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     It was in the clove of seasons, summer was dead but 

autumn had not yet been born, that the ibis lit in the 

bleeding tree. The flower garden was stained with rotting 

brown magnolia petals and ironweeds grew rank amid the 

purple phlox. The five o'clocks by the chimney still marked 

time, but the oriole nest in the elm was untenanted and 

rocked back and forth like an empty cradle. It's strange how 

all this is still so clear to me, now that that summer has 

since fled and time has had its way. 

    But sometimes (like right now), as I sit in the cool, 

green-draped parlor, the grindstone begins to turn, and time 

with all its changes is ground away--and I remember Doodle. 

Doodle was just about the craziest brother a boy ever had. 

Of course, he wasn't a crazy crazy like old Miss Leedie, who 

was in love with President Wilson and wrote him a letter 

every day, but was a nice crazy, like someone you meet in 

your dreams.

    He was born when I was six and was, from the outset, a 

disappointment. He seemed all head, with a tiny body which 

was red and shriveled like an old man's. Everybody thought 

he was going to die. Daddy had Mr. Heath, the carpenter, 

build a little mahogany coffin for him. But he didn't die, and 

when he was three months old, Mama and Daddy decided 

they might as well name him. They named him William 

Armstrong, which was like tying a big tail on a small kite. 

Such a name sounds good only on a tombstone.

     I thought myself pretty smart at many things, like holding my breath, running, jumping, or climbing 

the vines in Old Woman Swamp, and I wanted more than anything else someone to box with, and 

someone to perch with in the top fork of the great pine behind the barn, where across the fields and 

swamps you could see the sea. But Mama, crying, told me that even if William Armstrong lived, he 

would never do these things with me. He might not, she sobbed, even be "all there."

     It was bad enough having an invalid brother, but having one who possibly was not all there was 

unbearable. However, one afternoon as I watched him, my head poked between the iron posts of the 

foot of the bed, he looked straight at me and grinned. I skipped through the rooms, down the echoing 

halls, shouting, "Mama, he smiled. He’s all there! He's all there!" and he was. As long as he lay all the 

time in bed, we called him William Armstrong, even though it was formal and sounded as if we were 

referring to one of our ancestors, but with his creeping around on the deerskin rug and beginning to 

talk, something had to be done about his name.

     It was I who renamed him. When he crawled, he crawled backwards, as if he were in reverse and 

couldn't change gears. Crawling backward made him look like a doodlebug,

so I began to call him Doodle. Yes. Renaming my brother was perhaps the 

kindest thing I ever did for him, because nobody expects much for someone 

called Doodle. Although Doodle learned to crawl, he showed no signs of

walking, but he wasn't idle. He talked so much that we all quit listening

to what he said.

     It was about this time that Daddy built him a go-cart and I had 

to pull him around. If I so much as picked up my cap, he's start 

crying to go with me and Mama would call from wherever she was, 

"Take Doodle with you." He was a burden in many ways. A long list 

of don'ts went with him, all of which I ignored once we got out of 

the house. His skin was very sensitive, and he had to wear a big 

straw hat whenever he went out. When the going got rough and he 

had to climb to the sides of the go-cart, the hat slipped all the way 

down over his ears. He was a sight. Finally, I could see I was licked. 

Doodle was my brother and he was going to cling to me forever, no 

matter what I did, so I dragged him across the burning cotton field 

to share with him the only beauty I knew, Old Woman Swamp. His 

eyes were round with wonder as he gazed about him, and his little 

hands began to stroke the rubber grass. Then he began to cry.

    "For heaven's sake, what's the 

matter?" I asked, annoyed.

    "It's so pretty," he said. "So pretty, 

pretty, pretty." After that day Doodle 

and I often went down into Old Woman 

Swamp. 

    When Doodle was five years old, I was 

embarrassed at having a brother of that 

age who couldn't walk, so I set out to 

teach him. We were down in Old Woman 

Swamp and it was spring and the sick-

sweet smell of bay flowers hung 

everywhere like a mournful song.

    "I'm going to teach you to walk, 

Doodle," I said.

    "I can't walk, Brother," he said.

    "Who says so?" I demanded.

    "Mama, the doctor--everybody."

    "Oh, you can walk," I said, and I took him by the arms and stood him up. He collapsed onto the grass like a 

half empty flour sack. It was as if he had no bones in his little legs. "I'm going to teach you to walk." It seemed 

so hopeless from the beginning that it's a miracle I didn't give up. But all of us must have something or 

someone to be proud of, and Doodle had become mine. I did not know then that pride is a wonderful, terrible 

thing, a seed that bears two vines, life and death. Every day that summer we went to the pine beside the 

stream of Old Woman Swamp, and I put him on his feet at least a hundred times each afternoon.

Occasionally I too became discouraged because it didn't seem as if he was trying, and I would say, "Doodle, 

don't you want to earn to walk?" He'd nod his head, and I'd say, "Well, if you don't keep trying, you'll never 

learn." Then I'd paint for him a picture of us as old men, white-haired, him with a long white beard and me still 

pulling him around in the go-cart. This never failed to make him try again.

Finally one day, after many weeks of practicing, he stood alone for a few seconds. When he fell, I grabbed him in 

my arms and hugged him, our laughter pealing through the swamp like a ringing bell. Now we know it could be 

done. Hope no longer hid in the dark palmetto thicket but perched like a cardinal in the lacy toothbrush tree, 

brilliantly visible. "Yes, yes," I cried, and he cried it too, and the grass beneath us was soft and the smell of the 

swamp was sweet.

