Boys and Girls Alice Munro My father was a fox farmer.

That is, he raised silver foxes, in pens; and in the fall and early winter, when their fur was prime, he killed them and skinned them and sold their pelts to the Hudson's Bay Company or the Montreal Fur Traders. These ompanies supplied us with heroi alendars to han!, one on ea h side of the kit hen door. "!ainst a #a k!round of old #lue sky and #la k pine forests and trea herous northern rivers, plumed adventurers planted the fla!s of $n!land or of Fran e; ma!nifi ent sava!es #ent their #a ks to the porta!e. For several weeks #efore Christmas, my father worked after supper in the ellar of our house. The ellar was whitewashed, and lit #y a hundred%watt #ul# over the workta#le. My #rother &aird and ' sat on the top step and wat hed. My father removed the pelt inside%out from the #ody of the fox, whi h looked surprisin!ly small, mean and rat%like, deprived of its arro!ant wei!ht of fur. The naked, slippery #odies were olle ted in a sa k and #uried at the dump. (ne time the hired man, Henry Bailey, had taken a swipe at me with this sa k, sayin!, )Christmas present*) My mother thou!ht that was not funny. 'n fa t she disliked the whole peltin! operation+that was what the killin!, skinnin!, and preparation of the furs was alled+and wished it did not have to take pla e in the house. There was the smell. "fter the pelt had #een stret hed inside%out on a lon! #oard my father s raped away deli ately, removin! the little lotted we#s of #lood vessels, the #u##les of fat; the smell of #lood and animal fat, with the stron! primitive odour of the fox itself, penetrated all parts of the house. ' found it reassurin!ly seasonal, like the smell of oran!es and pine needles. Henry Bailey suffered from #ron hial trou#les. He would ou!h and ou!h until his narrow fa e turned s arlet, and his li!ht #lue, derisive eyes filled up with tears; then he took the lid off the stove, and, standin! well #a k, shot out a !reat lot of phle!m+ hsss+strai!ht into the heart of the flames. ,e admired him for this performan e and for his a#ility to make his stoma h !rowl at will, and for his lau!hter, whi h was full of hi!h whistlin!s and !ur!lin!s and involved the whole faulty ma hinery of his hest. 't was sometimes hard to tell what he was lau!hin! at, and always possi#le that it mi!ht #e us. "fter we had #een sent to #ed we ould still smell fox and still hear Henry's lau!h, #ut these thin!s, reminders of the warm, safe, #ri!htly lit downstairs world, seemed lost and diminished, floatin! on the stale old air upstairs. ,e were afraid at ni!ht in the winter. ,e were not afraid of outside thou!h this was the time of year when snowdrifts urled around our house like sleepin! whales and the wind harassed us all ni!ht, omin! up from the #uried fields, the fro-en swamp, with its old #u!#ear horus of threats and .misery. ,e were afraid of inside, the room where we slept. "t this time the upstairs of our house was not finished. " #ri k himney went up one wall. 'n the middle of the floor was a s.uare hole, with a wooden railin! around it; that was where the stairs ame up. (n the other side of the stairwell were the thin!s that no#ody had any use for any more+a soldiery roll of linoleum, standin! on end, a wi ker #a#y arria!e, a fern #asket, hina /u!s and #asins with ra ks in them, a pi ture of the Battle of Bala lava, very sad to look at. ' had told &aird, as soon as he was old enou!h 1

to understand su h thin!s, that #ats and skeletons lived over there; whenever a man es aped from the ounty /ail, twenty miles away, ' ima!ined that he had somehow let himself in the window and was hidin! #ehind the linoleum. But we had rules to keep us safe. ,hen the li!ht was on, we were safe as lon! as we did not step off the s.uare of worn arpet whi h defined our #edroom%spa e; when the li!ht was off no pla e was safe #ut the #eds themselves. ' had to turn out the li!ht kneelin! on the end of my #ed, and stret hin! as far as ' ould to rea h the ord. 