AS I told you, it was one of those terribly hot afternoons and the Collins family had been hoping for a week that it would rain on account of our crops needed a real soaker. Just to find out for sure if it was going to, I lifted up a little wooden step at the door on the north side of our house to see if a smooth, round stone that was half-buried there was wet, which it always is when it is going to rain. Pop looks there himself when he wants to find out whether it will rain—and Mom teases him about it.
The minute the daylight streamed into where the dark had been under that step, a lot of different kinds of bugs scrambled for a dark place to hide. I noticed especially that there was a big, black cricket, maybe the very one that sings every night just outside Mom’s and Pop’s bedroom window—which Mom says sings her to sleep, Mom liking to hear crickets but not being interested in looking at them or touching them.
The smooth, round stone was wet, I noticed, which meant that there was a lot of humidity in the air. Then I put the step back down again and went to the corner of the house to look to see if there was a big, yellowish cloud in the southwest and there was, so it might rain before night, I thought.
Just that second I saw a large, tiger-colored Swallow Tail butterfly out by the orchard fence, fluttering around a red thistle blossom. Because the Swallow Tail is one of the largest kinds of butterflies in our whole territory, I knew Pop would be especially tickled if I could catch one for our collection, so I quick circled the house to the tool shed, swished in, swooped up Pop’s butterfly net—and in a jiffy later was out by the orchard fence where the most beautiful butterfly I had ever seen was acting like the nectar of that big Bull Thistle blossom was about the sweetest thing in the world to eat.
Generally, we didn’t allow any Bull Thistles to grow on our farm, but because Pop knew that Swallow Tail butterflies like milkweed and thistle flowers better than any others, we had let this one grow, hoping a Swallow Tail would decide to live around our place because it is one of the prettiest sights a boy ever sees on a farm—a beautiful butterfly drifting around and lighting on the flowers, its different colored wings folding and unfolding and making a boy feel all glad inside.
The Swallow Tail was on the other side of the woven-wire fence, which was very hard to climb over, so I quick hurried to the orchard gate near the cherry tree, which George Washington hadn’t chopped down yet. I got to the thistle just as the gorgeous yellow and black Swallow Tail decided to leave, floating lazily along, like a feather in the wind, with me right after it, swinging my net at it and missing it, and running and getting hot—and still not catching it.
Then all of a sudden I heard a quail’s whistle. I stopped stock-still and looked all around, expecting to see either Mr. Everhard or his wife. A jiffy later I saw which one it was and it was Mr. Everhard. I wanted to give a mournful turtledove call to answer him, but instead I listened for his wife to answer, which she didn’t.
Seeing me, he called to me saying, “Have you seen anything of Mrs. Everhard?”
“No, I haven’t,” I called back, deciding to forget about the Swallow Tail I was after—besides when I had taken my eye off the butterfly I couldn’t get it back on again.
“She was taking her afternoon nap,” Mr. Everhard said, “so I had gone to the creek a while, but when I came back she was gone. You sure she’s not up at your house?”