Lark said. “I’m afraid we won’t make it afore dusty dark.” We squatted down in the road and rested on the edge of a clay rut. Lark set his poke on the crust of a nag’s track, and I lifted the saddle-bags off my shoulder. The leather was damp underneath. “We ought ne’er thought to be scholars,” Lark said. The sun-ball had turned over the hill above Riddle Hargin’s farm and it was hot in the valley. Grackles walked the top rail of a fence, breathing with open beaks. They halted and looked at us, their legs wide apart and rusty backs arched. “I knowed you’d get dolesome ere we reached Troublesome Creek,” I said. “I knowed it was a-coming.” Lark drew his thin legs together and rested his chin on his knees. “If’n I was growed up to twelve like you,” he said, “I’d go along peart. I’d not mind my hand.” “Writing hain’t done with your left hand,” I said. “It won’t be ag’in’ you larning.” “I oughtn’t to tried busting that dinnymite cap,”
What do You think about The Run For The Elbertas (2014)?