'n the dark we lay on our #eds, our narrow life rafts, and fixed our eyes on the faint li!ht omin! up the stairwell, and san! son!s. &aird san! '0in!le Bells,) whi h he would sin! any time, whether it was Christmas or not, and ' san! )1anny Boy.) ' loved the sound of my own voi e, frail and suppli atin!, risin! in the dark. ,e ould make out the tall frosted shapes of the windows now, !loomy and white. ,hen ' ame to the part, When I am dead, as dead I well may be+a fit of shiverin! aused not #y the old sheets #ut #y pleasura#le emotion almost silen ed me. You'll kneel and say, an Ave there above me+,hat was an "ve2 $very day ' for!ot to find out. &aird went strai!ht from sin!in! to sleep. ' ould hear his lon!, satisfied, #u##ly #reaths. 3ow for the time that remained to me, the most perfe tly private and perhaps the #est time of the whole day, ' arran!ed myself ti!htly under the overs and went on with one of the stories ' was tellin! myself from ni!ht to ni!ht. These stories were a#out myself, when ' had !rown a little older; they took pla e in a world that was re o!ni-a#ly mine, yet one that presented opportunities for oura!e, #oldness and self%sa rifi e, as mine never did. ' res ued people from a #om#ed #uildin! 4it dis oura!ed me that the real war had !one on so far away from 0u#ilee5. ' shot two ra#id wolves who were mena in! the s hoolyard 4the tea hers owered terrified at my #a k5. ' rode a fine horse spiritedly. down the main street of 0u#ilee, a knowled!in! the townspeople's !ratitude for some yet%to%#e%worked%out pie e of heroism 4no#ody ever rode a horse there, ex ept 6in! Billy in the (ran!emen's 1ay parade5. There was always ridin! and shootin! in these stories, thou!h ' had only #een on a horse twi e+#are#a k #e ause we did not own a saddle+and the se ond time ' had slid ri!ht around and dropped under the horse's feet; it had stepped pla idly over me. ' really was learnin! to shoot, #ut ' ould not hit anythin! yet, not even tin ans on fen e posts. "live, the foxes inha#ited a world my father made for them. 't was surrounded #y a hi!h !uard fen e, like a medieval town, with a !ate that was padlo ked at ni!ht. "lon! the streets of this town were ran!ed lar!e, sturdy pens. $a h of them had a real door that a man ould !o throu!h, a wooden ramp alon! the wire, for the foxes to run up and down on, and a kennel+somethin! like a lothes hest with airholes+where they slept and stayed in winter and had their youn!. There were feedin! and waterin! dishes atta hed to the wire in su h a way that they ould #e emptied and leaned from the outside. The dishes were made of old tin ans, and the ramps and kennels of odds and ends of old lum#er. $verythin! was tidy and in!enious; my father was tirelessly inventive and his favourite #ook in the world was 7o#inson Crusoe. He had fitted a tin drum on a wheel#arrow, for #rin!in! water down to the pens. This was my /o# in summer, when the foxes had to have water twi e a day. Between nine and ten o' lo k in the mornin!, 2

and a!ain after supper, ' filled the drum at the pump and trundled it down throu!h the #arnyard to the pens, where ' parked it, and filled my waterin! an and went alon! the streets. &aird ame too, with his little ream and !reen !ardenin! an, filled too full and kno kin! a!ainst his le!s and sloppin! water on his anvas shoes. ' had the real waterin! an, my father's, thou!h ' ould only arry it three%.uarters full. The foxes all had names, whi h were printed on a tin plate and hun! #eside their doors. They were not named when they were #orn, #ut when they survived the first year's peltin! and were added to the #reedin! sto k. Those my father had named were alled names like 8rin e, Bo#, ,ally and Betty. Those ' had named were alled 9tar or Turk, or Maureen or 1iana. &aird named one Maud after a hired !irl we had when he was little, one Harold after a #oy at s hool, and one Mexi o, he did not say why. 3amin! them did not make pets out of them, or anythin! like it. 3o#ody #ut my father ever went into the pens, and he had twi e had #lood%poisonin! from #ites. ,hen ' was #rin!in! them their water they prowled up and down on the paths they had made inside their pens, #arkin! seldom+they saved