    At breakfast on our chosen day, when Mama, Daddy, and Aunt Nicey were in the dining room, I brought 

Doodle to the door in the go-cart just as usual and head them turn their backs, making them cross their hearts 

and hope to die if they peeked. I helped Doodle up, and when he was standing alone I let them look. There 

wasn't a sound as Doodle walked slowly across the room and sat down at his place at the table.             

                                                                                                                          Then Mama began to cry and 

ran                     

                                                                                                                          over to him, hugging him and 

                                                                                                                          kissing him. Daddy hugged 

him 

                                                                                                                          too, so I went to Aunt Nicey, 

who 

                                                                                                                          was thanks praying in the                       

                                                                                                                          doorway, and began to waltz 

her 

                                                                                                                          around.

We danced together quite well until she came down on my big toe with her brogans, hurting me so badly I thought 

I was crippled for life. Doodle told them it was I who had taught him to walk, so everyone wanted to hug me, and 

I began to cry.

    They did not know that I did it for myself; that pride, whose slave I was, spoke to me louder than all their 

voices, and that Doodle walked only because I was ashamed of having a crippled brother. Within a few months, 

Doodle had learned to walk well and his go-cart was put up in the barn loft (it is still there) beside his little 

mahogany coffin.

     Once I had succeeded in teaching Doodle to walk, I began to believe in my own infallibility, and I prepared a 

terrific development program for him, unknown to Mama and Daddy, of course. I would teach him to run, to swim, 

to climb trees, and to fight. He, too, now believed in my infallibility, so we set the deadline for these 

accomplishments less than a year away, when, it had been decided, Doodle could start school. On hot days, 

Doodle and I went down to Horsehead Landing, and I gave him swimming lessons or showed him how to row a 

boat. Sometimes we descended into the cool greenness of Old Woman Swamp and climbed the rope vines or 

boxed scientifically beneath the pine where he had learned to walk. Promise hung about us like the leaves, and 

wherever we looked, ferns unfurled and birds broke into song.

    So we came to that clove of seasons. School 

was only a few weeks away, and Doodle was far 

behind schedule. He could barely clear the 

ground when climbing up the rope vines, and his 

swimming was certainly not passable. We 

decided to double our efforts, to make that last 

drive and reach our pot of gold. I made him 

swim until he turned red and his eyes became 

glazed. Once, he could go no further, so he 

collapsed on the ground and began to cry.

    "Aw, come on, Doodle," I urged. 

    "You can do it. Do you want to be different from everybody else 

when you start school?"

    "Does it make any difference?"

    "It certainly does," I said. "Now, come on," and I

 helped him up. 

    As we slipped through dog days, Doodle began to look

feverish, and Mama felt his forehead, asking him if he felt 

ill. At night he didn't sleep well, and sometimes he had 

nightmares, crying out until I touched him and said, 

"Wake up, Doodle. Wake up." It was Saturday noon, just 

a few days before school was to start. I should have already 

admitted defeat, but my pride wouldn't let me. The excitement 

of our program had now been gone for weeks, but still we kept on 

with a tired doggedness. It was too late to turn back, for we had both 

wandered too far into a net of expectations and had left no crumbs behind. Daddy, Mama, Doodle, and I were 

seated at the dining-room table having lunch. It was a hot day, with all the windows and doors open in case a 

breeze should come. In the kitchen Aunt Nicey was humming softly. 

    As soon as I had finished eating, Doodle and I hurried off to Horsehead Landing. Time was short, and Doodle 

still had a long way to go if he was going to keep up with the other boys when he started school. The sun, 

gilded with the yellow cast of autumn, still burned fiercely, but the dark green woods through which we passed 

were shady and cool. When we reached the landing, Doodle said he was too tired to swim, so we got into a skiff 

and floated down the creek with the tide. Doodle did not speak and kept his head turned away, letting one 

hand trail limply in the water.

   After we had drifted a long way, I put the oars in 

place and made Doodle row back against the tide. 

Black clouds began to gather in the southwest, and he 

kept watching them, trying to pull the oars a little 

faster. When we reached Horsehead Landing, 

lightning was playing across half the sky and thunder 

roared out, hiding even the sound of the sea. The sun 

disappeared and darkness descended. Doodle was 

both tired and frightened, and when he stepped from 

the skiff he collapsed onto the mud, sending an 

armada of fiddler crabs rustling off into the marsh 

grass. I helped him up, and as he wiped the mud off 

his trousers, he smiled at me ashamedly. He had 

failed and we both knew it, so we started back home, 

racing the storm.

                                                                                                    The lightening was near now, and 

from fear he 

                                                                                           walked so close behind me he kept stepping on 

my heels. The faster I walked, the faster he walked, so I began to run. The rain was coming, roaring through 

the pines, and then, like a bursting Roman candle, a gum tree ahead of us was shattered by a bolt of lightning. 

When the deafening peal of thunder had died, and in the moment before the rain arrived, I heard Doodle, who 

had fallen behind, cry out, "Brother, Brother, don't leave me! Don't leave me!"

    As I ran back for Doodle the wind picked up. It was so strong I nearly fell backwards! My determination got 

me to Doodle before it started to hail. 

    The hail was about the size of a quarter and coming down fast. At one point I remember not being able to 

see Doodle even though he was holding my hand.

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