It was how I always wished to remember him—not as he was that last time, when he broke my heart. I was watching Margaret for Mother, who was busy with the threshing. We had gone to the riverbank with our baskets, in search of herbs for the making of simples for such maladies as rashes of the skin or aching joints or pain in the head. I have a good eye for plants—Mother has often said so. It was she who taught me which herbs to look for and how to recognize them, what were the seasons for each, and whether to pick them at midday or at night by moonlight, so they would have more potency. The weather was fair and warm, so Margaret and I took off our shoes and sat in the grass by the side of the river, our feet dangling in the cool water. A flock of ducks were feeding on plants in the shallows, upending themselves in the process, heads down in the water, rear ends pointing at the sky. Margaret found this most comical; she was easy to entertain. Then, over the sounds of wind and river and the soft conversation of ducks, there came a cry of “hoo-hoo!”