that for ni!httime, when they mi!ht !et up a horus of ommunity fren-y+#ut always wat hin! me, their eyes #urnin!, lear !old, in their pointed, malevolent fa es. They were #eautiful for their deli ate le!s and heavy, aristo rati tails and the #ri!ht fur sprinkled on dark down their #a ks+whi h !ave them their name+#ut espe ially for their fa es, drawn ex.uisitely sharp in pure hostility, and their !olden eyes. Besides arryin! water ' helped my father when he ut the lon! !rass, and the lam#'s .uarter and flowerin! money%musk, that !rew #etween the pens. He ut with the s ythe and ' raked into piles. Then he took a pit h%fork and threw fresh% ut !rass all over the top of the pens, to keep the foxes ooler and shade their oats, whi h were #rowned #y too mu h sun. My father did not talk to me unless it was a#out the /o# we were doin!. 'n this he was .uite different from my mother, who, if she was feelin! heerful, would tell me all sorts of thin!s+the name of a do! she had had when she was a little !irl, the names of #oys she had !one out with later on when she was !rown up, and what ertain dresses of hers had looked like+she ould not ima!ine now what had #e ome of them. ,hatever thou!hts and stories my father had were private, and ' was shy of him and would never ask him .uestions. 3evertheless ' worked willin!ly under his eyes, and with a feelin! of pride. (ne time a feed salesman ame down into the pens to talk to him and my father said, )&ike to have you meet my new hired man.) ' turned away and raked furiously, red in the fa e with pleasure. )Could of fooled me,) said the salesman. )' thou!ht it was only a !irl.) "fter the !rass was ut, it seemed suddenly mu h later in the year. ' walked on stu##le in the earlier evenin!, aware of the reddenin! skies, the enterin! silen es, of fall. ,hen ' wheeled the tank out of the !ate and put the padlo k on, it was almost dark. (ne ni!ht at this time ' saw my mother and father standin! talkin! on the little rise of !round we alled the !an!way, in front of the #arn. My father had /ust ome from the meathouse; he had his stiff #loody apron on, and a pail of ut%up meat in his hand. 't was an odd thin! to see my mother down at the #arn. 9he did not often ome out of the house unless it was to do somethin!+han! out the wash or di! potatoes in the !arden. 9he looked out of pla e, with her #are lumpy le!s, not tou hed #y the sun, 3

her apron still on and damp a ross the stoma h from the supper dishes. Her hair was tied up in a ker hief, wisps of it fallin! out. 9he would tie her hair up like this in the mornin!, sayin! she did not have time to do it properly, and it would stay tied up all day. 't was true, too; she really did not have time. These days our #a k por h was piled with #askets of pea hes and !rapes and pears, #ou!ht in town, and onions and tomatoes and u um#ers !rown at home, all waitin! to #e made into /elly and /am and preserves, pi kles and hili sau e. 'n the kit hen there was a fire in the stove all day, /ars linked in #oilin! water, sometimes a heese loth #a! was strun! on a pole #etween two hairs, strainin! #lue%#la k !rape pulp for /elly. ' was !iven /o#s to do and ' would sit at the ta#le peelin! pea hes that had #een soaked in the hot water, or uttin! up onions, my eyes smartin! and streamin!. "s soon as ' was done ' ran out of the house, tryin! to !et out of earshot #efore my mother thou!ht of what she wanted me to do next. ' hated the hot dark kit hen in summer, the !reen #linds and the flypapers, the same old oil loth ta#le and wavy mirror and #umpy linoleum. My mother was too tired and preo upied to talk to me, she had no heart to tell a#out the 3ormal 9 hool :raduation 1an e; sweat tri kled over her fa e and she was always ountin! under her #reath, pointin! at /ars, dumpin! ups of su!ar. 