He does. He
inspects the knife gravely, sends it to the laboratory to check
whether it has cut bread made from wheat infected with the dread
wheat cholera or has come into contact with tuleremic pork
plasma, etc. The case is too serious for him alone so he calls
co-counsel. The poor little feller by this time is so bewildered
he doesn't remember whether he cut his finger or wet his pants.
Grandpappy is grubbing and piling deadened thorn trees, piling
brush, logs and dead limbs, spading-up locust, thorn, elm, osage
orange and wild crabapple sprouts . . . and otherwise disporting
himself in one of the big pastures north of town. . . Earlier in
the year, a quail would perch on that big southeast corner post
of the pasture. You would know he was there because he would
whistle that shrill "Bob White, Bob White." If you weren't too
anxious to work you would stop and try to figure him out. . .
Once I was working diligently near the east fence line. All at
once I realized a squirrel was barking at me. I kept still and
located the sound, but I never got to see the squirrel. But I did
see birds, woodpeckers, blue jays, rain crows and robins flying
into a certain rather small tree, and I knew what that meant at
this time of year--a mulberry tree.
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