granma	helped,	and	some	of	it	we	put	in	a	tow
sack.	We	poured	warm	water	over	the	sack	and	let	it	lay	in	the	sun	or	in	the
winter	by	the	fireplace.	You	had	to	turn	the	sack	two	or	three	times	a	day	to	keep
the	corn	stirred	up.	In	four	or	five	days	it	had	long	sprouts.
The	other	shelled	corn	we	ground	up	into	meal.	We	couldn’t	stand	the
expense	of	taking	it	to	a	miller,	for	he	would	take	out	a	toll.	Granpa	had	built	his
own	grist	mill.	It	had	two	rocks	set	against	each	other,	and	we	turned	them	with	a
handle.
Me	and	Granpa	would	tote	the	meal	up	the	hollow	and	the	Narrows	to	the
still.	We	had	a	wood	trough	that	we	stuck	in	the	spring	branch	and	ran	water	to
the	pot	’til	it	was	filled	three	quarters	full.	Then	we	poured	the	meal	in	and
started	a	fire	under	the	pot.	We	used	ash	wood	for	ash	makes	no	smoke.	Granpa
said	that	more	than	likely	any	wood	would	be	all	right,	but	there	was	no	sense	in
taking	a	chance.	Which	was	right.
Granpa	fixed	me	a	box	which	we	set	on	a	stump	by	the	pot.	I	stood	on	the
box	and	stirred	the	meal	water	while	it	cooked.	I	couldn’t	see	over	the	top	and
never	seen	exactly	what	I	was	stirring,	but	Granpa	said	I	done	good	and	was
never	knowed	to	let	a	batch	scorch.	Even	when	my	arms	got	tired.
After	we	cooked	it,	we	drawed	it	off	through	a	slop	arm	in	the	bottom,	into
a	barrel,	and	added	the	sprout	corn	which	we	had	ground	up.	Then	we	covered
the	barrel	and	let	it	set.	It	would	set	for	about	four	or	five	days,	but	each	day,	we
had	to	go	and	stir	it	up.	Granpa	said	it	was	“working.”
After	four	or	five	days,	there	would	be	a	cap	of	hard	crust	on	it.	We	would
break	up	the	cap,	until	it	was	about	gone	and	then	we	was	ready	to	make	a	run.
Granpa	had	a	big	bucket	and	I	had	a	little	one.	We	dipped	out	the	barrel	and
poured	the	beer—that’s	what	Granpa	called	it—into	the	pot.	Granpa	set	the	cap
on	the	pot,	and	we	put	our	wood	to	fire	under	it.	When	the	beer	boiled,	it	sent
steam	up	through	the	cap	arm	which	was	connected	to	the	worm,	the	coil	of
copper	tubing	running	around	in	circles.	The	worm	was	set	in	a	barrel,	and	we
had	cold	water	from	the	spring	branch	running	in	our	trough	through	the	barrel.
This	made	the	steam	turn	back	to	liquid,	and	the	worm	come	out	at	the	bottom	of
the	barrel.	Where	it	come	out,	we	had	hickory	coals	to	strain	off	the	bardy	grease
which	would	make	you	sick	if	you	drank	it.
After	all	of	this	you	would	think	we	would	get	a	lot	of	whiskey	…	but	we
only	got	about	two	gallons.	We	set	the	two	gallons	aside	and	drained	off	the
“backings,”	which	didn’t	turn	to	steam,	in	the	pot.
Then	we	had	to	scrub	the	whole	thing	down.	The	two	gallons	we	had,
Granpa	called	them	“singles.”	He	said	they	was	over	two	hundred	proof.	We	put
the	backings	and	the	singles	back	in	the	pot,	started	the	fire,	and	done	it	an	over
again,	adding	some	water.	This	time,	we	got	our	eleven	gallons.
As	I	say,	it	was	hard	work	and	I	never	could	figure	how	some	folks	would
say	that	lazy,	good-for-nothings	made	whiskey.	Whoever	says	that	without	a
doubt	has	never	made	any.
Granpa	was	the	best	at	his	trade.	Whiskey	can	be	ruined	a	lot	more	ways
than	it	can	be	made	good.	The	fire	can’t	be	too	hot.	If	you	let	the	workings	lay
too	long,	vinegar	sets	up;	if	you	run	early,	it’s	too	weak.	You	must	be	able	to	read
a	“bead,”	and	judge	its	proofing.	I	seen	why	Granpa	taken	such	pride	in	his
trade,	and	I	tried	to	learn.
Some	things	I	could	do	which	Granpa	said	he	didn’t	hardly	see	how	he	had
managed	until	I	come	along.	He	would	lower	me	into	the	pot	after	a	run,	and	I
scrubbed	it	out.	Which	I	always	done	as	fast	as	I	could,	for	it	was	usually	pretty
hot.	I	toted	ash	wood	and	kept	everything	stirred	up.	It	kept	us	busy.
When	me	and	Granpa	was	at	the	still,	Granma	kept	the	dogs	locked	up.
Granpa	said	if	anybody	was	to	come	up	the	hollow,	then	Granma	was	to	turn
loose	Blue	Boy	and	send	him	up	the	trail.	Blue	Boy,	having	the	best	nose,	would
pick	up	our	scent	and	show	up	at	the	still	and	then	we	would	know	somebody
was	on	the	trail.
Granpa	said	he	started	out	using	ol’	Rippitt,	but	ol’	Rippitt	commenced
eating	the	leftover	backings	and	got	drunk.	He	taken	to	it	regular.	Granpa	said	ol’
Rippitt	might	near	turned	to	steady	liquorin’	before	he	put	a	stop	to	it.	Once	he
led	ol’	Maud	to	the	still	and	she	got	drunk	too.	So	he	switched	to	Blue	Boy.
There	are	many	other	things	that	a	good	mountain	whiskey-maker	must
know.	You	have	to	be	careful	to	clean	up	good	after	a	run,	because	if	you	don’t	it
will	smell	of	sour	mash.	Granpa	said	the	law	was	just	like	hound	dogs	and	had
noses	fer	smell	that	could	pick	up	a	mash	scent	miles	away.	Granpa	said	he
reckined	that	this	was	where	the	name	“law	dogs”	come	from.	He	said	if	you
could	check	it	out,	they	was	all	handed	down	from	a	special	bred-up	line,	used
by	kings	and	such,	like	hounds	to	track	folks.	But	Granpa	said	if	I	ever	had
occasion	to	see	any	of	them,	I	would	notice	they	all	had	a	smell	about	them	too
…	which	helped	folks	some	in	knowing	they	was	about.
Also	you	had	to	be	careful	not	to	knock	your	bucket	against	the	pot.	You	can
hear	a	bucket	striking	a	pot	for	maybe	two	miles	in	the	mountains.	This	cause	me
considerable	worry	until	I	got	on	to	it,	for	I	had	to	dip	my	bucket	in	the	barrel,
tote	it	to	the	pot,	climb	up	on	the	stump	and	box,	and	lean	way	over	to	dump	in
the	beer.	I	shortly	got	to	where	I	never	struck	my	bucket.
You	could	not	sing	nor	whistle	neither.	But	me	and	Granpa	talked.	Regular
talk	will	carry	a	long	way	in	the	mountains.	Most	folks	don’t	know—the
Cherokees	do—that	there	is	a	range	of	tone	you	can	talk	in	that	when	it	carries
will	sound	like	mountain	sounds:	wind	in	the	trees	and	blush	and	maybe	running
water.	That’s	the	way	me	and	Granpa	talked.
We	listened	to	the	birds	while	we	worked.	If	the	birds	fly	off	and	the	tree
crickets	stop	singing—look	out.
Granpa	said	there	was	so	many	things	to	handle	in	your	head	that	I	was	not
to	worry	about	picking	it	up	all	at	oncet;	that	it	would	come	and	be	nature	to	me
after	a	while.	Which	eventually	it	did.
Granpa	had	a	mark	for	his	whiskey.	It	was	his	maker’s	mark,	scratched	on
top	of	every	fruit	jar	lid.	Granpa’s	mark	was	shaped	like	a	tomahawk,	and
nobody	else	in	the	mountains	used	it.	Each	maker	had	his	own	mark.	Granpa
said	that	when	he	passed	on,	which	more	than	likely	he	would	eventually	do,	I
would	git	the	mark	handed	down	to	me.	He	had	got	it	from	his	Pa.	At	Mr.
Jenkins’	store,	there	was	men	who	come	in	and	would	not	buy	any	other	whiskey
but	Granpa’s,	with	his	mark.
Granpa	said	that	as	a	matter	of	fact,	since	me	and	him	was	more	or	less
partners	now,	half	of	the	mark	was	owned	by	me	at	the	present	time.	This	was
the	first	time	I	had	ever	owned	anything,	as	to	call	it	mine.	So	I	was	right	proud
of	our	mark,	and	seen	to	it,	as	much	as	Granpa,	that	we	never	turned	out	no	bad
whiskey	under	our	mark.	Which	we	didn’t.
I	guess	one	of	the	scaredest	times	of	my	life	come	about	while	making
whiskey.	It	was	late	winter,	just	before	spring.	Me	and	Granpa	was	finishing	up
our	last	run.	We	had	sealed	the	half-gallon	fruit	jars	and	was	putting	them	in	the
tow	sacks.	We	always	put	leaves	in	the	tow	sacks	too,	for	this	helped	us	to	keep
from	breaking	our	jars.
Granpa	always	carried	two	big	tow	sacks	with	most	of	the	whiskey.	I
carried	a	little	tow	sack	with	three	half-gallon	jars.	I	eventually	got	to	where	I
could	carry	four	jars,	but	at	that	time	I	could	only	carry	three.	It	was	a	pretty	big
load	for	me,	and	toting	it	back	down	the	trail,	I	would	have	to	stop	considerable
to	set	it	down	and	rest.	Granpa	did	too.
We	was	just	finishing	our	sacking	when	Granpa	said,	“Damn!	There’s	Blue
Boy!”
There	he	was,	laying	by	the	side	of	the	still	with	his	tongue	hanging	out.
What	scared	me	and	Granpa	was	that	we	didn’t	know	how	long	he	had	been
there.	He	had	come	up	without	a	word	and	laid	down.	I	said,	“Damn!”	too.	(As	I
say,	me	and	Granpa	occasional	cussed	when	we	wasn’t	around	Granma.)
Granpa	was	already	listening.	All	the	sounds	was	the	same.	The	birds	had
not	flown	away.	Granpa	said,	“Ye	taken	up	your	sack	and	head	back	down	the
trail.	Iff’n	ye	see	somebody,	step	off	the	trail	’til	they	pass.	I’ll	take	time	to	clean
up	and	hide	the	still	and	go	down	t’other	mountain	side.	I’ll	meet	ye	at	the
cabin.”
I	grabbed	up	my	sack	and	throwed	it	over	my	shoulder	so	fast,	it	nearly
jerked	me	over	back’ards	but	I	wobbled	out,	fast	as	I	could	and	got	on	the
Narrows	trail.	I	was	scared	…	but	I	knew	this	was	necessary.	The	still	come	first.
Flatlanders	could	never	understand	what	it	meant	to	bust	up	a	mountain
man’s	still.	It	would	be	as	bad	as	the	Chicargo	fire	to	the	people	in	Chicargo.
Granpa’s	still	had	been	handed	down	to	him,	and	now,	at	his	age,	it	was	not
likely	that	he	could	ever	replace	it.	To	have	it	busted	up	would	not	only	put	me
and	Granpa	out	of	business,	it	would	put	me	and	him	and	Granma	where	it
would	be	practical	intolerable	to	make	a	living.
There	was	no	way	at	all	of	living	on	twenty-five	cent	corn,	even	if	you	had
enough	corn	to	sell—which	we	didn’t—and	even	if	you	could	sell	it—which	we
couldn’t.
Granpa	didn’t	have	to	explain	to	me	how	desperate	it	was	that	we	save	the
still.	So	I	taken	off.	It	was	hard	to	trot	with	the	three	fruit	jars	in	my	sack.
Granpa	sent	Blue	Boy	with	me.	I	kept	my	eye	on	Blue	Boy,	walking	just
ahead	of	me,	for	he	could	pick	a	scent	out	of	the	wind	long	before	you	could
hear	anything.
The	mountains	rose	high	on	either	side	of	the	Narrows	trail,	and	there	was	just
room	to	walk	on	the	bank	of	the	spring	branch.	Me	and	Blue	Boy	had	come
maybe	halfway	down	the	Narrows	when	we	heard	a	big	racket	break	out	down
on	the	hollow	trail.
Granma	had	turned	all	the	dogs	loose	and	they	was	howling	and	baying	up
the	trail.	Something	was	wrong.	I	stopped	and	Blue	Boy	did	too.	The	dogs	were
coming	on,	turning	up	the	Narrows	toward	us.	Blue	Boy	raised	his	ears	and	tail
and	sniffed	the	air;	hairs	ruffled	on	his	back,	and	he	started	walking	stiff-legged
ahead	of	me.	I	sure	appreciated	ol’	Blue	Boy	right	then.
Then	there	they	was.	They	come	around	the	bend	of	the	trail	all	of	a	sudden
and	stopped	and	looked	at	me.	They	’peared	like	an	army,	though	thinking	back
it	was	likely	not	more	than	four	of	them.	They	were	the	biggest	fellers	I	had	ever
seen	and	they	had	badges	shining	on	their	shirts.	They	stood	and	stared	at	me
like	they	had	never	seen	such	before.	I	stopped	and	watched	them	too.	My	mouth
got	clacker	dry	and	my	knees	commenced	to	wobble.
“Hey!”	one	of	them	hollered,	“by	God	…	it’s	a	kid!”	Another	one	said,	“A
damn	Indian	kid!”	Which,	with	me	wearing	moccasins,	deer	pants	and	shirt	…
with	my	hair	long	and	black,	I	couldn’t	hardly	see	no	way	of	passing	as	anything
else.
One	of	them	said,	“What’cha	got	in	that	sack,	kid?”	And	another	one
hollered,	“Look	out	for	that	hound!”
Blue	Boy	was	walking	real	slow	toward	them.	He	was	growling	low	and
showing	his	teeth.	Blue	Boy	meant	business.
They	started	walking,	cautious,	up	the	trail	toward	me.	I	seen	that	I	could
not	get	around	them.	If	I	jumped	in	the	spring	branch	they	would	catch	me,	and
if	I	run	back	up	the	trail	I	would	be	leading	them	to	the	still.	That	would	put	me
and	Granpa	out	of	business	and	it	was	my	responsibility,	same	as	Granpa’s,	to
save	the	still.	I	taken	to	the	side	of	the	mountain.
There	is	a	way	to	run	up	a	mountain;	if	you	ever	have	to	run	up	a	mountain
…	which	I	hope	you	don’t.	Granpa	had	showed	me	the	way	Cherokees	do	it.
You	don’t	run	straight	up,	you	run	along	the	side	and	angle	up	as	you	go.	But
you	don’t	hardly	run	on	the	ground;	this	is	because	you	place	your	feet	on	the
high	side	of	brush	and	tree	hunks	and	roots,	which	gives	you	good	footing,	so
you’ll	never	slip.	You	can	make	fast	time.	This	is	what	I	did.
Instead	of	angling	up	the	mountain	away	from	the	men	…	which	would
have	taken	me	back	up	the	Narrows	…	I	headed	up	the	side	that	led	down	the
trail,	toward	the	men.
This	made	me	pass	right	over	their	heads.	They	broke	off	the	trail	toward
me,	thrashing	in	the	brush,	and	one	of	them	nearly	reached	my	foot	as	I	passed.
He	did	manage	to	grab	the	brush	I	had	stepped	on	and	was	so	close	I	might	near
knew	he	was	going	to	kill	me	right	off.	But	Blue	Boy	bit	him	in	the	leg.	He
hollered	and	fell	back’ards	on	the	men	behind	him,	and	I	kept	running.
I	heard	Blue	Boy,	he	was	growling	and	fighting.	He	got	kicked	or	hit,
because	I	heard	the	wind	go	out	of	him,	and	he	yelped,	but	he	was	right	back
fighting	again.	I	was	running	all	the	time—fast	as	I	could—which	wasn’t	too	fast
as	the	fruit	jars	was	slowing	me	up.
I	heard	the	men	clambering	up	the	mountain	behind	me	and	about	that	time,
the	rest	of	the	hounds	hit.	I	could	tell	ol’	Rippitt’s	growling	and	howling	plain,
and	ol’	Maud’s.	It	all	sounded	pretty	fearful,	mixed	in	with	the	men	yelling	and
hollering	and	cussing.	Later	on,	Granpa	said	he	heard	it	plumb	over	on	the	other
mountain	and	it	sounded	like	an	entire	war	had	broke	out.
I	kept	running	as	long	as	I	could.	After	a	while	I	had	to	stop.	I	felt	like	I	would
bust;	but	I	didn’t	stop	long.	I	kept	going	until	I	was	settin’	right	on	top	of	the
mountain.	The	last	part	of	the	climbing	I	had	to	drag	my	fruit	jars,	I	was	that
wore	out.
I	could	still	hear	the	dogs	and	men.	They	were	moving	back	down	the
Narrows	trail,	and	then	the	hollow	trail.	It	was	a	continuous	squalling,	cussing
and	yelling	all	the	way;	like	a	big	ball	of	sound	that	rolled	down	the	trail	until	I
couldn’t	hear	it	anymore.
Though	I	was	so	tired	I	couldn’t	stand	up,	I	felt	right	good	about	it,	for	they
didn’t	go	near	the	still,	and	I	knew	Granpa	would	be	pleased.	My	legs	was	weak
and	so	I	laid	down	in	the	leaves	and	slept.
When	I	woke	up,	it	was	dark.	The	moon	had	come	up	over	the	far
mountain,	nearly	full	and	was	bringing	light	to	the	hollows,	way	down	below
me.	Then	I	heard	the	hounds.	I	knew	Granpa	had	sent	them	after	me,	for	they
didn’t	bay	like	they	did	on	a	fox	trail;	their	voices	sounded	kind	of	whining,	like
they	was	trying	to	get	me	to	answer	them.
They	had	picked	up	my	trail,	for	they	were	angling	up	the	mountain.	I
whistled	and	heard	them	yelp	and	bark.	In	a	minute,	they	was	covering	me	up,
licking	my	face	and	jumping	all	over	me.	Even	ol’	Ringer	had	come,	and	him
might	near	blind.
Me	and	the	hounds	come	down	off	the	mountain.	Ol’	Maud	couldn’t	stand
it,	and	run	ahead	barking	and	howling	to	tell	Granma	and	Granpa	I	had	been
found.	Aiming	to	take	all	the	credit	herself,	I	reckined,	though	she	couldn’t	smell
a	lick.
As	I	come	down	the	hollow	I	saw	Granma,	out	in	the	trail.	She	had	lit	the
lamp	and	was	holding	it	before	her	like	she	had	set	a	light	to	guide	me	home.
Granpa	was	with	her.
They	didn’t	come	up	the	trail	but	stood	and	watched	as	I	come	along	with
the	dogs.	I	felt	good	about	it.	I	still	had	my	fruit	jars	and	had	not	broke	any	of
them.
Granma	set	the	lamp	down	and	knelt	to	meet	me.	She	grabbed	me	so	hard,
she	nearly	made	me	drop	my	fruit	jars.	Granpa	said	he	would	carry	the	fruit	jars
the	rest	of	the	way.
Granpa	said	that	he	couldn’t	have	done	any	better	hisself,	and	him	going	on
seventy-odd	years.	He	said	that	I	was	likely	coming	on	to	be	the	finest	whiskey-
maker	in	the	mountains.
Granpa	said	I	might	wind	up	being	better’n	him.	Which	I	knew	wasn’t
likely,	but	I	was	proud	he	said	it.
Granma	never	said	anything.	She	toted	me	the	rest	of	the	way	home.	But	I
could	of	made	it,	more	than	likely.
Trading	with	a	Christian
The	next	morning,	all	the	dogs	was	still	jumping	around,	stiff-legged	and
proud.	They	knew	they	had	done	something	which	helped.	I	felt	proud	too	…	but
I	wasn’t	uppity	about	it,	because	such	was	part	of	the	whiskey-making	trade.
Ol’	Ringer	was	missing.	Me	and	Granpa	whistled	and	hollered	for	him,	but
he	didn’t	show	up.	We	walked	all	around	the	cabin	clearing,	but	he	wasn’t	to	be
found	anywhere.	So	we	set	off	with	the	hounds	to	find	him.	We	went	up	the
hollow	trail	and	the	Narrows	but	could	find	no	trace	of	him	anywhere.	Granpa
said	we	had	better	backtrack	up	the	mountain	the	way	I	had	come	down	the	night
before.	We	did;	first	through	the	brush	tangles,	searching,	and	then	up	the
mountain.	Blue	Boy	and	Little	Red	found	him.
Ringer	had	run	into	a	tree.	Maybe	it	was	the	last	tree	he	had	run	into,	for
Granpa	said	it	looked	like	he	had	run	into	a	lot	of	trees	or	else	been	hit	with	a
club.	His	head	was	bloody	all	over	and	he	lay	on	his	side.	His	tongue	was
stabbed	through	with	his	teeth.	He	was	alive,	and	Granpa	picked	him	up	in	his
arms	and	we	carried	him	down	the	mountain.
We	stopped	at	the	spring	branch,	and	me	and	Granpa	washed	the	blood
from	his	face	and	loosened	his	tongue	from	the	teeth.	There	was	gray	hairs	over
his	face	and	when	I	saw	them	I	knew	that	ol’	Ringer	was	very	old	and	had	no
business	running	off	in	the	mountains	looking	after	me.	We	sat	with	him	by	the
spring	branch,	and	in	a	little	while	he	opened	his	eyes;	they	were	old	and	bleary
and	he	could	barely	see.
I	bent	low	to	ol’	Ringer’s	face	and	told	him	I	’preciated	him	looking	for	me
in	the	mountains,	and	I	was	sorry.	Ol’	Ringer	didn’t	mind,	he	licked	my	face,
letting	me	know	he’d	just	as	soon	do	it	all	over	again.
Granpa	let	me	help	carry	ol’	Ringer	down	the	trail.	Granpa	carried	most	of
him,	but	I	toted	his	hind	feet.	When	we	got	to	the	cabin,	Granpa	laid	him	down
and	said	,	“Ol’	Ringer	is	dead.”	And	he	was.	He	had	died	on	the	trail,	but	Granpa
said	he	knowed	that	we	had	come	and	got	him,	and	that	he	was	on	his	way
home,	and	so	he	felt	good	about	it.	I	felt	some	better	too—though	not	much.
Granpa	said	ol’	Ringer	died	like	all	good	mountain	hounds	want	to	die:
doing	for	their	folks	and	in	the	woods.
Granpa	got	a	shovel.	We	carried	ol’	Ringer	up	the	hollow	trail,	up	by	the
corn	patch	that	he	prided	so	in	guarding.	Granma	come	along	too,	and	all	the
hounds	followed,	whining,	with	their	tails	between	their	legs.	I	felt	the	same.
Grandpa	dug	ol’	Ringer’s	grave	at	the	foot	of	a	little	water	oak.	It	was	a
pretty	place;	red	sumach	all	around	in	the	fall,	and	a	dogwood	tree	standing	by
with	white	blooms	in	the	spring.
Granma	laid	a	white	cotton	sack	in	the	bottom	of	the	grave,	and	placed	ol’
Ringer	on	it	and	wrapped	it	around	him.	Granpa	put	a	big	board	over	ol’	Ringer,
so	the	’coons	couldn’t	dig	him	up.	We	covered	up	the	grave.	The	hounds	stood
around,	knowing	it	was	ol’	Ringer,	and	ol’	Maud	whined.	Her	and	ol’	Ringer	had
been	partners	at	the	corn	patch.
Granpa	pulled	off	his	hat	and	said,	“Good-bye,	ol’	Ringer.”	I	said	good-bye
ol’	Ringer,	too.	And	so	we	left	him,	under	the	water	oak	tree.
I	felt	total	bad	about	it,	and	empty.	Granpa	said	he	knew	how	I	felt,	for	he
was	feeling	the	same	way.	But	Granpa	said	everything	you	lost	which	you	had
loved	give	you	that	feeling.	He	said	the	only	way	round	it	was	not	to	love
anything,	which	was	worse	because	you	would	feel	empty	all	the	time.
Granpa	said,	supposin’	ol’	Ringer	had	not	been	faithful,	then	we	would	not
be	proud	of	him.	That	would	be	a	worse	feeling.	Which	is	right.	Granpa	said
when	I	got	old,	I	would	remember	ol’	Ringer,	and	I	would	like	it—to	remember.
He	said	it	was	a	funny	thing,	but	when	you	got	old	and	remembered	them	you
loved,	you	only	remembered	the	good,	never	the	bad,	which	proved	the	bad
didn’t	count	nohow.
But	we	had	to	get	on	with	our	trade.	Me	and	Granpa	toted	our	wares	over	the
cutoff	trail	to	Mr.	Jenkins’	crossroads	store.	“Wares”	is	what	Granpa	called	our
whiskey.
I	liked	the	cutoff	trail.	We	went	down	the	hollow	trail,	and	before	we
reached	the	wagon	ruts,	we	turned	and	beared	left	to	the	cutoff	trail.	It	ran	over
the	ridges	of	the	mountains	that	sloped	toward	the	valley	like	big	fingers	pushing
out	and	resting	in	the	flatlands.
The	hollows	we	crossed	were	shallow	between	the	ridges	and	easy	to	climb
out	of.	The	trail	was	several	miles	long;	passing	through	stands	of	pine	and	cedar
on	the	slopes;	persimmon	trees	and	honeysuckle	vine.
In	the	fall	of	the	year,	after	frost	had	turned	the	persimmons	red,	I	would
stop	on	the	way	back	and	fill	my	pockets,	and	then	run	to	catch	up	with	Granpa.
In	the	spring,	I	done	the	same	thing,	picking	blackberries.
Oncet,	Granpa	stopped	and	watched	me	pick	blackberries.	It	was	one	of	the
times	he	was	put	out	about	words,	and	how	folks	was	fooled	by	them.	Granpa
said,	“Little	Tree,	did	ye	know	that	when	blackberries	is	green,	they	is	red?”
This	total	confused	me,	and	Granpa	laughed.	“The	name	is	give	to
blackberries	…	to	describe	’em	by	color	…	folks	use	the	color	green	…	meaning
they	ain’t	ripe	…	which	when	they	ain’t	ripe,	they	are	red.”	Which	is	true.
Granpa	said,	“That’s	how	the	damn	fool	word-using	gits	folks	all	twisted
up.	When	ye	hear	somebody	using	words	agin’	somebody,	don’t	go	by	his	words,
fer	they	won’t	make	no	damn	sense.	Go	by	his	tone,	and	ye’ll	know	if	he’s	mean
and	lying.”	Granpa	was	pretty	much	down	on	having	too	many	words.	Which
was	reasonable.
There	was	also	hickor’nuts,	chinkapins,	walnuts	and	chestnuts	usually
laying	by	the	trail	side.	So,	no	matter	what	time	of	year	it	was,	coming	back
from	the	crossroads	store	kept	me	busy	gathering.
Totin’	our	wares	to	the	store	was	a	pretty	good	job.	I	would	sometimes	fall
far	behind	Granpa,	carrying	my	three	fruit	jars	in	the	sack.	When	I	did,	I	knew
he	would	be	settin’	down	somewhere	ahead,	and	when	I	got	to	him,	we	would
rest.
When	you	toted	that-a-way,	by	going	from	one	settin’	down	place	to
another,	it	was	not	so	hard.	When	we	got	to	the	last	ridge,	me	and	Granpa	always
set	down	in	the	bushes	while	we	looked	for	the	pickle	barrel	in	front	of	the	store.
If	the	pickle	barrel	was	not	settin’	out	front	that	meant	everything	was	all	right.	If
it	was	settin’	out	front	that	meant	the	law,	and	we	was	not	to	deliver	our	wares.
Everybody	in	the	mountains	watched	for	the	pickle	barrel,	for	other	people	had
wares	to	deliver	too.
I	never	saw	the	pickle	barrel	settin’	out	front,	but	I	never	failed	to	look	for
it.	I	had	learned	that	the	whiskey-making	trade	had	a	lot	of	complications	to	it.
But	Granpa	said	every	trade	has,	more	or	less,	some	complications.
He	said	did	ye	ever	think	how	it	would	be	in	the	dentist	trade,	having	to	look
down	folks’	mouths	all	the	time,	day	in	and	day	out,	nothing	but	mouths?	He
said	such	a	trade	would	drive	him	total	crazy	and	that	the	whiskey-making	trade,
with	all	its	complications,	was	a	sight	better	trade	for	a	feller	to	be	in.	Which	is
right.
I	liked	Mr.	Jenkins.	He	was	big	and	fat	and	wore	overalls.	He	had	a	white
beard	that	hung	down	over	the	bib	of	his	overalls,	but	his	head	was	near	totally
without	hair;	it	shined	like	a	pine	knob.
He	had	all	kinds	of	things	in	the	store:	big	racks	of	shirts	and	overalls	and
boxes	of	shoes.	There	was	barrels	with	crackers	in	them,	and	on	a	counter	he	had
a	big	hoop	of	cheese.	Also	on	the	counter	he	had	a	glass	case	which	had	candy
laid	on	the	shelves.	There	was	all	kinds	of	candy	and	looked	like	there	was	more
candy	than	he	could	ever	run	out	of.	I	never	seen	anybody	eat	any	of	it,	but	I
guess	he	sold	some	or	he	wouldn’t	have	had	it.
Every	time	we	delivered	our	wares,	Mr.	Jenkins	asked	me	if	I	would	go	to
his	woodpile	and	pick	up	a	sack	of	wood	chips	for	the	big	stove	that	set	in	the
store.	I	always	did.	The	first	time,	he	offered	me	a	big	stick	of	striped	candy,	but
I	couldn’t	rightly	take	it	just	for	picking	up	wood	chips,	which	wasn’t	hardly	no
trouble	at	all.	He	put	it	back	in	the	case,	and	found	another	piece	which	was	old
and	which	he	was	going	to	throw	away.	Granpa	said	that	it	was	all	right	for	me
to	take	it,	seeing	as	how	Mr.	Jenkins	was	going	to	throw	it	away,	and	it	would
not	be	of	benefit	to	anybody.	So	I	did.
Every	month,	he	come	across	another	old	stick,	and	I	guess	I	might	near
cleaned	out	his	old	candy.	Which	he	said	helped	him	out	a	lot.
It	was	at	the	crossroads	store	where	I	got	slickered	out	of	my	fifty	cents.	It	had
taken	me	a	long	time	to	accumulate	the	fifty	cents.	Granma	would	put	aside	a
nickel	or	dime	in	a	jar	for	me	each	month	we	delivered	our	wares.
It	was	my	part	of	the	trade.	I	liked	to	carry	it,	all	in	nickels	and	dimes,	in
my	pocket	when	we	went	to	the	crossroads	store.	I	never	spent	it	and	each	time
when	we	got	home	I	put	it	back	in	the	fruit	jar.
It	was	a	comfort	to	me,	carrying	it	in	my	pocket	to	the	store,	and	knowing	it
was	mine.	I	kind	of	had	my	eye	on	a	big	red	and	green	box	which	was	in	the
candy	case.	I	didn’t	know	how	much	it	cost,	but	I	was	figuring	that	maybe	next
Christmas	I	would	buy	it	for	Granma	…	and	then	we	would	eat	what	was	in	it.
But	as	I	say,	I	got	slickered	out	of	my	fifty	cents	before	then.
It	was	about	dinnertime	of	a	day	right	after	we	had	delivered	our	wares.	The
sun	was	straight	overhead	and	me	and	Granpa	was	resting,	squattin’	down	under
the	store	shed	with	our	backs	against	the	store.	Granpa	had	bought	some	sugar
for	Granma	and	three	oranges	which	Mr.	Jenkins	had.	Granma	liked	oranges,
which	I	did	too,	when	you	could	get	them.	Seeing	Granpa	had	three,	I	knew	I
would	get	one.
I	was	eating	on	my	stick	candy.	Men	commenced	to	come	to	the	store	in
twos	and	threes.	They	said	a	politician	was	coming	and	was	going	to	make	a
speech.	I	don’t	know	that	Granpa	would	have	stayed,	for	as	I	say	he	didn’t	give	a
lick-damn	about	politicians,	but	before	we	got	rested	here	come	the	politician.
He	was	in	a	big	car,	kicking	up	rolls	of	dust	from	the	road,	so	everybody
saw	him	a	long	way	off	before	he	got	there.	He	had	some	feller	driving	his	car
for	him,	and	he	got	out	of	the	back	seat.	There	was	a	lady	in	the	back	seat	with
him.	All	the	time	the	politician	talked,	she	throwed	out	little	cigarettes	that	she
had	smoked	part	of.	Granpa	said	they	were	ready-roll,	tailor-made	cigarettes,
which	rich	people	smoked	as	they	was	too	lazy	to	roll	their	own.
The	politician	come	around	and	shook	everybody’s	hand;	though	he	didn’t
shake	mine	nor	Granpa’s.	Granpa	said	this	was	because	we	looked	like	Indians
and	didn’t	vote	nohow,	so	we	was	of	practical	no	use	whatsoever	to	the
politician.	Which	sounds	reasonable.
He	wore	a	black	coat	and	had	a	white	shirt	with	a	ribbon	tied	at	his	neck;	it
was	black	and	hung	down.	He	laughed	a	lot	and	’peared	to	be	mighty	happy.
That	is,	until	he	got	mad.
He	got	up	on	a	box	and	commenced	to	get	worked	up	about	conditions	in
Washington	City	…	which	he	said	was	total	going	to	hell.	He	said	it	wasn’t	a
thing	in	the	world	but	Sodom	and	Gomorrah,	which	I	guess	it	was.	He	got
madder	and	madder	about	it	and	untied	the	ribbon	around	his	neck.
He	said	the	Catholics	was	behind	every	damn	bit	of	it.	He	said	they	was
practical	in	control	of	the	whole	thing,	and	was	aiming	to	put	Mr.	Pope	in	the
White	House.	Catholics,	he	said,	was	the	rottenest,	low-downest	snakes	that	ever
lived.	He	said	they	had	fellers	called	priests	that	mated	women	called	nuns,	and
the	young’uns	that	come	of	the	matin’,	they	fed	them	to	a	pack	of	dogs.	He	said
it	was	the	awfulest	thing	he	had	ever	seen	nor	heard	tell	of.	Which	it	was.
He	got	to	hollerin’	pretty	loud	about	it,	and	I	guess,	conditions	being	what
they	was	in	Washington	City,	it	was	enough	to	make	a	man	holler.	He	said	if	it
wasn’t	for	him	puttin’	up	a	fight	agin’	them,	that	they	would	be	in	total	control
and	spread	plumb	down	to	where	we	was	at	…	which	sounded	pretty	bad.
He	said	if	they	did,	they	would	put	all	the	womenfolks	in	convents	and	such
…	and	would	practical	wipe	out	the	young’uns.	There	didn’t	seem	hardly	any
way	at	all	to	whip	them	unless	everybody	sent	him	to	Washington	City	to	see
that	it	was	done;	and	he	said	even	then	it	would	be	a	hard	fight,	because	fellers
was	selling	out	to	them	all	over	the	place,	for	money.	He	said	he	wouldn’t	take
no	money,	as	he	had	no	use	for	it,	and	was	total	agin’	it.
He	said	he	felt	like	might	near	giving	up	sometimes	and	quittin’	and	just
takin’	it	easy,	like	we	done.
I	felt	right	bad,	takin’	it	easy;	but	when	he	finished	talking,	he	got	down
from	the	box	and	commenced	to	laugh	and	shake	hands	with	everybody.	Which
it	looked	like	he	had	plenty	of	confidence	he	could	handle	the	situation	in
Washington	City.
I	felt	a	little	better	about	it,	dependent	on	his	gittin’	back	up	there	so	he
could	whip	the	Catholics	and	such.
While	he	was	shaking	hands	and	talking	to	folks,	a	feller	walked	up	to	the
fringe	of	the	crowd	leading	a	little	brown	calf	on	a	rope.
He	stood	around	watching	the	crowd	and	shook	hands	twicet	with	the
politician,	each	time	he	come	by.	The	little	calf	stood	spraddle-legged	behind
him	with	its	head	down.	I	got	up	and	edged	over	to	the	calf.	I	petted	it	oncet,	but
it	wouldn’t	lift	its	head.	The	feller	looked	down	at	me	from	under	a	big	hat.	He
had	sharp	eyes	that	crinkled	nearly	shut	when	he	smiled.	He	smiled.
“Like	my	calf,	boy?”
“Yes,	sir,”	I	said,	and	stepped	back	from	the	calf,	as	I	didn’t	want	him	to
think	I	was	bothering	it.
“Go	ahead,”	he	said,	real	cheerful.	“Go	ahead	and	pet	the	calf.	Ye	won’t
hurt	’em.”	I	petted	the	calf.
The	feller	spit	tobacco	juice	over	the	calf’s	back.	“I	can	see,”	he	said,	“that
my	calf	takes	to	ye	…	more’n	anybody	he’s	ever	taken	up	with	…	seems	like	he
wants	to	go	with	ye.”	I	couldn’t	tell	that	the	calf	looked	the	way	he	said,	but	it
was	his	calf,	and	he	ought	to	know.	The	feller	knelt	down	in	front	of	me.	“Have
you	got	any	money,	boy?”
“Yes,	sir,”	I	said,	“I	got	fifty	cents.”	The	feller	frowned,	and	I	could	see	it
wasn’t	much	money	and	was	sorry	that	it	was	all	I	had.
He	smiled	after	a	minute	and	said,	“Well,	this	here	calf	is	worth	more’n	a
hundred	times	that	much.”	I	seen	right	off	it	was	worth	that	much.	“Yes,	sir,”	I
said,	“I	wasn’t	figuring	no	way	at	all	to	buy	it.”	The	feller	frowned	again.
“Well,”	he	said,	“I’m	a	Christian	man.	Somehow	or	’nother,	even	costing	me	all
that	this	here	calf	is	worth,	I	feel	in	my	heart	ye’d	ought	to	have	it,	the	way	it’s
taken	up	with	ye.”	He	thought	on	this	for	a	while,	and	I	could	see	right	off	that	it
pained	him	a	lot	to	think	of	parting	with	the	calf.
“I	ain’t—ner	wouldn’t	take	him	at	all,	mister,”	I	said.
But	the	feller	held	up	his	hand	to	stop	me.	He	sighed,	“I’m	a’goin’	to	let	ye
have	the	calf,	son,	fer	fifty	cents	fer	I	feel	it’s	my	Christian	duty,	and—no—I
won’t	take	no	fer	an	answer.	Jest	give	me	yer	fifty	cents,	and	the	calf	is	your’n.”
Since	he	put	it	that-a-way,	I	couldn’t	hardly	turn	him	down.	I	taken	out	all
my	nickels	and	dimes	and	give	them	to	him.	He	passed	the	calf’s	rope	to	me,	and
walked	off	so	quick,	I	didn’t	know	which	way	he	went.
But	I	felt	mighty	proud	of	my	calf,	even	though	I	had	more	or	less	taken
advantage	of	the	feller—him	being	a	Christian,	which,	as	he	said,	handicapped
him	somewhat.	I	pulled	my	calf	around	to	Granpa	and	showed	it	to	him.	Granpa
didn’t	seem	as	proud	of	my	calf	as	I	was,	but	I	reckined	it	was	because	it	was
mine,	and	not	his.	I	told	him	he	could	have	half	of	it,	seeing	as	how	we	was
practically	partners	in	the	whiskey-making	trade.	But	Granpa	just	grunted.
The	crowd	was	breaking	up	around	the	politician,	everybody	being	more	or
less	agreed	that	the	politician	had	better	git	to	Washington	City	right	off	and
fight	the	Catholics.	He	passed	out	pieces	of	paper.	Though	he	didn’t	give	me
one,	I	got	one	off	the	ground.	It	had	his	picture	on	it,	showing	him	smiling	like
there	wasn’t	a	thing	wrong	in	Washington	City.	He	looked	real	young	in	the
picture.
Granpa	said	we	was	ready	to	set	out	for	home,	so	I	put	the	politician’s
picture	in	my	pocket,	and	led	my	calf	behind	Granpa.	It	was	pretty	hard	going.