't seemed to me that work in the house was endless, dreary and pe uliarly depressin!; work done out of doors, and in my father's servi e, was ritualisti ally important. ' wheeled the tank up to the #arn, where it was kept, and ' heard my mother sayin!, ),ait till &aird !ets a little #i!!er, then you'll have a real help.) ,hat my father said ' did not hear. ' was pleased #y the way he stood listenin!, politely as he would to a salesman or a stran!er, #ut with an air of wantin! to !et on with his real work. ' felt my mother had no #usiness down here and ' wanted him to feel the same way. ,hat did she mean a#out &aird2 He was no help to any#ody. ,here was he now2 9win!in! himself si k on the swin!, !oin! around in ir les, or tryin! to at h aterpillars. He never on e stayed with me till ' was finished. )"nd then ' an use her more in the house,) ' heard my mother say. 9he had a dead%.uiet, re!retful way of talkin! a#out me that always made me uneasy. )' /ust !et my #a k turned and she runs off. 't's not like ' had a !irl in the family at all.) ' went and sat on a feed#a! in the orner of the #arn, not wantin! to appear when this onversation was !oin! on. My mother, ' felt, was not to #e trusted. 9he was kinder than my father and more easily fooled, #ut you ould not depend on her, and the real reasons for the thin!s she said and did were not to #e known. 9he loved me, and she sat up late at ni!ht makin! a dress of the diffi ult style ' wanted, for me to wear when s hool started, #ut she was also my enemy. 9he was always plottin!. 9he was plottin! now to !et me to stay in the house more, althou!h she knew ' hated it 4#e ause she knew ' hated it5 and keep me from workin! for my father. 't seemed to me she would do this simply out of perversity, and to try her power. 't did not o ur to me that she ould #e lonely, or /ealous. 3o !rown%up ould #e; they were too fortunate. ' sat and ki ked my heels monotonously a!ainst a feed#a!, raisin! dust, and did not ome out till she was !one. "t any rate, ' did not expe t my father to pay any attention to what she said. ,ho ould ima!ine &aird doin! my work+&aird remem#erin! the padlo k and leanin! out 4

the waterin!%dishes with a leaf on the end of a sti k, or even wheelin! the tank without it tum#lin! over2 't showed how little my mother knew a#out the way thin!s really were. ' have for!otten to say what the foxes were fed. My father's #loody apron reminded me. They were fed horsemeat. "t this time most farmers still kept horses, and when a horse !ot too old to work, or #roke a le! or !ot down and would not !et up, as they sometimes did, the owner would all my father, and he and Henry went out to the farm in the tru k. ;sually they shot and #ut hered the horse there, payin! the farmer from five to twelve dollars. 'f they had already too mu h meat on hand, they would #rin! the horse #a k alive, and keep it for a few days or weeks in our sta#le, until the meat was needed. "fter the war the farmers were #uyin! tra tors and !radually !ettin! rid of horses alto!ether, so it sometimes happened that we !ot a !ood healthy horse, that there was /ust no use for any more. 'f this happened in the winter we mi!ht keep the horse in our sta#le till sprin!, for we had plenty of hay and if there was a lot of snow+and the plow did not always !et our road leared+it was onvenient to #e a#le to !o to town with a horse and utter. The winter ' was eleven years old we had two horses in the sta#le. ,e did not know what names they had had #efore, so we alled them Ma k and Flora. Ma k was an old #la k workhorse, sooty and indifferent. Flora was a sorrel mare, a driver. ,e took them #oth out in the utter. Ma k was slow and easy to handle. Flora was !iven to fits of violent alarm, veerin! at ars and even at other horses, #ut we loved her speed and hi!h%steppin!, her !eneral air of !allantry and a#andon. (n 9aturdays we went down to the sta#le and as soon as we opened the door on its osy, animal%smellin! darkness Flora threw up her head, rolled her eyes, whinnied despairin!ly and pulled herself throu!h a risis of nerves on the spot. 't was not safe to !o into her stall; she would ki k. This winter also ' #e!an to hear a !reat deal more on the theme my mother had sounded when she had #een talkin! in front of the #arn. ' no lon!er felt safe. 