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The songs we sang on this early summer afternoon were not hymns or spirituals, or currently popular tunes; they were from World War I, which was still vivid in the memory of my parents. The patriotic war songs set off their reminiscences.
“Yes,” Daddy replied. “I recall how upset you said she was, but that didn't stop you girls from having a good time seeing Broadway shows, did it?*
Many times I had looked at the picture postcards of New York in Mamma’s scrapbook and heard her tell of the bustling streets filled with people, streetcars, carriages and automobiles. As I was thinking about this, we passed the only car we'd seen since leaving town, heading east on the two-lane Highway 90, the Old Spanish Trail. De Funiak Springs was a small, quiet town, especially on Sundays. It certainly wasn't anything like New York.
My father turned to Mamma and asked if anybody at Columbia University had questioned her about where De Funiak Springs was.
Mamma told him she would explain that it was the cultural and educational center of the South with the Chautauqua, our colleges, and a beautiful lake in the center of the town
Said Daddy, "My answer every time some smart-aleck Navy boy at the Key-West base asked me with a sarcastic laugh where a town with such a funny name was located was to say, "Why, it's five miles from Argyle, a Tm sure you know where that is!’ Somewhere in their minds, they thought they should know Argyle. Likely didn't realize the Scots in Northwest Flonda had to name something for their ancestral land, everything else having an Indian name, except, of course, De Funiak Springs.”
We had driven past Magnolia Cemetery, and occasional houses on clearings among the long leaf pine trees. Now we were approaching Argyle, Daddy's birthplace. It didn't look to me like a place many people outside Walton County would know about. It was an almost deserted village since many people long ago had moved into town. My father's family had moved over thirty years ago, in 1900, from Argyle to De Funiak. Before that, they lived in the nearby Euchee Valley where the earliest Scottish pioneers to Northwest Florida (by way of North Carolina) had settled around 1820. By the latter part of the 19th century, most of their descendants had gradually moved to other parts of the county or to Argyle or to De Funiak Springs, upon completion of the railroad.
"Daddy, where did a name like De Funiak come from?" I asked. “Nobody here is named that."
My father loved to talk, so explaining how our town got its name pleased him. “Well, let’s see," he began. "Frederick De Funiak was an official with the Louisville and Nashville railroad and was very impressed with the beauty of our area. When the big boys from the railroad companv saw our sparkling, perfect circle of a lake and the surrounding beautiful land. they thought it would make a fine winter resort. So, they built a grand hotel close to the railroad station and began promoting the town, which they named Lake De Funiak.
"Don't forget the Chautauqua programs that lasted six to eight weeks) Mamma said. Turning to us, she added, "You girls should know that De Funiak was selected as the site of the Southern Chautauqua like the original in New York State."
“Why was the name changed from Lake De Funiak to De Funiak Springs?” I asked.
Asserting my loyalty, I proclaimed, "It's still a perfect lake, a perfect circle.”
“It is," Daddy affirmed as we turned off the main highway at Argyle onto an unpaved road which ran along the side of the railroad tracks. “Argyle may not have a lake or springs in the center of the place, but remember," my father said as he took on the oratorical style and gestures of a preacher or politician, “Argyle was where Malcolm A. Morrison was born!” He concluded with a flourish of his flat-topped straw hat, while looking at Mamma for the laugh he expected. Seeing her in a pretty summer dress, her dark hair not covered by a hat, but glistening in the sun, Daddy said in a soft voice, "I do not know how this string bean from Argyle ever won such a prize.”
Mamma, always embarrassed at compliments, didn't answer. She just smiled and looked around at my sister and me, so we wouldn't feel excluded.
We stopped at the home of the two spinster ladies who'd stayed in Argyle. I don't recall if they were distant relatives or just friends of my father's family, but this was a call we made on occasional Sunday afternoons. The house was closed tight, even on a hot summer day, and old, musty smells greeted us at the door. In addition, my sister and I were expected to sit quietly on the uncomfortable, Victorian horse-hair stuffed chairs in the parlor whule the grown-ups talked. Mostly the elderly ladies talked about their ailments and who had died. Daddy tried to turn the conversation to current events or politics, subjects that interested him, but Mamma was a patiently sympathetic listener as the ladies returned to what they wanted to discuss. Her kindness kept them talking.
