One Yellow, Foppish Tough

women quickly put away the leftover food, the dirty plates and forks and glasses. Soon the line stretched from corner to corner, from the Tillerys to the Howes, the live ones and dead ones. I raked till Daddy handed me a hoe and said I could grub the weeds as good as any man. We still had a ways to go when a cloud came up and a cool breeze began to blow. We got to make haste," Daddy urged. We hoed and raked and piled and burned like water moccasins were snapping at our heels. We could smell tne rain coming. The wind blew the smoke in wide circles. The day grew dark and lightning cut through the sky. We moved on like a threshing crew before the storm. A few drops of rain fell and mixed with our sweat. We had worked up to the old cracked Grider vaults close to the front gate. "Stay away from the fence," Mama cautioned, "the lightning could hit it." The work was about done. The women got their food baskets and rushed before the rain for the shelter of the church across the road. The men bunched up to finish the final grassy corner where an infant had been buried in 1856. "Twas hard to give thee up, but Thy Will, O Lord, be done": I could read his marker, the worn words now clear with water streaming over the sides and into the ground. The rain was falling in waves. "Rake it up," Daddy said, "and put it on my truck. It's too wet to burn now." Daddy backed up to the gate and we carried forkfuls to the truck, our hair dripping water and clothes sticking to our skins. We dashed across the road to the church porch where the women were waiting. Through the heavy rain we could see the cleared ground and the tombstones shining. ' Yes, sir," Mr. Dan'l boasted, "it's as pretty a graveyard as I've seen. When meeting starts next week, nobody can fault us. Them people from over to Mt. Carmel and Zebulon and down to Indian Creek and Corinth they'll not find a sign of weeds growing on our graves." I looked out at our work and felt good. "I think we ought to sing 'Showers of Blessing," Mrs. Vickery said. But her suggestion was drowned in a clap of thunder, and we waited in silence for the rain to slack up. "We shouldn't even be talking," Mama whispered, "when it's thundering and lightning. It's not respectful ." When the rain stopped and the sun came out, we quickly loaded our tools and headed home. I could hear water running everywhere. It looked like rain had come in time to save the crops. Maybe, I thought to myself as we drove down Boswell Hill to Beaver Dam bridge, maybe I'll ask Mary Joy if I can sit with her in church one night. One Yellow, Foppish Tough Yellow locust earns his name. Split a piece and you'll see. He cracks Too easily for a tough who makes Such famous posts, and then when mauled Apart shows in the outer half A pastel lemon grain. It's As if he threw a fight, stepped From the ring, untaped his hands And put on calfskin gloves. -Harry Brown 98 ...