't seemed that in the minds of the people around me there was a steady under urrent of thou!ht, not to #e defle ted, on this one su#/e t. The word girl had formerly seemed to me inno ent and un#urdened, like the word child; now it appeared that it was no su h thin!. " !irl was not, as ' had supposed, simply what ' was; it was what '< had to #e ome. 't was a definition, always tou hed with emphasis, with reproa h and disappointment. "lso it was a /oke on me. (n e &aird and ' were fi!htin!, and for the first time ever ' had to use all my stren!th a!ainst him; even so, he au!ht and pinned my arm for a moment, really hurtin! me. Henry saw this, and lau!hed, sayin!, )(h, that there &aird's !onna show you, one of these days*) &aird was !ettin! a lot #i!!er. But ' was !ettin! #i!!er too. My !randmother ame to stay with us for a few weeks and ' heard other thin!s. ):irls don't slam doors like that.) ):irls keep their knees to!ether when they sit down.) "nd worse still, when ' asked some .uestions, )That's none of !irls' #usiness.) ' ontinued to slam the doors and sit as awkwardly as possi#le, thinkin! that #y su h measures ' kept myself free. ,hen sprin! ame, the horses were let out in the #arnyard. Ma k stood a!ainst 5

the #arn wall tryin! to s rat h his ne k and haun hes, #ut Flora trotted up and down and reared at the fen es, latterin! her hooves a!ainst the rails. 9now drifts dwindled .ui kly, revealin! the hard !rey and #rown earth, the familiar rise and fall of the !round, plain and #are after the fantasti lands ape of winter. There was a !reat feelin! of openin!%out, of release. ,e /ust wore ru##ers now, over our shoes; our feet felt ridi ulously li!ht. (ne 9aturday we went out to the sta#le and found all the doors open, lettin! in the una ustomed sunli!ht and fresh air. Henry was there, /ust idlin! around lookin! at his olle tion of alendars whi h were ta ked up #ehind the stalls in a part of the sta#le my mother had pro#a#ly never seen. )Come to say !ood#ye to your old friend Ma k2) Henry said. )Here, you !ive him a taste of oats.) He poured some oats into &aird's upped hands and &aird went to feed Ma k. Ma k's teeth were in #ad shape. He ate very slowly, patiently shiftin! the oats around in his mouth, tryin! to find a stump of a molar to !rind it on. )8oor old Ma k,) said Henry mournfully. ),hen a horse's teeth's !one, he's !one. That's a#out the way.) )"re you !oin! to shoot him today2) ' said. Ma k and Flora had #een in the sta#le so lon! ' had almost for!otten they were !oin! to #e shot. Henry didn't answer me. 'nstead he started to sin! in a hi!h, trem#ly, mo kin!% sorrowful voi e, Oh, there's no more work, for poor ncle !ed, he's gone where the good darkies go. Ma k's thi k, #la kish ton!ue worked dili!ently at &aird's hand. ' went out #efore the son! was ended and sat down on the !an!way. ' had never seen them shoot a horse, #ut ' knew where it was done. &ast summer &aird and ' had ome upon a horse's entrails #efore they were #uried. ,e had thou!ht it was a #i! #la k snake, oiled up in the sun. That was around in the field that ran up #eside the #arn. ' thou!ht that if we went inside the #arn, and found a wide ra k or a knothole to look throu!h, we would #e a#le to see them do it. 't was not somethin! ' wanted to see; /ust the same, if a thin! really happened, it was #etter to see it, and know. My father ame down from the house, arryin! the !un. ),hat are you doin! here2) he said. )3othin!.) ):o on up and play around the house.) He sent &aird out of the sta#le. ' said to &aird. )1o you want to see them shoot Ma k2) and without waitin! for an answer led him around to the front door of the #arn, opened it arefully, and went in. )Be .uiet or they'll hear us,) ' said. ,e ould hear Henry and my father talkin! in the sta#le, then the heavy, shufflin! steps of Ma k #ein! #a ked out of his stall. 'n the loft it was old and dark. Thin, riss rossed #eams of sunli!ht fell throu!h the ra ks. The hay was low. 't was a rollin! ountry, hills and hollows, slippin! under our feet. "#out four feet up was a #eam !oin! around the walls. ,e piled hay up' in one orner and ' #oosted &aird up and hoisted myself. The #eam was not very wide; we rept alon! it with our hands flat on the #arn walls. There were plenty of knotholes, and ' found one that !ave me the view ' wanted+a orner of the #arnyard, the !ate, part of the field. &aird did not have a knothole and #e!an to omplain. ' showed him a widened ra k #etween two #oards. )Be .uiet and wait. 'f they 6