After much squirming, Chris and I were allowed to go outdoors. As we left, Daddy surreptitiously took a Milky Way candy bar out of each coat pocket and slipped them to us. We had dutifully sipped the unpalatably warm lemonade and now thanked our hosts.
“Why not?"
“Because I ain't goin' near them, crazy ladies."
“They're not crazy," I replied. "I think they're just old."
"No, they're plumb crazy. They wear them long black dresses like nobody wears anymore, and when I walk along here, one of them looks out through the curtains while the other one comes out on the porch and hollers for me to come feed the chickens. And, they ain't got no chickens. I know that for sure.“
“Maybe they're just lonesome," I said. "That's why Mamma said we were calling on them.”
Rosalie, feeling more comfortable with us, walked across the road to confide from the other side of the fence, "Maybe, but I ain't goin’ near them. They might put a hex on me."
"What's a hex?” we asked in unison.
“You know, like some people got the magic power, and if they don't like you, or they’re crazy, they can make bad things happen, like maybe even make you die.”
“Our grandmother died last winter," Chris blurted out.
“You think somebody put a hex on her?" Rosalie asked.
My sister began to back up, her eyes looking frightened as they did when Cattie told us ghost stories. I spoke up quickly in defense of my grandmother.
"I don't think so. She was a sweet lady. Everybody loved her."
Rosalie, not giving up on her own ideas, said, “Well, did you hear a rooster crow in the mght before she died?”
I shook my head.
"Likely you didn't hear it,” Rosalie said. “But, if a rooster crows when it's still dark, somebody's gonna die."
"Do you think there are ghosts in this house?" Chris whispered as she motioned to the house behind us.
“I ‘spect so," Rosalie answered positively. "Anyway, I ain't gonna go lookin,""
I began to squeeze the candy bar as Rosalie talked. Now I could feel the chocolate melting.
"y'all want to play walkin’ on the railroad tracks to see who can go the farthest without fallin’ off?" she asked.
"Cattie told us not to do that because a train could come along and run over us,” Chris said.
Rosalie was quick to refute that. "I don't know who Cattie is, but she don't know nuthin’ about trains. All you gotta do to find out if a train's comin’ is to put your ear down close to the track and you can hear if it's gettin’ close.”
"Cattie takes care of us," I explained.
"She a colored lady?" Rosalie asked and then, in a disparaging voice, added, "I bet she's black as coal."
I didn't understand why Rosalie spoke so scornfully of black skin. I'd never paid much attention before to shades of skin color, but now I looked closely at hers. Rosalie was a light brown. "Cattie's not black,” I answered. "She's chocolate colored like this candy." I opened my hand, which I noticed was pink, to show Rosalie, who looked eagerly at the candy.
"Cattie's pretty," my usually shy sister added. No one was going to say anything that sounded critical of her beloved Cattie.
We didn't understand that Rosalie was simply reflecting the attitude of Negro people of that time--that lighter skin color raised one's status.
I offered Rosalie the half-eaten candy bar. "You can have it. I don't want any more. Besides, it's gettin' all melted."
Rosalie took the candy, as I licked my chocolate-covered fingers. With one bite she finished it, murmuring, “Thank you."
“Come on,” Rosalie said to me, ignoring my sister.
As I opened the gate to follow our new friend, who was already across the road, Daddy came out on the porch and called to me, "Marjorie, where'ré you going?"
“Daddy, this is Rosalie. She can tell when a train's coming.”
“Hello, Rosalie. I bet I can too,” Daddy said.
Both of them knelt down, each putting an ear close to the track.
“What do you say, Rosalie? Is one coming?" Daddy asked.
"Sure is--likely a big freight.”
“How do you know that?" I asked.
"Easy," she said. “Passenger train's not due ‘til about dark, so this has got to be a freight.”