My	calf	couldn’t	hardly	walk.	It	stumbled	and	wobbled	along,	and	I	pulled	on
the	rope	best	I	could.	I	was	afraid	if	I	pulled	too	hard,	my	calf	would	fall	down.
I	was	beginning	to	worry	if	I	would	ever	get	it	to	the	cabin,	and	that	maybe
it	was	sick	…	even	though	it	was	worth	a	hundred	times	what	I	paid	for	it.
By	the	time	I	got	to	the	top	of	the	first	ridge,	Granpa	was	nearly	at	the
bottom	fixing	to	head	across	a	hollow.	I	seen	I	would	be	left	behind,	so	I	yelled,
“Granpa	…	do	ye	know	any	Catholics?”	Granpa	stopped.	I	pulled	harder	on	my
calf	and	commenced	to	catch	up.	Granpa	waited	until	me	and	the	calf	come	up	to
him.
“I	seen	one,	oncet,”	Granpa	said,	“at	the	county	seat.”	Me	and	the	calf
caught	up,	and	was	resting	as	hard	as	we	could.	“One	I	seen,”	Granpa	said,
“didn’t	look	particular	mean	…	though	I	figgered	he	had	been	in	some	kind	of
scrape	…	he	had	got	his	collar	twisted	up,	and	more	than	likely	was	jest	drunk
enough	that	he	failed	to	notice	it.	He	’peared	to	be,	howsoever,	peaceful
enough.”
Granpa	set	down	on	a	rock,	and	I	seen	he	was	going	to	give	some	thought
to	it,	for	which	I	was	glad.	My	calf	had	his	front	legs	spraddled	in	front	of	him
and	was	pantin’	pretty	hard.
“Howsoever,”	Granpa	said,	“iff’n	ye	taken	a	knife	and	cut	fer	half	a	day
into	that	politician’s	gizzard,	ye’d	have	a	hard	time	finding	a	kernel	of	truth.
Ye’ll	notice	the	son	of	a	bitch	didn’t	say	a	thing	about	gittin’	the	whiskey	tax
taken	off	…	’er	the	price	of	corn	…	’er	nothin’	else	fer	that	matter.”	Which	was
right.
I	told	Granpa	that	I	had	noticed	the	son	of	a	bitch	never	said	a	word	about
it.
Granpa	reminded	me	that	“son	of	a	bitch”	was	a	new	cuss	word,	and	was
not	to	be	used	no	way	at	all	around	Granma.	Granpa	said	he	didn’t	give	a	lick-
damn	if	priests	and	nuns	mated	every	day	in	the	week,	no	more’n	he	cared	how
many	bucks	and	does	mated.	He	said	that	was	their	matin’	business.
Granpa	said	that	as	far	as	them	feedin’	young’uns	to	dogs,	that	there	would
never	come	a	day	when	a	doe	would	feed	her	young	to	a	dog,	ner	a	woman,	so
he	knowed	that	was	a	lie.	Which	is	right.
I	commenced	to	feel	some	better	about	the	Catholics.	Granpa	said	that
wasn’t	no	doubt	in	his	mind	that	the	Catholics	would	like	to	git	control	…	but	he
said,	iff’n	ye	had	a	hog	and	ye	didn’t	want	it	stole,	jest	git	ten	or	twelve	men	to
guard	it,	each	one	of	which	wanted	to	steal	it.	He	said	that	hog	would	be	safe	as
in	yer	own	kitchen.	Granpa	said	they	was	all	so	crooked	in	Washington	City,	that
they	had	to	watch	one	another	all	the	time.
Granpa	said	that	they	was	so	many	trying	to	git	control,	it	was	a	continual
dogfight	all	the	time	anyhow.	He	said	the	worst	thing	wrong	with	Washington
City	was	it	had	so	many	damn	politicians	in	it.
Granpa	said,	that	even	being	that	we	went	to	a	hard-shell	Baptist	church,	he
would	sure	hate	to	see	the	hard-shells	git	control.	He	said	they	was	total	agin’
liquor	drinking	except	maybe	some	fer	theirselves.	He	said	they	would	dry	the
whole	country	up.
I	seen	right	off	there	was	other	dangers	besides	the	Catholics.	If	the	hard-
shells	got	control,	me	and	Granpa	would	be	put	out	of	the	whiskey-making	trade,
and	would	likely	starve	to	death.
I	asked	Granpa	if	it	wasn’t	likely	that	the	big	shots,	which	made	barrel
sniffin’	whiskey,	wasn’t	trying	to	git	control	too;	us	putting	a	dent	in	their	trade
and	all,	so	they	could	put	us	out	of	business.	Granpa	said	that	without	a	doubt
they	was	trying	hard	as	they	could,	bribing	politicians	practical	every	day	in
Washington	City.
Granpa	said	they	was	only	one	thing	certain.	The	Indian	was	not	never
going	to	git	control.	Which	appeared	not	likely.
While	Granpa	was	talking	my	calf	laid	down	and	died.	He	just	laid	over	on
his	side	and	there	he	was.	I	was	standing	in	front	of	Granpa	holding	onto	the
rope,	and	Granpa	pointed	behind	me	and	said,	“Yer	calf	is	dead.”	He	never
owned	to	half	of	it	being	his.
I	got	down	on	my	knees	and	tried	to	prop	its	head	up	and	get	it	on	its	feet,
but	it	was	limp.	Granpa	shook	his	head,	“It’s	dead,	Little	Tree.	When	something
is	dead	…	it’s	dead.”	Which	it	was.	I	squatted	by	my	calf	and	looked	at	it.	It	was
might	near	close	to	being	as	bad	a	time	as	I	could	remember.	My	fifty	cents	was
gone,	and	the	red	and	green	box	of	candy.	And	now	my	calf—being	worth	a
hundred	times	what	I	paid	for	it.
Granpa	pulled	his	long	knife	from	his	moccasin	boot	and	cut	the	calf	open
and	pulled	out	its	liver.	He	pointed	at	the	liver.	“It’s	speckled	and	diseased.	We
can’t	eat	it.”
It	looked	to	me	like	there	wasn’t	anything	at	all	that	could	be	done	with	it.	I
didn’t	cry—but	I	might	near	did.	Granpa	knelt	and	skinned	the	calf.	“Reckin
Granma	would	give	ye	a	dime	fer	the	skin;	likely	she	can	use	it,”	he	said.	“And
we’ll	send	the	dogs	back	…	they	can	eat	the	calf.”	Reckin	that	was	all	that	could
be	made	of	it.	I	followed	Granpa	down	the	trail—carrying	the	hide	of	my	calf—
all	the	way	to	the	cabin.
Granma	didn’t	ask	me,	but	I	told	her	I	couldn’t	put	my	fifty	cents	back	in
the	jar,	for	I	had	spent	it	for	a	calf—which	I	didn’t	have.	Granma	give	me	a	dime
for	the	hide	and	I	put	that	in	the	jar.
It	was	hard	to	eat	that	night,	though	I	liked	ground	peas	and	corn	bread.
While	we	was	eating,	Granpa	looked	at	me	and	said,	“Ye	see,	Little	Tree,
ain’t	no	way	of	learning,	except	by	letting	ye	do.	Iff’n	I	had	stopped	ye	from
buying	the	calf,	ye’d	have	always	thought	ye’d	ought	to	had	it.	Iff’n	I’d	told	ye
to	buy	it,	ye’d	blame	me	fer	the	calf	dying.	Ye’ll	have	to	learn	as	ye	go.”
“Yes,	sir,”	I	said.
“Now,”	Granpa	said,	“what	did	ye	learn?”
“Well,”	I	said,	“I	reckin	I	learned	not	to	trade	with	Christians.”
Granma	commenced	to	laugh.	I	didn’t	see	hardly	anything	funny	at	all
about	it.	Granpa	looked	dumbstruck;	then	he	laughed	so	hard	he	choked	on	his
corn	bread.	I	figgered	I	had	learned	something	funny	but	I	didn’t	know	what	it
was.
Granma	said,	“What	ye	mean,	Little	Tree,	is	that	ye’ll	be	likely	to	have
caution	at	the	next	feller	who	tells	you	how	good	and	what	a	fine	feller	he	is.”
“Yes,	ma’am,”	I	said,	“I	reckin.”
I	wasn’t	sure	about	anything	…	except	I	had	lost	my	fifty	cents.	Being
plumb	wore	out,	I	went	to	sleep	at	the	table	and	my	head	come	down	in	my
supper	plate.	Granma	had	to	wash	ground	peas	off	my	face.
That	night	I	dreamed	the	hard-shells	and	Catholics	come	amongst	us.	The
hard-shells	tore	up	our	still,	and	the	Catholics	et	up	my	calf.
A	big	Christian	was	there,	smiling	at	the	whole	thing.	He	had	a	red	and
green	box	of	candy	and	said	it	was	worth	a	hundred	times	as	much,	but	I	could
have	it	for	fifty	cents.	Which	I	didn’t	have—fifty	cents;	and	so	could	not	buy	it.
At	the	Crossroads	Store
Granma	taken	a	pencil	and	paper	and	showed	me	how	much	I	had	lost	on	my
trade	with	the	Christian.	Turns	out,	I	didn’t	lose	but	forty	cents,	as	I	cleared	a
dime	off	the	calf	hide.	I	put	the	dime	in	my	fruit	jar	and	didn’t	take	it	in	my
pocket	no	more,	it	being	safer	in	the	jar.
On	our	next	run	I	made	a	dime,	and	Granma	upped	it	with	a	nickel.	This
give	me	twenty-five	cents,	so	I	was	beginning	to	get	my	money	built	back	up.
Though	I	had	lost	fifty	cents	at	the	store,	I	always	looked	forward	to
delivering	our	wares;	though	carrying	my	tow	sack	was	a	pretty	good	job.
I	was	learning	five	words	a	week	out	of	the	dictionary,	and	Granma	would
explain	the	meanings,	then	had	me	put	the	words	in	sentences.	I	used	my
sentences	considerable	on	the	way	to	the	store.	This	would	get	Granpa	to	stop
while	he	figured	out	what	I	was	saying.	I	could	catch	up	and	rest	with	my	fruit
jars.	Sometimes	Granpa	would	totally	knock	out	words,	saying	I	didn’t	have	to
use	that	word	no	more,	which	speeded	me	up	considerable	in	the	dictionary.
Like	the	time	I	had	got	down	to	the	word	“abhor.”	Granpa	had	got	way
ahead	of	me	on	the	trail,	and	I	had	been	practicing	a	sentence	with	that	word	so	I
hollered	to	Granpa,	“I	abhor	briers,	yeller	jackets	and	such.”
Granpa	stopped.	He	waited	until	I	had	caught	up	with	him,	and	set	down
my	load	of	fruit	jars.	“What	did	ye	say?”	Granpa	asked.
“I	said,	‘I	abhor	briers,	yeller	jackets	and	such,’”	I	said.	Granpa	looked
down	at	me	so	steady-hard	that	I	commenced	to	feel	uneasy	about	the	whole
thing.	“What	in	hell,”	Granpa	said,	“has	whores	got	to	do	with	briers	and	yeller
jackets?”
I	told	him	that	I	didn’t	have	no	way	in	the	world	of	knowing,	which	I
didn’t,	but	the	word	was	“abhor”	and	it	meant	that	you	couldn’t	hardly	stand
something.
Granpa	said,	“Well,	why	don’t	ye	just	say	ye	can’t	stand	it,	instead	of	using
‘abwhore’?”	I	said	I	couldn’t	figure	that	out	myself	but	it	was	in	the	dictionary.
Granpa	got	pretty	worked	up	about	it.	He	said	the	meddlesome	son	of	a	bitch
that	invented	the	dictionary	ought	to	be	taken	out	and	shot.
Granpa	said	that	more’n	likely	this	same	feller	had	worked	up	half	a	dozen
more	words	that	could	discolor	the	meaning	of	the	same	thing.	He	said	this	was
why	politicians	could	git	away	with	slicker’n	folks	and	always	claiming	they
didn’t	say	this	’er	that—or	that	they	did.	Granpa	said,	if	you	could	check	it	out,
the	damn	dictionary	was	either	put	up	by	a	politician	or	they	was	some	behind	it.
Which	sounds	reasonable.
Granpa	said	I	could	just	knock	out	that	word.	Which	I	did.	There	was
usually	a	lot	of	men	around	the	store	in	the	winter	time	or	during	laying-by	time.
“Laying-by”	time	was	usually	in	August.	That	was	the	time	of	year	after	the
farmers	had	done	with	plowing	and	hoeing	weeds	out	of	their	crops	four	or	five
times;	and	the	crops	was	big	enough	now	that	they	“laid	by,”	that	is,	no	hoeing
or	plowing,	while	the	crops	ripened	and	they	waited	to	do	the	gathering.
After	we	delivered	our	wares,	and	Granpa	got	paid,	and	I	had	picked	up	the
wood	chips	for	Mr.	Jenkins	and	taken	the	stick	of	old	candy	off	his	hands,	me
and	Granpa	always	squatted	under	the	store	shed	with	our	backs	against	the	wall
and	kind	of	stretched	out	the	time.
Granpa	had	eighteen	dollars	in	his	pocket	…	of	which	I	would	get	at	least	a
dime	when	we	got	home.	He	had	usually	bought	sugar	or	coffee	for	Granma	…
sometimes,	a	little	wheat	flour,	if	things	was	going	good.	Besides,	we	had	just
finished	up	a	pretty	hard	week	in	the	whiskey-making	trade.
I	always	finished	off	the	stick	of	old	candy	while	we	set.	It	was	a	good	time.
We	listened	to	the	men	talking	about	things.	Some	of	them	said	there	was	a
depression	and	fellers	was	jumping	out	of	winders	in	New	York	and	shootin’
theirselves	in	the	head	about	it.	Granpa	never	said	anything.	Which	I	didn’t
either.	But	Granpa	told	me	that	New	York	was	crowded	all	up	with	people	who
didn’t	have	enough	land	to	live	on,	and	likely	half	of	them	was	run	crazy	from
living	that-a-way,	which	accounted	for	the	shootins	and	the	winder	jumping.
Usual,	there	was	somebody	cuttin’	hair	at	the	store.	They	would	set	a
straight	chair	under	the	shed	and	take	turns	gettin’	their	hair	sheared	by	a	feller.
Another	man—everybody	called	him	“Old	Man	Barnett”—jumped	teeth.
Not	many	people	could	“jump	teeth.”	This	was	when	you	had	a	bad	tooth	and
had	to	get	it	taken	out.
Everybody	liked	to	watch	Old	Man	Barnett	working,	jumping	teeth.	He
would	set	the	feller	whose	tooth	he	was	going	to	jump	down	in	a	chair.	Then	he
would	heat	up	a	wire	over	a	fire	until	the	wire	was	red	hot.	He	stuck	the	wire	on
the	tooth	and	then	taken	a	nail	and	placed	it	against	the	tooth,	and	with	a
hammer,	he	hit	it	a	secret	way.	The	tooth	just	jumped	out	on	the	ground.	He	was
right	proud	of	his	trade,	and	would	make	everybody	stand	back	while	he	done	it
so	they	wouldn’t	nobody	learn	it.
One	time,	another	old	feller	about	the	same	age	as	Old	Man	Barnett—they	called
him	Mr.	Lett—he	come	to	get	a	bad	tooth	jumped.	Old	Man	Barnett	set	Mr.	Lett
down	in	the	chair	and	heated	up	his	wire.	He	stuck	the	wire	to	Mr.	Lett’s	tooth,
but	Mr.	Lett	wrapped	his	tongue	around	the	wire.	He	bellered	louder’n	a	bull	and
kicked	Old	Man	Barnett	in	the	stomach,	knocking	him	over	backwards.
This	made	Old	Man	Barnett	mad	and	he	hit	Mr.	Lett	in	the	head	with	a
chair.	They	got	to	fighting	on	the	ground	until	everybody	crowded	in	and	pulled
them	apart.	They	stood	cussing	one	another	awhile—or	leastwise	Old	Man
Barnett	was	cussing—you	couldn’t	understand	what	Mr.	Lett	was	saying,	but	he
was	mad!
Finally	they	calmed	down	and	a	bunch	of	men	held	Mr.	Lett	and	drawed	out
his	tongue	and	poured	turpentine	on	it.	He	left.	It	was	the	first	time	I	ever	saw
Old	Man	Barnett	fail	to	jump	a	tooth,	and	he	didn’t	take	it	lightly.	He	taken	pride
in	his	trade	and	went	around	explaining	to	everybody	why	it	was	that	he	hadn’t
jumped	that	tooth.	He	said	it	was	Mr.	Lett’s	fault.	Which	I	reckin	it	was.
I	made	up	my	mind	right	then	that	I	was	not	ever	going	to	have	a	bad	tooth.
Or	if	I	did,	I	wasn’t	going	to	tell	Old	Man	Barnett	about	it.
At	the	store	is	where	I	got	acquainted	with	the	little	girl.	She	would	come
with	her	Pa	during	laying-by	time,	or	in	the	winter.	Her	Pa	was	a	young	man
who	wore	ragged	overalls	and	was,	most	time,	barefooted.	The	little	girl	was
always	barefooted,	even	when	it	was	cold.
Granpa	said	they	was	sharecroppers.	He	said	sharecroppers	didn’t	own	no
land,	or	nothing	else	to	speak	of—usually	not	even	a	bedstead	or	a	chair.	They
would	work	on	somebody	else’s	land	and	would	sometimes	get	half	of	what	the
owner	got	for	his	crop,	but	mostly	they	just	got	a	third.	They	called	it	working	on
“halves,”	or	on	“thirds.”
Granpa	said	by	the	time	everything	was	taken	out,	what	they	had	et	all	year,
and	the	seed	and	fertilizer	cost—which	the	landlord	paid	for—and	use	of	mules,
and	about	everything	else,	it	always	turned	up	that	the	sharecropper	didn’t	actual
make	nothing	but	something	to	eat.	And	not	much	of	that.
Granpa	said	the	bigger	family	that	a	sharecropper	had,	the	better	chance	he
had	of	gittin’	on	with	a	landlord,	for	then	everybody	in	the	family	worked	in	the
fields.	A	big	family	could	do	more	work.	He	said	sharecroppers	all	tried	to	have
big	families,	for	it	was	necessary.	He	said	the	wives	worked	in	the	fields,	pickin’
cotton	and	hoeing	and	such,	and	put	their	babies	under	shade	trees	or
somewheres	to	scuffle	for	theirselves.
Granpa	said	Indians	would	not	do	it.	He	said	he	would	take	to	the	woods
and	run	rabbits	fer	a	living	before	he’d	do	it.	But	he	said	somehow	or	another
some	folks	got	caught	in	it	and	couldn’t	git	out.
Granpa	said	it	was	the	fault	of	the	damn	politicians	who	spent	all	their	time
yammerin’	around	using	up	words	instead	of	working	at	the	trade	they	was
supposed	to	work	at.	He	said	some	landlords	was	mean	and	some	wasn’t,	like
everybody	else,	but	it	always	come	out	at	“settlin’	up”	time,	after	the	crops	was
gathered,	that	more’n	likely	there	was	a	big	disappointment.
That’s	why	sharecroppers	moved	every	year.	Every	winter	they	would	hunt
for	a	new	landlord	and	find	one.	They	would	move	to	another	shack,	and	set
around	the	kitchen	table	at	night,	the	Pa	and	Ma,	and	build	up	dreams	as	to	how
this	year	on	this	place	they	was	going	to	make	it.
Granpa	said	they	held	on	to	that	all	during	spring	and	summer	until	the
crops	was	gathered,	then	it	was	all	bitter	again.	That’s	why	they	moved	every
year,	and	folks	that	didn’t	understand,	called	them	“shiftless,”	which	Granpa	said
was	another	damn	word,	like	calling	them	“irresponsible,”	fer	having	so	many
young’uns—which	they	had	to	do.
Me	and	Granpa	talked	about	it	on	the	trail	home	and	he	got	so	worked	up
about	it	that	we	rested	might	near	an	hour.
I	got	worked	up	about	it	too,	and	seen	right	off	that	Granpa	had	a	total
understanding	of	politicians.	I	told	Granpa	that	the	sons	of	bitches	ought	to	be
run	off.	Granpa	stopped	talking	about	it,	and	cautioned	me	again	that	“son	of	a
bitch”	was	brand-new	cuss	words	that	carried	much	starch	and	that	Granma
would	total	put	us	out	of	the	cabin	if	I	used	them	around	her.	I	marked	that	down
right	then.	It	was	a	pretty	powerful	set	of	words.
The	little	girl	come	and	stood	in	front	of	me	one	day	while	I	was	squattin’	under
the	store	shed	eating	the	old	candy.	The	little	girl’s	Pa	was	in	the	store.	She	had
tangled-up	hair	and	her	teeth	was	rotten;	I	hoped	Old	Man	Barnett	didn’t	see	her.
She	wore	a	tow	sack	for	a	dress	and	just	stood	looking	at	me,	and	crossing	her
toes	back	and	forth	in	the	dirt.	I	felt	right	bad,	eating	the	candy,	and	so	I	told	her
she	could	lick	on	it	for	a	while,	if	she	didn’t	bite	off	any,	for	I	would	have	to
have	it	back.	She	took	the	candy	and	licked	on	it	pretty	regular.
She	said	she	could	pick	a	hundred	pounds	of	cotton	in	a	day.	She	said	she
had	a	brother	that	could	pick	two	hundred	pounds	and	that	her	Ma—when	she
was	feeling	right—could	pick	three	hundred.	She	said	she	had	knowed	her	Pa	to
pick	five	hundred	pounds	if	he	picked	into	the	nighttime.
She	said	they	didn’t	put	rocks	in	their	pickin’	sacks	neither,	to	cheat	on	the
weight,	and	was	knowed	for	giving	a	honest	day’s	work.	She	said	her	whole	and
entire	family	was	knowed	for	that.
She	asked	me	how	much	cotton	I	could	pick,	and	I	told	her	I	had	never
picked	none.	She	said	she	figgered	that;	for	everybody	knowed	that	Indians	was
lazy	and	wouldn’t	work.	I	taken	back	my	candy.	But	she	said,	after	that,	that	it
wasn’t	because	we	could	help	it—that	we	was	just	different	and	maybe	we	done
other	things.	I	let	her	lick	some	more	on	the	candy.
It	was	still	wintertime,	and	she	said	their	family	was	all	listening	for	the
turtledove.	It	was	well	knowed,	she	said,	that	whatever	direction	you	heard	the
turtledove	calling,	that	was	the	direction	you	was	going	to	move	the	next	year.
She	said	they	had	not	heard	it	yet,	but	was	expecting	to	just	anytime,	for
they	had	been	total	cheated	by	the	landlord,	and	her	Pa	had	fell	out	with	him	so
they	had	to	move.	She	said	her	Pa	had	come	to	the	store	to	see	about	talking	to
somebody	there	that	might	want	a	good	family	on	their	place	which	was	knowed
for	giving	honest	work	and	causing	no	trouble	at	all.	She	said	she	expected	they
would	come	up	with	about	the	best	place	they	could	have	ever	thought	of,	for	her
Pa	said	the	word	was	gittin’	around	about	what	hard	workers	they	was,	and	so
next	year	they	would	be	settin’	pretty.
She	said	that	after	the	crops	was	in	on	the	new	place	they	would	be	going
to,	she	was	going	to	git	a	doll.	She	said	her	Ma	said	it	would	be	a	store-bought
doll	that	had	real	hair	and	eyes	that	would	open	and	close.	She	said	more	than
likely	she	would	git	a	whole	lot	of	other	things	too,	as	they	would	be	practical
rich.
I	told	her	we	didn’t	own	no	land,	except	the	mountain	hollow	with	our	corn
patch,	and	that	we	was	mountain	folk	with	no	use	at	all	for	valley	farming	and
flatlands.	I	told	her	I	had	a	dime.
She	wanted	to	see	it,	but	I	told	her	it	was	at	home	in	a	fruit	jar.	I	said	I
didn’t	carry	it	because	a	Christian	had	slickered	me	out	of	fifty	cents	oncet,	and	I
was	no	wise	figuring	for	another’n	to	slicker	me	out	of	my	dime.
She	said	she	was	a	Christian.	She	said	she	got	the	Holy	Ghost	oncet	at	a
bush	arbor	meetin’	and	got	saved.	She	said	her	Pa	and	Ma	got	the	Holy	Ghost
practical	every	time	they	went	and	said	they	would	talk	in	the	unknown	tongue
when	they	got	it.	She	said	being	a	Christian	made	you	happy	and	that	bush
arbors	was	times	when	they	was	happiest,	being	full	of	the	Holy	Ghost	and	all.
She	said	I	was	going	to	hell	as	I	hadn’t	been	saved.
I	seen	right	off	she	was	a	Christian,	for	while	she	was	talking,	she	had
licked	my	stick	candy	down	to	practical	a	nub.	I	got	back	what	was	left	of	it.
I	told	Granma	about	the	little	girl.	Granma	made	a	pair	of	moccasin
slippers.	The	top	part	of	the	moccasins	she	made	with	some	of	my	calf	hide,
leaving	the	hair	on.	They	were	pretty.	Granma	put	two	little	red	colored	beads	on
the	top	of	each	moccasin.
Next	month,	when	we	went	to	the	store,	I	give	the	moccasins	to	the	little	girl	and
she	put	them	on.	I	told	her	Granma	made	them	for	her,	and	they	didn’t	cost
nothing.	She	run	up	and	down	in	front	of	the	store,	watching	her	feet,	and	you
could	tell	she	was	proud	of	the	moccasins	for	she	would	stop	and	run	her	fingers
over	the	red	beads.	I	told	her	the	hair	hide	come	from	my	calf,	which	I	had	sold
to	Granma.
When	her	Pa	come	out	of	the	store,	she	followed	him	down	the	road,
skipping	in	her	moccasins.	Me	and	Granpa	watched	them.	When	they	got	a	little
ways	down	the	road,	the	man	stopped	and	looked	at	the	little	girl.	He	talked	to
her,	and	she	pointed	back	towards	me.
The	man	went	to	the	side	of	the	road	and	cut	a	keen	switch	from	a
persimmon	bush.	He	held	the	little	girl	by	one	arm	and	whipped	her	on	the	legs,
hard,	and	on	the	back.	She	cried,	but	she	didn’t	move.	He	whipped	her	until	the
switch	wore	out	…	and	everybody	under	the	store	shed	watched	…	but	they
didn’t	say	anything.
Then	he	made	the	little	girl	set	down	in	the	road	and	pull	off	the	moccasins.
He	come	walking	back,	holding	the	moccasins	in	his	hand,	and	me	and	Granpa
stood	up.	He	didn’t	pay	any	attention	to	Granpa,	but	walked	right	up	and	looked
down	at	me,	and	his	face	was	hard	and	his	eyes	shining.	He	poked	the	moccasins
at	me—which	I	taken—and	he	said,	“We’uns	don’t	take	no	charity	…	from
nobody	…	and	especial	heathen	savages!”
I	was	right	scared.	He	whirled	around	and	walked	off	down	the	road,	his
ragged	overalls	flapping.	He	walked	right	by	the	little	girl,	and	she	followed	him.
She	wasn’t	crying.	She	walked	stiff	with	her	head	up	real	proud	and	didn’t	turn
to	look	at	anybody.	You	could	see	the	big	red	stripes	on	her	legs.	Me	and	Granpa
left.
On	the	trail,	Granpa	said	he	didn’t	bear	the	sharecropper	no	ill.	Granpa	said
he	reckined	that	pride	was	all	he	had	…	howsoever	misplaced.	He	said	the	feller
figgered	he	couldn’t	let	the	little	girl,	ner	any	of	his	young’uns,	come	to	love
pretty	things	for	they	couldn’t	have	them.	So	he	whipped	them	when	they
showed	a	liking	for	things	they	couldn’t	have	…	and	he	whipped	them	until	they
learned;	so	that	in	a	little	while,	they	knowed	they	was	not	to	expect	them	things.
They	could	look	forward	to	the	Holy	Ghost	as	gittin’	their	happy	times,	and
they	had	their	pride—and	next	year.
Granpa	said	he	didn’t	fault	me	fer	not	catching	on	right	off.	He	said	he	had	the
advantage,	fer	years	ago,	as	he	walked	a	trail	near	a	sharecropper’s	shack,	he	had
seen	a	feller	come	out	in	his	backyard	where	two	of	his	little	girls	was	looking,
settin’	under	a	shade	tree,	at	a	Sears	Roebuck	catalog.
Granpa	said	that	feller	took	a	switch	and	whipped	them	young’uns	’till	the
blood	run	out	of	their	legs.	He	said	he	watched,	and	the	feller	took	the	Sears
Roebuck	catalog	and	he	went	out	behind	the	barn.	He	burned	up	the	catalog,	tore
it	all	up	first,	like	he	hated	that	catalog.	Granpa	said	then	the	feller	set	down
against	the	barn,	where	nobody	could	see	him,	and	he	cried.	Granpa	said	he	seen
that	and	so	he	knowed.
Granpa	said	ye	had	to	understand.	But	most	people	didn’t	want	to—it	was
too	much	trouble—so	they	used	words	to	cover	their	own	laziness	and	called
other	folks	“shiftless.”
I	toted	the	moccasin	slippers	home.	I	put	them	under	my	tow	sack	where	I
kept	my	overalls	and	shirt.	I	didn’t	look	at	them;	they	reminded	me	of	the	little
girl.
She	never	come	back	to	the	crossroads	store,	ner	her	Pa.	So	I	reckin	they
moved.
I	figgered	they	heard	the	turtledove	from	far	away.
A	Dangerous	Adventure
Indian	violets	come	first	in	the	mountain	springtime.	Just	about	when	you
figure	there	won’t	be	a	spring,	there	they	are.	Icy	blue	as	the	March	wind,	they
lie	against	the	ground,	so	tiny	that	you’ll	miss	them	unless	you	look	close	and
sure.
We	picked	them	there	on	the	mountainside.	I	helped	Granma,	until	our
fingers	would	get	numb	in	the	raw	wind.	Granma	made	a	tonic	tea	from	them.
She	said	I	was	a	fast	picker.	Which	I	was.
On	the	high	trail,	where	the	ice	still	crunched	beneath	our	moccasins,	we
got	evergreen	needles.	Granma	put	them	in	hot	water	and	we	drank	that	too.	It	is
better	for	you	than	any	fruit,	and	makes	you	feel	good.	Also	the	roots	and	seeds
of	skunk	cabbage.
Once	I	learned	how,	I	was	the	best	at	acorn	gathering.	At	first	I	would	take
each	acorn	as	I	found	it	to	Granma’s	sack;	but	she	pointed	out	that	I	could	wait
until	I	got	a	handful	before	I	run	to	the	sack.	It	was	easy	for	me,	being	close	to
the	ground,	so	that	I	soon	was	able	to	get	more	acorns	in	the	sack	than	Granma.
She	ground	them	up	into	a	meal	that	was	yellow-gold,	and	mixed
hickor’nuts	and	walnuts	in	the	meal	and	made	bread	fritters;	which	there	has
never	been	anything	to	taste	like.
Sometimes	she	had	an	accident	in	the	kitchen	and	spilled	sugar	in	the	acorn
meal.	She	would	say,	“Durn	me,	Little	Tree.	I	spilt	sugar	in	the	acorn	meal.”	I
never	said	anything	but	when	she	did	that	I	always	got	an	extra	fritter.
Me	and	Granpa	was	both	pretty	heavy	acorn	fritter	eaters.
Then	sometime	there	in	late	March,	after	the	Indian	violets	had	come,	we	would
be	gathering	on	the	mountain	and	the	wind,	raw	and	mean,	would	change	for	just
a	second.	It	would	touch	your	face	as	soft	as	a	feather.	It	had	an	earth	smell.	You
knew	springtime	was	on	the	way.
The	next	day,	or	the	next	(you	would	commence	to	hold	your	face	out	for
the	feel),	the	soft	touch	would	come	again.	It	would	last	a	little	longer	and	be
sweeter	and	smell	stronger.
Ice	would	break	and	melt	on	the	high	ridges,	swelling	the	ground	and
running	little	fingers	of	water	down	into	the	spring	branch.
Then	the	yellow	dandelions	poked	up	everywhere	along	the	lower	hollow,
and	we	picked	them	for	greens—which	are	good	when	you	mix	them	with
fireweed	greens,	poke	salat	and	nettles.	Nettles	make	the	best	greens,	but	have
little	tiny	hairs	on	them	that	sting	you	all	over	when	you’re	picking.	Me	and
Granpa	many	times	failed	to	notice	a	nettle	patch,	but	Granma	would	find	it	and
we	would	pick	them.	Granpa	said	he	had	never	knowed	anything	in	life	that,
being	pleasurable,	didn’t	have	a	damn	catch	to	it—somewheres.	Which	is	right.
Fireweed	has	a	big	purple	flower	on	it.	It	has	a	long	stalk	which	you	can
peel	and	eat	raw,	or	you	can	cook	it	and	it	is	like	asparagus.
Mustard	comes	through	on	the	mountainside	in	patches	that	look	like
yellow	blankets.	It	grows	little	bright	canary	heads	with	peppery	leaves.	Granma
mixed	it	with	other	greens	and	sometimes	ground	the	seeds	into	paste	and	made
a	table	mustard.
Everything	growing	wild	is	a	hundred	times	stronger	than	tame	things.	We
pulled	the	wild	onions	from	the	ground	and	just	a	handful	would	carry	more
flavor	than	a	bushel	of	tame	onions.
As	the	air	warms,	and	rains	come,	the	mountain	flowers	pop	colors	out	like
paint	buckets	have	been	spilled	all	over	the	mountainsides.	Firecracker	flowers
have	long,	rounded,	red	blooms	that	are	so	bright	they	look	like	painted	paper;
the	harebell	pushes	little	bluebells,	dangling	on	stems	as	fine	as	vines,	from
amongst	rocks	and	crevices.	Bitterroot	has	big	lavender-pink	faces	with	yellow
centers	that	hug	the	ground,	while	moonflowers	are	hidden	deep	in	the	hollow,
long-stemmed	and	swaying	like	willows	with	pink-red	fringes	on	top.
Different	kinds	of	seed	are	born	at	different	body	heats	in	Mon-o-lah’s
womb.	When	She	first	begins	warming,	only	the	tiniest	flowers	come	through.
But	as	She	warms	more,	bigger	flowers	are	born,	and	the	sap	starts	running	up	in
the	trees,	making	them	swell	like	a	woman	at	birthing	time	until	they	pop	open
their	buds.
When	the	air	gets	heavy	so	it’s	hard	to	breathe,	you	know	what’s	coming.
The	birds	come	down	from	the	ridges	and	hide	in	the	hollows	and	in	the	pines.
Heavy	black	clouds	float	over	the	mountain,	and	you	run	for	the	cabin.
From	the	cabin	porch	we	would	watch	the	big	bars	of	light	that	stand	for	a
full	second,	maybe	two,	on	the	mountaintop,	running	out	feelers	or	lightning
wire	in	all	directions	before	they’re	jerked	back	into	the	sky.	Cracking	claps	of
sound,	so	sharp	you	know	something	has	split	wide	open—then	the	thunder	rolls
and	rumbles	over	the	ridges	and	back	through	the	hollows.	I	was	pretty	near
sure,	a	time	or	two,	that	the	mountains	was	falling	down,	but	Granpa	said	they
wasn’t.	Which	of	course,	they	didn’t.
Then	it	comes	again—and	rolls	blue	fireballs	off	rocks	on	the	ridge	tops	and
splatters	the	blue	in	the	air.	The	trees	whip	and	bend	in	the	sudden	rushes	of
wind,	and	the	sweep	of	heavy	rain	comes	thunking	from	the	clouds	in	big	drops,
letting	you	know	there’s	some	real	frog-strangling	sheets	of	water	coming	close
behind.
Folks	who	laugh	and	say	that	all	is	known	about	Nature,	and	that	Nature
don’t	have	a	soul-spirit,	have	never	been	in	a	mountain	spring	storm.	When
She’s	birthing	spring,	She	gets	right	down	to	it,	tearing	at	the	mountains	like	a
birthing	woman	clawing	at	the	bed	quilts.
If	a	tree	has	been	hanging	on,	having	weathered	all	the	winter	winds,	and
She	figures	it	needs	cleaning	out,	She	whips	it	up	out	of	the	ground	and	flings	it
down	the	mountain.	She	goes	over	the	branches	of	every	bush	and	tree,	and	after
She	feels	around	a	little	with	Her	wind	fingers,	then	She	whips	them	clean	and
proper	of	anything	that	is	weak.
If	She	figures	a	tree	needs	removing	and	won’t	come	down	from	the	wind,
She	just	whams!	and	all	that’s	left	is	a	torch	blazing	from	a	lightning	stroke.
She’s	alive	and	paining.	You’ll	believe	it	too.
Granpa	said	She	was—amongst	other	things—tidying	up	any	afterbirth	that
might	be	left	over	from	last	year;	so	Her	new	birthing	would	be	clean	and	strong.
When	the	storm	is	over,	the	new	growth,	tiny	and	light,	timid-green,	starts
edging	out	on	the	bushes	and	tree	limbs.	Then	Nature	brings	April	rain.	It
whispers	down	soft	and	lonesome,	making	mists	in	the	hollows	and	on	the	trails
where	you	walk	under	the	drippings	from	hanging	branches	of	trees.
It	is	a	good	feeling,	exciting—but	sad	too—in	April	rain.	Granpa	said	he
always	got	that	kind	of	mixed-up	feeling.	He	said	it	was	exciting	because
something	new	was	being	born	and	it	was	sad,	because	you	knowed	you	can’t
hold	onto	it.	It	will	pass	too	quick.
April	wind	is	soft	and	warm	as	a	baby’s	crib.	It	breathes	on	the	crab	apple
tree	until	white	blossoms	open	out,	smeared	with	pink.	The	smell	is	sweeter	than
honeysuckle	and	brings	bees	swarming	over	the	blossoms.	Mountain	laurel	with
pink-white	blooms	and	purple	centers	grow	everywhere,	from	the	hollows	to	the
top	of	the	mountain,	alongside	of	the	dogtooth	violet	that	has	long,	pointed
yellow	petals	with	a	white	tooth	hanging	out	(they	always	looked	to	me	like
tongues).
Then,	when	April	gets	its	warmest,	all	of	a	sudden	the	cold	hits	you.	It	stays
cold	for	four	or	five	days.	This	is	to	make	the	blackberries	bloom	and	is	called
“blackberry	winter.”	The	blackberries	will	not	bloom	without	it.	That’s	why
some	years	there	are	no	blackberries.	When	it	ends,	that’s	when	the	dogwoods
bloom	out	like	snowballs	over	the	mountainside	in	places	you	never	suspicioned
they	grew:	in	a	pine	grove	or	stand	of	oak	of	a	sudden	there’s	a	big	burst	of
white.
The	white	farmers	gathered	out	of	their	gardens	in	late	summer,	but	the
Indian	gathers	from	early	spring,	when	the	first	greens	start	growing,	all	through
the	summer	and	fall,	gathering	acorns	and	nuts.	Granpa	said	the	woods	would
feed	you,	if	you	lived	with	the	woods,	instead	of	tearing	them	up.
However,	there	is	a	right	smart	bit	of	work	to	it.	I	figured	I	was	more	than
likely	best	at	berry	picking,	for	I	could	get	in	the	middle	of	a	berry	patch	and
never	have	to	bend	down	to	reach	the	berries.	I	never	got	much	tired	of	picking
berries.
There	were	dewberries,	blackberries,	elderberries,	which	Granpa	said
makes	the	best	wine,	huckleberries	and	the	red	bearberries,	which	I	could	never
find	had	any	taste	to	them,	but	Granma	used	them	in	cooking.	I	always	brought
back	more	red	bearberries	in	my	bucket	as	they	were	not	good	to	eat,	and	I	et
berries	fairly	regular	while	I	was	picking	them.	Granpa	did	too.	But	he	said	it
wasn’t	like	he	was	wasting	them,	because	we	would	eventually	eat	them	anyway.
Which	was	right.	Poke	salat	berries,	however,	are	poison	and	they	will	knock
you	deader	than	last	year’s	corn	stalk.	Any	berries	you	see	the	birds	don’t	eat,
you	had	better	not	eat.
During	berry	picking	time,	my	teeth,	tongue	and	mouth	was	a	pretty
continual	deep	blue	color.	When	me	and	Granpa	delivered	our	wares,	some
flatlanders	around	the	crossroads	store	remarked	that	I	was	sick.	Occasional	a
new	flatlander	would	get	worked	up	about	it	when	he	saw	me.	Granpa	said	they
showed	their	ignorance	of	what	a	berry	picker	had	to	put	up	with	and	I	wasn’t	to
pay	any	attention	to	them.	Which	I	didn’t.