hear you you'll !et us in trou#le.) My father ame in si!ht arryin! the !un. Henry was leadin! Ma k #y the halter. He dropped it and took out his i!arette papers and to#a o; he rolled i!arettes for my father and himself. ,hile this was !oin! on Ma k nosed around in the old, dead !rass alon! the fen e. Then my father opened the !ate and they took Ma k throu!h. Henry led Ma k away from the path to a pat h of !round and they talked to!ether, not loud enou!h for us to hear. Ma k a!ain #e!an sear hin! for a mouthful of fresh !rass, whi h was not to #e found. My father walked away in a strai!ht line, and stopped short at a distan e whi h seemed to suit him. Henry was walkin! away from Ma k too, #ut sideways, still ne!li!ently holdin! on to the halter. My father raised the !un and Ma k looked up as if he had noti ed somethin! and my father shot him. Ma k did not ollapse at on e #ut swayed, lur hed sideways and fell, first on his side; then he rolled over on his #a k and, ama-in!ly, ki ked his le!s for a few se onds in the air. "t this Henry lau!hed, as if Ma k had done a tri k for him. &aird, who had drawn a lon!, !roanin! #reath of surprise when the shot was fired, said out loud, )He's not dead.) "nd it seemed to me it mi!ht #e true. But his le!s stopped, he rolled on his side a!ain, his mus les .uivered and sank. The two men walked over and looked at him in a #usinesslike way; they #ent down and examined his forehead where the #ullet had !one in, and now ' saw his #lood on the #rown !rass. )3ow they /ust skin him and ut him up,) ' said. )&et's !o.) My le!s were a little shaky and ' /umped !ratefully down into the hay. )3ow you've seen how they shoot a horse,) ' said in a on!ratulatory way, as if ' had seen it many times #efore. )&et's see if any #arn at's had kittens in the hay.) &aird /umped. He seemed youn! and o#edient a!ain. 9uddenly ' remem#ered how, when he was little', ' had #rou!ht him into the #arn and told him to lim# the ladder to the top #eam. That was in the sprin!, too, when the hay was low. ' had done it out of a need for ex itement, a desire for somethin! to happen so that ' ould tell a#out it. He was wearin! a little #ulky #rown and white he ked oat, made down from one of mine. He went all the way up, /ust as ' told him, and sat down on the top #eam with the hay far #elow him on one side, and the #arn floor and some old ma hinery on the other. Then ' ran s reamin! to my father, )&aird's up on the top #eam*) My father ame, my mother ame, my father went up the ladder talkin! very .uietly and #rou!ht &aird down under his arm, at whi h my mother leaned a!ainst the ladder and #e!an to ry. They said to me, ),hy weren't you wat hin! him2) #ut no#ody ever knew the truth. &aird did not know enou!h to tell. But whenever ' saw the #rown and white he ked oat han!in! in the loset, or at the #ottom of the ra! #a!, whi h was where it ended up, ' felt a wei!ht in my stoma h, the sadness of unexor i-ed !uilt. ' looked at &aird who did not even remem#er this, and ' did not like the look on his thin, winter%pale fa e. His expression was not fri!htened or upset, #ut remote, on entratin!. )&isten,) ' said, in an unusually #ri!ht and friendly voi e, )you aren't !oin! to tell, are you2) )3o,) he said a#sently. )8romise. ) )8romise,) he said. ' !ra##ed the hand #ehind his #a k to make sure he was not 7

