September 1905
He was six years old, and in a bad mood. Mama was busy cleaning the house. Maggie was working on her schoolwork. His father was out in the fields with Frank, his older brother, harvesting the corn crop. And no one had any time for any of his problems.
“Good Lord,” Mama snapped in the kitchen, as she nearly ran into him for the third time. “Get out from underfoot, Charles. Go outside and play. I have work to do in here.”
Fine, Charlie thought, as he stomped away from the house, his bare feet throwing up puffs of dust as he walked down the path to the creek. I'll stay away all day. They'll miss me soon. And then maybe Maggie will want to play, instead of working on her stupid composition.
His chin quivered, but he didn't cry. It wasn't his fault baby Elizabeth had died las