The	birds	had	a	trick	about	wild	cherries.	Along	about	July,	the	sun	would
have	been	on	the	cherries	just	enough.
Sometimes,	in	the	lazy	sun	of	summer,	after	dinnertime,	when	Granma
would	be	napping,	me	and	Granpa	would	be	setting	on	the	back	door	stoop.
Granpa	would	say.	“Let’s	go	up	the	trail,	and	see	what	we	can	find.”	Up	the	trail
we	would	go,	and	set	down	in	the	shade	of	a	cherry	tree	with	our	backs	to	the
trunk.	We	would	watch	the	birds.
One	time	we	watched	a	thrush	turn	flips	on	a	limb	and	wobble	out	to	the
end,	like	he	was	walking	a	tightrope,	and	then	he	walked	plumb	off	the	end.	A
robin	got	to	feeling	so	good,	that	he	wobbled	right	up	to	me	and	Granpa	and	lit
up	on	Granpa’s	knee.	He	fussed	at	Granpa	and	told	him	what	he	thought	about
the	whole	thing.	He	eventually	decided	he	would	sing,	but	his	voice	squeaked
and	he	give	it	up.	He	staggered	off	into	the	brush,	with	me	and	Granpa	practical
laughing	ourselves	sick.	Granpa	said	he	laughed	so	hard	it	hurt	his	gizzard.
Which	it	did	mine	too.
We	saw	a	red	cardinal	eat	so	many	cherries	that	he	keeled	over	and	passed
out	on	the	ground.	We	put	him	in	the	crotch	of	a	tree	so	he	wouldn’t	get	killed	by
something	during	the	night.
Early	the	next	morning	me	and	Granpa	went	back	to	the	tree	and	there	he	was,
still	sleeping.	Granpa	punched	him	awake,	and	he	got	up	feeling	mean.	He	flew
down	at	Granpa’s	head	a	time	or	two,	and	Granpa	had	to	slap	at	him	with	his	hat
to	make	him	go	on.	He	flew	down	to	the	spring	branch	and	stuck	his	head	in	the
water	and	taken	it	out	…	and	puffed	and	spewed	and	looked	around	like	he	was
personally	going	to	whip	the	first	thing	he	saw.
Granpa	said	he	believed	that	ol’	cardinal	held	me	and	him	personally
responsible	for	his	condition,	though	Granpa	said	he	ought	to	know	better.
Granpa	said	he	had	seen	him	before—he	was	an	old-time	cherry	eater.
Every	bird	that	comes	around	your	cabin	in	the	mountains	is	a	sign	of
something.	That’s	what	the	mountain	folks	believe,	and	if	you	want	to	believe
you	can,	for	it’s	so.	I	believed.	So	did	Granpa.
Granpa	knew	all	the	bird	signs.	It	is	good	luck	to	have	a	house	wren	live	in
your	cabin.	Granma	had	a	little	square	cut	out	of	the	top	corner	in	the	kitchen
door,	and	our	house	wren	flew	in	and	out,	building	her	nest	on	the	eave	log	over
the	kitchen	stove.	She	nested	there,	and	her	mate	would	come	and	feed	her.
House	wrens	like	to	be	around	people	who	love	birds.	She	would	cozy
down	in	her	nest	and	watch	us	in	the	kitchen	with	little	black	bead	eyes	that
shined	in	the	lamplight.	When	I	would	drag	a	chair	close	and	stand	on	it,	so	I
could	get	a	better	look,	she	would	fuss	at	me;	but	she	wouldn’t	leave	her	nest.
Granpa	said	she	loved	to	fuss	at	me.	It	proved	to	her	that	she	was	more	than
likely	more	important	in	the	family	than	I	was.
Whippoorwills	start	singing	at	dusk.	They	get	their	name	from	their	call	for
that	is	what	they	say:	whip-or-will,	over	and	over.	If	you	light	the	lamp,	they	will
move	closer	and	closer	to	the	cabin	and	will	eventually	sing	you	to	sleep.	They
are	a	sign	of	night	peace	and	good	dreams,	Granpa	said.
The	screech	owl	hollers	at	night,	and	is	a	complainer.	There’s	only	one	way
to	shut	up	a	screech	owl;	you	lay	a	broom	across	the	open	kitchen	door.	Granma
done	this	and	I’ve	never	seen	it	fail.	The	screech	owl	will	always	stop
complaining.
The	joree	only	sings	in	the	day,	and	he	is	called	joree	because	that	is	all	he
ever	sings	…	jo-ree	…	over	and	over,	but	if	he	comes	close	to	the	cabin,	he	is	a
certain	sign	that	you	will	not	get	sick	at	all	for	the	entire	summer.
The	blue	jay	playing	around	the	cabin	means	you	are	going	to	have	plenty
of	good	times	and	fun.	The	blue	jay	is	a	clown	and	bounces	on	the	ends	of
branches	and	turns	flips	and	teases	other	birds.
The	red	cardinal	means	you	are	going	to	get	some	money,	and	the
turtledove	don’t	mean	to	mountain	folk	what	they	mean	to	a	sharecropper.	When
you	hear	a	turtledove,	it	means	that	somebody	loves	you	and	has	sent	the
turtledove	to	tell	you.
The	mourning	dove	calls	late	at	night	and	never	comes	close.	He	calls	from
far	back	in	the	mountain	and	it	is	a	long,	lonesome	call	that	sounds	like	he	is
mourning.	Granpa	said	he	is.	He	said	if	a	feller	died	and	didn’t	have	anybody	in
the	whole	world	to	remember	him	and	cry	for	him,	the	mourning	dove	would
remember	and	mourn.	Granpa	said	if	you	died	somewheres	far	off,	even	across
the	great	waters,	that	if	you	was	a	mountain	man	you	would	know	you	would	be
remembered	by	the	mourning	dove.	He	said	it	lent	a	matter	of	peace	to	a	feller’s
mind,	knowing	that.	Which	I	know	it	did	for	my	mind.
Granpa	said	if	you	recollected	somebody	you	loved	who	had	passed	on,
then	the	mourning	dove	would	not	have	to	mourn	him.	You	would	know	then
that	he	was	mourning	for	somebody	else,	and	they	didn’t	sound	might	near	as
lonesome.	When	I	heard	him,	late	at	night,	while	I	lay	in	my	bedstead,	I	would
remember	Ma.	Then	I	wasn’t	as	lonesome.
Birds,	just	like	everything	else,	know	if	you	like	them.	If	you	do,	then	they
will	come	all	around	you.	Our	mountains	and	hollows	was	filled	with	birds:
mockingbirds	and	flickers,	red-winged	blackbirds	and	indian	hens,	meadowlarks
and	chip-wills,	robins	and	bluebirds,	hummingbirds	and	martins—so	many	that
there	is	no	way	to	tell	of	them	all.
We	stopped	trapping	in	the	spring	and	summer.	Granpa	said	that	there	was	no
way	in	the	world	that	a	feller	could	mate	and	fight	at	the	same	time.	He	said
animals	couldn’t	either.	Granpa	said	even	if	they	could	mate	and	you	hunting
them,	they	could	not	raise	their	young,	and	so	you	would	eventual	starve	to
death.	We	taken	pretty	heavy	to	fishing	in	the	spring	and	summer.
The	Indian	never	fishes	or	hunts	for	sport,	only	for	food.	Granpa	said	it	was
the	silliest	damn	thing	in	the	world	to	go	around	killing	something	for	sport.	He
said	the	whole	thing,	more	than	likely,	was	thought	up	by	politicians	between
wars	when	they	wasn’t	gittin’	people	killed	so	they	could	keep	their	hand	in	on
killing.	Granpa	said	that	idjits	taken	it	up	without	a	lick	of	thinking	at	it,	but	if
you	could	check	it	out—politicians	started	it.	Which	is	likely.
We	made	fish	baskets	out	of	willows.	We	wove	the	willows	together	and
made	baskets	maybe	three	feet	long.	At	the	mouth	of	the	basket,	we	turned	the
willow	ends	down	and	sharpened	them	into	points.	This	way,	the	fish	could
swim	into	the	basket,	and	the	little	ones	could	swim	back	out,	but	the	big	fish
couldn’t	come	out	through	the	sharp	points.	Granma	baited	the	baskets	with	meal
balls.
Sometimes	we	baited	them	with	fiddle	worms.	You	get	fiddle	worms	by
driving	a	stob	in	the	ground	and	rubbing,	or	“fiddling,”	a	board	across	the	top	of
the	stob.	The	fiddler	worms	will	come	out	on	top	of	the	ground.
We	toted	the	baskets	up	the	Narrows	to	the	creek.	There	we	tied	them	with
a	line	to	a	tree	and	lowered	them	into	the	water.	The	next	day	we	would	come
back	and	get	our	fish.
There	would	be	big	catfish	and	bass	in	the	basket	…	sometimes	a	brim,	and
once	I	got	a	trout	in	my	basket.	Sometimes	we	caught	turtles	in	the	baskets.	They
are	good	when	cooked	with	mustard	greens.	I	liked	to	pull	up	the	baskets.
Granpa	taught	me	to	hand	fish.	This	was	how,	the	second	time	in	my	five
years	of	living,	I	nearly	got	killed.	The	first	time,	of	course,	was	working	in	the
whiskey	trade	when	the	tax	law	might	near	caught	me.	I	was	more	than	certain
sure	they	would	have	taken	me	to	the	settlement	and	hanged	me.	Granpa	said,
more	than	likely	they	wouldn’t	have	as	he	had	never	knowed	such	case	to
happen.	But	Granpa	didn’t	see	them.	They	wasn’t	chasing	him.	This	time,
however,	Granpa	nearly	got	killed	too.
It	was	in	the	middle	of	the	day,	which	is	the	best	time	to	hand	fish.	The	sun
hits	the	middle	of	the	creek	and	the	fish	move	back	under	the	banks	to	lie	in	the
cool	and	doze.
This	is	when	you	lay	down	on	the	creek	bank	and	ease	your	hands	into	the
water	and	feel	for	the	fish	holes.	When	you	find	one,	you	bring	your	hands	in
easy	and	slow,	until	you	feel	the	fish.	If	you	are	patient,	you	can	rub	your	hands
along	the	sides	of	the	fish	and	he	will	lie	in	the	water	while	you	rub	him.
Then	you	take	one	hold	behind	his	head,	the	other	on	his	tail,	and	lift	him
out	of	the	water.	It	takes	some	time	to	learn.
This	day,	Granpa	was	laying	on	the	bank	and	had	already	pulled	a	catfish
out	of	the	water.	I	couldn’t	find	a	fish	hole,	so	I	went	a	ways	down	the	bank.	I
lay	down	and	eased	my	hands	into	the	water,	feeling	for	a	fish	hole.	I	heard	a
sound	right	by	me.	It	was	a	dry	rustle	that	started	slow	and	got	faster	until	it
made	a	whirring	noise.
I	turned	my	head	toward	the	sound.	It	was	a	rattlesnake.	He	was	coiled	to
strike,	his	head	in	the	air,	and	looking	down	on	me,	not	six	inches	from	my	face.
I	froze	stiff	and	couldn’t	move.	He	was	bigger	around	than	my	leg	and	I	could
see	ripples	moving	under	his	dry	skin.	He	was	mad.	Me	and	the	snake	stared	at
each	other.	He	was	flicking	out	his	tongue—nearly	in	my	face—and	his	eyes	was
slitted—red	and	mean.
The	end	of	his	tail	began	to	flutter	faster	and	faster,	making	the	whirring
sound	get	higher.	Then	his	head,	shaped	like	a	big	V,	begun	to	weave	just	a	little,
back	and	forth,	for	he	was	deciding	what	part	of	my	face	to	hit.	I	knew	he	was
about	to	strike	me	but	I	couldn’t	move.
A	shadow	fell	on	the	ground	over	me	and	the	snake.	I	hadn’t	heard	him
coming	at	all	but	I	knew	it	was	Granpa.	Soft	and	easy,	like	he	was	remarking
about	the	weather,	Granpa	said,	“Don’t	turn	yer	head.	Don’t	move,	Little	Tree.
Don’t	blink	yer	eyes.”	Which	I	didn’t.	The	snake	raised	his	head	higher,	getting
ready	to	hit	me.	I	thought	he	would	not	stop	raising	up.
Then,	of	a	sudden,	Granpa’s	big	hand	come	between	my	face	and	the
snake’s	head.	The	hand	stayed	there.	The	rattler	drew	up	higher.	He	begun	to
hiss,	and	rattled	a	solid	whirring	sound.	If	Granpa	had	moved	his	hand	…	or
flinched,	the	snake	would	have	hit	me	square	in	the	face.	I	knew	it	too.
But	he	didn’t.	The	hand	stayed	steady	as	a	rock.	I	could	see	the	big	veins	on
the	back	of	Granpa’s	hand.	There	was	beads	of	sweat	standing	out	too,	shining
against	the	copper	skin.	There	wasn’t	a	tremble	nor	a	shake	in	the	hand.
The	rattler	struck,	fast	and	hard.	He	hit	Granpa’s	hand	like	a	bullet;	but	the
hand	never	moved	at	all.	I	saw	the	needle	fangs	bury	up	in	the	meat	as	the
rattler’s	jaws	took	up	half	his	hand.
Granpa	moved	his	other	hand,	and	grabbed	the	rattler	behind	the	head,	and
he	squeezed.	The	rattler	come	up	off	the	ground	and	wrapped	himself	around
and	around	Granpa’s	arm.	He	thrashed	at	Granpa’s	head	with	his	rattling	end,
and	beat	him	in	the	face	with	it.	But	Granpa	wouldn’t	turn	loose.	He	choked	that
snake	to	death	with	one	hand,	until	I	heard	the	crack	of	backbone.	Then	he
throwed	him	on	the	ground.
Granpa	set	down	and	whipped	out	his	long	knife.	He	reached	over	and	cut
big	slashes	in	his	hand	where	the	snake	had	bit.	Blood	was	running	over	his	hand
and	down	his	arm.	I	crawled	over	to	Granpa	…	for	I	was	weak	as	dishwater,	and
didn’t	think	I	could	walk.	I	pulled	myself	to	standing	by	holding	onto	Granpa’s
shoulder.	He	was	sucking	the	blood	out	of	the	knife	slash	and	spitting	it	on	the
ground.	I	didn’t	know	what	to	do,	so	I	said,	“Thankee,	Granpa.”	Granpa	looked
at	me	and	grinned.	He	had	blood	smeared	over	his	mouth	and	face.
“Helldamnfire!”	Granpa	said.	“We	showed	that	son	of	a	bitch,	didn’t	we?”
“Yes,	sir,”	I	said,	feeling	better	about	the	whole	thing.	“We	showed	that	son
of	a	bitch.”	Though	I	couldn’t	rightly	recall	as	having	much	to	do	with	the
showing.
Granpa’s	hand	commenced	to	get	bigger	and	bigger.	It	was	turning	blue.	He
taken	his	long	knife	and	split	the	sleeve	of	his	deer	shirt.	The	arm	was	twice	as
big	as	his	other	one.	I	got	scared.
Granpa	taken	off	his	hat	and	fanned	his	face.	“Hot	as	hell,”	he	said,	“fer	this
time	of	year.”	His	face	looked	funny.	Now	his	arm	was	turning	blue.
“I’m	going	for	Granma,”	I	said.	I	started	off.	Granpa	looked	after	me	and
his	eyes	stared	off,	faraway.
“Reckin	I’ll	rest	a	spell,”	he	said,	calm	as	syrup.	“I’ll	be	along	directly.”
I	run	down	the	Narrows	trail,	and	I	guess	maybe	that	nothing	but	my	toes
touched	the	ground.	I	couldn’t	see	good,	for	my	eyes	was	blinded	with	tears
though	I	didn’t	cry.	When	I	turned	onto	the	hollow	trail,	my	chest	was	burning
like	fire.	I	commenced	to	fall	down,	running	down	the	hollow	trail,	sometimes	in
the	spring	branch,	but	I	scrambled	right	up	again.	I	left	the	trail	and	cut	through
briers	and	bushes.	I	knew	Granpa	was	dying.
The	cabin	looked	crazy	and	tilted	when	I	run	into	the	clearing,	and	I	tried	to	yell
for	Granma	…	but	nothing	would	come	out.	I	fell	through	the	kitchen	door	and
right	into	Granma’s	arms.	Granma	held	me	and	put	cold	water	on	my	face.	She
looked	at	me	steady	and	said,	“What	happened—where?”	I	tried	to	get	it	out.
“Granpa’s	dying	…”	I	whispered,	“rattlesnake	…	creek	bank.”	Granma	dropped
me	flat	on	the	floor,	which	knocked	the	rest	of	the	wind	out	of	me.
She	grabbed	a	sack	and	was	gone.	I	can	see	her	now;	full	skirt,	with	hair
braids	flying	behind	and	her	tiny	moccasin	feet	flying	over	the	ground.	She
could	run!	She	had	not	said	anything,	“Oh	Lord!”	or	nothing.	She	never
hesitated	nor	looked	around.	I	was	on	my	hands	and	knees	in	the	kitchen	door,
and	I	hollered	after	her,	“Don’t	let	Granpa	die!”	She	never	slowed	down,	running
from	the	clearing	up	the	trail.	I	screamed	as	loud	as	I	could,	and	it	echoed	up	the
hollow,	“Don’t	let	him	die,	Granma!”	I	figured,	more	than	likely,	Granma
wouldn’t	let	him	die.
I	turned	the	dogs	out	and	they	took	off	after	Granma,	howling	and	baying
up	the	trail.	I	ran	behind	them,	fast	as	I	could.
When	I	got	there,	Granpa	was	laying	flat	out.	Granma	had	propped	his	head
up,	and	the	dogs	was	circling	around,	whining.	Granpa’s	eyes	was	closed	and	his
arm	was	nearly	black.
Granma	had	slashed	his	hand	again	and	was	sucking	on	it,	spitting	blood	on
the	ground.	When	I	stumbled	up,	she	pointed	to	a	birch	tree.	“Pull	the	bark	off,
Little	Tree.”
I	grabbed	Granpa’s	long	knife	and	stripped	the	bark	off	the	tree.	Granma
built	a	fire,	using	the	birch	bark	to	start	it,	for	it	will	burn	like	paper.	She	dipped
water	out	of	the	creek	and	hung	a	can	over	the	fire	and	commenced	to	put	roots
and	seeds	into	it;	and	some	leaves	that	she	had	taken	from	the	sack.	I	don’t	know
all	of	what	was	used,	but	the	leaves	was	lobelia,	for	Granma	said	that	Granpa
had	to	have	it	to	help	him	breathe.
Granpa’s	chest	was	moving	slow	and	hard.	While	the	can	was	heating,
Granma	stood	and	looked	around.	I	hadn’t	seen	anything	at	all	…	but	fifty	yards
off,	against	the	mountain,	there	was	a	quail	nesting	on	the	ground.	Granma	undid
her	big	skirt	and	let	it	drop	on	the	ground.	She	hadn’t	anything	on	under	it.	Her
legs	looked	like	a	girl’s,	with	long	muscles	moving	under	the	copper	skin.
She	tied	the	top	of	the	skirt	together,	and	tied	rocks	around	in	the	bottom	of
the	skirt.	Then	she	moved	on	the	quail’s	nest	like	a	wind	whisper.	Just	at	the
right	time—she	knew—the	quail	rose	off	the	nest,	and	she	threw	the	skirt	over	it.
She	brought	the	quail	back,	and	while	it	was	still	alive,	she	split	it	from
breastbone	to	tail,	and	spraddled	it,	kicking,	over	Granpa’s	snake	bite.	She	held
the	kicking	quail	on	Granpa’s	hand	for	a	long	time,	and	when	she	took	it	off,	the
quail	had	turned	green	all	over	its	inside.	It	was	poison	from	the	snake.
The	evening	wore	on,	and	Granma	worked	over	Granpa.	The	dogs	set
around	us	in	a	circle,	watching.	Nighttime	fell,	and	Granma	had	me	build	up	the
fire.	She	said	we	had	to	keep	Granpa	warm	and	couldn’t	move	him.	She	taken
her	skirt	and	laid	it	over	him.	I	taken	off	my	deer	shirt	and	laid	it	on	him	too,	and
was	taking	off	my	britches,	but	Granma	said	that	wasn’t	necessary,	as	my
britches	wasn’t	hardly	big	enough	to	cover	one	of	Granpa’s	feet.	Which	they
wasn’t.
I	kept	the	fire	going.	Granma	had	me	build	another	fire	near	Granpa’s	head
and	so	I	kept	them	both	going.	Granma	laid	down	by	Granpa,	holding	close	to
him,	for	she	said	her	body	heat	would	help	…	and	so	I	laid	by	Granpa	on	the
other	side;	though	I	reckined	my	body	wasn’t	hardly	big	enough	to	heat	up	much
of	Granpa.	But	Granma	said	I	helped.	I	told	Granma	I	didn’t	see	hardly	any	way
at	all	that	Granpa	would	die.
I	told	her	how	it	all	happened,	and	that	I	reckined	it	was	my	fault	for	not
watching.	Granma	said	it	wasn’t	anybody’s	fault,	not	even	the	rattlesnake’s.	She
said	we	wasn’t	to	place	fault	ner	gain	on	anything	that	just	happened.	Which
made	me	feel	some	better,	but	not	much.
Granpa	commenced	to	talk.	He	was	a	boy	again,	running	through	the
mountains,	and	he	told	all	about	it.	Granma	said	this	was	because	he	was
recollecting	while	he	was	sleeping.	He	talked,	off	and	on,	all	night.	Just	before
dawn,	he	quietened	and	begun	to	breathe	easy	and	regular.	I	told	Granma	the
way	I	see	it,	there	wasn’t	might	near	any	way	at	all	that	Granpa	could	die	now.
She	said	he	wasn’t	going	to.	So	I	went	to	sleep	in	the	crook	of	his	arm.
I	woke	at	sunup	…	just	as	the	first	light	topped	the	mountain.	Granpa	set	up,	all
of	a	sudden.	He	looked	down	at	me,	and	then	at	Granma.	He	said,	“By	God!
Bonnie	Bee,	a	feller	can’t	lay	his	body	down	nowheres	without	you	stripping
buck	naked	and	hunching	at	’em.”
Granma	slapped	Granpa’s	face	and	laughed.	She	rose	and	put	on	her	skirt.	I
knew	Granpa	was	all	right.	He	wouldn’t	leave	for	home	until	he	had	skinned	the
rattler.	He	said	Granma	would	make	a	belt	for	me,	from	its	skin.	Which	she	did.
We	headed	down	the	Narrows	trail	for	the	cabin,	the	dogs	running	ahead.
Granpa	was	a	little	weak-kneed,	and	held	Granma	close,	helping	him	to	walk,	I
reckined.	I	trotted	along	behind	them,	feeling	might	near	the	best	I	had	ever	felt
since	coming	to	the	mountains.
Though	Granpa	never	mentioned	putting	his	hand	between	me	and	the
snake,	I	figured,	next	to	Granma,	more	than	likely	Granpa	kinned	me	more	than
anybody	else	in	the	world,	even	Blue	Boy.
The	Farm	in	the	Clearing
That	night	by	the	creek,	laying	next	to	Granpa,	I	guess	I	was	surprised	to	find
out	Granpa	had	ever	been	a	boy.	But	he	had.
Through	the	night,	his	mind	taken	him	back,	and	he	was	a	boy	again.
Granpa	was	nine	years	old	in	1867.	He	had	the	run	of	the	mountains.	His	Ma
was	Red	Wing,	full	Cherokee,	and	he	was	raised	like	all	Cherokee	young,	which
meant	he	could	ramble	as	he	pleased	in	the	mountains.
The	land	was	occupied	by	Union	soldiers	and	run	by	politicians.	Granpa’s
Pa	had	fought	on	the	losing	side.	He	had	enemies	…	and	so	didn’t	venture	out	of
the	mountains	hardly	any	at	all.	Granpa	run	errands	to	the	settlement	when	it	was
needed,	for	nobody	paid	any	attention	to	an	Indian	boy.
It	was	on	one	of	his	ramblings	that	Granpa	found	the	little	valley.	It	was
deep	between	high	mountains	and	growed	up	with	weeds	and	bushes	and	tangled
over	with	vines.	Nothing	had	been	planted	in	the	valley	in	a	long	time,	but
Granpa	could	tell	that	once	it	had	been	planted,	for	it	was	cleared	of	trees.
An	old	house	set	at	the	end	of	the	valley,	close	to	the	mountains.	It	had	a
sagging	porch	and	bricks	falling	off	the	chimney	and	for	a	while	Granpa	paid	no
attention	to	the	house.	Then	he	commenced	to	see	life	around	it	and	knew
somebody	was	living	in	it.	He	slipped	down	closer,	off	the	mountain,	to	watch
through	the	bushes	at	the	people	around	the	house.	They	wasn’t	much.
There	wasn’t	a	chicken	on	the	place,	like	most	white	people	had,	or	a	cow
for	milking,	nor	a	mule	for	plowing.	There	wasn’t	anything	except	some	broke-
down	farming	tools	laying	aside	an	old	barn.	The	people	looked	about	like	the
place.
The	woman	looked	frailed	and	wore-out	to	Granpa.	She	had	two	young’uns
who	looked	worse;	little	girls	with	old	faces.	They	was	dirty	and	had	stringy	hair
and	legs	like	canes.
An	old	black	man	lived	in	the	barn.	He	was	bald	with	a	white	fringe	of	hair
around	his	head.	Granpa	figured	he	was	dying,	for	he	shuffled	along,	barely
walking,	and	he	was	stooped	over	toward	the	ground.
Granpa	had	been	about	to	turn	away	when	he	saw	somebody	else.	It	was	a
man	wearing	what	was	left	of	a	ragged	gray	uniform.	He	was	tall	and	he	had	one
leg.	He	come	out	of	the	house,	stabbing	along	on	a	hickory	sapling	that	he	had
strapped	to	the	stump	of	his	other	leg.	Granpa	watched	while	the	one-legged	man
and	the	woman	walked	to	the	barn.	They	strapped	leather	harness	on	themselves,
and	Granpa	couldn’t	figure	what	they	was	doing	until	he	saw	them	going	to	the
valley	in	front	of	the	house.
The	old	black	man	followed	them.	He	was	staggering	along,	trying	to	hold
up	plow	stocks.	They	got	in	front	of	the	house	and	commenced	to	bend	and	pull
in	their	harness.	The	old	black	man	tried	to	guide	the	plow.	Granpa	thought	they
was	crazy,	trying	to	pull	a	plow	like	a	mule.	But	they	pulled	it.	Not	very	far	at	a
time—only	a	few	steps—but	they	pulled	it.	They	would	stop	and	start	again.
They	wasn’t	doing	much	good.	If	the	old	black	man	tilted	the	plow	too
much,	it	went	deep	in	the	ground,	so	they	couldn’t	pull,	and	so	they	would	have
to	back	up,	while	the	old	black	man	pulled	and	hauled	at	the	plow,	falling	down
and	getting	up	again,	trying	to	get	the	plow	set	again.	It	was	too	shallow	for	real
turning	of	land.	Granpa	figured	they	would	never	get	it	plowed.
He	left	that	evening,	while	they	was	still	at	it,	pulling	and	tugging.	He	come
back	the	next	morning	to	watch.	They	was	in	the	field	when	Granpa	got	to	his
hiding	place.	They	hadn’t	plowed	enough	ground	to	even	see	over	the	weeds.
While	Granpa	watched,	the	plow	point	hung	under	a	root	and	jerked	the	old
black	man	down.	He	stayed	down	a	long	time	on	his	hands	and	knees	before	he
got	back	up.	That’s	when	Granpa	saw	the	Union	soldiers.
He	moved	back	into	a	deep	fern	growth	and	kept	his	eye	on	them.	They	didn’t
scare	him,	for	though	he	was	only	nine	years	old,	Granpa	was	Indian-wise,	and
could	move	right	through	the	whole	patrol	without	them	seeing	him,	and	he
knew	it.
There	was	a	dozen	men	in	the	patrol,	all	on	horseback.	A	big	man	with
stripes	of	yellow	on	his	arms	was	leading	them,	and	they	were	stopped	back	in	a
pine	grove,	watching	the	plowing	too.	They	watched	for	a	while,	then	rode	on
out	of	sight.
Granpa	went	hand	fishing	on	a	creek,	and	come	back	by	late	that	evening
with	his	fish.	They	was	still	at	it,	but	going	so	slow	and	tired	they	was	practical
crawling.	Then	Granpa’s	hawk	eyes	caught	the	yellow	flash	in	the	trees.	It	was
the	Union	patrol	leader,	back	in	the	pines.	He	was	by	himself	and	he	was
watching	again.	Granpa	slipped	onto	a	back	trail	to	home.
That	night	he	got	to	figuring.	He	figured	the	Union	soldier	with	the	yellow
stripes	was	up	to	meanness,	and	he	determined	he	would	warn	the	people	in	the
old	house	that	they	was	being	watched.	Next	morning,	he	set	himself	to	do	just
that.
He	got	to	his	hiding	place,	but	Granpa	was	shy	of	people.	He	waited,	trying
to	figure	how	to	go	about	it.	They	was	out	in	the	field,	jerking	at	the	old	plow
again.	He	had	about	decided	he	would	leap	out	in	the	field,	holler	what	he
wanted	to	tell	them,	and	then	run.	But	he	was	too	late;	he	saw	the	Union	soldier
with	the	yellow	stripes.
He	was	still	a	ways	off	in	the	pines,	and	he	had	another	horse	with	him	but
nobody	was	on	it.	As	he	come	closer,	Granpa	saw	it	was	not	a	horse	but	a	mule.
It	was	the	worst-looking	mule	Granpa	had	ever	seen,	hip	bones	sticking	out,	and
ribs.	Its	ears	flopped	down	over	its	bony	face,	but	it	was	a	mule.	The	Union
soldier	was	driving	the	old	mule	ahead	of	him.	Just	as	he	got	to	the	edge	of	the
woods,	the	soldier	strapped	the	old	mule	with	a	whip,	and	it	taken	out	across	the
field.	The	soldier	stayed	back	in	the	woods	on	his	horse.
The	woman	saw	the	mule	first.	She	dropped	her	harness	and	stared	at	the
mule	running	across	the	field.	Then	she	hollered,	“Lord	God	almighty!	H’it’s	a
mule.	He’s	sent	us	a	mule!”	She	taken	out	after	the	mule,	running	through	the
bushes.	The	old	black	man	taken	out	too,	running	and	falling,	trying	to	catch	up.
The	mule	run	straight	toward	where	Granpa	was	hiding.	When	it	got	close,
Granpa	jumped	up	and	waved	his	arms	and	the	mule	swerved	back	into	the	field
and	headed	for	the	woods	over	to	one	side.	The	soldier	had	circled	his	horse	in
the	woods,	and	he	scared	the	mule	back	into	the	field.	Neither	Granpa	nor	the
soldier	was	noticed,	for	the	woman	and	the	old	black	man	had	their	eyes	on	the
mule.
The	one-legged	man	was	trying	to	run,	stumping	his	hickory	sapling	into
the	ground,	and	falling	flat	down	every	few	steps.	The	two	young’uns	was
running,	hollering	through	briers,	trying	to	head	the	mule	off.
The	old	mule	got	confused	and	run	back	through	the	whole	crowd	of	them.
The	woman	grabbed	his	tail.	He	jerked	her	off	her	feet	but	she	held	on,	the	mule
dragging	her	through	the	bushes,	tearing	off	her	dress.	The	old	black	man	sprung
at	the	mule	and	got	hold	on	his	neck.	He	was	flung	around	like	a	rag	doll,	but	he
held	on	like	he	would	die	if	he	turned	loose.	The	old	mule	give	it	up	and
stopped.
The	one-legged	man	and	the	young’uns	come	up.	He	put	a	leather	strap
around	the	old	mule’s	head.	They	all	walked	around	the	old	mule,	petting	him
and	rubbing	him	like	he	was	the	finest	mule	in	the	world.	Granpa	thought	the	old
mule	commenced	to	feel	pretty	good	about	the	whole	thing.
Then	they	all	knelt	down	in	the	field	in	a	circle	around	the	old	mule,	and
stayed	a	good	while	that	way,	with	their	heads	turned	to	the	ground.
Granpa	watched	them	hitch	the	mule	to	the	plow.	First	one	would	plow
behind	the	mule	then	another’n—even	the	young’uns.	Granpa	watched	from	the
bushes	and	kept	his	eye	on	the	soldier	watching	them	from	the	woods.
The	valley	got	to	be	something	that	Granpa	kept	watch	on	right	regular.	He
had	to	see	how	the	plowing	would	come	out.	In	three	days’	time,	they	had	turned
a	quarter	of	the	field.
On	the	morning	of	the	fourth	day,	Granpa	saw	the	Union	soldier	drop	a
white	sack	at	the	end	of	the	field.	The	one-legged	man	saw	him	too.	He	half
lifted	his	hand	to	wave,	like	he	wasn’t	sure	he’d	ought	to.	The	Union	soldier
done	the	same,	and	rode	off	into	the	woods.	It	was	a	sack	of	seed	corn.
The	next	morning,	when	Granpa	got	to	the	valley,	the	Union	soldier	was
dismounted	in	front	of	the	house.	He	was	talking	with	the	one-legged	man	and
the	old	black	man.	Granpa	edged	in	close	to	hear	them.
In	a	little	while	the	Union	soldier	was	plowing	the	old	mule.	He	had	the
plow	lines	tied	and	looped	around	his	neck,	and	Granpa	could	tell	he	knew	his
business.	Every	once	in	a	while,	he	would	stop	the	mule.	He	would	reach	down
and	get	a	handful	of	fresh	turned	earth	and	smell	of	it.	Sometimes	he	would	even
taste	it.	Then	he	would	crumble	the	dirt	in	his	hand	and	start	plowing	again.
Turned	out,	he	was	a	sergeant,	and	he	was	a	farmer	from	Illinois.	Usually,
he	couldn’t	show	up	to	plow	until	nearly	sundown,	when	he	could	slip	away
from	the	army	post.	But	he	come	and	plowed	nearly	every	day.
One	evening	he	brought	a	skinny	private	with	him.	He	looked	too	young	to
be	in	the	army,	but	he	was.	He	commenced	coming	with	the	sergeant	every
evening.	He	brought	little	bushes	with	him.	They	was	apple	trees.
He	would	set	one	out	on	the	edge	of	the	field	and	work	at	it	for	an	hour,
getting	it	set	in	and	watered.	He	would	pat	the	ground	around	it,	prune	it	up,	fix
frames	of	wood	to	put	around	it,	and	then	set	back	and	look	at	it	like	it	was	the
first	apple	tree	he	had	ever	seen.
The	two	little	girls	taken	to	helping	him,	and	in	a	month’s	time	he	had
completely	ringed	the	field	with	apple	trees.	Turned	out,	he	was	from	New	York
and	come	from	apple	raising	as	his	trade.	By	the	time	he	had	all	his	apple	trees
put	out,	the	rest	of	them	had	the	entire	valley	planted	in	corn.
Granpa	left	a	dozen	catfish	on	the	front	porch	after	dark	one	time.	The	next
evening,	they	cooked	the	catfish	and	was	eating	them	off	a	table	set	under	a	tree
in	the	yard.	Occasionally,	while	they	was	eating,	the	sergeant	or	the	woman
would	stand	up	and	wave	toward	the	mountains,	inviting	Granpa	in.	They	knew
an	Indian	had	left	the	fish	but	they	could	never	spot	Granpa,	they	just	waved	at
the	mountains.	Not	being	Indian,	they	could	never	tell	how	to	separate	a	wrong
color	from	the	woods	around	it.	Granpa	never	went	in.	He	left	them	some	more
fish,	though.	He	would	hang	the	fish	on	tree	limbs	near	the	yard,	for	he	was
afraid	to	go	on	the	front	porch	anymore.
Granpa	said	he	left	them	the	fish	because,	them	not	being	Indian,	and	so
being	ignorant,	they	would	likely	total	starve	to	death	before	they	could	get	their
crop	in.	And	too,	he	was	not,	nowise,	going	to	be	outdone	by	a	Union	soldier,
ner	any	two	of	them,	though	he	drawed	the	line	at	crop	raising,	not	taken	up	too
favorable	with	plowing	and	such.
The	skinny	private	and	the	little	girls	drawed	water	from	the	well	at	dusk
every	evening.	They	toted	buckets,	sloshing	water,	and	watered	every	apple	tree.
This	went	on	while	the	other	was	hoeing	and	thinning	the	corn.	Granpa	realized
the	Union	sergeant	was	as	total	crazy	about	hoeing	as	he	had	been	about
plowing.	The	corn	was	up,	dark	green,	which	meant	it	was	a	good	corn	crop.	The
apple	trees	taken	to	sprigging	green.
It	was	summer	then;	the	days	long,	and	dusk	evening	slow	in	coming.	The
sergeant	and	the	private	could	get	in	two	or	three	hours	work	before	they	had	to
leave	and	go	back	to	the	army	post.
In	the	cool	of	the	dusk,	just	as	the	whippoorwills	started	to	sing,	they	would
all	stand	in	the	front	yard	and	look	out	over	the	field.	The	sergeant	smoked	his
pipe,	and	the	two	little	girls	stood	close	as	they	could	to	the	skinny	private.	His
hands	was	always	caked	with	dirt	from	clawing	around	his	apple	trees,	for	he
would	not	trust	a	hoe	to	work	around	them.
The	sergeant	would	take	his	pipe	in	his	hand.	“It’s	good	land,”	he	would	say
with	his	eyes	on	the	field	like	he	would	eat	the	ground	if	he	could.
“Yes,”	the	one-legged	man	would	say,	“it’s	good	land.”
“Best	corn	crop	I	ever	seed,”	the	old	black	man	would	say.	He	would	say	it
every	evening.	Granpa	said	he	slipped	close,	but	all	they	ever	done	was	stand
and	stare	at	the	fields	…	and	say	the	same	things	every	evening,	like	the	field
was	some	kind	of	natural	wonder	they	was	all	supposed	to	stare	at.	The	skinny
private	would	always	say,	“Wait	a	year—when	them	apple	trees	start	blooming
…	you	ain’t	never	seen	nothing	like	it.”	The	little	girls	would	giggle,	which
made	them	look	younger.
The	sergeant	would	point	with	his	pipe.	“Now	next	year,	you’ll	want	to
clear	that	little	neck	of	brush	against	the	far	mountain.	It’ll	make	maybe	three,
four	acres	of	corn.”
Granpa	could	see	the	little	valley	was	looking	might	near	like	there	was
nothing	else	could	be	done	to	it.	He	said	it	looked	like	they	had	everything	set.
He	commenced	to	lose	interest	in	the	whole	thing.	But	then	the	Regulators	come.
They	rode	in	one	evening	when	the	sun	was	still	high,	a	dozen	of	them.
They	had	fancy	uniforms	and	guns,	and	represented	the	politicians	who	passed
new-set	laws	and	raised	taxes.
Riding	up	to	the	house	yard,	they	planted	a	pole	in	the	yard,	and	on	top	of
the	pole	they	put	a	red	flag.	Granpa	knew	what	the	red	flag	meant.	He	had	seen	it
around	in	the	settlements.	It	meant	some	politician	wanted	your	property,	and	so
they	raised	the	taxes	on	it	high	enough	that	you	couldn’t	pay	it.	Then	they	put	up
the	red	flag,	meaning	they	was	going	to	take	it	over.
The	one-legged	man,	the	woman,	and	the	old	black	man	and	the	young’uns,
all	come	out	of	the	field	with	their	hoes	when	they	saw	the	Regulators.	They
bunched	up	in	the	yard.	Granpa	saw	the	one-legged	man	throw	down	his	hoe	and
go	in	the	house.	In	a	minute,	he	stumped	back	out	and	he	had	an	old	musket	in
his	hands.	He	pointed	it	at	the	Regulators.
The	Union	sergeant	rode	up.	The	skinny	private	wasn’t	with	him.	The
sergeant	got	off	his	horse	and	stepped	between	the	Regulators	and	the	one-
legged	man.	About	that	time,	a	Regulator	fired	his	gun,	and	the	sergeant
staggered	back,	looking	surprised	and	hurt.	His	hat	tumbled	off	his	head,	and	he
fell	to	the	ground.