rossin! his fin!ers. $ven so, he mi!ht have a ni!htmare; it mi!ht ome out that way. ' de ided ' had #etter work to !et all thou!hts of what he had seen out of his mind+ whi h, it seemed to me, ould not hold very many thin!s at a time. ' !ot some money ' had saved and that afternoon we went into 0u#ilee and saw a show, with 0udy Canova, at whi h we #oth lau!hed a !reat deal. "fter that ' thou!ht it would #e all ri!ht. Two weeks later ' knew they were !oin! to shoot Flora. ' knew from the ni!ht #efore, when ' heard my mother ask if the hay was holdin! out all ri!ht, and my father said, ),ell, after to%morrow there'll /ust #e the ow, and we should #e a#le to put her out to !rass in another week.) 9o ' knew it was Flora's turn in the mornin!. This time ' didn't think of wat hin! it. That was somethin! to see /ust one time. ' had not thou!ht a#out it very often sin e, #ut sometimes when ' was #usy, workin! at s hool, or standin! in front of the mirror om#in! my hair and wonderin! if ' would #e pretty when ' !rew up, the whole s ene would flash into my mind= ' would see the easy, pra tised way my father raised the !un, and hear Henry lau!hin! when Ma k ki ked his le!s in the air. ' did not have any !reat feelin! of horror and opposition, su h as a ity hild mi!ht have had; ' was too used to seein! the death of animals as a ne essity #y whi h we lived. >et ' felt a little ashamed, and there was a new wariness, a sense of holdin!%off, in my attitude to my father and his work. 't was a fine day, and we were !oin! around the yard pi kin! up tree #ran hes that had #een torn off in winter storms. This was somethin! we had #een told to do, and also we wanted to use them to make a teepee. ,e heard Flora whinny, and then my father's voi e and Henry's shoutin!, and we ran down to the #arnyard to see what was !oin! on. The sta#le door was open. Henry had /ust #rou!ht Flora out, and she had #roken away from him. 9he was runnin! free in the #arnyard, from one end to the other. ,e lim#ed up on the fen e. 't was ex itin! to see her runnin!, whinnyin!, !oin! up on her hind le!s, pran in! and threatenin! like a horse in a ,estern movie, an un#roken ran h horse, thou!h she was /ust an old driver, an old sorrel mare. My father and Henry ran after her and tried to !ra# the dan!lin! halter. They tried to work her into a orner, and they had almost su eeded when she made a run #etween them, wild%eyed, and disappeared around the orner of the #arn. ,e heard the rails latter down as she !ot over the fen e, and Henry yelled, )9he's into the field now*) That meant she was in the lon! &%shaped field that ran up #y the house. 'f she !ot around the enter, headin! towards the lane, the !ate was open; the tru k had #een driven into the field this mornin!. My father shouted to me, #e ause ' was on the other side of the fen e, nearest the lane, ):o shut the !ate*) ' ould run very fast. ' ran a ross the !arden, past the tree where our swin! was hun!, and /umped a ross a dit h into the lane. There was the open !ate. 9he had not !ot out, ' ould not see her up on the road; she must have run to the other end of the field. The !ate was heavy. ' lifted it out of the !ravel and arried it a ross the roadway. ' had it half%way a ross when she ame in si!ht, !allopin! strai!ht towards me. There was /ust time to !et the hain on. &aird ame s ram#lin! throu!h the dit h to help me. 'nstead of shuttin! the !ate, ' opened it as wide as ' ould. ' did not make any de ision to do this, it was /ust what ' did. Flora never slowed down; she !alloped 8

strai!ht past me, and &aird /umped up and down, yellin!, )9hut it, shut it*) even after it was too late. My father and Henry appeared in the field a moment too late to see what ' had done. They only saw Flora headin! for the township road. They would think ' had not !ot there in time. They did not waste any time askin! a#out it. They went #a k to the #arn and !ot the !un and the knives they used, and put these in the tru k; then they turned the tru k around and ame #oun in! up the field toward us. &aird alled to them, )&et me !o too, let me !o too*) and Henry stopped the tru k and they took him in. ' shut the !ate after they were all !one. ' supposed &aird would tell. ' wondered what would happen to me. ' had never diso#eyed my father #efore, and ' ould not understand why ' had done it. Flora would not really !et away. They would at h up with her in the tru k. (r if they did not at h her this mornin! some#ody would see her and telephone us this afternoon or tomorrow. There was no wild ountry