Free Shadow Country by Peter Matthiessen

her Minnie after his rotten old sister. I hate that name and Min will hate it, too.”
    When Mister Watson is drinking, his silence comes right through the wall. That talk about his sister Minnie made me nervous and I hushed her.
    â€œGet in here, Captain.” Mister Watson’s voice was so low and hard that Henrietta clapped her mouth, her big eyes round. Had that man heard us? As Tant says, Mister Ed J. Watson could hear a frog fart in a hurricane. That don’t come so much from hunting as from being hunted.

THIS DIARY BELONGS TO MISS C. WATSON

    S EPTEMBER 15 1895
    The train from Arcadia stayed overnight at the Punta Gorda deepo before hedding north again so the kind conducters let us sleep on the red fuzz seats after brushing off the goober shells and what not. Papa had wired that we were to rest up in the new hotel as soon as we arived but Mama said she has lernd her lesson not to count on any rest in life or anywheres else so we was not to spend good munny on hotels in case something went wrong as it usely did and Mr. E. J. Watson faled to appear and anyway this mite be the wrong Watson. Her husband was Mr. E.
A.
Watson when she knew him. Mama was in a funny mood and no mistake.
    Last nite I was so tuckered out I was sleeping and sleeping. Had a dretful nitemare about Florida crocadiles but luckily waked up. At daybrake they shooed us off the train like chikens and left us in a little huddle on the sand. The train gave a grate whissle and hard
bang
and pulled away getting smaller and smaller down to a black smudge. We waved and waved and waved then the train was gone no rumble and no echo only two thin rails like silver arrows thru the sand and scrub. Where the rails came together their shine made a brite point against the sunrise.
    The deepo is locked until next week and not one sole to be seen. Here in southern Florida the sky is white as if ashes was falling from the sun. In the hot breze the spiky palmetos stick up like black knifes and the fire in the east sharpens there edges. With the sun up the wind dies and the redbirds and mockers fall still and a parched heat settles in for the long day. Dry dry dry dry!
    Well here we are at the end of the line in sunny southern Florida! said Mama as if all this hot sand and thorn and silence was what we had pined for all of our hole lives. She did her best to cheare us up but her smile is sad.
    And still no sign of Mister Watson and no word.
    I call him Mister Watson just like Mama who is strict about our maners. (Good maners is about all we have left she says when she is blue.) But in my heart I think of him as Papa because thats what we called him when we were small. Oh I remember him I do! Mostly he was so much fun that he even cheared up our dear Mama. Once he brought toy soljers from Fort Smith and sat right down on our dirt floor to play with us. I gave Eddie the dam Yankee bluecotes, him being too young to know the difrince. Lucius was only a baby then he cant remember Papa hardly just pretends. Rob was too old to play of corse he was out slopping the hogs. But Eddie and me have never forgot our dear dear Papa and shurely Rob being almost grown has never forgot him either.
    Plenty of time for you today Dear Diary because poor Mama is nodding off Rob is serly and I am dog tired of trying to soshalize with little brothers. Papa gave me this fine idea of my Dear Diary long ago when I was little. He was riting in his lether book under the trees. It had
Footnotes to my Life
berned into the cowhide cover and a little lock. I asked him what his book was about and he took me in his lap and smiled and said Well honey its a daily jernal. He wouldnt never show it to a sole he said. I powted and intreated. Never? Perhaps one day Papa said. He warned that any diary that was not completely privet is no longer a diary because it is no longer honest and cannot be a trusted frend. Anyway he wouldnt show it on acount his riting and speling were no good because as a boy in