The	one-legged	man	shot	off	his	musket	and	hit	a	Regulator,	and	the
Regulators	commenced	firing	their	guns.	They	killed	the	one-legged	man	and	he
fell	off	the	porch.	The	woman	and	little	girls	run	screaming	to	him.	They	tried	to
prop	him	up	but	Granpa	knew	he	was	dead,	for	his	neck	was	limp.
Granpa	saw	the	old	black	man	run	at	the	Regulators	with	his	hoe	raised	up
in	the	air.	They	shot	him	two	or	three	times	and	he	fell,	laying	over	his	hoe
handle.	Then	they	rode	off.
Granpa	took	to	the	back	trail,	for	he	was	sure	they	would	circle	about,
making	to	know	that	they	hadn’t	been	seen.	He	told	his	Pa	about	it	and	expected
there	would	be	trouble	over	it,	but	there	wasn’t.
Granpa	found	out	in	the	settlement	how	it	was	passed	off.	The	politicians
passed	it	out	that	it	looked	like	an	uprising,	and	they	was	going	to	have	to	be
reelected	to	handle	it	and	get	more	money	for	what	looked	like	a	war.	People	got
worked	up	about	it,	and	told	the	politicians	to	go	to	it.	Which	they	did.
A	rich	man	took	over	the	valley.	Granpa	never	knew	what	happened	to	the
woman	and	the	young’uns.	The	rich	man	brought	in	sharecroppers.	The	land	and
weather	being	as	it	is,	you	can’t	raise	apples	in	big	enough	bunches	to	make	real
money,	so	they	plowed	up	the	apple	trees.
Word	was	passed	that	a	private	from	New	York	deserted	the	army.	He	was
posted	as	a	coward,	running	out	on	a	uprising	and	all.
Granpa	said	they	boxed	the	sergeant	up	to	send	his	remains	and	such	back
to	Illinois.	He	said	when	they	went	to	fix	him	and	dress	him,	one	of	his	hands
was	clenched	into	a	fist.	They	tried	to	unclench	the	fist,	and	finally	had	to	take
tools	to	do	it.	They	got	his	fist	open,	but	there	wasn’t	anything	in	it	worthwhile.
Nothing	but	a	handful	of	black	dirt	fell	out.
A	Night	on	the	Mountain
Me	and	Granpa	thought	Indian.	Later	people	would	tell	me	that	this	is	naive—
but	I	knew—and	I	remembered	what	Granpa	said	about	“words.”	If	it	is	“naive,”
it	does	not	matter,	for	it	is	also	good.	Granpa	said	it	would	always	carry	me
through	…	which	it	has;	like	the	time	the	big-city	men	made	a	trip	to	our
mountains.
Granpa	was	half	Scot,	but	he	thought	Indian.	Such	seemed	to	be	the	case
with	others,	like	the	great	Red	Eagle,	Bill	Weatherford,	or	Emperor	McGilvery
or	McIntosh.	They	gave	themselves,	as	the	Indian	did,	to	nature,	not	trying	to
subdue	it,	or	pervert	it,	but	to	live	with	it.	And	so	they	loved	the	thought,	and
loving	it	grew	to	be	it,	so	that	they	could	not	think	as	the	white	man.
Granpa	told	me.	The	Indian	brought	something	to	trade	and	laid	it	at	the
white	man’s	feet.	If	he	saw	nothing	he	wanted,	he	picked	up	his	wares	and
walked	off.	The	white	man,	not	understanding,	called	him	an	“Indian	giver”
meaning	one	who	gives	and	then	takes	back.	This	is	not	so.	If	the	Indian	gives	a
gift,	he	will	make	no	ceremony	of	it,	but	will	simply	leave	it	to	be	found.
Granpa	said	the	Indian	held	his	palm	up	to	show	“peace,”	that	he	held	no
weapon.	This	was	logical	to	Granpa	but	seemed	funny	as	hell	to	everybody	else.
Granpa	said	the	white	man	meant	the	same	thing	by	shaking	hands,	except	his
words	was	so	crooked,	he	had	to	try	to	shake	a	weapon	out	of	the	sleeve	of	the
feller	who	claimed	he	was	a	friend.	Granpa	was	not	given	much	to	handshaking,
as	he	said	he	didn’t	like	for	a	man	to	try	to	shake	something	out	of	his	sleeve
after	he	had	presented	himself	as	a	friend.	It	was	total	distrustful	of	a	man’s
word.	Which	is	reasonable.
As	to	folks	saying,	“How!”	and	then	laughing	when	they	see	an	Indian,
Granpa	said	it	all	come	about	over	a	couple	of	hundred	years.	He	said	every	time
the	Indian	met	a	white	man,	the	white	man	commenced	to	ask	him:	how	are	you
feeling,	or	how	are	your	people,	or	how	are	you	getting	along,	or	how	is	the
game	where	you	come	from,	and	so	on.	He	said	the	Indian	come	to	believe	that
the	white	man’s	favorite	subject	was	how;	and	so,	being	polite,	when	he	met	the
white	man,	he	figured	he	would	just	say	how,	and	then	let	the	son	of	a	bitch	talk
about	whichever	how	he	wanted	to.	Granpa	said	people	laughing	at	that	was
laughing	at	an	Indian	who	was	trying	to	be	courteous	and	considerate.
We	had	delivered	our	wares	to	the	crossroads	store	and	Mr.	Jenkins	said
two	big-city	men	had	been	there.	He	said	they	was	from	Chattanooga	and	drove
a	long	black	automobile.	Mr.	Jenkins	said	they	wanted	to	talk	to	Granpa.
Granpa	looked	at	Mr.	Jenkins	from	under	his	big	hat.	“Tax	law?”
“No,”	Mr.	Jenkins	said.	“They	wasn’t	law	at	all.	Said	they	was	in	the
whiskey	trade.	Said	they	heard	tell	you	was	a	good	maker	and	they	wanted	to	put
you	in	a	big	still,	and	that	you	could	get	rich	working	for	them.”
Granpa	didn’t	say	anything.	He	bought	some	coffee	and	sugar	for	Granma.
I	picked	up	the	wood	chips	and	taken	the	old	candy	off	Mr.	Jenkins’	hands.	Mr.
Jenkins	fidgeted	around	to	hear	what	Granpa	had	to	say	about	it,	but	he	knew
Granpa	too	well	to	ask.
“They	said	they	would	be	back.”	Mr.	Jenkins	said.
Granpa	bought	some	cheese	…	which	I	was	glad,	as	I	liked	cheese.	We
walked	out,	and	didn’t	hang	around	the	store;	but	headed	straight	off	up	the	trail.
Granpa	walked	fast.	I	hadn’t	time	to	pick	berries	and	had	to	do	away	with	the	old
candy	while	I	was	in	a	continual	trot	behind	Granpa.
When	we	got	to	the	cabin	Granpa	told	Granma	about	the	big-city	men.	He	said,
“You	stay	here,	Little	Tree.	I’m	going	to	the	still	and	lay	some	more	covering
branches	over	it.	If	they	come,	you	let	me	know.”	He	taken	off,	up	the	hollow
trail.
I	set	on	the	front	porch	watching	for	the	big-city	men.	Granpa	had	not
hardly	gone	from	sight	when	I	saw	them	and	told	Granma.	Granma	stayed	back,
standing	in	the	dogtrot,	and	we	watched	them	coming	up	the	trail	and	across	the
foot	log.
They	had	fine	clothes	like	politicians.	The	big	fat	man	wore	a	lavender	suit
and	white	tie.	The	skinny	man	had	on	a	white	suit	and	black	shirt	which	shined.
They	wore	big-city	hats	made	of	fine	straw.
They	walked	right	up	to	the	porch,	though	they	didn’t	mount	the	steps.	The
big	man	was	sweating	pretty	bad.	He	looked	at	Granma.	“We	want	to	see	the	old
man,”	he	said.	I	figured	he	was	sick,	for	his	breathing	was	bad	and	it	was	hard	to
see	his	eyes.	His	eyes	looked	slitted,	way	back	in	swelled-up	fat.
Granma	didn’t	say	anything.	I	didn’t	either.	The	big	man	turned	around	to
the	skinny	man.	“The	old	squaw	don’t	understand	English,	Slick.”
Mr.	Slick	was	looking	around	over	his	shoulder,	though	I	didn’t	see
anything	behind	him.	He	had	a	high	voice.	“Screw	the	old	squaw,”	he	said,	“I
don’t	like	this	place,	Chunk—too	far	back	in	the	mountains.	Let’s	get	outa	here.”
Mr.	Slick	had	a	little	mustache.
“Shut	up,”	Mr.	Chunk	said.	Mr.	Chunk	pushed	his	hat	back.	He	didn’t	have
any	hair.	He	looked	at	me	setting	in	the	chair.
“The	boy	looks	like	a	breed,”	he	said.	“Maybe	he	understands	English.	Do
you	understand	English,	boy?”
I	said,	“I	reckin.”
Mr.	Chunk	looked	at	Mr.	Slick.	“Hear	that	…	he	reckins.”	They	got	tickled
about	this	and	laughed	right	loud	about	it.	I	saw	Granma	move	back	and	turn
Blue	Boy	out.	He	headed	up	the	hollow	for	Granpa.
Mr.	Chunk	said,	“Where’s	your	Pa,	boy?”	I	told	him	I	didn’t	recollect	my
Pa;	that	I	lived	here	with	Granpa	and	Granma.	Mr.	Chunk	wanted	to	know	where
Granpa	was,	and	I	pointed	back	up	the	trail.	He	reached	in	his	pocket	and	took
out	a	whole	dollar	and	held	it	out	toward	me.	“You	can	have	this	dollar,	boy,	if
you	take	us	to	your	Granpa.”
He	had	big	rings	on	his	fingers.	I	seen	right	off	that	he	was	rich	and	more
than	likely	could	afford	the	dollar.	I	taken	it	and	put	it	in	my	pocket.	I	knew
figures	pretty	well.	Even	splitting	with	Granpa,	I	would	get	back	the	fifty	cents
which	I	had	been	slickered	out	of	by	the	Christian.
I	felt	pretty	good	about	the	whole	thing,	leading	them	up	the	trail.	But	as	we
walked	I	commenced	to	think.	I	couldn’t	take	them	to	the	still.	I	led	them	up	the
high	trail.
As	we	walked	up	the	high	trail,	I	felt	kind	of	bad	about	it,	and	I	didn’t	have
any	idea	in	the	world	what	I	was	going	to	do.	Mr.	Chunk	and	Mr.	Slick,	however,
was	in	fine	spirits.	They	pulled	off	their	coats	and	walked	long	behind	me.	Each
one	had	a	pistol	in	his	belt.	Mr.	Slick	said,	“Don’t	remember	your	Pa,	huh	kid?”	I
stopped	and	said	I	hadn’t	no	recollection	of	him	at	all.	Mr.	Slick	said,	“That
would	make	you	a	bastard,	wouldn’t	it,	kid?”	I	said	I	reckined,	though	I	had	not
got	to	the	B’s	in	the	dictionary	and	had	not	studied	that	word.	They	both	laughed
until	they	commenced	coughing.	I	laughed	too.	They	seemed	like	happy	fellers.
Mr.	Chunk	said,	“Hell,	they’re	all	a	bunch	of	animals.”	I	said	we	had	lots	of
animals	in	the	mountains	…	wildcats	and	wild	hogs;	and	me	and	Granpa	had
seen	a	black	bear	oncet.
Mr.	Slick	wanted	to	know	if	we	had	seen	one	lately.	I	said	we	hadn’t	but	we
had	seen	signs.	I	pointed	to	a	poplar	tree	where	a	bear	had	taken	a	claw	swipe.
“There’s	a	sign	right	there,”	I	said.	Mr.	Chunk	jumped	sideways	like	a	snake	had
struck	at	him.	He	bumped	into	Mr.	Slick	and	knocked	him	down.	Mr.	Slick	got
mad.	“Goddam	you,	Chunk,	you	nearly	knocked	me	off	the	trail!	If	you	had
knocked	me	down	there	…”	Mr.	Slick	pointed	down	into	the	hollow.	Him	and
Mr.	Chunk	both	leaned	over	and	looked	down.	You	could	barely	see	the	spring
branch,	far	below	us.
“God	almighty,”	Mr.	Chunk	said,	“how	high	are	we?	Hell,	if	you	slipped	off
this	trail,	you’d	break	your	neck.”	I	told	Mr.	Chunk	I	didn’t	know	how	high	we
was,	but	I	reckined	it	was	pretty	high;	though	I	had	never	give	any	thought	to	it.
The	higher	we	got,	the	more	Mr.	Chunk	and	Mr.	Slick	coughed.	They	also
fell	farther	and	farther	behind	me.	Once	I	come	back	down	the	trail	looking	for
them,	and	they	were	sprawled	out	under	a	white	oak.	The	white	oak	had	poison
ivy	all	around	its	roots.	They	was	laying	in	the	middle	of	it.
Poison	ivy	is	pretty	and	green,	but	you	had	better	not	lay	in	it.	It	will	pop
welts	out	all	over	you	and	make	sores	that	will	last	for	months.	I	didn’t	say
anything	about	the	poison	ivy.	They	was	already	in	it	anyway,	and	I	didn’t	want
to	make	them	feel	worse	about	things.	They	was	looking	pretty	bad.
Mr.	Slick	raised	his	head	up.	“Listen,	you	little	bastard,”	he	said,	“how
much	farther	we	got	to	go?”	Mr.	Chunk	didn’t	raise	his	head.	He	laid	there	in	the
poison	ivy	with	his	eyes	closed.	I	said	we	was	nearly	there.
I	had	been	thinking.	I	knew	that	Granma	would	send	Granpa	up	the	high
trail	after	me,	so	when	we	got	to	the	top	of	the	mountain,	I	was	going	to	tell	Mr.
Slick	and	Mr.	Chunk	that	we	would	just	set	down	and	wait;	that	Granpa	would
be	along	directly.	Which	he	would.	I	figured	it	would	work	all	right	and	I	could
keep	the	dollar,	seeing	as	how	I	would	have,	more	or	less,	taken	them	to	Granpa.
I	set	off	up	the	trail.	Mr.	Slick	helped	Mr.	Chunk	out	of	the	poison	ivy	patch
and	they	kind	of	staggered	along	behind	me.	They	left	their	coats	in	the	patch.
Mr.	Chunk	said	they	would	get	the	coats	on	the	way	back.
I	got	to	the	top	of	the	mountain	a	long	time	before	they	did.	The	high	trail
was	part	of	a	lot	of	trails,	old	Cherokee	trails	that	ran	along	the	rim	of	the
mountain,	but	forked,	going	down	the	mountain	on	the	other	side,	and	forked
four	or	five	times	on	the	way	down.	Granpa	said	the	trails	led	maybe	a	hundred
miles	back	into	the	mountains.
I	set	down	under	a	bush	where	the	trail	made	a	fork;	one	branch	running	the
top	of	the	mountain,	the	other	dipping	over	the	mountain	down	the	other	side.	I
figured	I	would	wait	on	Mr.	Chunk	and	Mr.	Slick,	and	we	would	all	set	here	until
Granpa	come.
It	took	them	a	long	time.	When	they	finally	come	over	the	top	of	the
mountain,	Mr.	Chunk	had	his	arm	over	Mr.	Slick’s	shoulders.	He	had	hurt	his
foot,	more	than	likely,	for	he	was	limping	and	hopping	pretty	bad.
Mr.	Chunk	was	saying	that	Mr.	Slick	was	a	bastard.	Which	surprised	me,	as
Mr.	Slick	had	not	said	anything	about	being	a	bastard	too.	Mr.	Chunk	was	saying
that	Mr.	Slick	was	the	one	who	originally	thought	up	the	idea	of	putting
mountain	hicks	to	work	for	them.	Mr.	Slick	said	it	was	Mr.	Chunk’s	idea	to	pick
this	damn	Indian	and	that	Mr.	Chunk	was	a	son	of	a	bitch.
They	was	talking	so	loud,	they	passed	right	by	me.	I	didn’t	have	a	chance	to
tell	them	we	had	all	ought	to	wait,	as	Granpa	had	learnt	me	not	to	interrupt	when
people	was	talking.	They	went	on	down	the	trail	on	the	other	side	of	the
mountain.	I	watched	them	until	they	disappeared	amongst	the	trees,	heading	into
a	deep	cleft	between	the	mountains.	I	figured	I	had	better	wait	on	Granpa.
I	didn’t	have	to	wait	long.	Blue	Boy	showed	up	first.	I	saw	him	sniffing	my
trail,	and	he	come	up,	tail	wagging.	In	a	minute	I	heard	a	whippoorwill.	It
sounded	exactly	like	a	whippoorwill	…	but	as	it	was	not	dusk	dark	yet,	I	knew	it
was	Granpa.	I	whippoorwilled	back,	might	near	as	good.
I	saw	his	shadow	slipping	through	the	trees	in	the	late	evening	sun.	He
wasn’t	following	the	trail,	and	you	could	never	hear	him,	if	he	didn’t	want	to	be
heard.	In	a	minute	there	he	was.	I	was	glad	to	see	him.
I	told	Granpa	that	Mr.	Slick	and	Mr.	Chunk	had	gone	on	down	the	trail,	and
also	everything	I	could	remember	they	said	while	we	was	walking.	Granpa
grunted	and	didn’t	say	anything,	but	his	eyes	narrowed	down.
Granma	had	sent	us	vittles	in	a	sack,	and	me	and	Granpa	set	down	under	a
cedar	and	ate.	Corn	pone	and	catfish	cooked	in	meal	taste	good	in	the	air	of	a
high	mountain.	We	finished	off	all	of	it.
I	showed	Granpa	the	dollar,	which	I	reckined	if	Mr.	Chunk	figured	I	had
done	my	job	I	could	keep.	I	told	Granpa	soon	as	we	got	some	change	we	could
split	it.	Granpa	said	I	had	done	my	job,	as	he	was	here	to	see	Mr.	Chunk.	Granpa
said	I	could	keep	the	whole	dollar.
I	told	Granpa	about	the	green	and	red	box	at	Mr.	Jenkins’	store.	I	said	I
figured,	more	than	likely,	it	wasn’t	much	over	a	dollar.	Granpa	said	he	figured
that	too.	Far	off,	we	heard	a	yell	down	in	the	cleft	of	the	mountain.	We	had
plumb	forgot	about	Mr.	Chunk	and	Mr.	Slick.
It	was	getting	dusk	dark.	Whippoorwills	and	chip-wills	had	started	singing
on	the	side	of	the	mountain.	Granpa	stood	up	and	cupped	his	hands	around	his
mouth.	“WHOOOOOOOOEEEEEEEEEE!”	Granpa	hollered	down	the
mountain.	The	sound	bounced	off	another	mountain	as	plain	as	if	Granpa	had
been	over	there;	then	it	bounced	into	the	cleft	and	on	up	the	hollows,	getting
weaker	and	weaker.	There	wasn’t	any	way	of	figuring	where	the	sound	had	come
from.	The	echoes	had	barely	died	away	when	we	heard	three	gun	shots	from
down	in	the	cleft.	The	sound	bounced	around	and	traveled	off.
“Pistols,”	Granpa	said.	“They’re	answering	with	pistol	fire.”
Granpa	cut	loose	again.	“WHOOOOOOEEEEEEEE!”	I	did	too.	Which
both	of	us	hollering	made	the	echoes	jump	and	bounce	even	more.	The	pistol
went	off	again,	three	times.
Me	and	Granpa	kept	hollering.	It	was	fun,	listening	to	the	echoes.	Each	time
the	pistol	answered	us,	until	it	didn’t	answer	the	last	time.
“They’re	out	of	bullets,”	Granpa	said.	It	was	dark	now.	Granpa	stretched
and	yawned.	“No	need	me	and	ye	thrashing	around	down	there	tonight,	Little
Tree,	trying	to	git	’em	out.	They’ll	be	all	right.	We’ll	git	’em	tomorrow.”	Which
suited	me.
Me	and	Granpa	pulled	spring	boughs	under	the	cedar	tree	to	sleep	on.	If	you’re
going	to	sleep	out	in	the	mountains	during	spring	and	summer,	you	had	better
sleep	on	spring	boughs.	If	you	don’t,	red	bugs	will	eat	you	up.	Red	bugs	are	so
little,	you	can’t	hardly	see	them	with	the	naked	eye.	They	are	all	over	leaves	and
bushes,	by	the	millions.	They	will	crawl	on	you	and	bury	up	in	your	skin,
causing	rashes	of	bumps	to	break	out	all	over	you.	Some	years	they	are	worse
than	others.	This	was	a	bad	red	bug	year.	There	are	also	wood	ticks.
Me	and	Granpa	and	Blue	Boy	crawled	up	on	the	spring	boughs.	Blue	Boy
curled	up	by	me	and	felt	warm	in	the	sharp	air.	The	boughs	were	soft	and
springy.	I	commenced	yawning.
Me	and	Granpa	clasped	our	hands	behind	our	heads	and	watched	the	moon
come	up.	It	was	full	and	yellow,	slipping	over	a	far	mountain.	We	could	see
might	near	a	hundred	miles,	Granpa	said,	mountains	humping	and	dipping	in	the
moon	spray,	making	shadows	and	deep	purples	in	their	hollows.	Fog	drifted
along	in	threads,	far	below	us	…	moving	through	the	hollows,	snaking	around
the	sides	of	the	mountains.	One	little	patch	of	fog	would	come	around	the	end	of
a	mountain	like	a	silver	boat	and	bump	into	another	one	and	they	would	melt
together	and	take	off	up	a	hollow.	Granpa	said	the	fog	looked	alive.	Which	it	did.
A	mockingbird	set	up	song	right	near	us	in	a	high	elm.	Far	back	in	the
mountains,	we	heard	two	wildcats	mating.	They	sounded	like	they	were
screaming	mad,	but	Granpa	said	mating	feels	so	good	that	cats	can’t	help	but
scream	about	it.
I	told	Granpa	I	would	might	near	like	to	sleep	on	a	mountaintop	every
night.	He	said	he	would	too.	A	screech	owl	screeched	down	below	us,	and	then
there	was	yells	and	screams.	Granpa	said	it	was	Mr.	Chunk	and	Mr.	Slick.	He
said	if	they	didn’t	settle	down,	they	would	disturb	practical	all	the	birds	and
animals	on	the	mountainside.	I	went	to	sleep	looking	at	the	moon.
Me	and	Granpa	woke	at	dawn.	There	is	not	anything	like	dawn	from	the	top	of
the	high	mountain.	Me	and	Granpa,	and	Blue	Boy	too,	watched	it.	The	sky	was	a
light	gray,	and	the	birds	getting	up	for	the	new	day	made	fuss	and	twitters	in	the
trees.
Away	across	a	hundred	miles,	the	mountaintops	humped	like	islands	in	the
fog	that	floated	below	us.	Granpa	pointed	to	the	east	and	said,	“Watch.”
Above	the	rim	of	the	farthest	mountain,	on	the	end	of	the	world,	a	pink
streak	whipped	across,	a	paintbrush	swept	a	million	miles	across	the	sky.
Morning	wind	picked	up	and	hit	our	faces	and	me	and	Granpa	knew	the	colors
and	the	morning	birth	had	come	alive.	The	paintbrush	run	up	in	streaks—red,
yellow	and	blue.	The	mountain	rim	looked	like	it	had	caught	fire;	then	the	sun
cleared	the	trees.	It	turned	the	fog	into	a	pink	ocean,	heaving	and	moving	down
below.
The	sun	hit	me	and	Granpa	in	the	face.	The	world	had	got	born	all	over
again.	Granpa	said	it	had,	and	he	taken	off	his	hat	and	we	watched	it	for	a	long
time.	Me	and	Granpa	had	a	feeling,	and	I	knew	right	off	that	we	would	come
again	to	the	mountaintop	and	watch	the	morning	come.
The	sun	cleared	the	mountain	and	floated	free	in	the	sky,	and	Granpa	sighed
and	stretched.	“Well,”	he	said,	“ye	and	me	have	got	work	to	do.	Tell	ye	what,”
Granpa	scratched	his	head,	“tell	ye	what,”	he	said	again,	“ye	trot	down	to	the
cabin	and	tell	Granma	we’ll	be	up	here	awhile.	Tell	her	to	fix	ye	and	me
something	to	eat	and	put	it	in	a	paper	sack,	and	fix	them	two	big-city	fellers
something	to	eat	and	put	it	in	a	tow	sack.	Can	ye	remember	now—paper	sack
and	tow	sack?”	I	said	I	could.	I	started	off.
Granpa	stopped	me.	“And	Little	Tree,”	he	said,	and	commenced	grinning
about	something,	“before	Granma	fixes	the	two	fellers	something	to	eat,	ye	tell
everything	ye	can	recollect	that	the	two	fellers	said	to	ye.”	I	said	I	would,	and	I
set	off	down	the	trail.	Blue	Boy	went	with	me.	I	heard	Granpa	commence	to	call
up	Mr.	Chunk	and	Mr.	Slick.	Granpa	was	yelling,
“WHOOOOOOOOEEEEEEEEE!”	I	would	have	liked	to	stayed	and	hollered
too,	but	I	didn’t	mind	running	down	the	trail,	especially	early	in	the	morning.
This	was	the	time	of	morning	when	all	the	creatures	were	coming	out	for
the	day	living.	I	saw	two	’coons,	high	in	a	walnut	tree.	They	peeped	down	at	me
and	talked	as	I	passed	under	them.	Squirrels	chattered	and	leapt	across	the	trail.
They	set	up	and	fussed	at	me	as	I	walked	by.	Birds	dipped	and	fluttered	all	along
the	trail,	and	a	mockingbird	followed	me	and	Blue	Boy	a	long	way,	dipping
down	at	my	head,	teasing.	Mockingbirds	will	do	this	if	they	know	you	like	them.
Which	I	do.
When	I	got	to	the	cabin	clearing,	Granma	was	setting	on	the	back	porch.	She
knew	I	was	coming,	I	figured,	by	watching	the	birds,	though	I	suspicioned	that
Granma	could	smell	anybody	coming,	for	she	was	never	surprised.
I	told	her	Granpa	wanted	something	to	eat	in	a	paper	sack	for	me	and	him,
and	for	Mr.	Chunk	and	Mr.	Slick,	something	to	be	put	in	a	tow	sack.	Granma
commenced	to	cook	up	the	vittles.
She	had	fixed	mine	and	Granpa’s,	and	was	frying	fish	for	Mr.	Chunk	and
Mr.	Slick,	when	I	recollected	to	tell	her	what	they	had	said.	While	I	was	telling
her,	of	a	sudden	she	pulled	the	frying	pan	off	the	fire	and	got	out	a	pot	which	she
filled	with	water.	She	dropped	Mr.	Chunk	and	Mr.	Slick’s	fish	in	the	pot.	I
reckined	she	had	decided	to	boil	their	fish	instead	of	frying,	but	I	had	never	seen
her	use	the	root	powders,	in	cooking,	that	she	put	in	their	pot.	Their	fish	got	a
good	boiling.
I	told	Granma	Mr.	Chunk	and	Mr.	Slick	’peared	to	be	good-spirited	fellers.	I
told	her	that	I	originally	thought	we	was	all	laughing	because	I	was	a	bastard,	but
it	turned	out,	what	they	was	more	than	likely	laughing	at	was	Mr.	Slick’s	being
one	too,	as	I	had	heard	Mr.	Chunk	remind	him.
Granma	put	some	more	root	powders	in	the	pot.	I	told	her	about	the	dollar
—that	Granpa	said	I	had	done	my	job	and	could	keep	it.	Granma	said	I	could
keep	it	too.	She	put	the	dollar	in	my	fruit	jar	for	me	but	I	didn’t	tell	her	about	the
red	and	green	box.	There	was	not	any	Christians	about,	as	I	knew	of,	but	I	wasn’t
going	to	take	any	chances.
Granma	boiled	the	fish	until	the	steam	got	heavy.	Her	eyes	was	watering
down	over	her	face	and	she	was	blowing	her	nose.	She	said	she	reckined	it	was
the	steam.	Granma	put	the	fish	for	the	big-city	fellers	in	the	tow	sack	and	I	set
off	up	the	high	trail.	Granma	turned	all	the	hounds	out,	and	they	went	with	me.
When	I	got	to	the	top	of	the	mountain,	I	didn’t	see	Granpa.	I	whistled	and	he
answered	from	halfway	down	the	other	side.	I	went	down	the	trail.	It	was	narrow
and	shaded	over	with	trees.	Granpa	said	he	had	practical	called	up	Mr.	Chunk
and	Mr.	Slick	out	of	the	cleft.	He	said	they	was	answering	him	pretty	regular	and
ought	to	be	coming	in	sight	pretty	soon.
Granpa	taken	their	sack	of	fish	and	hung	it	down	from	a	tree	limb,	right
over	the	trail	where	they	couldn’t	miss	it.	Me	and	Granpa	moved	back	up	the
trail	a	ways,	and	set	down	under	persimmon	bushes	to	eat	our	dinner.	The	sun
was	might	near	straight	up.
Granpa	made	the	dogs	lay	down,	and	we	et	on	our	corn	pone	and	fish.
Granpa	said	it	had	taken	him	some	time	to	get	Mr.	Chunk	and	Mr.	Slick	to
understanding	which	direction	they	was	to	take	toward	his	voice	but	they	was
finally	coming.	Then	we	saw	them.
If	I	had	not	known	them	right	well,	I	couldn’t	have	recollected	as	having
ever	seen	them	before.	Their	shirts	was	tore	up	complete.	They	had	big	cuts	and
scratches	over	their	arms	and	faces.	Granpa	said	it	looked	like	they	had	run
through	brier	patches.	Granpa	said	he	couldn’t	figure	how	they	got	all	the	big	red
lumps	on	their	faces.	I	didn’t	say	anything—as	it	was	none	of	my	business—but
I	figured	it	was	from	laying	in	the	poison	ivy	vines.	Mr.	Chunk	had	lost	a	shoe.
They	come	up	the	trail	slow	and	heads	down.
When	they	saw	the	tow	sack	hanging	over	the	trail,	they	taken	it	loose	from
the	tree	limb	and	set	down.	They	ate	all	of	Granma’s	fish,	and	argued	pretty
regular	over	which	was	getting	the	most	of	it.	We	could	hear	them	plain.
After	they	finished	eating,	they	stretched	out	on	the	trail	in	the	shade.	I
figured	Granpa	would	go	down	and	get	them	up,	but	he	didn’t.	We	just	set	and
watched.	After	a	while,	Granpa	said	it	was	better	to	let	them	rest	awhile.	They
didn’t	rest	long.
Mr.	Chunk	jumped	up.	He	was	bent	over	and	holding	his	stomach.	He	run
into	the	bushes	at	the	side	of	the	trail	and	pulled	his	britches	down.	He	squatted
and	commenced	to	yell,	“Oh!	Goddam!	My	insides	is	coming	out!”	Mr.	Slick
done	the	same	thing.	He	yelled	too.	They	groaned	and	hollered	and	rolled	on	the
ground.	In	a	little	while,	both	of	them	crawled	out	of	the	bushes	and	laid	down
on	the	trail.	They	didn’t	lay	down	long,	but	jumped	up	and	done	it	all	over	again.
They	taken	on	so	loud	that	the	dogs	got	excited	and	Granpa	had	to	quieten	them.
I	told	Granpa	it	’peared	to	me	that	they	was	squatting	in	a	poison	ivy	patch.
Granpa	said	it	looked	like	they	was.	Also,	I	told	Granpa,	they	was	wiping
theirselves	with	poison	ivy	leaves.	Granpa	said	more	than	likely	they	was.	One
time,	Mr.	Slick	run	from	the	trail	back	into	the	poison	ivy	patch	but	did	not	get
his	britches	down	in	time.	He	commenced	to	have	some	trouble	after	that	with
flies	buzzing	over	him.	This	went	on	for	might	near	an	hour.	After	that,	they	laid
flat	out	in	the	trail,	resting	up.	Granpa	said	more	than	likely	it	was	something
they	had	ate	which	didn’t	agree	with	them.
Granpa	stepped	out	in	the	trail	and	whistled	down	to	them.	Both	of	them
got	on	their	hands	and	knees	and	looked	up	toward	me	and	Granpa.	Leastwise,	I
think	they	looked	at	us,	but	their	eyes	were	swelled	might	near	shut.	Both	of
them	yelled.
“Wait	a	minute,”	Mr.	Chunk	hollered.	Mr.	Slick	kind	of	screamed,	“Hold
on,	man—for	God’s	sake!”	They	got	to	their	feet	and	scrambled	up	the	trail.	Me
and	Granpa	went	on	up	the	trail	to	the	top	of	the	mountain.	When	we	looked
back,	they	was	limping	behind	us.
Granpa	said	we	might	as	well	go	back	down	the	trail	to	the	cabin,	as	they
could	now	find	their	way	out,	and	would	be	along	d’rectly.	So	we	did.
It	was	late	sun	by	the	time	me	and	Granpa	got	to	the	cabin.	We	set	on	the	back
porch	with	Granma	and	waited	for	Mr.	Chunk	and	Mr.	Slick	to	come	along.	It
was	two	hours	later	and	dusk	dark	when	they	made	it	to	the	clearing.	Mr.	Chunk
had	lost	his	other	shoe	and	’peared	to	tiptoe	along.
They	made	a	wide	circle	around	the	cabin,	which	surprised	me,	as	I	figured
they	wanted	to	see	Granpa,	but	they	had	changed	their	minds.	I	asked	Granpa
about	keeping	my	dollar.	He	said	I	could,	as	I	had	done	my	part	of	the	job.	It	was
not	my	fault	if	they	changed	their	minds.	Which	is	reasonable.
I	followed	them	around	the	cabin.	They	crossed	the	foot	log	and	I	hollered
and	waved	to	them,	“Good-bye,	Mr.	Chunk.	Good-bye,	Mr.	Slick.	I	thankee	for
the	dollar,	Mr.	Chunk.”
Mr.	Chunk	turned	and	’peared	to	shake	his	fist	at	me.	He	fell	off	the	foot
log	into	the	spring	branch.	He	grabbed	at	Mr.	Slick	and	nearly	pulled	him	off,
but	Mr.	Slick	kept	his	balance	and	made	it	across.	Mr.	Slick	reminded	Mr.	Chunk
that	he	was	a	son	of	a	bitch,	and	Mr.	Chunk,	as	he	crawled	out	of	the	spring
branch,	said	that	when	he	got	back	to	Chattanooga—if	he	ever	did—he	was
going	to	kill	Mr.	Slick.	Though	I	don’t	know	why	they	had	fell	out	with	one
another.
They	passed	out	of	sight	down	the	hollow	trail.	Granma	wanted	to	send	the
dogs	after	them,	but	Granpa	said	no.	He	said	he	figured	they	was	total	wore	out.
Granpa	said	he	reckined	it	all	come	about	from	a	misunderstanding	on	Mr.
Chunk	and	Mr.	Slick’s	part,	regarding	me	and	Granpa	working	for	them	in	the
whiskey	trade.	I	figured	more	than	likely	it	was	too.
It	had	all	taken	up	the	best	part	of	two	days	of	mine	and	Granpa’s	time.	I
had,	however,	come	out	a	dollar	ahead.	I	cautioned	Granpa	that	I	was	still
willing	and	stood	ready	to	split	the	dollar	with	him	as	we	was	partners,	but	he
said	no,	I	had	earned	the	dollar	without	any	connection	in	the	whiskey	trade.
Granpa	said	all	things	considered	it	was	not	bad	pay	for	the	work.	Which	it
wasn’t.
Willow	John
Planting	is	a	busy	time.	Granpa	decided	when	we	would	begin.	He	would	run
his	finger	into	the	ground	and	feel	for	the	warmth;	then	shake	his	head,	which
meant	we	wasn’t	going	to	start	planting.
So	we	would	have	to	go	fishing	or	berry	picking	or	general	woods
rambling,	if	it	wasn’t	the	week	to	work	at	the	whiskey	trade.
Once	you	start	planting,	you	have	to	be	careful.	There	are	times	when	you
can’t	plant.	You	must	begin	by	remembering	that	anything	growing	below
ground,	such	as	turnips	or	’taters,	these	have	to	be	planted	in	the	dark	by	the
moon,	otherwise	your	turnips	and	’taters	won’t	be	any	bigger	than	a	pencil.
Anything	that	grows	above	ground,	such	as	corn,	beans,	peas	and	such,
must	be	planted	in	the	light	of	the	moon.	If	it	isn’t,	you’ll	not	make	much	of	a
crop	of	it.
When	you	have	figured	this	out,	there	are	other	things.	Most	people	go	by
the	signs	in	the	almanac.	For	example,	you	plant	running	beans	when	the	sign	is
in	the	arms	to	make	the	best	beans.	If	you	don’t,	you	will	have	a	lot	of	blooms
but	no	beans.
There	is	a	sign	for	everything.	Granpa,	however,	didn’t	need	an	almanac.
He	went	by	the	stars	d’rect.
We	would	set	on	the	porch	in	the	spring	night,	and	Granpa	would	study	the
stars.	He	would	have	them	set,	how	they	formed	on	the	ridge	of	the	mountain.
He	would	say,	“Stars’re	right	for	running	beans.	We’ll	plant	some	tomorrow	if
the	east	wind	ain’t	blowing.”	Even	with	the	stars	right,	Granpa	would	not	plant
running	beans	if	the	east	wind	was	blowing.	He	said	the	beans	would	not
produce.
Then,	of	course,	it	could	be	too	wet—or	too	dry—to	plant.	If	the	birds
quietened,	you	didn’t	plant	either.	Planting	is	a	pretty	tedious	proposition.
When	we	got	up	in	the	morning,	we	might	be	all	set	to	do	some	planting,
going	by	the	stars	the	night	before.	But	right	off,	we	would	see	that	the	wind	was
not	right	or	the	birds,	or	it	could	be	too	wet	or	too	dry.	So	we	would	have	to	go
fishing.
Granma	said	she	suspicioned	some	of	the	signs	had	to	do	with	Granpa’s
fishing	feelings.	But	Granpa	said	women	couldn’t	understand	complications.	He
said	women	thought	everything	was	simple	and	plain	out.	Which	it	wasn’t.	He
said	women	couldn’t	help	it,	because	they	was	born	suspicious	in	the	first	place.
Granpa	said	he	had	seen	day-old	females	that	looked	suspicious	at	a	sucking	tit.
When	the	day	was	just	right,	we	planted	corn	mostly.	That	was	our	main
crop	for	we	depended	on	it	for	eating	and	feeding	ol’	Sam,	and	it	was	our	money
crop	in	the	whiskey	trade.
Granpa	laid	off	the	rows	with	the	plow	and	ol’	Sam.	I	didn’t	lay	off	any
rows.	Granpa	said	I	was	mostly	a	turning	plow	man.	Me	and	Granma	dropped
the	seeds	in	the	rows	and	covered	them	up.	On	the	sides	of	the	mountain	Granma
planted	the	corn	with	a	Cherokee	planting	stick.	You	just	jab	it	in	the	ground	and
drop	in	the	seed.
We	planted	lots	of	other	things:	beans,	okra,	’taters,	turnips	and	peas.	We
planted	the	peas	around	the	fringe	of	the	patch,	near	the	woods.	This	attracted
deer	in	the	fall.	Deer	are	crazy	about	peas	and	will	come	twenty	miles	through
the	mountains	to	a	pea	patch.	We	always	got	an	easy	deer	for	winter	meat.	We
also	planted	watermelons.
Me	and	Granpa	picked	out	a	shady	end	of	the	patch	and	planted
watermelons	pretty	heavy.	Granma	said	it	was	a	mighty	big	watermelon	patch.
But	Granpa	said	what	we	couldn’t	eat,	we	could	always	tote	to	the	crossroads
store	and	more	than	likely	make	a	lot	of	money	selling	them.
The	way	it	turned	out,	by	the	time	the	watermelons	got	ripe	me	and	Granpa
found	out	the	watermelon	market	had	collapsed.	The	best	you	could	get	for	the
biggest	watermelon	you	had	was	a	nickel,	if	you	could	sell	it.	Which	wasn’t
likely.
Me	and	Granpa	figgered	it	out	on	the	kitchen	table	one	evening.	Granpa
said	that	a	gallon	of	whiskey	weighed	about	eight	or	nine	pounds,	for	which	we
got	two	dollars;	and	he	didn’t	hardly	see	no	way	in	the	world	that	we	could	tote	a
twelve-pound	watermelon	to	the	crossroads	store	for	a	nickel—not	unless	the
whiskey	trade	fell	through,	which	was	not	likely.	I	told	Granpa	it	looked	to	me
like	we	would	have	to	eat	all	the	watermelons.