here for her to run to, only farms. ,hat was more, my father had paid for her, we needed the meat to feed the foxes, we needed the foxes to make our livin!. "ll ' had done was make more work for my father who worked hard enou!h already. "nd when my father found out a#out it he was not !oin! to trust me any more; he would know that ' was not entirely on his side. ' was on Flora's side, and that made me no use to any#ody, not even to her. 0ust the same, ' did not re!ret it; when she ame runnin! at me and ' held the !ate open, that was the only thin! ' ould do. ' went #a k to the house, and my mother said, ),hat's all the ommotion2) ' told her that Flora had ki ked down the fen e and !ot away. )>our poor father,) she said, )now he'll have to !o hasin! over the ountryside. ,ell, there isn't any use plannin! dinner #efore one.) 9he put up the ironin! #oard. ' wanted to tell her, #ut thou!ht #etter of it and went upstairs and sat on my #ed. &ately ' had #een tryin! to make my part of the room fan y, spreadin! the #ed with old la e urtains, and fixin! myself a dressin!%ta#le with some leftovers of retonne for a skirt. ' planned to put up some kind of #arri ade #etween my #ed and &aird's, to keep my se tion separate from his. 'n the sunli!ht, the la e urtains were /ust dusty ra!s. ,e did not sin! at ni!ht any more. (ne ni!ht when ' was sin!in! &aird said, )>ou sound silly,) and ' went ri!ht on #ut the next ni!ht ' did not start. There was not so mu h need to anyway, we were no lon!er afraid. ,e knew it was /ust old furniture over there, old /um#le and onfusion. ,e did not keep to the rules. ' still stayed awake after &aird was asleep and told myself stories, #ut even in these stories somethin! different was happenin!, mysterious alterations took pla e. " story mi!ht start off in the old way, with a spe ta ular dan!er, a fire or wild animals, and for a while ' mi!ht res ue people; then thin!s would han!e around, and instead, some#ody would #e res uin! me. 't mi!ht #e a #oy from our lass at s hool, or even Mr. Camp#ell, our tea her, who ti kled !irls under the arms. "nd at this point the story on erned itself at !reat len!th with what ' looked like, how lon! my hair was, and what kind of dress ' had on; #y the time ' had these details worked out the real ex itement of the story was lost. 't was later than one o' lo k when the tru k ame #a k. The tarpaulin was over the #a k, whi h meant there was meat in it. My mother had to heat dinner up all over a!ain. Henry and my father had han!ed from their #loody overalls into ordinary 9

workin! overalls in the #arn, and they washed their arms and ne ks and fa es at the sink, and splashed water on their hair and om#ed it. &aird lifted his arm to show off a streak of #lood. ),e shot old Flora,) he said, )and ut her up in fifty pie es.) ),ell ' don't want to hear a#out it,) my mother said. )"nd don't ome to my ta#le like that.) My father made him !o and wash the #lood off. ,e sat down and my father said !ra e and Henry pasted his hewin!%!um on the end of his fork, the way he always did; when he took it off he would have us admire the pattern. ,e #e!an to pass the #owls of steamin!, over ooked ve!eta#les. &aird looked a ross the ta#le at me and said proudly, distin tly, )"nyway it was her fault Flora !ot away.) ),hat2) my father said. )9he ould of shut the !ate and she didn't. 9he /ust open' it up and Flora run out.) )'s that ri!ht2) my father said. $very#ody at the ta#le was lookin! at me. ' nodded, swallowin! food with !reat diffi ulty. To my shame, tears flooded my eyes. My father made a urt sound of dis!ust. ),hat did you do that for2) ' did not answer. ' put down my fork and waited to #e sent from the ta#le, still not lookin! up. But this did not happen. For some time no#ody said anythin!, then &aird said matter%of%fa tly, )9he's ryin!.) )3ever mind,) my father said. He spoke with resi!nation, even !ood humour, the words whi h a#solved and dismissed me for !ood. )9he's only a !irl,) he said. ' didn't protest that, even in my heart. May#e it was true.

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