“It was computation by a different calendar than most people around him used, but not a new way; and he could recall that it was by such a calendar that his mother and father had lived, not the dry stuff of days and weeks, but when this child was born and when that sister died, when the season was good or lean, when there was work or no work, when the winter was terribly cold or not too cold, when his own brother had died of diphtheria—when lightning struck or a storm raged or the sun warmed the... earth for a little while; and now his own life too had taken that form. It was a reckoning of people who knew trouble, who walked side by side with trouble. He had noticed Mike Leslie doing it a few days ago, when he drove in from Indianapolis to see how Brian was, and in the course of things remarked about a time fifteen years ago—“The year of the big strike,” as he put it. “Was it ’35 or ’36?” Anyway, it was decent of him and thoughtful of him to come. He brought with him a miniature farm, with more than fifty figures of livestock and people—Silas could guess what it had cost—and set them up on the counterpane of Brian’s bed, and guided the little boy’s fingers over each figure with patience and understanding.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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