Watermelons	are	might	near	the	slowest	growing	things	ever	planted.	Beans
get	ripe—okra—peas—just	about	everything,	and	the	watermelons	just	lay	there,
continually	green	and	growing.	I	checked	on	the	watermelons	fairly	heavy.
When	you	are	certain	that	the	watermelons	are	ripe,	they’re	not.	Finding
and	testing	out	a	ripe	watermelon	is	might	near	as	complicated	as	planting.
Several	times	at	the	supper	table	I	told	Granpa	that	I	suspicioned	I	had
found	a	ripe	watermelon.	I	checked	the	patch	every	morning	and	evening,
sometimes	at	dinnertime	too,	if	I	was	passing	by.	Each	time,	we	would	go	up	to
the	patch	and	Granpa	would	check	it	out.	It	wouldn’t	be	ready.	One	evening	at
the	supper	table,	I	told	Granpa	that	I	was	might	near	certain	that	I	had	found	the
watermelon	we	was	looking	for,	and	he	said	we	would	check	it	out	the	next
morning.
I	was	up	early,	waiting.	We	got	to	the	patch	before	sunup	and	I	showed	Granpa
the	watermelon.	It	was	dark	green	and	big.	Me	and	Granpa	squatted	down	by	the
watermelon	and	studied	it.	I	had	already	studied	it	pretty	heavy	the	evening
before,	but	I	went	over	it	again	with	Granpa.	After	we	studied	it	awhile,	Granpa
decided	it	looked	near	enough	ripe	to	give	it	the	thump	test.
You	have	to	know	what	you	are	doing	to	thump	test	a	watermelon	and	make
any	sense	out	of	it.	If	you	thump	it	and	it	sounds	like	a	—think—it	is	total	green;
if	it	sounds—thank—it	is	green	but	is	coming	on;	if	it	goes—thunk—then	you
have	got	you	a	ripe	watermelon.	You	have	got	two	chances	to	one	against	you,	as
Granpa	said	is	true	in	everything.
Granpa	thumped	the	watermelon.	He	thumped	it	hard.	He	didn’t	say
anything,	but	I	was	watching	his	face	close	and	he	didn’t	shake	his	head,	which
was	a	good	sign.	It	didn’t	mean	the	watermelon	was	ripe,	but	no	head	shake
meant	he	hadn’t	give	up	on	it.	He	thumped	it	again.
I	told	Granpa	it	sounded	might	near	like	a	thunk	to	me.	He	set	back	on	his
heels	and	studied	it	a	little	more.	I	did	too.
The	sun	had	come	up.	A	butterfly	lit	on	the	watermelon	and	set	there,
flexing	his	wings	open	and	closed.	I	asked	Granpa	if	it	wasn’t	a	good	sign,	since
it	seems	to	me	I	had	heard	that	a	butterfly	lighting	on	a	watermelon	near	about
made	it	certain	the	watermelon	was	ripe.	Granpa	said	he	had	never	heard	of	that
sign,	but	it	could	be	true.
He	said	as	near	as	he	could	tell,	it	was	a	borderline	case.	He	said	the	sound
was	somewheres	between	a	thank	and	a	thunk.	I	said	it	sounded	like	that	to	me
too,	but	it	’peared	to	lean	pretty	heavy	toward	the	thunk.	Granpa	said	there	was
another	way	we	could	check	it	out.	He	went	and	got	a	broom	sedge	straw.
If	you	lay	a	broom	sedge	straw	crosswise	on	a	watermelon	and	it	just	lays
there,	the	watermelon	is	green.	But	if	the	broom	sedge	straw	turns	from
crosswise	to	lengthwise,	then	you	have	got	a	ripe	watermelon.	Granpa	laid	the
broom	sedge	straw	on	the	watermelon.	The	straw	laid	there	a	minute,	then	it
turned	a	ways	and	stopped.	We	set	watching	it.	It	wouldn’t	turn	anymore.	I	told
Granpa	I	believed	the	straw	was	too	long,	which	made	the	ripe	inside	the
watermelon	have	too	much	work	turning	it.	Granpa	taken	the	straw	off	and
shortened	it.	We	tried	it	again.	This	time	it	turned	more	and	might	near	made	it
lengthwise.
Granpa	was	ready	to	give	up	on	it,	but	I	wasn’t.	I	got	down	so	I	could	watch
the	straw	pretty	close,	and	I	told	Granpa	it	’peared	to	be	moving,	slow	but
steady,	toward	being	lengthwise.	Granpa	said	that	could	be	because	I	was
breathing	on	it,	which	didn’t	count,	but	he	decided	not	to	give	up	on	it.	He	said	if
we	let	it	lay	until	the	sun	was	straight	overhead,	about	dinnertime,	then	we	could
pick	it	from	the	vine.
I	kept	a	close	check	on	the	sun.	Seemed	like	it	rolled	around	and	just	set	on
the	mountain	rim,	determined	to	make	a	long	morning	of	it.	Granpa	said	the	sun
acted	that	way	sometimes,	like	when	we	was	plowing	and	figuring	to	go	washing
in	the	creek,	late	of	evening.
Granpa	said	if	we	got	busy	doing	something,	and	made	out	that	we	didn’t
give	a	lick-damn	about	how	slow	the	sun	moved,	that	he	would	give	up	and	git
on	with	his	business.	Which	we	did.
We	busied	ourselves	cutting	okra.	Okra	grows	fast	and	you	have	to	keep	it	cut.
The	more	okra	you	cut	off	a	stalk,	the	more	you	will	have	grow	back.
I	moved	along	the	row	ahead	of	Granpa	and	cut	all	the	okra	that	growed
low	on	the	stalk.	Granpa	followed	me	and	cut	the	high	okra.	Granpa	said	he
suspicioned	that	me	and	him	was	the	only	ones	who	had	ever	figured	how	to	cut
okra	without	bending	over	or	pulling	down	the	stalks.	All	morning	we	cut	okra.
We	reached	the	end	of	a	row	and	there	was	Granma.	She	grinned.
“Dinnertime,”	she	said.	Me	and	Granpa	broke	into	a	run	for	the	watermelon
patch.	I	got	there	first,	and	so	got	to	pull	the	watermelon	from	the	vine.	But	I
couldn’t	lift	it.	Granpa	carried	it	to	the	spring	branch	and	let	me	roll	it	in—
splosh;	it	was	so	heavy	it	sunk	down	beneath	the	cold	water.
It	was	late	sun	before	we	got	it	out.	Granpa	laid	down	on	the	bank	and
reached	deep	into	the	water	and	brought	it	up.	He	carried	it,	me	and	Granma
following,	to	the	shade	of	a	great	elm.	There	we	sat	around	it	in	a	circle,
watching	the	cold	water	bead	on	the	dark	green	skin.	It	was	a	ceremony.
Granpa	pulled	out	his	long	knife	and	held	it	up.	He	looked	at	Granma	and
then	at	me,	and	laughed	at	my	open	mouth	and	big	eyes	watching;	then	he	cut—
the	watermelon	splitting	ahead	of	the	knife,	which	means	it	is	good.	It	was.
When	it	was	opened	out,	the	juice	made	water	balls	on	the	red	meat.
Granpa	cut	the	slices.	Granma	and	him	laughed	as	the	juice	run	down	my
mouth	and	over	my	shirt.	It	was	my	first	watermelon.
Summer	eased	along.	It	was	my	season.	My	birthday	being	in	the	summer
made	it	my	season;	that	is	the	custom	of	the	Cherokee.	And	so	my	birthday
lasted,	not	a	day	but	a	summertime.
It	is	the	custom,	during	your	season,	to	be	told	of	your	birthplace;	of	your
father’s	doings;	of	your	mother’s	love.
Granma	said	I	was	lucky,	and	more	than	likely	one	in	a	hundred	million.
She	said	I	was	born	from	nature—of	Mon-o-lah—and	so	had	all	the	brothers	and
sisters	of	which	she	had	sung	my	first	night	in	the	mountains.
Granma	said	very	few	was	picked	to	have	the	total	love	of	the	trees,	the
birds,	the	waters—the	rain	and	the	wind.	She	said	as	long	as	I	lived	I	could
always	come	home	to	them,	where	other	children	would	find	their	parents	gone
and	would	feel	lonesome;	but	I	wouldn’t	ever	be.
We	sat	on	the	back	porch,	in	the	dusk	of	summer	evenings.	The	dark	crept
down	the	hollows	while	Granma	talked	soft.	Sometimes	she	would	pause	and
not	go	on	for	a	long	time,	and	then	she	would	smooth	her	face	with	her	hands
and	talk	some	more.
I	told	Granma	I	was	right	proud	of	the	whole	thing;	and	right	off,	I	could
tell	that	I	wasn’t	afraid	of	dark	in	the	hollows	anymore.
Granpa	said	I	had	the	uppers	on	him,	being	born	special	and	all.	He	said	he
wished	he	had	been	picked	out	for	such.	Granpa	said	he	had	always	been
hampered	with	a	suspicion	of	being	frightened	of	the	dark,	and	now	would	total
depend	on	me	to	lead	him	about	in	dark	situations.	Which	I	told	him	I	would.
Now	I	was	six.	Maybe	it	was	my	birthday	that	reminded	Granma	time	was
passing.	She	lit	the	lamp	nearly	every	evening	and	read,	and	pushed	me	on	my
dictionary	studying.	I	was	down	into	the	B’s,	and	one	of	the	pages	was	torn	out.
Granma	said	that	page	was	not	important,	and	the	next	time	me	and	Granpa	went
to	the	settlement,	he	paid	for	and	bought	the	dictionary	from	the	library.	It	cost
seventy-five	cents.
Granpa	didn’t	begrudge	the	money.	He	said	he	had	always	wanted	that	kind
of	dictionary.	Since	he	couldn’t	read	a	word	that	was	in	it,	I	suspicioned	that	he
had	other	using	for	it,	but	I	never	saw	him	touch	it.
Pine	Billy	came	by.	He	taken	to	coming	more	often	after	the	watermelons
ripened.	Pine	Billy	liked	watermelons.	He	wasn’t	uppity	at	all	about	the	money
he	had	got	from	the	Red	Eagle	snuff	company,	nor	the	reward	for	the	big-city
criminals.	He	never	mentioned	it,	so	we	never	asked	him	about	it.
Pine	Billy	said	he	figgered	the	world	was	coming	to	a	end.	He	said	all	the
signs	pointed	that	way.	He	said	there	was	rumors	of	wars,	and	famine	had	set	on
the	land;	banks	was	mostly	closed	and	what	wasn’t	closed	was	being	robbed	all
the	time.	Pine	Billy	said	there	wasn’t	any	money	to	be	had	hardly	at	all.	He	said
that	folks	was	still	jumping	out	of	winders	in	the	big	cities	whenever	the	notion
took	them.	Out	in	Oklahoma,	he	said,	the	wind	was	blowing	away	the	ground.
We	knew	about	that.	Granma	wrote	to	our	kin	in	the	Nations	(we	always
called	Oklahoma	“the	Nations”	for	that	is	what	it	was	supposed	to	be,	until	it
was	taken	from	the	Indians	and	made	a	state).	They	told	us	about	it,	in	letters;
how	white	men	had	turned	grazing	ground	up	with	a	plow,	ground	that	was	not
supposed	to	be	plowed.	The	wind	was	blowing	it	away.
Pine	Billy	said	he	determined	to	git	saved	since	the	end	was	near.	He	said
fornicatin’	had	always	been	his	biggest	block	toward	gittin’	saved.	He	said	he
fornicated	at	dances	where	he	played,	but	he	laid	most	of	the	faulting	on	the
girls.	He	said	they	would	not	leave	him	alone.	He	said	he	had	tried	going	to	bush
arbor	meetings	to	git	saved,	but	there	was	always	girls	around	them	too	that	kept
after	him	to	fornicate.	He	said	he	had	found	an	old	preacher	who	was	too	old	to
fornicate,	he	figgered,	because	he	was	holding	a	bush	arbor	meeting	and	was
preaching,	no-holds-barred,	agin’	fornicatin’.
Pine	Billy	said	that	this	old	preacher	made	you	feel	like,	at	the	time,	that
you	would	totally	give	up	fornicatin’.	Pine	Billy	said	that	was	what	it	took	to
save	you—feeling	that	way	at	the	time.	He	said	he	was	going	back	and	git	saved
—the	world	coming	to	an	end,	and	all.	Oncet	you	was	saved,	the	primitive
Baptists	believed,	you	was	always	saved.	If	you	backslid	a	little	into	some
fornicatin’,	you	was	still	saved,	and	more	than	likely	had	nothing	to	worry	about.
Pine	Billy	said	he	leaned	more	toward	the	primitive	Baptist	as	his	religion.
Which	sounded	reasonable	to	me.
Pine	Billy	played	his	fiddle	in	the	dusk	evenings	of	that	summer.	Could	be
it	was	because	the	world	was	coming	to	a	end,	but	his	music	was	sad.
It	made	you	feel	like	this	was	the	last	summer;	that	you	had	already	left	it
and	wanted	it	back,	and	here	you	was	all	the	time.	You	wisht	he	hadn’t	started
playing,	for	you	ached—and	then	you	hoped	he	wouldn’t	stop.	It	was	lonesome.
We	went	to	church	every	Sunday.	We	walked	the	same	trail	that	me	and	Granpa
used	to	deliver	our	wares,	for	the	church	was	a	mile	past	the	crossroads	store.
We	had	to	leave	at	daybreak,	for	it	was	a	long	walk.	Granpa	put	on	his
black	suit	and	the	meal-sack	shirt	that	Granma	had	bleached	white.	I	had	one	too
and	wore	clean	overalls.	Me	and	Granpa	buttoned	the	top	buttons	on	our	shirts
which	made	us	proper	for	church.
Granpa	wore	his	black	shoes	that	he	tallowed	to	shine.	The	shoes	clumped
when	he	walked.	He	was	used	to	moccasins.	I	figured	it	was	a	painful	walk	for
Granpa,	but	he	never	said	anything,	just	clumped	along.
Me	and	Granma	had	it	easier.	We	wore	moccasins.	I	was	proud	of	how
Granma	looked.	Every	Sunday	she	wore	a	dress	that	was	orange	and	gold	and
blue	and	red.	It	struck	her	at	the	ankles	and	mushroomed	out	around	her.	She
looked	like	a	spring	flower	floating	down	the	trail.
If	it	hadn’t	been	for	the	dress	and	Granma	enjoying	the	outing	so	much,	I
suspicioned	that	Granpa	would	never	have	gone	to	church.	Not	counting	the
shoes,	he	never	taken	much	to	churching.
Granpa	said	the	preacher	and	the	deacons	pretty	much	had	a	choke-hold	on
religion.	He	said	they	done	the	determining	on	who	was	going	to	hell	and	who
wasn’t,	and	if	a	feller	didn’t	watch	it,	pretty	soon	he	was	worshipping	the
preacher	and	the	deacons.	So	he	said	to	hell	with	it.	But	he	didn’t	complain.
I	liked	the	walk	to	church.	We	didn’t	have	to	carry	our	load	of	wares,	and	as
we	walked	the	cutoff	trail,	day	broke	ahead	of	us.	The	sun	hit	the	dew	on	the
valley	down	below	and	made	tree	patterns	where	we	walked.
The	church	set	back	off	the	road	in	a	scope	of	trees.	It	was	little	and	wasn’t
painted,	but	it	was	neat.	Every	Sunday,	when	we	walked	into	the	church	clearing,
Granma	stopped	to	talk	to	some	women;	but	me	and	Granpa	headed	straight	for
Willow	John.
He	always	stood	back	in	the	trees,	away	from	the	people	and	the	church.	He	was
older	than	Granpa	but	he	was	as	tall;	full	Cherokee	with	white	plaited	hair
hanging	below	his	shoulders,	and	a	flat-brimmed	hat	pulled	low	to	his	eyes	…
like	the	eyes	were	private.	When	he	looked	at	you,	you	knew	why.
The	eyes	were	black,	open	wounds;	not	angry	wounds,	but	dead	wounds
that	lay	bare,	without	life.	You	couldn’t	tell	if	the	eyes	were	dim,	or	if	Willow
John	was	looking	past	you	into	a	dimness	far	away.	Once,	in	later	years,	an
Apache	showed	me	a	picture	of	an	old	man.	It	was	Go-khla-yeh,	Geronimo.	He
had	the	eyes	of	Willow	John.
Willow	John	was	over	eighty.	Granpa	said	that	long	ago,	Willow	John	had
gone	to	the	Nations.	He	had	walked	the	mountains,	and	would	not	ride	in	a	car	or
train.	He	was	gone	three	years	and	came	back;	but	he	would	not	talk	of	it.	He
would	only	say	there	was	no	Nation.
And	so	we	always	walked	to	him,	standing	back	in	the	trees.	Granpa	and
Willow	John	put	their	arms	around	each	other	and	held	each	other	for	a	long
time;	two	tall,	old	men	with	big	hats—and	they	didn’t	say	anything.	Then
Granma	would	come,	and	Willow	John	would	stoop	and	they	would	hold	each
other	for	a	long	time.
Willow	John	lived	past	the	church,	far	back	in	the	mountains;	and	so,	the
church	being	about	halfway	between	us,	it	was	the	place	they	could	meet.
Maybe	children	know.	I	told	Willow	John	that	there	was	going	to	be	lots	of
Cherokees	before	too	long.	I	told	him	I	was	going	to	be	a	Cherokee;	that	Granma
said	I	was	natural-born	to	the	mountains	and	had	the	feeling	of	the	trees.	Willow
John	touched	my	shoulder	and	his	eyes	showed	a	far	back	twinkle.	Granma	said
it	was	the	first	time	he	had	looked	like	that	in	many	years.
We	would	not	go	into	the	church	until	everybody	else	was	in.	We	always	sat	on
the	back	row;	Willow	John,	then	Granma,	me,	and	Granpa	set	next	to	the	aisle.
Granma	held	Willow	John’s	hand	during	church,	and	Granpa	put	his	arm	across
the	bench	back	and	laid	his	hand	on	Granma’s	shoulder.	I	taken	to	holding
Granma’s	other	hand	and	putting	a	hand	on	Granpa’s	leg.	This	way	I	was	not	left
out,	though	my	feet	always	went	to	sleep	as	they	stuck	straight	out	over	the	seat
rim.
Once,	after	we	taken	our	seats,	I	found	a	long	knife	laying	where	I	set.	It
was	as	long	as	Granpa’s	and	had	a	deer	skin	sheath	that	was	fringed.	Granma
said	Willow	John	gave	it	to	me.	That	is	the	way	Indians	give	gifts.	They	do	not
present	it	unless	they	mean	it	and	are	doing	it	for	a	reason.	They	leave	it	for	you
to	find.	You	would	not	get	the	gift	if	you	didn’t	deserve	it,	and	so	it	is	foolish	to
thank	somebody	for	something	you	deserve,	or	make	a	show	of	it.	Which	is
reasonable.
I	give	Willow	John	a	nickel	and	a	bullfrog.	The	Sunday	I	brought	it,	Willow
John	had	hung	his	coat	on	a	tree	while	he	waited	for	us,	and	so	I	slipped	the
bullfrog	and	the	nickel	into	his	pocket.	It	was	a	big	bullfrog	I	had	caught	in	the
spring	branch	and	had	fed	bugs	until	he	was	practical	a	giant.
Willow	John	put	on	his	coat	and	went	into	church.	The	preacher	called	for
everybody	to	bow	their	heads.	It	was	quiet	so	that	you	could	hear	people
breathing.	The	preacher	said,	“Lord	…”	and	then	the	bullfrog	said,
“LARRRRRRRRUPP!”	deep	and	loud.	Everybody	jumped	and	one	man	run	out
of	the	church.	A	feller	hollered,	“God	almighty!”	and	a	woman	screamed,
“Praise	the	Lord!”
Willow	John	jumped	too.	He	reached	his	hand	in	his	pocket,	but	he	didn’t
take	out	the	frog.	He	looked	over	at	me	and	the	twinkle	come	again	to	his	eyes;
this	time	not	so	far	back.	Then	he	smiled!	The	smile	broke	across	his	face,	wider
and	wider—and	he	laughed!	A	deep,	booming	laugh	that	made	everybody	look
at	him.	He	didn’t	pay	any	attention	to	them	at	all.	I	was	scared,	but	I	laughed	too.
Tears	commenced	to	water	in	his	eyes	and	roll	down	the	creases	and	wrinkles	of
his	face.	Willow	John	cried.
Everybody	got	quiet.	The	preacher	stood	with	his	mouth	open	and	watched.
Willow	John	paid	no	attention	to	anybody.	He	didn’t	make	a	sound,	but	his	chest
heaved	and	his	shoulders	shook,	and	he	cried	a	long	time.	People	looked	away,
but	Willow	John	and	Granpa	and	Granma	looked	straight	ahead.
The	preacher	had	a	hard	time	getting	started	again.	He	didn’t	mention	the
frog.	He	had	tried	once	before	to	preach	a	sermon	regarding	Willow	John,	but
Willow	John	never	paid	him	any	attention.	He	always	looked	straight	before
him,	like	the	preacher	wasn’t	there.	The	sermon	had	been	on	paying	proper
respect	to	the	Lord’s	house.	Willow	John	would	not	bow	his	head	for	prayers	and
he	wouldn’t	take	off	his	hat.
Granpa	never	commented	on	it.	And	so	I	thought	on	it,	over	the	years.	I
figured	it	was	Willow	John’s	way	of	saying	what	he	had	to	say.	His	people	were
broken	and	lost,	scattered	from	these	mountains	that	was	their	home	and	lived
upon	by	the	preacher	and	others	there	in	the	church.	He	couldn’t	fight,	and	so	he
wore	his	hat.
Maybe	when	the	preacher	said,	“Lord	…”	and	the	frog	said,
“LARRRRRRRRUPP!”	the	frog	was	answering	for	Willow	John.	And	so	he
cried.	It	broke	some	of	the	bitterness.	After	that,	Willow	John’s	eyes	always
twinkled	and	showed	little	black	lights	when	he	looked	at	me.
At	the	time	I	was	sorry,	but	later	I	was	glad	I	give	Willow	John	the	frog.
Every	Sunday,	after	church,	we	went	into	the	trees	near	the	clearing	and	spread
our	dinner.	Willow	John	always	brought	game	in	a	sack.	It	would	be	quail,	or
venison,	or	fish.	Granma	brought	corn	bread	and	vegetable	fixings.	We	ate	there
in	the	shade	of	big	elms	and	talked.
Willow	John	would	say	the	deer	was	moving	farther	back	to	high	ground	in
the	mountains.	Granpa	would	say	the	fish	baskets	yielded	such	and	so.	Granma
would	tell	Willow	John	to	bring	her	his	mending.
As	the	sun	tilted	and	hazed	the	afternoon,	we	would	get	ready	to	leave.
Granpa	and	Granma	would	each	hug	Willow	John,	and	he	would	touch	my
shoulder	with	his	hand,	shy.
Then	we	would	leave,	walking	across	the	clearing	toward	our	cutoff	trail.	I
would	turn	to	watch	Willow	John.	He	never	looked	back.	He	walked,	arms	not
swinging	but	straight	by	his	sides,	in	a	long,	loping	awkward	step.	Always
looking	to	neither	side;	misplaced	somehow—touching	this	fringe	of	the	white
man’s	civilization.	He	would	disappear	into	the	trees,	following	no	trail	that	I
could	see,	and	I	would	hurry	to	catch	up	with	Granpa	and	Granma.	It	was
lonesome,	walking	the	cutoff	trail	back	home	in	the	dusk	of	Sunday	evenings,
and	we	did	not	talk.
Will	ye	walk	aways	with	me,	Willow	John?	Not	far;
A	year	or	two,	at	ending	of	your	time.
We’ll	not	talk.	Nor	tell	the	bitter	of	the	years.
Maybe	laugh,	occasional;	or	find	a	cause	for	tears;
Or	something	lost,	could	be,	we	both	might	find.
Will	ye	set	a	spell	with	me,	Willow	John?	Not	long;
A	minute,	measured	by	your	length	on	earth.
We’ll	pass	a	look	or	two;	we	both	will	know
And	understand	the	feeling;	so	when	we	go
We’ll	take	comfort	that	we	kin	the	other’s	worth.
Will	ye	linger	at	our	leaving,	Willow	John?	Just	for	me.
Lingering	reassures	and	comforts	us	who	part.
Memories	of	it	help	to	slow	the	quickened	tears
With	recalling	of	you,	in	the	later	years;
And	soften,	some,	the	haunting	of	the	heart.
Church-going
Granpa	said	that	preachers	got	so	taken	up	with	theirselves	that	they	got	the
notion	they	personal	held	the	door	handle	on	the	pearly	gates	and	wouldn’t	let
nobody	in	without	their	say-so.	Granpa	figgered	the	preachers	thought	God
didn’t	have	nothing	at	all	to	do	with	it.
He	said	a	preacher	had	ought	to	work	and	git	to	know	how	hard	a	dollar
was	come	by,	then	he	wouldn’t	throw	money	around	like	its	use	was	going	to
end	tomorrow.	Granpa	said	that	good,	hard	work,	whether	it	was	in	the	whiskey
trade	or	whatever,	would	keep	a	preacher	out	of	mischief.	Which	sounds
reasonable.
People	being	so	scattered,	there	was	not	enough	to	keep	more	than	one
church	going.	This	led	to	some	complications	because	there	was	so	many
different	kinds	of	religion;	folks	believing	so	many	different	things	that	it	made
for	disagreements.
There	was	hard-shell	Baptists	who	believed	that	what	was	going	to	happen
was	going	to	happen	and	there	was	nothing	you	could	do	about	it.	There	was
Scot	Presbyterians	who	would	get	stomping	mad	at	such	a	notion.	Each	bunch
could	total	prove	out	their	viewpoint	by	the	Bible.	Which	led	to	confusion	as	far
as	I	was	concerned	as	to	what	the	Bible	was	talking	about.
Primitive	Baptists	believed	in	taking	up	a	“love	offering”	of	money	for	the
preacher	and	the	hard-shells	did	not	believe	in	paying	a	preacher	anything.
Granpa	leaned	toward	the	hard-shells	on	this	point.
All	the	Baptists	believed	in	baptizing,	that	is,	getting	total	sunk	under	the
waters	in	a	creek.	They	said	you	could	not	be	saved	without	it.	The	Methodists
said	that	was	wrong;	that	sprinkling	on	top	of	the	head	with	water	done	the	trick.
They	would	each	one	whip	out	their	Bibles	there	in	the	churchyard	to	prove	out
what	they	said.
It	’peared	like	the	Bible	told	it	both	ways;	but	each	time	it	told	it,	it	cautioned
you	had	better	not	do	it	the	other	way	or	you	would	go	to	hell.	Or	that’s	what
they	said	it	said.
One	feller	was	of	the	Church	of	Christ.	He	said	if	you	called	the	preacher
“Reverend”	that	you	would	flat	go	to	hell.	He	said	you	could	call	him	“Mr.”	or
“brother,”	but	you	had	better	not	call	him	“Reverend.”	He	had	him	a	place	in	the
Bible	to	prove	it	out;	but	a	bunch	of	others	proved	out,	also	in	the	Bible,	that	you
had	better	call	him	“Reverend,”	or	you	would	go	to	hell.
The	Church	of	Christ	feller	was	bad	outnumbered	and	got	hollered	down,
but	he	was	stubborn	and	would	not	give	it	up.	He	made	it	a	point	to	walk	up	to
the	preacher	every	Sunday	morning	and	call	him	“Mr.”	This	led	to	hard	feelings
between	him	and	the	preacher.	Once	they	nearly	come	to	blows	in	the
churchyard	but	was	separated.
I	determined	that	I	was	not	going	to	have	anything	at	all	to	do	with	water
around	religion.	And	I	was	not	going	to	call	the	preacher	anything.	I	told	Granpa
it	’peared	to	be	more	than	likely	the	safest	thing	to	do,	as	you	could	easy	git
shipped	down	to	hell	depending	on	how	the	Bible	was	thinking	at	the	time.
Granpa	said	if	God	was	as	narrer-headed	as	them	idjits	that	done	the	arguin’
about	piddlin’	such,	then	Heaven	wouldn’t	be	a	fit	place	to	live	anyhow.	Which
sounds	reasonable.
There	was	one	family	of	Episcopalians.	They	was	rich.	They	come	to
church	in	a	car.	It	was	the	only	car	in	the	churchyard.	The	man	was	fat	and	wore
a	different	suit	might	near	every	Sunday.	The	woman	wore	big	hats;	she	was	fat
too.	They	had	a	little	girl	who	always	wore	white	dresses	and	little	hats.	She
looked	up	all	the	time	at	something,	though	I	could	never	determine	what	she
was	looking	at.	They	always	put	a	dollar	in	the	collection	plate.	It	was	the	only
one	in	the	plate	every	Sunday.	The	preacher	met	them	at	their	car	door	and
opened	it	for	them.	They	set	in	the	front	row.
The	preacher	would	be	preaching.	He	would	make	a	point,	and	look	over	at	the
front	row	and	say,	“Ain’t	that	right,	Mr.	Johnson?”	Mr.	Johnson	would	give	a
little	jerk	of	his	head,	certifying	more	or	less	that	it	was	a	fact.	Everybody	would
look	over	to	get	Mr.	Johnson’s	head	jerk,	and	then	settle	back	satisfied	as	it	was
so.
Granpa	said	he	reckined	Episcopalians	had	a	total	know-how	on	the	entire
thing	and	didn’t	have	to	waller	around	on	the	fringes	worrying	about	water	and
such.	He	said	they	knowed	where	they	was	going	and	was	closemouthed	about
letting	anybody	else	git	in	on	it.
The	preacher	was	a	skinny	man.	He	wore	the	same	black	suit	every	Sunday.
His	hair	stuck	out	on	all	sides	and	he	had	the	appearance	of	being	nervous	all	the
time.	Which	he	was.
He	was	friendly	to	folks	in	the	churchyard,	though	I	never	went	up	to	him;
but	when	he	got	in	total	control,	standing	in	the	pulpit,	he	got	mean.	Granpa	said
this	was	because	he	knowed	it	was	agin’	the	rules	for	anybody	to	jump	up	and
challenge	him	while	he	was	preaching.
He	never	said	anything	about	water,	which	was	disappointin’.	I	was
interested	in	finding	out	the	way	you	had	better	not	use	it.	But	he	laid	it	heavy	on
the	Pharisees.	He	would	get	to	working	up	on	the	Pharisees	and	come	down	out
of	the	pulpit	and	run	up	the	aisle	toward	us.	Sometimes	he	would	might	near	lose
his	breath,	he	got	so	mad	at	them.
One	time	he	was	giving	the	Pharisees	hell	and	had	come	down	the	aisle.	He
would	holler	about	them	and	suck	in	his	breath	so	hard	his	throat	would	rattle.
He	run	down	close	to	where	we	was	setting,	and	pointed	his	finger	at	me	and
Granpa	and	said,	“You	know	what	they	was	up	to	…”	It	’peared	like	he	was
accusing	me	and	Granpa	of	having	something	to	do	with	the	Pharisees.	Granpa
set	up	in	his	seat	and	give	the	preacher	a	hard	look.	Willow	John	looked	toward
him	and	Granma	held	his	arm.	The	preacher	turned	off	to	pointing	at	somebody
else.
Granpa	said	he	had	never	knowed	any	Pharisees	and	was	not	going	to	have
any	son	of	a	bitch	accusing	him	of	having	knowledge	of	nothing	they	had	done.
Granpa	said	the	preacher	had	better	commence	to	point	his	finger	some’eres
else.	Which	after	that	he	did.	I	reckined	he	saw	the	look	in	Granpa’s	eye.	Willow
John	said	the	preacher	was	crazy	and	would	bear	close	watching.	Willow	John
always	carried	a	long	knife.
The	preacher	also	had	a	total	disliking	for	Philistines.	He	was	continually
raking	them	up	one	side	and	down	the	other.	He	said	they	was,	more	or	less,	as
low-down	as	Pharisees.	Which	Mr.	Johnson	nodded	his	head	that	it	was	so.
Granpa	said	he	got	tired	of	hearing	the	preacher	raking	somebody	over	all
the	time.	He	said	he	didn’t	see	any	earthly	reason	for	gittin’	the	Pharisees	and
Philistines	stirred	up;	there	was	enough	trouble	as	it	was.
Granpa	always	put	something	in	the	collection	plate,	though	he	disagreed
with	paying	preachers.	He	said	it	paid	the	rent	on	our	bench,	he	reckined.
Sometimes	he	give	me	a	nickel	that	I	could	put	in.	Granma	never	put	anything	in
and	Willow	John	would	not	look	at	the	collection	plate	when	they	passed	it.
Granpa	said	if	they	kept	continually	sticking	the	collection	plate	under
Willow	John’s	nose,	that	Willow	John	would	take	something	out	of	it;	figuring
they	was	continually	offering	him	some	of	it.
Once	a	month	there	was	testifying	time.	This	is	when	people	would	stand	up,
one	by	one,	and	tell	how	much	they	loved	the	Lord,	and	what	all	bad	they	had
done.	Granpa	would	never	do	it.	He	said	all	it	done	was	cause	trouble.	He	said
he	knew	personal	of	several	men	who	had	been	shot	afterward	when	they	had
told	something	they	had	done	to	a	feller,	and	the	feller	hadn’t	knowed	about	it
until	he	heard	tell	of	it	from	the	church.	Granpa	said	such	wasn’t	any	business
but	his	own.	Granma	and	Willow	John	didn’t	stand	up.
I	told	Granpa	I	felt	more	or	less	like	he	did	about	it	and	was	not	going	to
stand	up	either.
One	man	said	he	was	saved.	He	said	he	was	going	to	stop	liquorin’	up;	said
he	had	been	liquorin’	around	fairly	heavy	for	a	number	of	years	and	now	was	not
going	to	do	it	anymore.	Which	made	everybody	feel	good;	him	trying	to	better
himself.	People	shouted,	“Praise	the	Lord!”	and	“Amen!”
Every	time	somebody	got	up	and	started	telling	the	bad	things	he	had	done,
a	man	over	in	a	corner	would	always	holler,	“Tell	it	all!	Tell	it	all!”	He	would
keep	this	up	every	time	it	’peared	they	was	going	to	stop,	and	they	would	try	to
think	of	something	else	bad	they	had	done.	Sometimes	they	come	out	with	some
pretty	bad	things,	which	they	might	not	have	done	if	the	man	had	not	been
hollering.	He	never	did	stand	up.
One	time	a	woman	stood	up.	She	said	the	Lord	had	saved	her	from	wicked	ways.
The	man	in	the	corner	hollered,	“Tell	it	all!”
Her	face	turned	red,	and	she	said	she	had	been	fornicatin’.	She	said	she	was
going	to	stop.	She	said	it	was	not	right.	The	man	hollered,	“Tell	it	all!”	She	said
she	had	done	some	fornicatin’	with	Mr.	Smith.	There	was	a	commotion	while
Mr.	Smith	disassociated	hisself	from	the	bench	he	was	on	and	come	walking
down	the	aisle.	He	walked	real	fast	and	went	out	the	church	door.	About	that
time	two	fellers	on	a	back	bench	got	up	and	eased	out	the	door	without	hardly
any	commotion	at	all.
She	called	out	two	more	names	with	which	she	had	done	some	fornicatin’.
Everybody	was	praising	her	and	telling	her	she	had	done	right.
When	we	left	the	church	house,	the	men	all	walked	wide	around	the	woman
and	would	not	speak	to	her.	Granpa	said	they	was	scared	to	be	seen	talking	to
her.	Some	of	the	womenfolks,	however,	crowded	around	her	and	beat	her	on	the
back	and	patted	her	and	told	her	she	had	done	the	right	thing.
Granpa	said	these	was	women	who	was	wanting	to	know	about	their	own
menfolks,	and	they	figgered	if	they	showed	how	comforting	it	was	to	talk	and
how	good	you	got	treated	by	talking,	they	could	git	some	more	fornicatin’
women	to	testify.
Granpa	said	if	they	did,	it	would	be	a	hell	of	a	mess.	Which	it	would.
Granpa	said	he	hoped	the	woman	didn’t	change	her	mind	and	decide	to	go
back	to	fornicatin’.	He	said	she	would	be	in	for	a	disappointment.	He	said	she
would	not	find	anybody	hardly	at	all	to	fornicate	with,	less’n	he	was	drunk	and
out	of	his	senses.
Every	Sunday	before	preaching	started	there	was	a	special	time	set	aside	when
anybody	could	stand	up	and	tell	about	folks	who	needed	help.	Sometimes	it
would	be	a	sharecropper	between	movings	who	didn’t	have	anything	to	eat	for
his	family,	or	somebody	whose	house	had	burned	down.
All	the	people	in	the	church	would	bring	things	to	help.	We	always	carried	a
lot	of	vegetables	in	the	summertime,	which	we	had	plenty	of.	In	the	winter	we
would	carry	meat.	One	time	Granpa	made	a	hickory	limb	chair	and	seated	it	with
stripped	deer	hide	for	a	family	that	had	lost	their	furniture	in	a	fire.	Granpa	taken
the	man	aside	there	in	the	churchyard	and	give	him	the	chair	and	spent	a	long
time	showing	him	how	to	make	it.
Granpa	said	if	you	showed	a	feller	how	to	do,	it	was	a	lot	better	than	giving
him	something.	He	said	if	you	learnt	a	man	to	make	for	hisself,	then	he	would	be
all	right;	but	if	you	just	give	him	something	and	didn’t	learn	him	anything,	then
you	would	be	continually	giving	to	the	man	the	rest	of	your	natural	life.	Granpa
said	you	would	be	doing	the	man	a	disservice,	for	if	he	become	dependent	on
you,	then	you	taken	away	his	character	and	had	stole	it	from	him.
Granpa	said	some	folks	liked	to	just	continually	give	because	it	made	them
feel	uppity,	and	better	than	the	feller	they	was	giving	to;	when	all	they	had	to	do
was	learn	the	feller	a	little	something	which	would	make	him	dependent	on
hisself.
Granpa	said	human	nature	being	what	it	was	they	was	some	fellers	found
out	that	some	people	liked	to	feel	uppity.	He	said	these	fellers	got	to	be	such
sorry	men	that	they	was	anybody’s	dog	that	would	hunt	them.	They	got	down	to
where	they	would	rather	be	a	hound	to	Mr.	Uppitys	than	to	be	their	own	man.	He
said	they	continually	whined	about	what	they	needed,	when	what	they	needed
was	some	learning	done	by	a	hard	boot	stuck	in	their	backside.
Granpa	said	some	nations	was	uppity	in	the	same	way	and	would	give	and
give	so	they	could	call	theirselves	big	shots,	when	if	they	had	their	heart	in	the
right	place,	would	learn	the	people	to	who	they	was	giving	how	to	do	for
theirselves.	Granpa	said	these	nations	wouldn’t	do	this	because	then	the	other
people	would	not	be	dependent	on	them,	and	that’s	what	they	was	after	in	the
first	place.
Me	and	Granpa	was	creek	washing	when	he	got	to	talking	about	it.	He	got
worked	up	on	the	whole	thing	and	we	had	to	crawl	out	on	the	bank,	or	he	would,
more	than	likely,	have	drowned	in	the	waters.	I	asked	Granpa	who	Moses	was.
Granpa	said	he	had	never	got	a	right	clear	picture	of	Moses,	what	with	the
preacher	a’suckin’	air	and	rattling	and	hollering.	The	preacher	said	Moses	was	a
disciple.
Granpa	cautioned	me	not	to	take	his	word	as	bound	oath,	because	he
couldn’t	tell	me	anything	except	what	he	had	heard	about	Moses.
He	said	Moses	taken	up	with	a	girl	in	some	bull	rush	reeds,	which	he
understood	growed	on	the	riverbank.	He	said	this	was	natural,	but	the	girl	was
rich,	and	as	a	matter	of	fact	belonged	to	a	mean	son	of	a	bitch	called	Faro.	He
said	Faro	was	always	killing	people.	Faro	got	it	in	for	Moses,	more	than	likely
on	account	of	the	girl.	Which	causes	some	trouble	today.
