father came home from Philadelphia on the weekends and Gretchenminded the Corn House and read. Sometimes in the afternoon she had tea with Professor James in the front parlor of the big house. Charlie had school, which he seemed to like all right. And old Bat, when she had jumped out of the pasture, waited for him at the bus stop. We got used to the picture of the two of them trudging up the lane to Silver Hill on a winter’s afternoon.
The next time Charlie searched for the pony she wasn’t in the boneyard. From then on he only saw her when she was eating her hay in the morning as he left for school. She had never had so much to eat in her life, and with the mud caked into her thick winter coat she would be warm no matter how bad the weather.
Sometimes Charlie saw the red-tailed hawk in the afternoon. He would hear the whistle and look up to see the young hawk riding the air. But he never saw him dive again that winter. He didn’t know whether this hawk was the one he’d seen that afternoon in the back pasture at Mill Creek. Charlie liked to hear the whistle, the harsh, descending “keeeeer.” The hawk was a sentinel, a watcher. Charlie wondered of what. No one he asked was sure.
Our lives were snug and in order, waiting for the winter to be over.
The hawk declared the spring. In late April, Charlie, who would be nine that summer, saw the red tail hunting high above the field next to the lane intoSilver Hill. He and Bat were walking in together after school. In the beginning, whenever he saw the hawk, he waited for him to dive. But, as time went on, the experience at Mill Creek faded and Charlie no longer waited in suspense for the sudden fall of the hawk. So when it happened that day, he was caught off guard. He told Matthew that the suddenness of it took his breath away. The hawk landed not twenty feet from him and Bat. This time when the red tail spread his wings over the clump of broom sage, he also spread his tail, his vivid reddish-brown tail, so that half of him seemed to disappear into the ground. As usual when something exciting happened, Charlie was in a knot. He reached up and grabbed Bat’s halter. But the mule was impassive. Except for greetings, things had to be out of whack to get her attention.
At the beginning of May the pony began to shed her winter coat. Charlie was riding again, and Matthew had shown him how to take the rough metal curry-comb to the thick hair and make it fall out in clumps. As a result by the middle of the month she was gleaming. Even if there was rain she only stayed mud-colored for a day or so. She would roll in the winter grass and finish what Charlie and the brushes and curry had begun. She changed from the color of the clay to almost white again.
The day it happened began as any other chilly but clear spring Saturday morning. After breakfast Charlie walked to the barn, got an ear of corn, andwent to find the pony. Brown was wandering around, hoping for a handout. Old Bat looked down on the Corn House from in front of the garage at the big house, and every imaginable plant and animal was engaged in leaping into life. The red tail cruised over head. Charlie heard his whistle and looked up.
The pony was in the boneyard, looking her whitest. For once she let him walk right up to her. Charlie led the pony down the hill to the barn. Old Bat hee-hawed her greeting from the other hill and Charlie smiled.
He led the pony around to the front of the barn. Just as he was about to step across the concrete threshold, Gretchen called from the house telling him to come right now and get a sweater. The tone of voice was clear. He had better come right now. So once in the barn he hurriedly turned the pony around and tied the end of the lead rope to the ring next to the door, leaving four feet of it dangling. Then he hooked the low half door from the outside. He was in a hurry. It was time to go riding, sweater or no sweater.
The rest of it came in a rush. Just as he was coming down the
The next time Charlie searched for the pony she wasn’t in the boneyard. From then on he only saw her when she was eating her hay in the morning as he left for school. She had never had so much to eat in her life, and with the mud caked into her thick winter coat she would be warm no matter how bad the weather.
Sometimes Charlie saw the red-tailed hawk in the afternoon. He would hear the whistle and look up to see the young hawk riding the air. But he never saw him dive again that winter. He didn’t know whether this hawk was the one he’d seen that afternoon in the back pasture at Mill Creek. Charlie liked to hear the whistle, the harsh, descending “keeeeer.” The hawk was a sentinel, a watcher. Charlie wondered of what. No one he asked was sure.
Our lives were snug and in order, waiting for the winter to be over.
The hawk declared the spring. In late April, Charlie, who would be nine that summer, saw the red tail hunting high above the field next to the lane intoSilver Hill. He and Bat were walking in together after school. In the beginning, whenever he saw the hawk, he waited for him to dive. But, as time went on, the experience at Mill Creek faded and Charlie no longer waited in suspense for the sudden fall of the hawk. So when it happened that day, he was caught off guard. He told Matthew that the suddenness of it took his breath away. The hawk landed not twenty feet from him and Bat. This time when the red tail spread his wings over the clump of broom sage, he also spread his tail, his vivid reddish-brown tail, so that half of him seemed to disappear into the ground. As usual when something exciting happened, Charlie was in a knot. He reached up and grabbed Bat’s halter. But the mule was impassive. Except for greetings, things had to be out of whack to get her attention.
At the beginning of May the pony began to shed her winter coat. Charlie was riding again, and Matthew had shown him how to take the rough metal curry-comb to the thick hair and make it fall out in clumps. As a result by the middle of the month she was gleaming. Even if there was rain she only stayed mud-colored for a day or so. She would roll in the winter grass and finish what Charlie and the brushes and curry had begun. She changed from the color of the clay to almost white again.
The day it happened began as any other chilly but clear spring Saturday morning. After breakfast Charlie walked to the barn, got an ear of corn, andwent to find the pony. Brown was wandering around, hoping for a handout. Old Bat looked down on the Corn House from in front of the garage at the big house, and every imaginable plant and animal was engaged in leaping into life. The red tail cruised over head. Charlie heard his whistle and looked up.
The pony was in the boneyard, looking her whitest. For once she let him walk right up to her. Charlie led the pony down the hill to the barn. Old Bat hee-hawed her greeting from the other hill and Charlie smiled.
He led the pony around to the front of the barn. Just as he was about to step across the concrete threshold, Gretchen called from the house telling him to come right now and get a sweater. The tone of voice was clear. He had better come right now. So once in the barn he hurriedly turned the pony around and tied the end of the lead rope to the ring next to the door, leaving four feet of it dangling. Then he hooked the low half door from the outside. He was in a hurry. It was time to go riding, sweater or no sweater.
The rest of it came in a rush. Just as he was coming down the
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