Granpa	said	Moses	hid	out	and	taken	the	people	with	him	that	Faro	was
trying	to	kill.	He	said	Moses	headed	out	into	a	country	that	didn’t	have	any	water
in	it;	and	Moses	taken	a	stick	and	hit	a	rock	and	some	water	come	out	of	it.
Granpa	said	he	had	no	notion	at	all	how	he	done	it	…	but	that	is	what	he	heard.
Granpa	said	Moses	wandered	around	for	years	with	no	idee	whatsoever	as
to	where	he	was	going.	As	a	matter	of	fact,	he	never	did	git	there	but	the	people
that	kept	follering	him	around	did	git	there.	Wherever	it	was	they	was	going.	He
said	Moses	died	while	he	was	still	wandering	around.
Granpa	said	Samson	come	in	there	somewheres	and	killed	a	lot	of
Philistines	who	was	always	making	trouble.	He	said	he	didn’t	know	what	the
fight	was	about,	or	if	the	Philistines	was	Faro’s	men	or	not.
Granpa	said	a	conniving	woman	got	Samson	drunk	and	cut	his	hair	off.	He
said	the	woman	fixed	Samson	so	his	enemies	could	git	at	him.	Granpa	couldn’t
recollect	the	woman’s	name,	but	he	said	it	was	a	good	Bible	lesson;	that	you	was
to	watch	out	for	conniving	women	who	tried	to	git	ye	drunk.	Which	I	said	I
would.
Granpa	taken	great	satisfaction	from	learning	me	that	Bible	lesson.	It	was,
more	than	likely,	the	only	one	he	had	ever	learnt	anybody.
Looking	back	on	it,	me	and	Granpa	was	pretty	ignorant	of	the	Bible.	And,	I
guess,	confused	as	to	all	the	technical	ways	by	which	you	got	to	Heaven.	Me	and
Granpa	more	or	less	figgered	we	was	out	of	the	whole	thing,	technical	wise,	for
we	never	could	get	it	reasoned	out	to	make	any	sense	at	all.
Once	you	give	up	on	something,	then	you	are	kind	of	an	onlooker.	Me	and
Granpa	was	onlookers	when	it	come	to	technical	church	religion,	and	had	no
anxious	feeling	about	it	at	all	…	as	we	had	give	it	up.
Granpa	said	I	had	just	as	well	fergit	about	the	water	situation.	He	said	he
had	totally	give	up	on	it	a	long	time	ago,	and	felt	better	since	that	time.
He	said	he,	privately	speaking,	couldn’t	reason	as	to	what	in	the	hell	water
had	to	do	with	it.
I	felt	the	same	way	and	so	give	up	on	the	water.
Mr.	Wine
He	had	come	all	through	the	winter	and	the	spring,	once	a	month,	regular	as
sundown,	and	spent	the	night.	Sometimes	he	would	stay	over	with	us	a	day	and
another	night.	Mr.	Wine	was	a	back	peddler.
He	lived	in	the	settlement,	but	walked	the	mountain	trails	with	his	pack	on
his	back.	We	always	knew	about	the	day	he	would	come,	and	so	when	the
hounds	bayed	me	and	Granpa	would	go	down	the	hollow	trail	to	meet	him.	We
would	help	him	carry	his	pack	to	the	cabin.
Granpa	would	carry	the	pack.	Mr.	Wine	usually	had	a	clock	with	him	that
he	let	me	carry.	He	worked	on	clocks.	We	didn’t	have	one,	but	we	helped	him
work	on	his	clocks	on	the	kitchen	table.
Granma	would	light	the	lamp	and	Mr.	Wine	would	put	a	clock	on	the	table
and	open	its	insides.	I	was	not	tall	enough	to	see	by	setting	down,	so	I	always
stood	on	a	chair	next	to	Mr.	Wine	and	watched	him	take	out	little	springs	and
gold	screws.	Granpa	and	Mr.	Wine	talked	while	he	worked	on	the	clocks.
Mr.	Wine	was	maybe	a	hundred	years	old.	He	had	a	long	white	beard	and
wore	a	black	coat.	He	had	a	little	round	black	cap	that	set	on	the	back	of	his
head.	Mr.	Wine	was	not	his	real	name.	His	name	started	off	with	Wine,	but	it	was
so	long	and	complicated	we	couldn’t	get	it	straight,	so	we	called	him	Mr.	Wine.
Mr.	Wine	said	it	didn’t	matter.	He	said	names	was	not	important,	it	was	more	or
less	how	you	said	it.	Which	is	right.	Mr.	Wine	said	some	Indian	names	was
beyond	anything	at	all	that	he	could	say	proper	so	he	made	up	names	hisself.
He	always	had	something	in	his	coat	pocket;	usually	an	apple,	one	time	he
had	an	orange.	But	he	could	not	remember	anything.
We	would	eat	supper	in	dusk	evening;	then,	while	Granma	cleared	the	table,	Mr.
Wine	and	Granpa	would	set	in	rockers	and	talk.	I	would	pull	my	chair	between
them	and	set	too.	Mr.	Wine	would	be	talking	and	stop.	He	would	say,	“It	seems
like	I’m	forgetting	something,	but	I	don’t	know	what	it	is.”	I	knew	what	it	was,
but	would	not	say	anything.	Mr.	Wine	would	scratch	his	head	and	comb	his
beard	with	his	fingers.	Granpa	wouldn’t	help	at	all.	Finally	Mr.	Wine	would	look
down	at	me	and	say,	“Could	you	help	me	remember	what	it	is,	Little	Tree?”
I	would	tell	him,	“Yes,	sir,	more	than	likely,	you	was	totin’	something	in
your	pocket	that	you	couldn’t	recollect.”
Mr.	Wine	would	jump	straight	up	in	his	chair	and	slap	at	his	pocket	and	say,
“Whangdaggle	me!	Thank	you	Little	Tree,	for	reminding	me.	I’m	gettin’	so	I
can’t	think.”	Which	he	was.
He	would	pull	out	a	red	apple	that	was	bigger	than	any	kind	raised	in	the
mountains.	He	said	he	run	acrost	it	and	picked	it	up,	and	was	intending	to	throw
it	away,	as	he	didn’t	like	apples.	I	always	told	him	I	would	take	it	off	his	hands.	I
stood	ready	to	split	with	Granma	and	Granpa,	but	they	didn’t	like	apples	either.
Which	I	did.	I	saved	the	seeds	and	planted	them	along	the	spring	branch,
intending	to	raise	lots	of	trees	that	give	up	that	kind	of	apple.
He	could	not	remember	where	he	put	his	glasses.	When	he	worked	on	the
clocks,	he	wore	little	glasses	on	the	end	of	his	nose.	They	were	held	together
with	wire	and	the	handles	that	went	behind	his	ears	had	cloth	wrapped	around
them.
He	would	stop	working	and	push	his	glasses	up	on	his	head	while	he	talked
to	Granpa.	When	he	started	back	to	work,	he	couldn’t	find	them.	I	knew	where
they	was.	He	would	feel	around	on	the	table	and	look	at	Granpa	and	Granma,
and	say,	“Now	where	in	devil’s	torment	is	my	glasses?”	Him	and	Granpa	and
Granma	would	all	grin	at	each	other,	feeling	foolish	that	they	didn’t	know.	I
would	point	to	his	head	and	Mr.	Wine	would	slap	hisself	on	the	head,	total
stumped	that	he	had	left	them	there.
Mr.	Wine	said	he	could	not	work	on	his	clocks	if	I	had	not	been	there	to
help	him	find	his	glasses.	Which	he	couldn’t.
He	learnt	me	to	tell	time.	He	would	twist	the	hands	of	the	clock	around	and
ask	me	what	time	it	was,	and	would	laugh	when	I	missed.	It	didn’t	take	me	long
before	I	knew	everything.
Mr.	Wine	said	I	was	getting	a	good	education.	He	said	there	wasn’t	hardly
any	young’uns	at	all	my	age	that	knew	about	Mr.	Macbeth	or	Mr.	Napoleon,	or
that	studied	dictionaries.	He	learnt	me	figures.
I	could	already	figure	money	somewhat,	being	in	the	whiskey	trade,	but	Mr.
Wine	would	take	out	some	paper	and	a	little	pencil	and	put	figures	down.	He
would	show	me	how	to	make	the	figures	and	how	to	add	them,	and	take	away,
and	multiply.	Granpa	said	I	was	might	near	better	than	anybody	he	had	ever
seen,	doing	figures.
Mr.	Wine	gave	me	a	pencil.	It	was	long	and	yeller.	There	was	a	certain	way
you	sharpened	it,	so	that	you	didn’t	make	the	point	too	thin.	If	you	made	the
point	too	thin	it	would	break,	and	you	would	have	to	sharpen	it	again;	which
used	up	the	pencil	for	no	need	at	all.
Mr.	Wine	said	the	way	he	showed	me	how	to	sharpen	the	pencil	was	the
thrifty	way.	He	said	there	was	a	difference	between	being	stingy	and	being
thrifty.	If	you	was	stingy,	you	was	as	bad	as	some	big	shots	which	worshipped
money	and	you	would	not	use	your	money	for	what	you	had	ought.	He	said	if
you	was	that	way	then	money	was	your	god,	and	no	good	would	come	of	the
whole	thing.
He	said	if	you	was	thrifty,	you	used	your	money	for	what	you	had	ought	but
you	was	not	loose	with	it.	Mr.	Wine	said	that	one	habit	led	to	another	habit,	and
if	they	was	bad	habits,	it	would	give	you	a	bad	character.	If	you	was	loose	with
your	money,	then	you	would	get	loose	with	your	time,	loose	with	your	thinking
and	practical	everything	else.	If	a	whole	people	got	loose,	then	politicians	seen
they	could	get	control.	They	would	take	over	loose	people	and	before	long	you
had	a	dictator.	Mr.	Wine	said	no	thrifty	people	was	ever	taken	over	by	a	dictator.
Which	is	right.
He	had	the	same	consideration	as	me	and	Granpa	for	politicians.
Granma	usually	bought	some	thread	from	Mr.	Wine.	Little	spools	of	thread
was	two	for	a	nickel	and	there	was	big	spools	that	was	a	nickel	apiece.
Sometimes	she	bought	buttons,	and	once	she	bought	some	red	cloth	with	flowers
on	it.
There	was	all	kinds	of	things	in	the	pack;	ribbons	of	every	color,	pretty
cloth	and	stockings,	thimbles	and	needles,	and	little	shiny	tools.	I	would	squat	by
the	pack	when	Mr.	Wine	opened	it	on	the	floor	and	he	would	hold	up	things	and
tell	me	what	they	was.	He	give	me	a	figuring	book.
The	book	had	all	the	figuring	in	it,	and	told	you	how	to	do	it.	This	was	so	I	could
learn	to	do	figuring	all	through	the	month.	I	got	so	far	ahead	each	month	that
when	Mr.	Wine	come	by,	he	was	total	stumped.
Mr.	Wine	said	figuring	was	important.	He	said	education	was	a	two-part
proposition.	One	part	was	technical,	which	was	how	you	moved	ahead	in	your
trade.	He	said	he	was	for	getting	more	modern	in	that	end	of	education.	But,	he
said,	the	other	part	you	had	better	stick	to	and	not	change	it.	He	called	it	valuing.
Mr.	Wine	said	if	you	learnt	to	place	a	value	on	being	honest	and	thrifty,	on
doing	your	best,	and	on	caring	for	folks;	this	was	more	important	than	anything.
He	said	if	you	was	not	taught	these	values,	then	no	matter	how	modern	you	got
about	the	technical	part,	you	was	not	going	to	get	anywheres	at	all.
As	a	matter	of	fact,	the	more	modern	you	got	without	these	valuings,	then
you	would	more	than	likely	use	the	modern	things	for	bad	and	destroying	and
ruining.	Which	is	right,	and	not	long	after	that	was	proved	out.
Every	once	in	a	while	we	had	a	hard	time	fixing	the	clocks,	so	Mr.	Wine	would
stay	with	us	a	day	and	another	night.	Once	he	brought	a	black	box	with	him
which	he	said	was	a	Kodak.	He	could	take	pictures	with	it.	He	said	he	was	not
very	good	at	it—taking	the	pictures.	He	said	some	folks	had	ordered	the	Kodak
and	he	was	taking	it	to	them,	but	he	said	it	would	not	hurt	it	at	all	or	show	any
use	if	he	taken	our	picture.
He	taken	a	picture	of	me,	and	of	Granpa	too.	The	box	would	not	take	the
picture	unless	you	was	facing	d’rect	at	the	sun,	and	Mr.	Wine	said	he	was	not	too
took	up	with	the	whole	contraption	anyhow.	Granpa	wasn’t	either.	He	was
suspicious	of	the	thing	and	would	not	stand	but	for	one	picture.	Granpa	said	you
never	knowed	about	them	things	and	it	was	best	not	to	use	anything	new	like
that	until	you	found	out	what	would	happen	over	a	period	of	time.
Mr.	Wine	wanted	Granpa	to	take	a	picture	of	me	and	him.	It	took	us
practical	all	evening	to	take	it.	Me	and	Mr.	Wine	would	get	all	set.	He	would
have	his	hand	on	my	head,	and	we	would	both	be	grinning	at	the	box.	Granpa
would	say	he	couldn’t	see	us	through	the	little	hole.	Mr.	Wine	would	go	to
Granpa	and	get	the	box	leveled	up	and	come	back.	We	would	stand	again.
Granpa	would	say	we	would	have	to	move	over	a	ways,	as	he	couldn’t	see
anything	but	an	arm.
Granpa	was	nervous	about	the	box.	I	suspicioned	he	figured	they	was
something	in	it	that	was	liable	to	get	out.	Me	and	Mr.	Wine	faced	the	sun	so	long
that	neither	one	of	us	could	see	a	thing	before	Granpa	finally	got	the	picture
taken.	It	didn’t	work	out	though.	The	next	month	when	Mr.	Wine	brought	the
pictures,	mine	and	Granpa’s	showed	up	plain,	but	me	and	Mr.	Wine	was	not	even
in	the	picture	that	Granpa	had	taken.	We	could	make	out	the	tops	of	some	trees
and	some	specks	above	the	trees;	which	after	studying	the	picture	awhile	Granpa
said	was	birds.
Granpa	was	proud	of	the	bird	picture	and	I	was	too.	He	taken	it	to	the
crossroads	store	and	showed	it	to	Mr.	Jenkins,	and	told	him	he	had	personally
taken	the	picture	of	the	birds.
Mr.	Jenkins	couldn’t	see	good.	Me	and	Granpa	worked	at	it	for	might	near
an	hour,	pointing	out	the	birds;	and	he	finally	saw	them.	I	figured	me	and	Mr.
Wine	was	more	than	likely	standing	somewhere	down	below	the	birds.
Granma	would	not	have	her	picture	taken.	She	would	not	say	why,	but	she
was	suspicious	of	the	box	and	would	not	touch	it.
After	we	got	the	pictures	back,	Granma	was	taken	with	them.	She	studied
them	a	lot	and	put	them	on	the	log	over	the	fireplace,	and	was	continually
watching	them.	I	believe	she	would	have	stood	for	a	picture	after	that;	but	we
didn’t	have	the	Kodak,	as	Mr.	Wine	had	to	deliver	it	to	the	people	who	had
ordered	it.
Mr.	Wine	said	he	was	going	to	get	another	Kodak	but	he	didn’t	for	this	was
his	last	summer.
Summer	was	getting	ready	to	die,	dozing	away	the	days	at	the	ending.	The	sun
commenced	to	change	from	the	white	heat	of	life	to	a	hazing	of	yeller	and	gold,
blurring	the	afternoons	and	helping	summer	die.	Getting	ready,	Granma	said,	for
the	big	sleep.
Mr.	Wine	made	his	last	trip.	We	didn’t	know	it	then,	though	me	and	Granpa
had	to	help	him	across	the	foot	log	and	up	the	steps	of	the	porch.	Maybe	he
knew.
When	he	unstrapped	his	pack,	there	on	the	cabin	floor,	he	taken	out	a	yeller
coat.	He	held	it	up	and	the	lamp	shined	on	it	like	gold.	Granma	said	it	reminded
her	of	wild	canaries.	It	was	the	prettiest	coat	we	had	ever	seen.	Mr.	Wine	turned
it	round	and	round	in	the	lamp	light	and	we	all	looked	at	it.	Granma	touched	it,
but	I	didn’t.
Mr.	Wine	said	he	didn’t	have	any	sense	and	was	always	forgetting	things,
which	he	was.	He	said	he	had	made	the	coat	for	one	of	his	great-grand
young’uns	which	lived	acrost	the	big	waters,	but	he	made	the	size	for	what	his
great-grand	young’un	was	years	ago.	After	he	got	it	made,	then	he	remembered
that	it	was	a	total	misfit.	Now	there	wasn’t	anybody	could	wear	it.
Mr.	Wine	said	it	was	a	sin	to	throw	something	away	that	could	be	used	by
somebody.	He	said	he	was	so	worried	that	he	couldn’t	sleep,	because	he	was
getting	old	and	couldn’t	stand	any	more	sin	put	on	him.	He	said	if	he	couldn’t
find	somebody	which	would	favor	him	by	wearing	the	coat	that	he	reckined	he
was	total	lost.	We	all	studied	on	that	for	a	while.
Mr.	Wine	had	his	head	bowed	and	looked	like	he	was	done	lost	already.	I
told	him	I	would	try	to	wear	it.
Mr.	Wine	looked	up	and	his	face	broke	out	in	a	grin	amongst	the	whiskers.
He	said	he	was	so	forgetful	he	had	plumb	forgot	to	ask	me	for	the	favor.	He
pulled	hisself	up	and	danced	a	little	jig	around	and	said	I	had	totally	lifted	a	sin
and	a	big	load	off	of	him.	Which	I	had.
Everybody	put	the	coat	on	me.	Granma	pulled	on	the	sleeve,	while	I	stood
there	with	it	on.	Mr.	Wine	smoothed	the	back	and	Granpa	pulled	the	bottom
down.	It	fit	perfect;	as	I	was	the	same	size	as	Mr.	Wine	had	remembered	his
great-grand	young’un.
I	turned	round	and	round	in	the	light,	for	Granma	to	see	all	sides.	I	held	out
my	arms	so	Granpa	could	see	the	sleeves,	and	we	all	felt	of	it.	It	was	soft	and
slid	smooth	and	easy	under	our	hands.	Mr.	Wine	was	so	happy	that	he	cried.
I	wore	my	coat	when	we	et	supper	and	was	careful	to	keep	my	mouth	over
the	plate	and	not	spill	anything	on	it.	I	would	have	slept	in	it,	but	Granma	said
sleeping	in	it	would	make	it	wrinkle.	She	hung	it	on	the	post	of	my	bed	so	I
could	look	at	it.	The	moonlight	coming	through	my	winder	made	it	shine	even
more.
Laying	there,	looking	at	the	coat,	I	determined	right	off	that	I	would	wear	it
to	church	and	to	the	settlement.	I	might	even	wear	it	to	the	crossroads	store	when
we	delivered	our	wares.	It	’peared	to	me	that	the	more	I	wore	it,	the	more	sin
would	get	lifted	off	Mr.	Wine.
Mr.	Wine	slept	on	a	pallet	quilt.	He	laid	it	out	on	the	floor	of	the	settin’
room,	across	the	dogtrot	from	our	sleeping	rooms.	I	told	him	he	could	use	my
bed,	as	I	liked	to	sleep	on	a	pallet,	but	he	would	not	do	it.
That	night,	as	I	lay	abed,	somehow	or	other	I	got	to	thinking	that	even	though	I
was	doing	Mr.	Wine	a	favor,	maybe	I’d	ought	to	thank	him	for	the	yeller	coat.	I
got	up	and	tiptoed	across	the	dogtrot	and	eased	open	the	door.	Mr.	Wine	was
kneeling	on	his	pallet	and	had	his	head	bowed.	He	was	saying	prayers,	I	figured.
He	was	giving	thanks	for	a	little	boy	who	had	brought	him	so	much
happiness;	which	I	figured	was	his	great-grand	young’un	acrost	the	big	waters.
He	had	a	candle	lit	on	the	kitchen	table.	I	stood	quiet,	for	Granma	had	learnt	me
not	to	make	a	noise	while	people	was	saying	prayers.
In	a	minute,	Mr.	Wine	looked	up	and	saw	me.	He	told	me	to	come	in.	I
asked	him	why	he	had	lit	the	candle,	when	we	had	a	lamp.
Mr.	Wine	said	all	his	folks	was	acrost	the	big	waters.	He	said	there	was	not
but	one	way	he	could	be	with	them.	He	said	he	only	lit	the	candle	at	certain
times,	and	they	lit	a	candle	at	the	same	time,	and	that	they	was	together	when
they	did	this	for	their	thoughts	was	together.	Which	sounds	reasonable.
I	told	him	we	had	folks	scattered	far	off	in	the	Nations,	and	had	not	figured
such	a	way	as	that	to	be	with	them.	I	told	him	about	Willow	John.
I	said	I	was	going	to	tell	Willow	John	about	the	candle.	Mr.	Wine	said
Willow	John	would	understand.	I	plumb	forgot	to	thank	Mr.	Wine	for	the	yeller
coat.
He	left	the	next	morning.	We	helped	him	acrost	the	foot	log.	Granpa	had	cut
a	hickory	stick	and	Mr.	Wine	used	it	as	he	walked.
He	went	down	the	trail,	hobbling	slow,	using	the	hickory	stick	and	bent
under	the	weight	of	his	pack.	He	was	out	of	sight	when	I	remembered	I	had
forgot.	I	run	down	the	trail,	but	he	was	far	below	me,	picking	his	way	along.	I
hollered,	“Thankee	for	the	yeller	coat,	Mr.	Wine.”	He	didn’t	turn	and	so	did	not
hear	me.	Mr.	Wine	was	not	only	bad	about	forgettin’;	he	couldn’t	hear	good
either.	I	figured,	coming	back	up	the	trail,	that	him	always	forgettin’	he	would
understand	how	I	forgot	too.
Even	though	I	was	doing	him	a	favor—wearing	the	yeller	coat.
Down	from	the	Mountain
Fall	came	early	to	the	mountains	that	year.	First,	along	the	rims	high	against	the
sky,	the	red	and	yellow	leaves	shook	in	a	brisking	wind.	Frost	had	touched	them.
The	sun	turned	amber	and	slanted	rays	through	the	trees	and	into	the	hollow.
Each	morning,	the	frost	worked	its	way	farther	down	the	mountain.	A	timid
frost,	not	killing,	but	letting	you	know	that	you	couldn’t	hold	onto	summer	no
more	than	you	could	hold	back	time;	letting	you	know	that	the	winter	dying	was
coming.
Fall	is	nature’s	grace	time;	giving	you	a	chance	to	put	things	in	order,	for
the	dying.	And	so,	when	you	put	things	in	order,	you	sort	out	all	you	must	do	…
and	all	you	have	not	done.	It	is	a	time	for	remembering	…	and	regretting,	and
wishing	you	had	done	some	things	you	have	not	done	…	and	said	some	things
you	had	not	said.
I	wished	I	had	thanked	Mr.	Wine	for	the	yeller	coat.	He	didn’t	come	that
month.	We	set	on	the	porch	in	late	evenings	and	watched	the	hollow	trail,	and
listened;	but	he	didn’t	come.	Me	and	Granpa	determined	we	would	go	to	the
settlement	to	see	about	him.
Frost	touched	the	hollow;	light,	barely	reminding.	It	turned	the	persimmon
red	and	ran	yellow	trimmings	around	the	edges	of	the	poplar	and	maple	leaves.
The	creatures	who	was	to	stay	the	winter	worked	harder	putting	up	their	stores
so	not	to	die.
Blue	jays	made	long	lines,	flying	back	and	forth	to	the	high	oaks,	carrying
acorns	to	their	nests.	Now	they	didn’t	play	or	call.
The	last	butterfly	flew	up	the	hollow.	He	rested	on	a	cornstalk	where	me
and	Granpa	had	stripped	the	corn.	He	didn’t	flex	his	wings,	just	set,	and	waited.
He	had	no	purpose	in	storing	food.	He	was	going	to	die,	and	he	knew	it.	Granpa
said	he	was	wiser	than	a	lot	of	people.	He	didn’t	fret	about	it.	He	knew	he	had
served	his	purpose,	and	now	his	purpose	was	to	die.	So	he	waited	there	in	the
last	warm	of	the	sun.
Me	and	Granpa	got	in	stove	wood	and	fireplace	logs.	Granpa	said	we	had
grasshoppered	around	all	summer	and	now	was	pushed	to	get	our	winter’s	warm
settled	up.	Which	we	had.
We	dragged	dead	tree	trunks	and	heavy	limbs	from	the	mountainside	into
the	clearing.	Granpa’s	axe	flashed	in	the	evening	sun	and	rang	and	echoed	up	the
hollow.	I	toted	in	the	wood	chips	for	the	kitchen	bin	and	racked	the	fireplace	logs
against	the	cabin	side.
This	is	what	we	was	doing	when	the	politicians	came.	They	said	they	was
not	politicians,	but	they	was.	A	man	and	a	woman.
They	would	not	take	the	rockers	offered	to	them,	but	set	straight	in	the	high
back	chairs.	The	man	wore	a	gray	suit	and	the	woman	wore	a	gray	dress.	The
dress	was	choked	so	tight	around	her	neck	that	I	figured	it	made	her	look	the
way	she	did.	The	man	held	his	knees	together	like	a	woman.	He	kept	his	hat	on
his	knees	and	was	nervous,	for	he	continually	turned	the	hat	round	and	round.
The	woman	wasn’t	nervous.
The	woman	said	that	I	had	ought	to	leave	the	room,	but	Granpa	said	that	I
set	in	on	everything	there	was	to	set	in	on.	So	I	stayed	and	set	in	my	little	rocker
and	rocked.
The	man	cleared	his	throat	and	said	people	was	concerned	about	my
education	and	such.	He	said	that	it	had	ought	to	be	looked	after.	Granpa	said	it
was.	He	told	them	what	Mr.	Wine	said.
The	woman	asked	Granpa	who	Mr.	Wine	was,	and	he	told	her	all	about	Mr.
Wine—though	he	didn’t	mention	how	Mr.	Wine	was	always	fergittin’
everything.	The	woman	sniffed	her	nose	and	brushed	around	at	her	skirts	like
she	figured	Mr.	Wine	was	somewheres	about	and	fixing	to	get	under	her	dress.
I	seen	right	off	she	total	discounted	Mr.	Wine;	which	she	did	us	too.	She
give	Granpa	a	paper	which	he	give	to	Granma.
Granma	lit	the	lamp	and	set	at	the	kitchen	table	to	read	the	paper.	She
started	to	read	it	out	loud	but	she	stopped.	She	read	the	rest	of	it	to	herself.	When
she	finished	she	stood	up	and	leaned	over—and	blew	out	the	lamp.
The	politicians	knew	what	this	meant.	I	did	too.	They	stood	up	in	the	half-
light	and	stumbled	out	the	door.	They	didn’t	say	good-bye.
We	waited	in	the	dark,	a	long	time	after	they	left.	Granma	lit	the	lamp	and
we	set	at	the	kitchen	table.	I	couldn’t	see	what	was	on	the	paper,	as	my	head	only
come	above	the	table	edge,	but	I	listened.
The	paper	said	some	people	had	filed	with	the	law.	It	said	I	was	not	being
done	right	by.	The	paper	said	Granma	and	Granpa	had	no	right	to	keep	me;	that
they	was	old	and	had	no	education.	It	said	Granma	was	a	Indian	and	Granpa	was
a	half-breed.	Granpa,	it	said,	had	a	bad	reputation.
The	paper	said	Granma	and	Granpa	was	selfish,	and	being	that	way	was
total	hampering	me	for	the	rest	of	my	continual	life.	They	was	selfish,	it	said,
because	they	just	wanted	comfort	in	their	old	age	and	was	putting	me	out,	more
or	less,	to	give	it	to	them.
The	paper	had	things	to	say	about	me,	but	Granma	would	not	read	it	out
loud.	It	said	that	Granpa	and	Granma	had	so	many	days	in	which	they	could
come	in	court	and	give	answer	to	it.	It	said	otherwise	I	was	to	be	put	in	a
orphanage.
Granpa	was	total	stumped.	He	taken	off	his	hat	and	laid	it	on	the	table,	and	his
hand	shook.	He	rubbed	his	hat	with	his	hand	and	just	set,	looking	at	the	hat	and
rubbing	it.
I	went	and	set	in	my	rocker	by	the	fireplace	and	rocked.	I	told	Granma	and
Granpa	that	I	figgered	I	could	up	my	dictionary	learning	to	practically	ten	words
a	week.	I	told	them	that	more	than	likely	I	could	up	it	even	more—maybe	to	a
hundred.	I	was	learning	to	read,	and	I	told	them	I	seen	right	off	that	I	was	going
to	have	to	double	up	on	my	reading,	and	I	reminded	them	what	Mr.	Wine	had
said	about	my	figgering;	which,	even	though	he	didn’t	count	none	with	the
politicians,	it	still	showed	I	was	moving	ahead.
I	couldn’t	stop	talking.	I	tried	to	stop,	but	I	couldn’t.	I	rocked	harder	and
harder,	and	talked	faster	and	faster.
I	told	Granpa	I	was	in	no	wise	hampered	at	all;	that	I	figgered	I	was	gittin’
the	uppers	on	just	about	everything.	Granpa	would	not	answer	me.	Granma	held
the	paper	and	stared	at	it.
I	seen	they	figgered	they	was	what	the	paper	said	they	was.	I	said	they
wasn’t.	I	said	it	was	the	other	way	around;	that	they	comforted	me,	and	I	was
more	than	likely	about	the	worst	thing	that	had	come	along	for	them	to	have	to
mind	about.	I	told	Granpa	I	had	burdened	them	up	pretty	heavy	and	they	had	not,
in	no	wise,	burdened	me.	I	told	them	I	stood	ready	to	tell	the	law	this	very	thing.
But	they	wouldn’t	talk.
I	said	I	was	gittin’	ahead	otherwise	too,	learning	a	trade	and	all.	I	told
Granpa	that	I	was	total	certain	no	other	young’un	my	age	was	learning	a	trade.
Granpa	looked	at	me	for	the	first	time.	His	eyes	was	dull.	He	said	maybe,
the	law	being	like	they	was,	that	we	had	ought	not	to	mention	about	the	trade.
I	went	to	the	table	and	set	on	Granpa’s	leg.	I	told	him	and	Granma	I	would
not	go	with	the	law.	I	said	I	would	go	back	in	the	mountains	and	stay	with
Willow	John,	until	such	time	as	the	law	forgot	about	the	whole	thing.	I	asked
Granma	what	a	orphanage	was.
Granma	looked	at	me	across	the	table.	Her	eyes	didn’t	look	right	either.
Granma	said	a	orphanage	was	where	they	kept	young’uns	who	didn’t	have	a	Pa
and	a	Ma.	She	said	they	was	lots	of	young’uns	there.	She	said	the	law	would
come	looking	if	I	went	back	and	stayed	with	Willow	John.
I	seen	right	off	that	the	law	might	find	our	still	if	they	taken	to	looking.	I
didn’t	mention	Willow	John	again.
Granpa	said	we	would	go	to	the	settlement	in	the	morning	and	see	Mr.
Wine.
We	left	at	daybreak,	down	the	hollow	trail.	Granpa	had	the	paper	to	show	Mr.
Wine.	Granpa	knew	where	he	lived,	and	when	we	got	to	the	settlement	we	turned
down	a	side	street.	Mr.	Wine	lived	over	a	feed	store.	We	went	up	long	ladder
steps,	that	wobbled	as	we	climbed	up	the	side	of	the	feed	store.	The	door	was
locked.	Granpa	shook	it	and	knocked	on	it	…	but	nobody	answered.	There	was
dust	over	the	glass	and	Granpa	wiped	it	away	and	looked	in.	He	said	there
wasn’t	anything	in	there.
We	walked	slow	back	down	the	steps.	I	followed	Granpa	around	to	the	front
of	the	feed	store,	and	we	went	in.
Coming	out	of	the	noontime	sun,	it	was	dark	in	the	store.	Me	and	Granpa
stood	for	a	minute	to	get	our	sight.	A	man	was	leaning	against	the	counter.
“Howdy,”	he	said,	“what	fer	ye?”	His	stomach	hung	over	the	belt	of	his
britches.
“Howdy,”	Granpa	said,	“we	was	looking	for	Mr.	Wine,	the	feller	which
lives	over	yer	store.”
“Mr.	Wine	ain’t	his	name,”	the	man	said.	He	had	a	toothpick	in	his	mouth
which	he	worked	from	side	to	side.	He	sucked	on	the	toothpick	and	taken	it	out
and	frowned	at	it,	like	it	tasted	bad.
“In	fact,”	he	said,	“he	ain’t	got	no	name	no	more.	He’s	dead.”
Me	and	Granpa	was	stumped.	We	didn’t	say	anything.	I	felt	hollow	inside
and	my	knees	weakened.	I	had	built	up	a	pretty	heavy	dependence	on	Mr.	Wine
as	handling	our	situation.	I	figured	Granpa	had	counted	heavy	on	it	too;	for	he
didn’t	know	what	to	do	next.
“Yer	name	be	Wales?”	the	fat	man	asked.
“It	be,”	Granpa	said.	The	fat	man	walked	behind	the	counter,	reached	under
it	and	dragged	out	a	tow	sack.	He	swung	it	up	on	the	counter.	It	was	full	of
something.
“The	old	man	left	this	here	fer	ye,”	he	said.	“See,	the	tag.	Got	yer	name	on
it.”	Granpa	looked	at	the	tag,	though	he	couldn’t	read	it.
“He	had	everything	tagged,”	the	fat	man	said.	“Knew	he	was	going	to	die.
Even	had	a	tag	tied	around	his	wrist	telling	where	to	ship	the	body.	Knew	exactly
how	much	it	cost	too	…	left	the	money	in	an	envelope	…	right	down	to	the
penny.	Stingy.	No	money	left	over.	Just	like	a	damn	Jew.”
Granpa	looked	up,	hard,	from	under	his	hat.	“Paid	his	obligations,	didn’t
he?”
The	fat	man	got	serious.	“Oh	yes	…	yes	…	I	had	nothin’	against	the	old
man,	didn’t	know	him.	Nobody	much	did.	Spent	all	his	time	wandering	around
in	the	mountains.”
Granpa	swung	the	tow	sack	over	his	shoulder.	“Could	ye	d’rect	me	to	a
lawyering	man?”	The	fat	man	pointed	across	the	street.	“Right	in	front	of	ye,	up
the	stairs,	’tween	them	buildings.”
“Thankee,”	Granpa	said.	We	walked	to	the	door.
“Funny	thing,”	the	fat	man	said	after	us,	“the	old	Jew,	when	we	found	him;
the	only	thing	he	hadn’t	tagged	was	a	candle.	The	dern	fool	had	it	lit	and	burning
right	beside	him.”
I	knew	about	the	candle,	but	I	didn’t	say	anything.	I	knew	about	the	money
too.	Mr.	Wine	was	not	stingy;	he	was	thrifty,	and	paid	his	obligations,	and	seen
that	his	money	was	used	in	the	right	manner.
We	went	across	the	street	and	up	the	steps.	Granpa	toted	the	sack.	Granpa
knocked	on	a	door	that	had	glass	across	the	top	and	lettering	on	it.
“Come	in	…	come	in!”	The	voice	sounded	like	you	wasn’t	supposed	to
knock.	We	went	in.
A	man	was	leaning	back	in	a	chair,	behind	a	desk.	He	had	white	hair	and
looked	old.	When	he	saw	me	and	Granpa	he	got	up,	slow.	Granpa	taken	off	his
hat	and	set	down	the	tow	sack.	The	man	leaned	over	his	desk	and	stuck	out	his
hand.	“My	name	is	Taylor,”	he	said,	“Joe	Taylor.”
“Wales,”	Granpa	said.	Granpa	taken	his	hand,	but	didn’t	shake	it.	He	turned
loose	of	it	and	handed	Mr.	Taylor	our	paper.
Mr.	Taylor	set	down	and	taken	eyeglasses	out	of	a	vest	pocket.	He	leaned
on	the	desk	and	read	the	paper.	I	watched	him.	He	frowned.	He	looked	at	the
paper	for	a	long	time.
When	he	finished,	he	folded	the	paper	slow	and	handed	it	back	to	Granpa.	He
looked	up.	“You’ve	been	in	jail—whiskey-making?”
“Oncet,”	Granpa	said.
Mr.	Taylor	got	up	and	walked	to	a	big	window.	He	looked	down	in	the
street	a	long	time.	He	sighed;	and	didn’t	look	at	Granpa.	“I	could	take	your
money,	but	it	wouldn’t	do	any	good.	Government	bureaucrats	that	run	these
things	don’t	understand	mountain	people.	Don’t	want	to.	I	don’t	think	the	sons	of
bitches	understand	anything.”	He	was	looking	a	long	way	off	at	something	out
the	window.	He	coughed.	“Nor	Indians.	We’d	lose.	They’ll	take	the	boy.”
Granpa	put	on	his	hat.	He	taken	his	purse	from	his	forward	pants	pocket
and	unsnapped	and	felt	around.	He	laid	a	dollar	on	Mr.	Taylor’s	desk.	We	left.
Mr.	Taylor	was	still	looking	out	the	window.
We	walked	out	of	the	settlement,	Granpa	leading,	totin’	the	tow	sack.	Mr.
Wine	was	gone.	I	knew	we	had	lost.
It	was	the	first	time	I	could	keep	up,	easy,	with	Granpa.	He	walked	slow.
His	moccasins	dragged	in	the	dirt.	I	figured	he	was	tired.	We	was	on	the	hollow
trail	when	I	asked	him,	“Granpa,	what	is	a	damn	Jew?”
Granpa	stopped	and	didn’t	look	back	at	me.	His	voice	sounded	tired	too.	“I
don’t	know;	something	is	said	about	’em	in	the	Bible,	somewheres	or	other;
must	go	back	a	long	ways.”	Granpa	turned	around.	“Like	the	Indian	…	I	hear	tell
they	ain’t	got	no	nation,	neither.”	Granpa	looked	down	at	me.	His	eyes	looked
like	Willow	John’s.
Granma	lit	the	lamp.	We	opened	the	tow	sack	there	on	the	kitchen	table.
There	was	rolls	of	red	cloth	and	green	and	yeller	cloth	for	Granma;	needles,
thimbles	and	spools	of	thread.	I	told	Granma	it	looked	like	Mr.	Wine	had	might
near	emptied	his	pack	into	the	tow	sack.	She	said	it	looked	that	way	to	her.
There	was	all	manner	of	tools	for	Granpa.	And	books.	A	figuring	book	and
a	little	black	book	that	Granma	said	had	valuing	sayings	in	it	for	me.	There	was
a	book	with	pictures	of	boys	and	girls	and	dogs.	It	had	writing	in	it	and	was
brand-new,	for	it	still	shined.	I	figured	Mr.	Wine	was	going	to	bring	it	on	his	next
trip,	if	he	didn’t	forget.	That	was	all;	we	thought.
Granpa	picked	up	the	empty	sack	and	started	to	put	it	on	the	floor.
Something	bumped	in	the	sack.	Granpa	turned	it	up.	A	red	apple	rolled	out	on
the	table.	It	was	the	first	time	that	Mr.	Wine	had	recollected	the	apple.
Something	else	rolled	out	and	Granma	picked	it	up.	It	was	a	candle	and	it	had
one	of	Mr.	Wine’s	tags	on	it.	Granma	read	it.	It	said:	Willow	John.
We	didn’t	eat	much	supper.	Granpa	told	about	our	trip	to	the	settlement;
about	Mr.	Wine	and	what	Mr.	Taylor	had	said.
Granma	blew	out	the	lamp	and	we	set	by	the	fireplace	in	the	half-dark	of	a
new	moon	coming	through	the	winder.	We	didn’t	light	a	fire.	I	rocked.
I	told	Granma	and	Granpa	they	was	not	to	feel	bad	about	it.	I	said	I	didn’t.
More	than	likely	I	would	like	the	orphanage,	with	all	the	young’uns	and	such
being	there.	I	said	it	would	not	take	long	to	satisfy	the	law,	more	than	likely,	and
I	could	come	back.
Granma	said	we	had	three	days,	and	then	I	was	to	be	delivered	up	to	the
law.	We	didn’t	talk	anymore.	I	didn’t	know	what	to	say.	We	all	three	rocked,	our
chairs	creaking	slow,	far	into	the	night	and	we	didn’t	talk.
When	we	went	to	bed,	for	the	first	time	since	Ma	died	I	cried,	but	I	put	the
blanket	in	my	mouth	and	Granma	and	Granpa	did	not	hear	me.
We	filled	up	the	three	days,	living	hard	as	we	could.	Granma	went
everywhere	with	me	and	Granpa,	up	the	Narrows	to	Hangin’	Gap.	We	taken	Blue
Boy	and	the	hounds.	One	morning,	early	in	the	dark,	we	taken	the	high	trail.	We
set	on	top	of	the	mountain	and	watched	day	break	over	the	rims.	I	showed
Granpa	and	Granma	my	secret	place.
Granma	spilt	sugar	in	practical	everything	she	cooked.	Me	and	Granpa	eat
fairly	heavy	on	meal	cookies.
The	day	before	I	was	to	leave,	I	slipped	off	over	the	cutoff	trail	to	the
crossroads	store.	Mr.	Jenkins	said	the	red	and	green	box	was	old,	and	so	he
would	sell	it	for	sixty-five	cents,	which	I	paid	him.	I	bought	a	box	of	red	stick
candy	for	Granpa,	which	cost	a	quarter.	This	left	me	a	dime	out	of	the	dollar	I
had	got	from	Mr.	Chunk.
That	night	Granpa	cut	my	hair.	He	said	it	was	necessary,	for	it	might	be
hard	on	me,	looking	like	a	Indian	and	all.	I	told	Granpa	I	didn’t	care.	I	said	I	had
just	as	soon	look	like	Willow	John.
I	was	not	to	wear	my	moccasins.	Granpa	stretched	my	old	shoes.	He	taken	a
piece	of	iron	and	pushed	it	into	the	shoes,	punching	the	leather	of	the	uppers	out
over	the	soles.	My	feet	had	growed.
I	told	Granma	I	would	leave	my	moccasins	under	my	bed,	as	I	would	more
than	likely	be	back	pretty	soon,	and	they	would	be	handy.	I	put	my	deer	shirt	on
the	bed.	I	told	Granma	that	it	could	stay	there	as	nobody	would	be	sleeping	in
my	bed	until	I	come	back.
I	hid	the	red	and	green	box	in	Granma’s	meal	bin	where	she	would	find	it	in
a	day	or	two;	and	put	the	box	of	stick	candy	in	Granpa’s	suit	coat.	He	would	find
it	Sunday.	I	had	only	taken	out	one	piece	to	more	or	less	prove	it	out.	It	was
good.
Granma	would	not	go	to	the	settlement	for	the	leaving.	Granpa	waited	in	the
clearing	for	me,	and	Granma	knelt	down	on	the	porch	and	held	me	like	she	held
Willow	John.	I	held	her	too.	I	tried	not	to	cry,	but	I	did,	some.	I	had	on	my	old
shoes,	which	if	I	stretched	my	toes,	they	didn’t	hurt.	I	wore	my	best	overalls	and
my	white	shirt.	I	wore	the	yeller	coat.	In	my	tow	sack,	Granma	had	put	two	more
shirts	and	my	other	pair	of	overalls,	and	my	socks.	I	would	not	carry	anything
else,	for	I	knew	I	would	be	back.	I	told	Granma	I	would.
Kneeling	there	on	the	porch,	Granma	said,	“Do	ye	recollect	the	Dog	Star,
Little	Tree?	The	one	we	look	at	in	the	dusk	of	evening?”	I	said	I	did.	And
Granma	said,	“Wherever	ye	are—no	matter	where—in	the	dusk	of	evening,	ye
look	at	the	Dog	Star.	Me	and	Granpa	will	be	looking	too.	We	will	remember.”	I
told	her	I	would	remember	too.	It	was	like	Mr.	Wine	and	his	candle.	I	asked
Granma	to	tell	Willow	John	to	look	at	the	Dog	Star	too.	Which	she	said	she
would.
Granma	held	me	by	the	shoulders	and	looked	at	me.	She	said,	“The
Cherokees	married	your	Pa	and	Ma.	Will	ye	remember	that,	Little	Tree?	No
matter	what	is	said	…	remember.”
I	said	I	would.	Granma	turned	me	loose.	I	picked	up	my	tow	sack	and
followed	Granpa	out	of	the	clearing.	Across	the	foot	log,	I	looked	back.	Granma
was	standing	on	the	porch,	watching.	She	raised	her	hand	and	touched	her	heart,
and	pushed	the	hand	after	me.	I	knew	what	she	meant.
Granpa	had	on	his	black	suit.	He	had	his	shoes	on	too,	and	we	both	kind	of
clumped	along.	Down	the	hollow	trail,	pine	branches	swept	low	and	held	my
arms.	An	oak	limb	reached	out	fingers	and	pulled	the	tow	sack	off	my	shoulder.
A	persimmon	bush	grabbed	my	leg.	The	spring	branch	commenced	to	run	harder
and	jump	and	fuss,	and	a	crow	flew	down	across	us	and	cawed	over	and	over	…
and	then	set	on	a	high	tree	top	and	cawed	and	cawed.	All	of	them	was	saying,
“Don’t	go,	Little	Tree	…	don’t	go,	Little	Tree	…”	I	knew	what	they	was	saying.
And	so	my	eyes	blinded	and	I	stumbled	along	behind	Granpa.	The	wind	rose	and
moaned	and	picked	at	the	tail	of	my	yeller	coat.	Dying	briers	reached	over	the
trail	path	and	hung	theirselves	on	my	legs.	A	mourning	dove	called,	long	and
lonesome—and	was	not	answered,	so	I	knew	she	was	calling	for	me.
Me	and	Granpa	had	a	hard	time	making	it	down	the	hollow	trail.
We	waited	in	the	bus	station;	me	and	Granpa	setting	on	a	bench.	I	held	my	tow
sack	in	my	lap.	We	was	waiting	for	the	law.
I	told	Granpa	I	didn’t	hardly	see	how	he	was	going	to	make	it	in	the
whiskey	trade,	me	not	being	there	to	help.	Granpa	said	it	would	be	hard.	He
would	have	to	double	up	on	his	work	time.	I	told	Granpa	that	more	than	likely	I
would	be	back	pretty	quick,	and	he	wouldn’t	have	to	double	up	long.	Granpa
said	more	than	likely	I	would.	We	didn’t	say	much	else.
A	clock	ticked	on	the	wall.	I	could	tell	the	time,	and	I	told	Granpa.	There
wasn’t	many	people	in	the	bus	station.	A	woman	and	a	man.	Times	being	hard,
Granpa	said,	folks	wasn’t	traveling	by	paying	ways.	Which	they	wasn’t.
I	asked	Granpa,	reckin	if	the	mountains	run	down	as	far	as	the	orphanage.
Granpa	said	he	didn’t	know.	He	had	not	been	there.	We	waited	some	more.
The	woman	came	in.	I	knew	her;	it	was	the	woman	in	the	gray	dress.	She
come	up	to	me	and	Granpa,	and	when	Granpa	stood	up,	she	handed	him	some
papers.	Granpa	put	them	in	his	pocket.	She	said	the	bus	was	waiting.	She	said,
“We	don’t	want	any	fuss	now.	Let’s	get	on	with	it.	What	has	to	be	done,	has	to
be	done;	best	for	everybody.”
Which	I	didn’t	know	what	she	was	talking	about.	Granpa	didn’t	either.	She
was	all	business.	She	taken	a	string	out	of	her	purse	and	tied	it	around	my	neck.
It	had	a	tag	on	it,	like	one	of	Mr.	Wine’s	tags.	The	tag	had	writing	on	it.	Me	and
Granpa	followed	her	out	the	back	of	the	bus	station	to	the	bus.
I	had	my	tow	sack	throwed	over	my	shoulder.	Granpa	knelt	there,	by	the
open	door	of	the	bus,	and	held	me	like	he	held	Willow	John.	He	held	me	a	long
time,	kneeling	on	the	pavement	with	both	his	knees.	I	whispered	to	Granpa.	I
said,	“I’ll	more	than	likely	be	back,	d’rectly.”	Granpa	squeezed	me	that	he	heard.
The	woman	said,	“You’ll	have	to	go	now.”	I	didn’t	know	whether	she	was
talking	to	me	or	Granpa.	Granpa	stood	up.	He	turned	and	walked	off	and	he
didn’t	look	back.
The	woman	picked	me	up	and	set	me	on	the	step	of	the	bus,	which	I	could
have	made	it	myself.	She	told	the	bus	driver	to	read	my	tag,	and	so	I	stood	for
him	while	he	read	it.
I	told	the	bus	driver	I	didn’t	have	a	ticket	and	wasn’t	right	sure	about	riding
as	I	didn’t	have	any	money.	He	laughed	and	said	the	woman	had	give	him	my
ticket.	There	wasn’t	but	three	people	on	the	bus.	I	went	back	and	set	down	by	a
winder	where	maybe	I	could	see	Granpa.
The	bus	started	up	and	moved	out	of	the	station.	I	saw	the	woman	with	the
gray	dress	watching.	We	moved	down	the	street	and	I	couldn’t	find	Granpa
anywhere.	Then	I	saw	him.	He	was	standing	on	the	corner	of	the	street	by	the
bus	station.	He	had	his	hat	pulled	down	low	and	his	hands	hung	down	by	his
sides.
We	went	by	him	and	I	tried	to	raise	the	winder,	but	I	didn’t	know	how.	I
waved,	but	he	didn’t	see	me.
As	the	bus	passed	on,	I	run	to	the	back	of	the	bus	and	looked	out	the	back
winder.	Granpa	was	still	there,	watching	the	bus.	I	waved	and	hollered,	“Good-
bye	Granpa.	I’ll	be	back	more	than	likely	pretty	quick.”	He	didn’t	see	me.	I
hollered	some	more.	“I’ll	more	than	likely	be	back	d’rectly,	Granpa.”	But	he	just
stood.	Getting	smaller	and	smaller	in	the	late	evening	sun.	His	shoulders	sloped.
Granpa	looked	old.
The	Dog	Star
When	you	don’t	know	how	far	you	are	going,	it	is	far	away.	Nobody	had	told
me.	I	reckin	Granpa	didn’t	know.
I	couldn’t	see	over	the	backs	of	the	seats	in	front	of	me,	and	so	I	watched
out	the	winder;	the	houses	and	trees	going	by,	and	then	just	trees.	It	got	dark	and
I	couldn’t	see	anything.
I	peeped	around	the	seat	up	the	aisle,	and	saw	the	road	ahead	shining	in	the
bus	lights.	It	all	looked	the	same	way.
We	stopped	at	a	bus	station	in	a	town	and	stayed	a	long	time,	but	I	didn’t
get	off	or	move	from	my	seat.	I	figgered	more	than	likely	I	was	safer	where	I
was.
After	we	left	the	town,	there	was	nothing	else	to	watch.	I	kept	my	tow	sack
in	my	lap,	for	it	felt	like	Granpa	and	Granma.	It	smelled	kind	of	like	Blue	Boy.	I
dozed	off.
The	bus	driver	wakened	me.	It	was	morning	and	drizzling	rain.	We	had
stopped	in	front	of	the	orphanage	and	when	I	got	off	the	bus	a	white-headed	lady
was	waiting	under	an	umbrella.
She	had	on	a	black	dress	that	come	to	the	ground	and	she	looked	like	the
lady	in	the	gray	dress,	but	she	wasn’t.	She	didn’t	say	anything.	She	bent	and
taken	hold	of	my	tag	and	read	it.	She	nodded	to	the	bus	driver	and	he	closed	his
door	and	left.	She	straightened	up	and	frowned	a	minute	and	sighed.	“Follow
me,”	she	said,	and	led	the	way,	walking	slow,	through	iron	gates.	I	put	my	tow
sack	over	my	shoulder	and	followed	her.
We	went	through	the	gates	with	big	elms	on	each	side	which	rustled	and
talked	as	we	passed.	The	lady	taken	no	notice	whatsoever,	but	I	did.	They	had
heard	about	me.
We	walked	across	a	big	yard	toward	some	buildings.	I	could	keep	up	easy.
When	we	got	to	the	door	of	a	building,	the	lady	stopped.	“You	are	going	to	see
the	Reverend,”	she	said.	“Be	quiet,	don’t	cry	and	be	respectful.	You	can	talk,	but
only	when	he	asks	a	question.	Do	you	understand?”	Which	I	told	her	I	did.
I	follered	her	down	a	dark	hall	and	we	went	into	a	room.	The	Reverend	was
sittin’	at	a	desk.	He	didn’t	look	up.	The	lady	set	me	down	in	a	straight	chair	in
front	of	his	desk.	She	tiptoed	out	of	the	room.	I	put	my	tow	sack	in	my	lap.
The	Reverend	was	busy,	reading	papers.	He	had	a	pink	face	which	looked
like	he	washed	it	fairly	heavy,	for	it	shined.	He	didn’t	have	any	hair	to	speak	of,
though	I	seen	some	around	his	ears.
There	was	a	clock	on	the	wall,	and	I	told	the	time.	I	didn’t	say	it	out	loud.	I
could	see	rain	running	down	the	winder	in	back	of	the	Reverend.	The	Reverend
looked	up.
“Stop	swinging	your	legs,”	he	said.	He	said	it	right	hard.	Which	I	did.
He	studied	some	more	at	the	papers.	He	laid	the	papers	down	and	taken	up
a	pencil	which	he	turned	end	over	end	in	his	hands.	He	put	his	elbows	on	the
desk	and	leaned	over	as	I	didn’t	come	up	very	high	for	him	to	see.
“These	are	hard	times,”	he	said.	He	frowned	like	he	was	personal	settin’	on
the	hard	times.	“The	State	hasn’t	the	money	for	these	matters.	Our	Denomination
has	agreed	to	take	you—possibly	against	our	better	judgment,	but	we	have.”
I	commenced	to	feel	right	bad	about	the	Denomination	having	to	mess	with
the	whole	thing.	I	didn’t	say	anything,	as	he	had	not	asked	me	a	question.
He	turned	the	pencil	over	and	over	again;	which	was	not	sharpened	thrifty,
for	the	point	was	too	thin.	I	suspicioned	he	was	looser	than	he	put	hisself	up	to
being.	He	commenced	again.	“We	have	a	school	you	can	attend.	You	will	be
assigned	small	work	details.	Everybody	here	does	some	work;	something	you
are	probably	not	accustomed	to.	You	must	follow	the	rules.	If	you	break	them,
you	will	be	punished.”	He	coughed.	“We	have	no	Indians	here,	half-breed	or
otherwise.	Also,	your	mother	and	father	were	not	married.	You	are	the	first,	the
only	bastard	we	have	ever	accepted.”
I	told	him	what	Granma	had	said;	that	the	Cherokees	married	my	Pa	and	my
Ma.	He	said	what	Cherokees	done	didn’t	count	none	whatsoever.	He	said	he	had
not	asked	me	a	question.	Which	he	hadn’t.
He	commenced	to	get	worked	up	about	the	whole	thing.	He	stood	up	and
said	his	Denomination	believed	in	being	kind	to	everybody;	kind	to	animals	and
such.
He	said	I	did	not	have	to	go	to	the	church	services	and	the	evening	chapels;
as	bastards,	according	to	the	Bible,	could	not	be	saved.	He	said	I	could	go	to
listen	in	on	it	more	or	less,	if	I	was	quiet	and	set	in	the	back	and	taken	no	part
whatsoever.
Which	I	didn’t	mind,	as	me	and	Granpa	had	already	give	up,	technical-wise,
on	the	entire	thing.
He	said	he	seen	by	the	papers	on	his	desk	that	Granpa	was	not	fittin’	to	raise
a	young’un,	and	that	I	more	than	likely	had	not	ever	had	any	discipline.	Which	I
hadn’t,	I	don’t	reckin.	He	said	Granpa	had	been	in	jail.
I	told	him	I	might	near	got	hung	oncet	myself.	He	stopped	with	his	pencil	in
the	air	and	his	mouth	opened.	“You	what?”	He	hollered.
I	said	I	might	near	got	hung	by	the	law	oncet;	but	I	got	away.	I	told	him	if	it
hadn’t	been	for	the	hound	dogs,	I	reckin	I	would	have	got	hung.	I	didn’t	tell	him
where	the	still	was;	as	this	might	lead	to	puttin’	me	and	Granpa	out	of	the
whiskey	trade.
He	set	down	at	his	desk	and	put	his	face	in	his	hands,	like	he	was	crying.
He	shook	his	head	back	and	forth.	“I	knew	this	was	the	wrong	thing	to	do,”	he
said.	He	said	it	two	or	three	times.	Which	I	wasn’t	sure	which	thing	was	wrong
he	was	talking	about.
He	set	so	long	shaking	his	head	in	his	hands	that	I	suspicioned	he	was
crying.	I	commenced	to	feel	might	near	as	bad	as	him	about	the	whole	thing,	and
was	sorry	I	had	brought	up	about	might	near	being	hung.	We	set	like	this	awhile.
I	told	him	not	to	cry.	I	told	him	I	was	not	hurt	in	anyway	at	all	and	was	not
nor	ever	had	got	worked	up	about	it.	I	told	him	however,	that	ol’	Ringer	died.
Which	was	my	fault.
He	raised	up	his	head	and	said,	“Shut	up!	I	have	not	asked	you	a	question!”
Which	he	hadn’t.	He	taken	up	his	papers.	“We’ll	see	…	we’ll	try,	with	the	Lord’s
help.	It	may	be	that	you	belong	in	a	reform	school,”	he	said.
He	rung	a	little	bell	on	his	desk	and	the	lady	come	jumping	in	the	room.
She	had	stood	outside	all	the	time,	I	reckined.
She	told	me	to	foller	her.	I	taken	up	my	tow	sack	and	put	it	over	my
shoulder	and	said,	“Thankee,”	but	I	didn’t	say	Reverend.	Even	if	I	was	a	bastard
and	going	to	hell,	I	was	not	in	any	ways	figgering	to	go	any	faster,	since	it	hadn’t
been	settled	whether	you	was	to	call	such	“Reverend”	or	“Mister.”	Like	Granpa
said,	if	you	was	not	pushed,	there	was	not	any	sense	at	all	running	unnecessary
chances.
The	wind	rose	up	as	we	left	the	room	and	splattered	the	winder	hard.	The
lady	stopped	and	looked.	The	Reverend	turned	and	looked	at	the	winder	too.	I
knew	word	had	come	about	me,	from	the	mountains.
My	cot	set	in	a	corner.	It	was	separate	from	the	others	except	for	one,	which	was
pretty	close	to	me.	It	was	a	big	room	and	had	twenty	or	thirty	boys	who	stayed
there.	Most	of	them	was	older	than	me.
My	job	was	to	help	sweep	up	the	room	every	morning	and	every	evening.	I
done	it	easy;	but	when	I	didn’t	sweep	under	the	cots	good	enough,	the	lady	made
me	do	it	over	again.	Which	happened	fairly	regular.
Wilburn	slept	on	the	cot	that	was	closest	to	mine.	He	was	a	lot	older	than	I
was;	maybe	eleven.	He	said	he	was	twelve.	He	was	tall	and	skinny	and	had
freckles	all	over	his	face.	He	said	he	would	not	ever	get	adopted	by	anybody	and
would	have	to	stay	there	until	he	was	might	near	eighteen.	Wilburn	said	he
didn’t	give	a	damn.	He	said	when	he	got	out,	he	was	going	to	come	back	and
burn	the	orphanage	down.
Wilburn	had	a	clubfoot.	It	was	his	right	foot	and	turned	plumb	inwards,
making	the	toes	of	his	high	foot	scrape	his	left	leg	when	he	walked	and	the	right
side	of	him	kind	of	jumped	along.
Me	and	Wilburn	didn’t	play	in	any	of	the	games	in	the	yard.	Wilburn
couldn’t	run,	and	I	reckin	I	was	too	little	and	didn’t	know	how	to	play.	Wilburn
said	he	didn’t	give	a	damn.	He	said	games	was	for	babies.	Which	is	right.
Me	and	Wilburn	set	under	a	big	oak	in	the	corner	of	the	yard	during
playtime.	Sometimes	when	the	ball	come	far	out	in	the	yard,	I	would	run	and	get
it	and	throw	it	back	to	the	boys	who	was	playing	the	game.	I	could	throw	good.
I	talked	to	the	oak	tree.	Wilburn	didn’t	know	it,	for	I	didn’t	use	words.	She
was	old.	With	winter	coming	on,	she	had	lost	most	of	her	talking	leaves,	but	she
used	her	naked	fingers	in	the	wind.
She	said	she	was	getting	sleepy,	but	was	going	to	stay	awake	to	send	back
to	the	mountain	trees	that	I	was	here.	She	said	she	would	send	it	on	the	wind.	I
told	her	to	tell	Willow	John,	which	she	said	she	would	do.
I	found	a	blue	marble	under	the	tree.	You	could	see	all	the	way	through	it
and	when	you	held	it	up	to	one	eye	and	shut	the	other	one,	everything	looked
blue.	Wilburn	told	me	what	it	was,	for	I	had	not	seen	a	marble.
He	said	you	wasn’t	supposed	to	look	through	marbles,	you	was	supposed	to
thump	them	on	the	ground;	but	if	I	thumped	mine,	somebody	would	take	it	away
from	me,	as	somebody	had	lost	it.
Wilburn	said,	finders	keepers,	losers	weepers;	and	they	could	go	to	hell.	I
put	the	marble	in	my	tow	sack.
Every	oncet	in	a	while,	all	the	boys	lined	up	in	the	hall	by	the	office	and
men	and	ladies	come	by	and	looked	at	them.	They	was	looking	for	somebody	to
adopt.	The	white-headed	lady	in	charge	of	us	said	I	was	not	to	line	up.	Which	I
didn’t.
I	watched	them	from	the	door.	You	could	tell	who	got	picked.	They	would
stop	in	front	of	the	one	they	wanted	and	talk	to	him;	and	they	would	all	go	into
the	office.	Nobody	ever	talked	to	Wilburn.
Wilburn	said	he	didn’t	give	a	damn,	but	he	did.	Every	time	it	was	line-up
day,	Wilburn	put	on	a	clean	shirt	and	overalls.	I	watched	Wilburn.
When	he	was	in	line,	he	always	grinned	at	everybody	that	come	by	and
taken	his	clubfoot	and	hid	it	behind	his	other	leg.	But	they	wouldn’t	talk	to	him.
Every	night	after	line-up	day,	Wilburn	peed	on	his	cot.	He	said	he	done	it
deliberate.	He	said	he	done	it	to	show	them	what	he	thought	of	their	damn
adopting.
Whenever	Wilburn	peed	on	his	cot,	the	white-headed	lady	would	make	him
take	his	mattress	and	blankets	outside	the	next	day	and	lay	them	in	the	sun.
Wilburn	said	he	didn’t	care.	He	said	if	they	messed	with	him	much,	he	was
going	to	pee	on	his	cot	every	night.
Wilburn	asked	me	what	I	was	going	to	do	when	I	growed	up.	I	told	him	I
was	going	to	be	a	Indian	like	Granpa	and	Willow	John	and	live	in	the	mountains.
Wilburn	said	he	was	going	to	rob	banks	and	orphanages.	He	said	he	would	rob
churches	too,	if	he	could	find	out	where	they	kept	their	money.	He	said,	more
than	likely,	he	would	kill	everybody	that	run	banks	and	orphanages,	but	he
would	not	kill	me.
Wilburn	cried	at	night.	I	never	let	on	I	knew,	for	he	stuck	his	blanket	in	his
mouth,	which	I	figgered	he	didn’t	want	anybody	to	know.	I	told	Wilburn	he
could	more	than	likely	get	his	foot	fixed	straight	when	he	got	out	of	the
orphanage.	I	give	him	my	blue	marble.
Chapel	services	was	held	at	dusk	evening,	just	before	supper	time.	I	didn’t	go,
and	skipped	supper	too.	This	give	me	a	chance	to	watch	the	Dog	Star.	There	was
a	winder	halfway	down	the	room	from	my	cot,	and	from	it	I	could	see	the	Dog
Star	real	plain.	It	rose	in	the	dusk	with	a	bare	twinkle	and	got	brighter	as	night
darkened.
I	knew	Granma	and	Granpa	was	watching	it,	and	Willow	John.	I	stayed	by
the	winder	every	evening	for	an	hour	and	watched	the	Dog	Star.	I	told	Wilburn	if
he	wanted	to	skip	supper	some	night,	he	could	watch	it	with	me,	but	they	made
him	go	to	chapel	and	he	wouldn’t	give	up	supper.	He	never	watched	it.
At	first	when	I	commenced	to	watch	it	I	tried	to	think	up	things	during	the
day	that	I	would	remember	that	night,	but	I	found	out	that	this	was	not	necessary.
All	I	had	to	do	was	watch.	Granpa	sent	me	remembrance	of	me	and	him
settin’	on	top	of	the	mountain,	watching	the	day	birthing,	with	the	sun	hitting	the
ice	and	sparkling.	I	heard	him	plain	as	speaking,	“She’s	coming	alive!”	And
there	by	the	winder,	I	would	say,	“Yes,	sir,	she’s	coming	alive!”
Me	and	Granpa	went	back	fox	huntin’	watching	the	Dog	Star;	with	Blue
Boy	and	Little	Red,	and	ol’	Rippitt	and	Maud.	We	laughed	might	near	until	we
couldn’t	stand	it	at	ol’	Rippitt.
Granma	sent	remembrances	of	the	root	gathering	and	the	times	she	spilt
sugar	in	the	acorn	meal.	And	the	time	she	caught	me	and	Granpa	on	our	hands
and	knees	in	the	corn	patch,	braying	like	a	mule	at	ol’	Sam.
She	sent	me	a	picture	of	my	secret	place.	The	leaves	was	all	fallen,	brown
and	rust	and	yeller	on	the	ground.	Red	sumach	hemmed	it	like	a	ring	of	fire
torches	that	would	not	let	anybody	in	but	me.
Willow	John	sent	me	pictures	of	the	deer	in	the	high	ground.	Me	and
Willow	John	laughed	about	the	time	I	put	the	frog	in	his	coat	pocket.	Willow
John’s	pictures	would	get	fuzzy,	for	his	feeling	was	strong	on	something.	Willow
John	was	mad.
Every	day	I	watched	the	clouds	and	the	sun.	If	it	was	cloudy,	I	would	not	be
able	to	watch	the	Dog	Star.	When	this	happened,	I	stood	by	the	winder	and
listened	to	the	wind.
I	was	put	in	a	grade	of	school.	We	done	figgering	which	I	already	knew;	for
Mr.	Wine	had	taught	me.	A	big	fat	lady	headed	up	the	learning.	She	meant
business	and	would	not	tolerate	any	foolishness	at	all.
One	time	she	held	up	a	picture	that	showed	a	deer	herd	coming	out	of	a	spring
branch.	They	was	jumping	on	one	another	and	it	looked	like	they	was	pushing	to
get	out	of	the	water.	She	asked	if	anybody	knew	what	they	was	doing.
One	boy	said	they	was	running	from	something,	more	than	likely	a	hunter.
Another	boy	said	they	didn’t	like	water	and	was	hurrying	to	get	across.	She	said
this	was	right.	I	raised	my	hand.
I	said	I	seen	right	off	they	was	mating;	for	it	was	buck	deer	that	was
jumping	the	does;	also,	I	could	tell	by	the	bushes	and	trees	that	it	was	the	time	of
the	year	when	they	done	their	mating.
The	fat	lady	was	total	stumped.	She	opened	her	mouth,	but	didn’t	say
anything.	Somebody	laughed.	She	slapped	her	hand	on	her	for’ad	and	walled	her
eyes	back	and	dropped	the	picture.	I	see	right	off	she	was	sick.
She	staggered	back’ards	a	step	or	two	before	she	got	aholt	of	her	total
senses.	Then	she	run	at	me.	Everybody	got	quiet.	She	grabbed	me	by	the	neck
and	commenced	to	shake	me.	Her	face	got	red	and	she	commenced	to	holler,	“I
should	have	known—we	all	should	have	known	…	filth	…	filth	…	would	come
out	of	you	…	you	…	little	bastard!”
I	hadn’t	no	way	in	the	world	of	knowing	what	she	was	hollering	about,	and
stood	ready	to	set	it	right.	She	shaken	me	some	more	and	then	clasped	her	hand
behind	my	neck	and	pushed	me	out	of	the	room.
We	went	down	the	hall	to	the	Reverend’s	office.	She	made	me	wait	outside
and	shut	the	door	behind	her.	I	could	hear	them	talking,	but	could	not	understand
what	they	was	saying.
In	a	few	minutes	she	come	out	of	the	Reverend’s	office	and	walked	off
down	the	hall	without	looking	at	me.	The	Reverend	was	standing	in	the	door.	He
said,	real	quiet,	“Come	in.”	I	went	in.
His	lips	was	parted	like	he	was	going	to	grin,	but	he	wasn’t.	He	kept
running	his	tongue	over	his	lips.	There	was	sweat	on	his	face.	He	told	me	to	take
off	my	shirt.	Which	I	did.
I	had	to	pull	my	overall	galluses	off	my	shoulders,	and	when	I	got	my	shirt
off,	this	made	me	have	to	hold	up	my	overalls	with	both	hands.	The	Reverend
reached	behind	his	desk	and	taken	up	a	long	stick.
He	said,	“You	are	born	of	evil,	so	I	know	repentance	is	not	in	you;	but
praise	God,	you	are	going	to	be	taught	not	to	inflict	your	evil	upon	Christians.
You	can’t	repent	…	but	you	shall	cry	out!”
He	cut	loose	with	the	big	stick	acrost	my	back.	The	first	time	it	hurt;	but	I
didn’t	cry.	Granma	had	learnt	me.	Oncet	when	I	stumped	off	my	toenail	…	she
learnt	me	how	the	Indian	bears	pain.	He	lets	his	body	mind	go	to	sleep,	and	with
his	spirit	mind,	he	moves	out	of	his	body	and	sees	the	pain—instead	of	feeling
the	pain.
The	body	mind	only	feels	body	pain.	The	spirit	mind	only	feels	spirit	pain.
So	I	let	my	body	mind	sleep.
The	stick	splattered	and	splattered	acrost	my	back.	After	a	while	it	broke.
The	Reverend	got	another	stick.	He	was	panting	hard.	“Evil	is	stubborn,”	he	said
while	he	was	panting.	“But	praise	God,	right	will	prevail.”
He	kept	swinging	his	new	stick	until	I	fell	down.	I	was	wobbly	but	I	got	up.
Granpa	said	if	ye	could	stay	on	yer	feet,	more	than	likely,	ye	would	be	all	right.
The	floor	tilted	a	little,	but	I	seen	right	off	I	could	make	it.	The	Reverend
was	out	of	breath.	He	told	me	to	put	my	shirt	on.	Which	I	did.
The	shirt	soaked	up	some	of	the	blood.	Most	of	the	blood	had	run	down	my
legs	into	my	shoes,	as	I	didn’t	have	any	underwearing	to	catch	it.	This	made	my
feet	sticky.
The	Reverend	said	I	was	to	go	back	to	my	cot	and	I	was	not	to	eat	supper
for	a	week.	Which	I	didn’t	eat	supper	anyway.	He	said	I	was	not	to	go	back	to
the	grade	or	leave	the	room	for	a	week	neither.
It	felt	better	not	to	use	my	galluses,	so	that	evening	at	dusk,	I	held	up	my
overalls	when	I	stood	by	the	winder	and	watched	the	Dog	Star.
I	told	Granpa	and	Granma	and	Willow	John	about	it.	I	told	them	I	had	no
way	in	the	world	of	knowing	how	I	made	the	lady	sick;	nor	what	come	over	the
Reverend.	I	told	them	I	stood	ready	to	make	amend,	but	the	Reverend	said	I
couldn’t,	as	I	was	born	evil	and	would	not	know	how.
I	told	Granpa	that	it	’peared	to	me	that	more	than	likely	I	couldn’t	hardly	no
way	at	all	handle	the	situation.	I	said	I	wanted	to	come	home.
It	was	the	first	time	I	ever	went	to	sleep	watching	the	Dog	Star.	Wilburn
wakened	me	under	the	winder	when	he	got	back	from	supper.	He	said	he	left
supper	early	so	as	to	see	about	me.	I	slept	on	my	stomach.
Wilburn	said	when	he	growed	up	and	left	the	orphanage	and	taken	to
robbing	orphanages	and	banks	and	such,	that	he	would	kill	the	Reverend	right
off.	He	said	he	didn’t	care	if	he	did	go	to	hell,	like	I	was.
Every	evening	after	that,	when	dusk	brought	the	Dog	Star	up,	I	told	Granma
and	Granpa	and	Willow	John	I	wanted	to	come	home.	I	would	not	see	the
pictures	they	sent,	nor	listen.	I	told	them	I	wanted	to	come	home.	The	Dog	Star
turned	red	and	whitened	and	turned	red	again.
Three	nights	later,	the	Dog	Star	was	hid	by	heavy	clouds.	Wind	tore	down	a	light
pole	and	the	orphanage	was	dark.	I	knew	they	had	heard.
I	commenced	to	expect	them.	Winter	come	on.	The	wind	sharpened	and
cried	around	the	building	at	night.	Some	didn’t	like	it,	but	I	did.
Outside	now,	I	spent	all	my	time	under	the	oak	tree.	She	was	supposed	to	be
asleep,	but	she	said	she	wasn’t,	on	account	of	me.	She	talked	slow—and	low.
Late	one	evening,	just	before	we	was	to	go	in,	I	thought	I	seen	Granpa.	It
was	a	tall	man	and	he	wore	a	big	black	hat.	He	was	moving	away	from	me	down
the	street.	I	run	to	the	iron	fence	and	I	hollered,	“Granpa!	Granpa!”	He	didn’t
turn.
I	run	down	the	fence	as	far	as	it	went	and	he	was	disappearing.	I	hollered
loud	as	I	could,	“Granpa!	It’s	me,	Little	Tree!”	But	he	didn’t	hear,	and	was	gone.
The	white-headed	lady	said	Christmas	was	might	near	on	us.	She	said
everybody	was	to	be	happy	and	sing.	Wilburn	said	they	sung	all	kind	of	songs	in
the	chapel.	He	said	they	had	to	learn	the	songs	and	the	pets	got	to	stand	up
around	the	Reverend	like	chickens	with	white	sheets	on	and	bellered	at	the
songs.	I	could	hear	them.
The	white-headed	lady	said	Sandy	Claws	was	coming.	Wilburn	said	that
was	a	pile	of	shit.
Two	men	brought	in	a	tree.	They	had	on	suits	like	politicians.	They	laughed
and	grinned	and	said,	“Looky	here,	boys,	what	we	have	brought	you.	Isn’t	that
nice?	Now	isn’t	that	nice?	You	have	your	very	own	Christmas	tree!”
The	white-headed	lady	said	it	was	real	nice	and	she	told	everybody	to	tell
the	two	politicians	it	was	real	nice	and	to	thank	them.	Which	everybody	did.
I	didn’t.	There	was	no	cause	at	all	to	cut	the	tree.	It	was	a	male	pine	and	it
died	slow,	there	in	the	hall.
The	politicians	looked	at	their	watches	and	said	they	couldn’t	stay	long,	but
they	wanted	everybody	to	be	happy.	They	said	they	wanted	everybody	to	take
some	red	paper	and	put	it	on	the	tree.	Everybody	did	except	me	and	Wilburn.
The	politicians	left	and	hollered,	“Merry	Christmas!”	when	they	went	out
the	door.	We	all	stood	around	and	looked	at	the	tree	for	a	while.
The	white-headed	lady	said	that	tomorrow	was	Christmas	Eve	and	that
Sandy	Claws	would	come	with	presents	about	noontime.	Wilburn	said,	“Ain’t
that	a	funny	time	for	Sandy	Claws	to	be	coming	on	Christmas	Eve?”	The	white-
headed	lady	frowned	at	Wilburn.	She	said,	“Now	Wilburn,	you	say	that	every
year.	You	know	very	well	that	Sandy	Claws	has	got	to	go	a	lot	of	places.	You
also	know	that	he	and	his	helpers	have	a	right	to	be	home	with	their	families	on
Christmas	Eve.	You	should	be	thankful	they	take	the	time—anytime—to	come
and	give	you	Christmas.”
Wilburn	said,	“Bullshit.”
Sure	enough,	the	next	day	four	or	five	cars	come	up	to	the	door.	Men	and
ladies	got	out	and	had	packages	in	their	arms.	They	had	on	funny	little	hats	and
some	of	them	had	little	bells	in	their	hands.	They	rung	the	bells	and	hollered,
“Merry	Christmas!”	They	hollered	this	over	and	over.	They	said	they	was	Sandy
Claws’	helpers.	Sandy	Claws	come	in	last.
He	had	on	a	red	suit	and	had	pillers	stuffed	under	his	belt.	His	beard	was
not	real,	like	Mr.	Wine’s;	it	was	tied	on	and	hung	limp	below	his	mouth.	It	didn’t
move	when	he	talked.	He	hollered,	“Ho!	Ho!	Ho!”	He	kept	hollering	this	over
and	over.
The	white-headed	lady	said	we	was	all	to	be	happy	and	holler	back	“Merry
Christmas!”	at	them.	Which	everybody	did.
A	lady	give	me	a	orange,	which	I	thanked	her	for	it.	She	kept	standing	over
me	and	saying,	“Don’t	you	want	to	eat	the	nice	orange?”	So	I	et	it	while	she
watched	me.	It	was	good.	I	thanked	her	again.	I	told	her	it	was	a	good	orange.
She	asked	me	if	I	wanted	another	one.	I	told	her	I	reckined.	She	went	off
somewheres	and	never	did	get	another	one.	Wilburn	got	a	apple.	It	was	not	as
big	as	the	ones	Mr.	Wine	was	always	fergittin’	he	had	in	his	pocket.
I	wisht	then	that	I	had	saved	a	piece	of	my	orange,	which	I	would	have	if
the	lady	hadn’t	been	pushing	me	to	eat	it.	I	would	have	traded	some	of	it	for
some	of	Wilburn’s	apple.	I	was	partial	towards	apples.
The	ladies	all	commenced	ringing	their	bells	and	hollering,	“Sandy	Claws	is
going	to	give	out	the	gifts!	Gather	round	in	a	circle!	Sandy	Claws	has	something
for	you!”	We	all	gathered	round	in	a	circle.
When	Sandy	Claws	called	out	your	name,	you	had	to	step	forward	and	get
your	gift	from	him.	Then	you	was	to	stand	while	he	patted	you	on	the	head	and
rubbed	your	hair.	Then	you	thanked	him	for	it.
One	of	the	ladies	would	be	right	on	you	hollering,	“Open	up	your	gift!
Aren’t	you	going	to	open	up	the	nice	gift?”	Which	got	confusing,	the	more	was
given	out;	as	ladies	was	running	this	away	and	that	away	trying	to	foller
everybody	around.
I	got	my	gift,	and	thanked	Sandy	Claws.	He	rubbed	me	on	the	head	and
said,	“Ho!	Ho!	Ho!”	A	lady	commenced	hollering	at	me	to	open	it	up;	which	I
was	trying	to	do.	I	finally	got	the	wrapping	off.
It	was	a	cardboard	box	with	the	picture	of	a	animal	on	it.	Wilburn	said	it
was	the	picture	of	a	lion.	The	box	had	a	hole	in	it,	and	you	was	supposed	to	pull
a	string	through	the	hole,	and	it	would	sound	like	a	lion,	Wilburn	said.
The	string	was	broke,	but	I	fixed	it.	I	tied	a	knot	in	it.	The	knot	would	not
come	through	the	hole,	which	made	the	lion	not	growl	much.	I	told	Wilburn	it
sounded	more	like	a	frog	to	me.
Wilburn	got	a	water	pistol;	but	it	leaked.	He	tried	to	shoot	with	it,	but	the
water	kind	of	angled	down.	Wilburn	said	he	could	pee	farther	than	that.	I	told
Wilburn	we	could	more	than	likely	fix	it	if	we	had	some	sweet	gum;	but	I	didn’t
know	where	there	was	a	sweet	gum	tree	thereabouts.
A	lady	come	by	passing	out	a	piece	of	stick	candy	to	everybody.	I	got	one.
She	bumped	into	me	again	and	give	me	another	piece.	I	split	the	extry	with
Wilburn.
Sandy	Claws	started	hollering,	“Good-bye	everybody!	See	you	next	year!
Have	a	Merry	Christmas!”	All	the	men	and	ladies	started	hollering	the	same
thing	and	ringing	their	bells.
They	went	out	the	front	door	and	got	in	their	cars	and	taken	off.	Everything
seemed	quiet	after	that.	Me	and	Wilburn	set	on	the	floor	by	our	cots.
Wilburn	said	the	men	and	ladies	come	out	of	a	chamber	in	town	and	a
country	club.	He	said	they	come	out	every	year	so	they	could	feel	good	when
they	went	and	got	drunk.	Wilburn	said	he	was	tired	of	the	whole	thing.	He	said
when	he	got	out	of	the	orphanage,	he	was	not	never	going	to	pay	any	attention	to
Christmas,	whatsoever.
Just	as	dusk	begun	to	fall,	they	all	had	to	go	to	the	chapel	for	Christmas	Eve.	I
stayed	by	myself,	and	as	it	got	darker,	I	could	hear	them	singing.	I	stood	by	the
winder.	The	air	was	clear	and	the	wind	was	still.	They	sung	about	a	star,	but	it
wasn’t	the	Dog	Star,	for	I	listened	close.	I	watched	the	Dog	Star	rising	bright.
They	stayed	a	long	time,	singing	in	the	chapel,	so	I	got	to	watch	the	Dog
Star	until	it	rose	high.	I	told	Granma	and	Granpa	and	Willow	John	I	wanted	to
come	home.
Christmas	Day	we	had	a	big	dinner.	Each	one	of	us	got	a	chicken	leg	and
either	a	neck	or	a	gizzard.	Wilburn	said	it	was	always	that-a-way.	He	said	he
figured	they	raised	special	chickens	that	didn’t	have	nothing	but	legs,	necks	and
gizzards.	I	liked	mine	and	et	it	all.
After	dinner	we	could	do	as	we	pleased.	It	was	cold	outside	and	everybody
stayed	in	except	me.	I	went	acrost	the	yard	and	carried	my	cardboard	box	and	set
under	the	oak	tree.	I	set	a	long	time.
It	was	nearly	time	for	dusk	and	me	to	go	in,	when	I	looked	up	toward	the
building.
There	was	Granpa!	He	was	coming	out	of	the	office	and	walking	toward
me.	I	dropped	my	cardboard	box	and	run	at	him,	hard	as	I	could.	Granpa	knelt
and	we	held	each	other	and	did	not	speak.
It	was	getting	dark	and	I	couldn’t	see	Granpa’s	face	under	the	big	hat.	He
said	he	had	come	to	see	about	me,	but	had	to	go	back	home.	He	said	Granma
couldn’t	come.
I	wanted	to	go—worst	I	ever	felt—but	I	was	afraid	it	would	cause	Granpa
trouble.	So	I	didn’t	say	I	wanted	to	go	home.	I	walked	with	him	to	the	gate.	We
held	one	another	again,	but	Granpa	walked	off.	He	walked	slow.
I	stood	there	a	minute,	watching	him	go	away	in	the	dark.	The	thought
come	to	me	that	more	than	likely,	Granpa	might	have	trouble	finding	the	bus
station.	I	follered	along	though	I	didn’t	know	where	the	bus	station	was	myself,
but	I	might	be	able	to	help.
We	walked	down	a	road,	me	follering	behind,	and	then	onto	some	streets.	I
saw	Granpa	cross	a	street	and	come	up	behind	the	bus	station.	There	was	lights
where	he	was	standing.	I	hung	around	the	corner	where	I	was.
It	was	quiet,	being	Christmas	Day	and	practical	nobody	was	about.	I	waited
awhile	and	then	I	hollered.	“Granpa,	more	than	likely	I	could	help	ye	with	the
bus	lettering.”	Granpa	didn’t	act	stumped	at	all.	He	waved	for	me	to	come	on
over.	I	ran.	We	stood	at	the	back	of	the	station,	but	I	couldn’t	make	out	which
lettering	was	which.
In	a	little	while	a	loudspeaker	told	Granpa	which	one	was	his	bus.	I	walked
over	to	the	bus	with	him.	The	door	was	open	and	we	stood	there	a	minute.
Granpa	was	looking	off	somewheres.	I	pulled	on	his	pants	leg.	I	didn’t	hold	on
like	I	had	done	after	Ma’s	funeral,	but	I	kind	of	pulled.	Granpa	looked	down.	I
said,	“Granpa.	I	want	to	go	home.”
Granpa	looked	at	me	a	long	time.	He	reached	down	and	swung	me	up	in	his
arms	and	set	me	on	top	of	the	bus	step.	He	come	up	to	the	step	and	taken	out	his
snap	purse.	“I’m	paying	for	myself	and	my	young’un,”	Granpa	said,	and	he	said
it	hard.	The	bus	driver	looked	at	him,	and	he	didn’t	laugh.
Me	and	Granpa	walked	to	the	back	of	the	bus.	I	was	hoping	the	bus	driver
would	hurry	and	close	the	door.	Eventually	he	did,	and	we	started	up,	leaving	the
bus	station	behind.
Granpa	reached	his	arm	around	me	and	lifted	me	onto	his	lap.	I	laid	my
head	on	his	chest,	but	I	didn’t	sleep.	I	watched	the	winder.	It	was	frosted	with
ice.	There	wasn’t	any	heat	there	in	the	back	of	the	bus,	but	we	didn’t	care.
Me	and	Granpa	was	going	home.
See	the	mountains	humping	and	rolling	high
Rimming	the	day	birth	and	busting	the	sun
And	tucking	the	fog	sheets	’round	her	knees
And	strumming	the	wind	with	her	finger-trees
And	scratching	her	back	against	the	sky.
Watch	the	cloud	banks	roll	and	stroke	her	hips
Dripping	whispers	of	sighs	from	the	branch	and	bush
Hear	her	womb-hollows	stir	with	the	murmur	of	life
Feel	the	warm	of	her	body,	the	sweet	of	her	breath
And	the	rhythm	of	mating	that	thunders	and	cries.
Deep	in	her	belly	the	water	veins	pulse
And	nipple	the	roots	that	suckle	their	life
And	streams	from	her	breasts	in	a	liquid	flow
Giving	life	to	her	children	she	cradles	in	love
And	adding	a	lilt	from	Her	spirit	mind
The	melody	humming	of	water’s	song.
Me	and	Granpa’s	going	home.
Home	Again
We	rode	the	hours	away.	Me	and	Granpa,	my	head	on	his	chest	and	not
talking,	but	not	sleeping	either.	The	bus	stopped	two	or	three	times	at	bus
stations,	but	me	and	Granpa	stayed	on.	Maybe	we	was	afraid	something	would
happen	to	hold	us	back.
It	was	early	morning,	but	still	dark	when	me	and	Granpa	got	off	the	bus	on
the	side	of	the	road.	It	was	cold	and	there	was	ice	on	the	ground.
We	set	out	up	the	road	and	after	a	while	we	turned	up	the	wagon	ruts.	I	saw
the	mountains.	They	loomed	big	and	darker	than	the	dark	around	us.	I	might	near
broke	into	a	run.
By	the	time	we	turned	off	the	wagon	ruts	onto	the	hollow	trail,	the	dark	was
fading	into	gray.	I	told	Granpa,	of	a	sudden,	that	something	was	wrong.
He	stopped.	“What	is	it,	Little	Tree?”
I	set	down	and	pulled	off	my	shoes.	“I	reckined	I	couldn’t	feel	the	trail,
Granpa,”	I	said.	The	ground	felt	warm	and	run	up	through	my	legs	and	over	my
body.	Granpa	laughed.	He	set	down	too.	He	pulled	off	his	shoes	and	stuffed	his
socks	in	them.	Then	he	stood	up	and	throwed	the	shoes	back	toward	the	road	as
far	as	he	could	throw	them.
“And	ye	can	have	them	clobbers!”	Granpa	hollered.	I	throwed	mine	back
toward	the	road	and	hollered	the	same	thing;	and	me	and	Granpa	commenced	to
laugh.	We	laughed	’til	I	fell	down	and	Granpa	was	might	near	rolling	on	the
ground	hisself	and	tears	was	running	down	his	face.
We	didn’t	know	exactly	what	we	was	laughing	at,	but	it	was	funnier	than
anything	we	had	laughed	at	before.	I	told	Granpa	if	folks	could	see	us,	they
would	say	we	was	white	whiskey	drunk.	Granpa	said	he	reckined	…	but	maybe
we	was	drunk—in	a	way.
As	we	come	up	the	trail,	the	first	pink	touched	the	east	rim.	It	got	warm.	Pine
boughs	swept	down	over	the	trail	and	felt	my	face	and	run	theirselves	over	me.
Granpa	said	they	was	wanting	to	make	sure	it	was	me.
I	heard	the	spring	branch	and	it	was	humming.	I	run	and	laid	down	and
turned	my	face	to	the	water	while	Granpa	waited.	The	spring	branch	slapped	me
light,	and	run	over	my	head	and	felt	for	me—and	sung	louder	and	louder.
It	was	good	light	when	we	saw	the	foot	log.	The	wind	had	picked	up.
Granpa	said	it	wasn’t	moaning	nor	sighing,	it	was	singing	in	the	pines	and	would
tell	everything	in	the	mountains	that	I	was	home.	Ol’	Maud	bayed.
Granpa	hollered,	“Shut	up,	Maud!”	And	here	come	the	hounds	acrost	the
foot	log.
They	all	hit	me	at	oncet	and	knocked	me	down.	They	licked	me	all	over	the
face	and	every	time	I	tried	to	get	up	one	of	them	jumped	on	my	back	and	there	I
went	again.
Little	Red	commenced	to	show	out	by	jumping	all	four	feet	in	the	air	and
twisting	at	the	top	of	his	jump.	He	would	yelp	as	he	leaped.	Maud	commenced
doing	it,	and	ol’	Rippitt	tried	it	and	tumbled	in	the	spring	branch.
Me	and	Granpa	was	hollering	and	laughing	and	slapping	at	hounds	as	we
come	to	the	foot	log.	I	looked	to	the	porch,	but	Granma	wasn’t	there.
I	was	halfway	acrost	the	foot	log	and	got	scared,	for	I	couldn’t	see	her.
Something	told	me	to	turn	around.	There	she	was.
It	was	cold,	but	she	only	had	on	a	deerskin	dress	and	her	hair	shined	in	the
morning	sun.	She	stood	on	the	side	of	the	mountain	beneath	the	bare	branches	of
a	white	oak.	She	was	watching	like	she	wanted	to	look	at	me	and	Granpa	without
being	seen.
I	hollered,	“Granma!”	and	fell	off	the	foot	log.	It	didn’t	hurt.	I	splashed	in
the	water	and	it	was	warm	against	the	morning	chill.
Granpa	leaped	in	the	air	and	spraddled	out	his	legs.	He	hollered,
“Whoooooooeeeeeee!”	and	hit	the	water.	Granma	run	down	the	mountain.	She
run	into	the	spring	branch	and	dived	at	me,	and	we	rolled,	splashing	and
hollering	and	crying	some,	I	reckin.
Granpa	was	settin’	in	the	spring	branch	and	throwing	water	up	in	the	air.
The	hounds	all	stood	on	the	foot	log	and	looked	at	us,	total	stumped	at	the	whole
thing.	They	figgered	we	was	crazy,	Granpa	said.	They	jumped	in	too.
A	crow	commenced	to	caw,	settin’	high	atop	a	pine.	He	swooped	low	over
us,	cawing,	and	headed	up	the	hollow.	Granma	said	he	was	going	to	tell
everybody	I	was	home.
Granma	hung	my	yeller	coat	by	the	fireplace	to	dry.	I	had	had	it	on	when
Granpa	come	to	the	orphanage.	I	went	into	my	room	and	put	on	my	deer	shirt
and	britches	…	and	my	boot	moccasins.
I	run	out	the	door	and	up	the	hollow	trail.	The	hounds	went	with	me.	I
looked	back	and	saw	Granpa	and	Granma	standing	on	the	back	porch	watching.
Granpa	was	still	barefooted	and	he	had	his	arm	around	Granma.	I	run.
Ol’	Sam	snorted	when	I	passed	the	barn	and	trotted	after	me	aways.	Up	the
hollow	trail,	and	the	Narrows—all	the	way	to	Hangin’	Gap,	I	didn’t	want	to	stop
running.	The	wind	sung	along	with	me	and	squirrels	and	’coons	and	birds	come
out	on	tree	limbs	to	watch	and	holler	at	me	as	I	passed.	It	was	a	bright	winter
morning.
I	come	back	slow	down	the	trail	and	found	my	secret	place.	It	was	just	like	the
picture	Granma	had	sent	me.	Rust	leaves	was	deep	over	the	ground,	under	bare
trees,	and	red	sumach	closed	in	where	nobody	could	see.	I	laid	on	the	ground	a
long	time	and	talked	to	the	sleepy	trees,	and	listened	to	the	wind.
The	pines	whispered	and	the	wind	picked	up,	and	they	commenced	to	sing,
“Little	Tree	is	home	…	Little	Tree	is	home!	Listen	to	our	song!	Little	Tree	is
with	us!	Little	Tree	is	home!”	They	hummed	it	low	and	sung	it	higher,	and	the
spring	branch	sung	it	too	along	with	them.	The	hounds	noticed,	for	they	quit
sniffing	the	ground	and	stood	with	their	ears	up	and	listened.	The	hounds	knew
and	come	closer	around	me	and	laid	down,	content	with	the	feeling.
Through	that	short	winter	day,	I	lay	in	my	secret	place.	And	my	spirit	didn’t
hurt	anymore.	I	was	washed	clean	by	the	feeling	song	of	the	wind	and	the	trees
and	the	spring	branch	and	the	birds.
They	didn’t	care	or	understand	how	the	body	minds	worked,	no	more	than
the	men	of	body	minds	understood	or	cared	for	them.	So	they	did	not	tell	me
about	hell,	or	ask	me	where	I	come	from,	or	say	anything	about	evil	at	all.	They
didn’t	know	such	word-feelings;	and	in	a	little	while	I	had	forgot	them	too.
When	the	sun	had	set	behind	the	rim	and	shafted	its	last	light	through
Hangin’	Gap,	me	and	the	hounds	walked	back	down	the	hollow	trail.
As	the	hollow	softened	blue,	I	saw	Granma	and	Granpa	settin’	on	the	back
porch,	facing	up	the	hollow	toward	me,	waiting,	and	as	I	come	to	the	back	porch,
they	stooped	and	we	held	on	to	one	another.	We	didn’t	need	words,	and	so	did
not	say	them.	We	knew.	I	was	home.
When	I	pulled	off	my	shirt	that	night,	Granma	saw	the	whip	scars	and	asked	me.
I	told	her	and	Granpa,	but	I	said	it	didn’t	hurt.
Granpa	said	he	would	tell	the	high	sheriff	and	that	nobody	was	to	come	for
me	again.	I	knew	when	Granpa	set	his	mind	and	said	it—then	they	would	not
come.	Granpa	said	it	would	be	best	not	to	tell	Willow	John	of	the	whipping.
Which	I	said	I	wouldn’t.
By	the	fireplace	that	night,	Granpa	told	it.	How	they	commenced	to	have
bad	feelings,	watching	the	Dog	Star,	and	then	one	evening	at	dusk	Willow	John
was	standing	at	the	door.
He	had	walked	to	the	cabin	through	the	mountains.	He	didn’t	say	anything,
but	et	supper	with	them	by	the	light	of	the	fire.	They	didn’t	light	the	lamp	and
Willow	John	did	not	pull	off	his	hat.	He	slept	in	my	bed	that	night,	but	when
they	got	up	in	the	morning,	Granpa	said,	Willow	John	was	gone.
That	Sunday	when	him	and	Granma	went	to	church	Willow	John	was	not
there.	On	a	branch	of	the	big	elm,	where	we	always	met,	Granpa	found	a
message	belt.	It	said	Willow	John	would	be	back	and	that	all	was	well.	The	next
Sunday	it	was	still	there;	but	the	Sunday	after	that	Willow	John	was	waiting	for
them.	He	didn’t	say	where	he	had	been,	so	Granpa	didn’t	ask.
Granpa	said	the	high	sheriff	sent	him	word	that	he	was	wanted	at	the
orphanage,	and	he	went.	He	said	the	Reverend	looked	sick	and	said	he	was
signing	give-up	papers	on	me.	He	said	he	had	been	followed	around	for	two	days
by	a	savage,	and	that	the	savage	had	eventually	come	into	his	office	and	said	that
Little	Tree	was	to	come	home	to	the	mountains.	That	was	all	the	savage	said,	and
walked	off.	The	Reverend	said	he	did	not	want	any	trouble	with	savages	and
pagans	and	such.
I	knew	then	who	it	was	I	had	seen	walking	away	down	the	road	that	I	had
thought	was	Granpa.
Granpa	said	when	he	come	out	of	the	office	and	seen	me,	he	knew	at	the
time	I	was	to	be	given	up;	but	he	didn’t	know	if	I	was	more	taken	with	being
around	young’uns	…	or	wanted	to	come	home	…	so	he	let	me	decide.
I	told	Granpa	I	seen	right	off	what	I	wanted	to	do	the	minute	I	got	to	the
orphanage.
I	told	Granma	and	Granpa	about	Wilburn.	I	left	my	cardboard	box	under	the
oak	tree	and	I	knew	Wilburn	would	find	it.	Granma	said	she	would	send	Wilburn
a	deer	shirt.	Which	she	did.
Granpa	said	he	would	send	him	a	long	knife,	but	I	told	Granpa	more	than
likely	Wilburn	would	stab	the	Reverend	with	it.	Granpa	didn’t	send	it.	We	never
heard	nothing	more	of	Wilburn.
When	we	went	to	church	that	Sunday,	I	was	first	across	the	clearing.	I	run
way	ahead	of	Granma	and	Granpa.	Willow	John	was	standing	back	in	the	trees,
where	I	knew	he	would	be;	the	old	straight-brimmed	black	hat	settin’	on	top	of
his	head.	I	run	as	hard	as	I	could	and	grabbed	Willow	John	around	the	legs	and
hugged	him.	I	said,	“Thankee,	Willow	John.”	He	didn’t	say	anything	but	reached
and	touched	my	shoulder.	When	I	looked	up,	his	eyes	was	twinkling	and	shining,
black	deep.
The	Passing	Song
We	wintered	good;	though	me	and	Granpa	was	put	to	it	to	keep	up	with	the
wood	cutting.	Granpa	had	got	behind	and	said	that	if	I	had	not	come	back,	they
would	more	than	likely	have	froze	that	winter.	Which	they	would.
It	was	a	hard	freeze	winter.	We	most	times	had	to	set	fires	and	thaw	out	our
running	lines	at	the	still,	when	we	run	off	our	wares.
Granpa	said	hard	winters	was	necessary	occasional.	It	was	nature’s	way	of
cleaning	things	up	and	making	things	grow	better.	The	ice	broke	off	the	weak
limbs	of	the	trees,	so	only	the	strong	ones	come	through.	It	cleaned	out	the	soft
acorns	and	chinkapins,	chestnuts	and	walnuts,	and	made	for	a	hardier	food	crop
in	the	mountains.
Spring	come,	and	planting	time.	We	upped	our	corn	planting,	figuring	to
make	the	run	of	our	wares	a	little	bigger	in	the	fall.
It	was	hard	times,	and	Mr.	Jenkins	said	the	whiskey	trade	was	picking	up
while	everything	else	was	going	down.	He	said	he	reckined	a	feller	had	to	drink
more	whiskey	to	fergit	how	bad	off	he	was.
During	the	summer	I	come	up	to	seven	years.	Granma	give	me	the	marriage
stick	of	my	Ma	and	Pa.	It	didn’t	have	many	notches	on	it,	for	they	was	not
married	long.	I	put	it	in	my	room	across	the	headboard	of	my	bed.
Summer	give	way	to	fall,	and	one	Sunday,	Willow	John	didn’t	come.	We	come
across	the	clearing	that	Sunday	but	we	didn’t	see	him	standing	under	the	elm.	I
run	far	back	into	the	trees	and	called,	“Willow	John!”	He	was	not	there.	We
turned	back	and	didn’t	go	to	church.	We	come	home.
Granma	and	Granpa	was	worried	about	it.	I	was	too.	He	had	left	no	sign,	for
we	looked.	Granpa	said	something	was	wrong.	Me	and	Granpa	determined	to	go
and	find	him.
We	set	out	before	day,	that	Monday	morning.	By	early	light	we	was	past	the
crossroads	store	and	the	church.	After	that,	we	commenced	to	walk	might	near
straight	upward.
It	was	the	highest	mountain	I	had	ever	walked.	Granpa	had	to	slow	down
and	I	kept	up	easy.	It	was	an	old	trail,	so	dim	you	almost	couldn’t	see	it,	running
along	a	ridge	that	sloped	upward	and	onto	another	mountain.	The	trail	sidled	up
the	mountain,	but	always	it	went	up.
The	trees	was	shorter	and	more	weathered.	At	the	top	of	the	mountain	a
little	fold	run	into	the	side;	not	deep	enough	to	be	called	a	hollow.	Trees	grew	on
its	sides	and	pine	needles	carpeted	the	floor.	Willow	John’s	lodge	was	there.
It	was	not	built	of	big	logs,	like	our	cabin,	but	of	smaller	lodge	poles	and	set
back	in	the	trees	against	the	bank	of	the	fold,	sheltered.
We	had	brought	Blue	Boy	and	Little	Red	with	us.	When	they	saw	the	lodge,
they	raised	their	noses	and	commenced	to	whine.	It	was	not	a	good	sign.	Granpa
went	in	first;	he	had	to	stoop	to	go	through	the	door.	I	followed	him.
There	was	only	one	room	in	the	lodge.	Willow	John	lay	on	a	bed	of	deer
hides	spread	over	spring	boughs.	He	was	naked.	The	long	copper	frame	was
withered	like	an	old	tree	and	one	hand	lay	limp	on	the	dirt	floor.
Granpa	whispered,	“Willow	John!”
Willow	John	opened	his	eyes.	His	eyes	was	faraway,	but	he	grinned.	“I
knew	you	would	come,”	he	said,	“and	so,	I	waited.”	Granpa	found	a	iron	pot	and
sent	me	for	water.	I	found	it,	trickling	from	rocks	behind	the	lodge.
There	was	a	fire	pit	just	inside	the	door	and	Granpa	built	a	fire	and	put	the
pot	over	it.	He	dropped	strips	of	deer	meat	in	the	water;	and	after	they	had
boiled,	raised	Willow	John’s	head	in	the	cradle	of	his	arm	and	spooned	the	broth
down	him.
I	got	blankets	from	a	corner	and	we	covered	Willow	John.	He	didn’t	open
his	eyes.	Night	come	on.	Me	and	Granpa	kept	the	fire	going	in	the	fire	pit.	The
wind	whistled	on	the	mountaintop	and	whined	around	the	corners	of	the	lodge.
Granpa	set	cross-legged	before	the	fire	and	the	light	flickered	over	his	face,
changing	it	from	old,	to	older	…	making	it	look	like	rock	crags	and	clefts	in	the
shadows	of	his	cheekbones	until	all	I	could	see	was	the	eyes	looking	at	the	fire;
burning	black,	not	like	flames,	but	like	embers	going	out.	I	curled	around	the	fire
pit	and	slept.
It	was	morning	when	I	woke.	The	fire	was	beating	back	fog	drifting	in	the
door.	Granpa	still	set	by	the	fire;	like	he	hadn’t	moved	at	all,	though	I	know	he
had	kept	it	burning.
Willow	John	stirred.	Me	and	Granpa	went	to	his	side,	and	his	eyes	was
open.	He	raised	his	hand	and	pointed.	“Take	me	outside.”
“It’s	cold	out,”	Granpa	said.
“I	know,”	Willow	John	whispered.
Granpa	had	a	hard	time	getting	Willow	John	into	his	arms,	for	he	was	total
limp.	I	tried	to	help.
Granpa	carried	him	out	the	door	and	I	dragged	the	spring	boughs	behind
them.	Granpa	clambered	up	the	bank	of	the	fold	to	a	high	point	and	we	laid
Willow	John	on	the	spring	boughs.	We	wrapped	him	in	blankets	and	put	his	boot
moccasins	on	his	feet.	Granpa	folded	hides	and	propped	up	his	head.
The	sun	broke	through	behind	us	and	chased	the	fog	into	the	deeps,	searching
shade.	Willow	John	was	looking	west,	across	the	wild	mountains	and	deep
hollows,	as	far	as	you	could	see;	toward	the	Nations.
Granpa	went	to	the	lodge	and	come	back	with	Willow	John’s	long	knife.	He
put	it	in	his	hand.	Willow	John	raised	the	knife	and	pointed	to	an	old	fir-pine	that
was	bent	and	twisted.	He	said,	“When	I	have	gone,	put	the	body	there,	close	to
her.	She	has	dropped	many	young	and	warmed	me	and	sheltered	me.	It	will	be
good.	The	food	will	give	her	two	more	seasons.”
“We	will,”	Granpa	said.
“Tell	Bee,”	Willow	John	whispered,	“it	will	be	better	next	time.”
“I	will,”	Granpa	said.
He	set	down	by	Willow	John	and	taken	his	hand.	I	set	on	the	other	side	and
taken	his	other	hand.
“I	will	wait	for	you,”	Willow	John	told	Granpa.
“We	will	come,”	Granpa	said.
I	told	Willow	John	that	more	than	likely,	it	was	the	flu;	Granma	had	said
that	it	was	going	around	practical	everywheres.	I	told	him	I	was	might	near
certain	that	we	could	get	him	on	his	feet	and	down	the	mountain	where	he	could
stay	with	us.	I	told	him	the	whole	thing	was	to	get	on	his	feet,	and	then	he	could
more	than	likely	make	it.
He	grinned	at	me	and	squeezed	my	hand.	“You	have	good	heart,	Little	Tree;
but	I	do	not	want	to	stay.	I	want	to	go.	I	will	wait	for	you.”
I	cried.	I	told	Willow	John	reckin	if	he	couldn’t	figger	on	staying	a	little
longer,	maybe	he	could	go	next	year	when	it	would	be	warmer.	I	told	him	the
hickor’nut	crop	would	be	good	this	winter.	I	told	him	you	could	might	near	see
right	off	that	the	deer	would	be	fat.
He	grinned,	but	he	didn’t	answer	me.
He	looked	far	out	over	the	mountains,	toward	the	west;	like	me	and	Granpa
was	not	there	anymore.	He	begun	his	passing	song,	telling	the	spirits	he	was
coming.	The	death	song.
It	begun	low	in	his	throat	and	rose	higher	and	commenced	to	get	thinner.
In	a	little	while	you	couldn’t	tell	if	it	was	the	wind,	or	Willow	John	that	you
heard.	His	eyes	got	dimmer	as	his	throat	muscles	moved	weaker.
Me	and	Granpa	saw	the	spirit	slipping	away	farther	back	in	his	eyes	and	we
felt	it	leaving	his	body.	Then	he	was	gone.
The	wind	whooshed	across	us	and	bent	the	old	fir-pine.	Granpa	said	it	was
Willow	John,	and	he	had	a	strong	spirit.	We	watched	it,	bending	just	the	tops	of
the	trees	on	the	ridges,	moving	down	the	side	of	the	mountain	and	raising	a	flock
of	crows	into	the	air.	They	cawed	and	cawed	and	set	off	down	the	mountain	with
Willow	John.
Me	and	Granpa	set	and	watched	him	move	out	of	sight	over	the	rims	and
humps	of	the	mountains.	We	set	a	long	time.
Granpa	said	Willow	John	would	be	back,	and	that	we	would	feel	him	in	the
wind	and	hear	him	on	the	talking	fingers	of	the	trees.	Which	we	would.
Me	and	Granpa	taken	our	long	knives	and	dug	the	hole;	as	close	to	the	old
fir-pine	as	we	could	get	it.	We	dug	it	deep.	Granpa	wrapped	another	blanket
around	Willow	John’s	body	and	we	laid	it	in	the	hole.	He	put	Willow	John’s	hat
in	the	hole	too,	and	let	the	long	knife	stay	in	his	hand,	where	he	gripped	it	tight.
We	piled	rocks	heavy	and	deep	over	the	body	of	Willow	John.	Granpa	said
the	’coons	must	be	kept	away,	for	Willow	John	was	determined	the	tree	was	to
have	the	food.
The	sun	was	setting	in	the	west	when	I	follered	Granpa	down	from	the
mountaintop.	We	had	left	the	lodge	as	we	had	found	it.	Granpa	carried	a	deer
shirt	of	Willow	John’s	to	give	to	Granma.
When	we	reached	the	hollow,	it	was	after	midnight.	I	heard	a	mourning
dove	far	back,	calling.	It	was	not	answered.	I	knew	it	called	for	Willow	John.
Granma	lit	the	lamp	when	we	come	in.	Granpa	laid	Willow	John’s	shirt	on
the	table	and	did	not	say	anything.	Granma	knew.
We	didn’t	go	to	church	after	that.	I	didn’t	care,	for	Willow	John	would	not
be	there.
We	was	to	have	two	more	years	together;	me	and	Granpa	and	Granma.	Maybe
we	knew	time	was	getting	close,	but	we	didn’t	speak	of	it.	Granma	went
everywhere	now	with	me	and	Granpa.	We	lived	it	full.	We	pointed	out	things
like	the	reddest	of	the	leaves	in	the	fall,	to	make	sure	the	others	saw	it,	the	bluest
violet	in	the	spring,	so	we	all	tasted	and	shared	the	feeling	together.
Granpa’s	step	got	slower.	His	moccasins	dragged	some	when	he	walked.	I
toted	more	of	the	fruit	jar	wares	in	my	tow	sack	and	taken	to	handling	more	of
the	heavy	work.	We	didn’t	mention	it.
Granpa	showed	me	how	to	curve	the	down	swing	of	an	axe,	so	you	moved
through	a	log	fast	and	easy.	I	pulled	more	of	the	corn	than	he	did,	leaving	the
ears	easiest	to	reach	for	him;	but	I	didn’t	say	anything.	I	remembered	what
Granpa	had	said	about	ol’	Ringer	feeling	he	was	still	of	worth.	That	last	fall,	ol’
Sam	died.
I	told	Granpa	reckin	we	hadn’t	better	see	about	another	mule,	and	Granpa
said	it	was	a	long	time	’til	spring;	let’s	wait	and	see.
We	taken	the	high	trail	more	regular;	me	and	Granpa	and	Granma.	The
climb	was	slower	for	them,	but	they	loved	to	set	and	watch	the	mountain	rims.
It	was	on	the	high	trail	that	Granpa	slipped	and	fell.	He	didn’t	get	up.	Me
and	Granma	sided	him	down	the	mountain	and	he	kept	saying,	“I’ll	be	all	right
d’rectly.”	But	he	wasn’t.	We	put	him	abed.
Pine	Billy	come	by.	He	stayed	with	us	and	set	up	with	Granpa.	Granpa
wanted	to	hear	his	fiddle	and	Pine	Billy	played.	There	in	the	lamplight,	with	his
homemade	haircropping	hanging	over	his	ears,	and	his	long	neck	bent	over	the
fiddle,	Pine	Billy	played.	Tears	run	down	his	face	onto	the	fiddle	and	dropped	on
his	overalls.
Granpa	said,	“Quit	crying,	Pine	Billy.	Ye’re	messing	up	the	music.	I	want	to
hear	the	fiddle.”
Pine	Billy	choked	and	said,	“I	ain’t	crying.	I	catched	a	c-c-cold.”	Then	he
dropped	his	fiddle	and	flung	hisself	at	the	foot	of	Granpa’s	bed	and	laid	his	head
in	the	bedclothes.	He	heaved	and	cried.	Pine	Billy	never	was	one	to	hold	hisself
in	about	anything.
Granpa	raised	up	his	head	and	hollered—weak,	“Ye	damn	idjit;	ye’re	gittin’
Red	Eagle	snuff	all	over	the	bed	sheets!”	Which	he	was.
I	cried	too,	but	I	didn’t	let	Granpa	see	me.
Granpa’s	body	mind	commenced	to	stumble	and	sleep.	His	spirit	mind
taken	over.	He	talked	to	Willow	John	a	lot.	Granma	held	his	head	in	her	arms
and	whispered	in	his	ear.
Granpa	come	back	to	his	body	mind.	He	wanted	his	hat,	which	I	got;	and	he
put	it	on	his	head.	I	held	his	hand	and	he	grinned.	“It	was	good,	Little	Tree.	Next
time,	it	will	be	better.	I’ll	be	seein’	ye.”	And	he	slipped	off;	like	Willow	John	had
done.
I	knew	it	was	going	to	happen,	but	I	didn’t	believe	it.	Granma	laid	on	the
bed	by	Granpa,	holding	him	tight.	Pine	Billy	was	bawling	on	the	foot	of	the	bed.
I	slipped	out	of	the	cabin.	The	hounds	was	baying	and	whining,	for	they
knew.	I	walked	down	the	hollow	trail	and	taken	the	cutoff	trail.	I	was	not
follering	Granpa,	and	then	I	knew	the	world	had	come	to	an	end.
I	was	blinded	and	fell	and	got	up	and	walked	and	fell	again;	I	don’t	know
how	many	times.	I	come	to	the	crossroads	store	and	I	told	Mr.	Jenkins.	Granpa
was	dead.
Mr.	Jenkins	was	too	old	to	walk	and	he	sent	his	son,	a	full-growed	man,	to
go	back	with	me.	He	led	me	by	the	hand,	like	I	was	might	near	a	baby,	for	I
could	not	see	the	trail,	nor	know	where	I	was	going.
Mr.	Jenkins’	son	and	Pine	Billy	made	the	box.	I	tried	to	help.	I	recollected
Granpa	said	you	was	obligated	to	pitch	in	when	folks	was	trying	to	do	for	you;
but	I	wasn’t	much	account	at	it.	Pine	Billy	cried	so	much,	he	wasn’t	neither.	He
hit	his	thumb	with	the	hammer.
They	carried	Granpa	up	the	high	trail.	Granma	leading,	and	Pine	Billy	and
Mr.	Jenkins’	son	carrying	the	box.	Me	and	the	hounds	come	behind.	Pine	Billy
kept	crying,	which	made	it	hard	on	me	to	hold	myself	in,	not	wanting	to	trouble
Granma.	The	hounds	whined.
I	knew	where	Granma	was	taking	Granpa.	It	was	to	his	secret	place;	high
on	the	mountain	trail	where	he	watched	the	day	birth	and	never	got	tired	of	it	and
never	quit	saying,	“She’s	coming	alive!”	like	each	time	was	the	first	time	he	had
ever	seen	it.	Maybe	it	was.	Maybe	every	birthing	is	different	and	Granpa	could
see	that	it	was	and	knew.
It	was	the	place	Granpa	had	taken	me	first,	and	so	I	knew	Granpa	kinned
me.
Granma	didn’t	look	as	we	lowered	Granpa	in	the	ground.	She	watched	the
mountains,	far	off,	and	she	didn’t	cry.
The	wind	was	strong,	there	on	the	mountaintop	and	it	lifted	her	hair-braids
and	streamed	them	out	behind	her.	Pine	Billy	and	Mr.	Jenkins’	son	walked	off,
back	down	the	trail.	Me	and	the	hounds	watched	Granma	awhile,	then	we
slipped	away.
We	waited,	setting	under	a	tree	halfway	down	the	trail,	for	Granma	to	come.	It
was	dusk	when	she	did.
I	tried	to	pick	up	Granpa’s	load	and	mine	too.	I	ran	the	still,	but	I	know	our
wares	was	not	as	good.
Granma	got	out	all	Mr.	Wine’s	figgering	books	and	pushed	me	on	learning.
I	went	to	the	settlement	alone	and	brought	back	other	books.	I	read	them	now,	by
the	fireplace,	while	Granma	listened	and	watched	the	fire.	She	said	I	done	good.
Ol’	Rippitt	died,	and	later	that	winter,	ol’	Maud.
It	was	just	before	spring.	I	come	from	the	Narrows	down	the	hollow	trail.	I
saw	Granma	setting	on	the	back	porch.	She	had	moved	her	rocker	there.
She	didn’t	watch	me	as	I	come	down	the	hollow.	She	was	looking	up,
toward	the	high	trail.	I	knew	she	was	gone.
She	had	put	on	the	orange	and	green	and	red	and	gold	dress	that	Granpa
loved.	She	had	printed	out	a	note	and	pinned	it	on	her	bosom.	It	said:
Little	Tree,	I	must	go.	Like	you	feel	the	trees,	feel	for	us	when	you
are	listening.	We	will	wait	for	you.	Next	time	will	be	better.	All	is	well.
Granma.
I	carried	the	tiny	body	into	the	cabin	and	put	it	on	the	bed	and	set	with	her
through	the	day.	Blue	Boy	and	Little	Red	set	too.
That	evening	I	went	and	found	Pine	Billy.	Pine	Billy	set	up	the	night	with
me	and	Granma.	He	cried	and	played	his	fiddle.	He	played	the	wind	…	and	the
Dog	Star	…	and	the	mountain	rims	…	and	the	day	birthing	…	and	dying.	Me
and	Pine	Billy	knew	Granma	and	Granpa	was	listening.
We	made	the	box	next	morning	and	carried	her	up	the	high	trail	and	laid	her
beside	Granpa.	I	taken	the	old	marriage	stick	and	buried	the	ends	in	piles	of
stone	me	and	Pine	Billy	put	at	the	head	of	each	grave.
I	seen	the	notches	they	made	for	me;	right	down	near	the	end	of	the	stick.
They	was	deep	and	happy	notches.
I	lasted	out	the	winter;	me	and	Blue	Boy	and	Little	Red,	until	spring.	Then	I
went	to	Hangin’	Gap	and	buried	the	still’s	copper	pot	and	worm.	I	was	not	much
good	at	it,	and	had	not	learned	the	trade	as	I	had	ought	to.	I	knew	Granpa	would
not	want	anybody	else	using	it	to	turn	out	bad	wares.
I	took	the	whiskey	trade	money	that	Granma	had	set	out	for	me	and
determined	I	would	head	west,	across	the	mountains	to	the	Nations.	Blue	Boy
and	Little	Red	went	with	me.	We	just	closed	the	cabin	door	one	morning	and
walked	away.
At	the	farms	I	asked	for	work;	if	they	would	not	let	me	keep	Blue	Boy	and	Little
Red	then	I	would	move	on.	Granpa	said	a	feller	owed	that	much	to	his	hounds.
Which	is	right.
Little	Red	fell	through	creek	ice	in	the	Arkansas	Ozarks	and	died	like	a
hound	ought	to	die,	in	the	mountains.	Me	and	Blue	Boy	made	it	to	the	Nations,
where	there	was	no	Nation.
We	worked	on	the	farms,	going	west,	and	then	the	ranches	on	the	flats.
One	evening	late,	Blue	Boy	come	aside	my	horse.	He	laid	down	and
couldn’t	get	up.	He	couldn’t	go	anymore.	I	taken	him	up,	acrost	my	saddle,	and
we	turned	our	backs	on	the	red	settin’	sun	of	the	Cimarron.	We	headed	east.
I	would	not	get	my	job	back,	riding	off	this	way,	but	I	didn’t	care.	I	had
bought	the	horse	and	saddle	for	fifteen	dollars	and	they	was	mine.
Me	and	Blue	Boy	was	huntin’	us	a	mountain.
Before	day	we	found	one.	It	wasn’t	much	of	a	mountain,	more	like	a	hill,
but	Blue	Boy	whimpered	when	he	seen	it.	I	toted	him	to	the	top	as	the	sun	broke
the	east.	I	dug	him	a	grave	and	he	laid	and	watched.
He	couldn’t	raise	his	head,	but	he	let	me	know	he	knew	it;	for	he	stiffened	a
ear	and	kept	his	eyes	on	me.	After	that,	I	held	Blue	Boy’s	head,	settin’	on	the
ground.	He	licked	my	hand,	when	he	could.
In	a	little	while	he	passed	on,	easy,	and	dropped	his	head	over	my	arm.	I
buried	him	deep	and	rocked	his	grave	heavy	against	the	creatures.
With	his	nose	sense,	I	figgered	more	than	likely	Blue	Boy	was	already
halfway	to	the	mountains.
He’d	have	no	trouble	at	all	catching	up	with	Granpa.