Daddy took out the gold watch his mother had given him and studied it. Then he said, “I figure it'll be by here in about five minutes, don't you, Rosalie?
As he snapped shut the watch case, Rosalie nodded in agreement, her ear still to the track measuring the sound..
“Marjorie, go ahead and listen. You can hear it."
“I hear it,” I shouted as if I were the first person ever to make such a discovery.
"Y'all better step back now,” Rosalie ordered with the authority my father had accorded her. “And remember to keep your eyes sorta closed when the engine goes by so you won't get a cinder in your eye. That really hurts."
My sister had already run back to the yard and was swinging on the gate while Daddy, Rosalie, and I stood looking up and down the tracks.
“Rosalie,” Daddy asked, "what's your last name?"
“Campbell,” she replied.
"Are you Ezekiel Campbell's daughter?"
"Yes, sir."
“I heard he fought in France in the War--gallantly, I'm sure.”
"Yes, sir, he did. He got some medals, but we don't ever get to Armistice celebration in De Funiak."
"Why not?” I asked. Armistice Day was a major holiday in our town with all-day events and excitement. I couldn't imagine anyone's missing it. ‘My daddy says as long as some white people don't want colored veterans marching in the parade, we ain't going near it,” Rosalie said to daddy, Standing up straight as she looked into Daddy's eyes.
My father was quiet, a frown on his face. I knew how he felt about fairness, and this didn't sound fair to me.
"It's not right, Rosalie...for men to fight in a foreign country, the world safe for democracy, and come home to..." his voice trailed a long sigh. “I don't have much pull with the American Legion boys since I'm not even a member, though I did serve in the Navy." Rosalie was lo him closely. Daddy was searching for some way to ease this little girl's discomfort, or perhaps that of all of us, with some kind of plausible explanation. He said, "Maybe there just aren't enough Negro doughboys in the county to make up a marching unit."
“I don't know,” Rosalie replied in a sad voice, "but I guess we'll never: get to see the parade.”
Changing the subject, Daddy asked, "What's your father doing these days? We played together when we were boys roaming these beautiful woods all the way to Eucheeanna."
“He was working at the turpentine still in Caryville, but that closed down. He says there ain't many jobs anywhere." "Times are really hard now. This Depression has put a lot of people out of work."
The engineer saw us too for he began to blow the whistle, not just with a single long blast, but as if it were a musical instrument.
Daddy took Rosalie's hand and my hand and we backed up almost to the road. When the engine roared past us, we forgot about cinders and waved and shouted greetings to the engineer. He waved back and tipped his cap. Too soon he and the engine were gone followed by a long line of different kinds of freight cars, which grew ever more quiet until the caboose sounded insignificant. We got a final wave from a man riding it. His was not nearly as enthusiastic a wave as the engineer's. I decided he was not having as much fun as the engineer. But Rosalie and I waved back furiously anyway.
“They'll be in De Funiak in a few minutes," Daddy said.
“Takes me longer'n that to get to town," Rosalie said wistfully.
"Do you walk down the tracks, Rosalie? That's what I sometimes did when I lived in Argyle."
"Yes, sir, but I don't get there much. One time though my mother's brother came to see us in a car from Atlanta and we rode to De Funiak," she told us with pride. “Argyle's about five miles from De Funiak."
“No, Rosalie," Daddy said. "You must remember that De Funiak is five miles from ARGYLE."
Rosalie laughed and nodded in agreement, as I tried to figure out the difference. Matter of fact, I thought about that a long time. I decided Rosalie must be smarter than I was. By the time we took our eyes off the disappearing train and turned towards the house, Mamma was walking towards the gate. Rosalie turned just in time to see Miss Maggie and Miss Mary step onto the porch.
“Oh, oh," she said, "I gotta be going."
“Rosalie, wait," I called to the swiftly running figure. "You forgot your shoes."
Without changing her graceful stride, Rosalie turned, circled around, scooped up her shoes and continued her pace. As she went past my father, she gave him a broad smile and called out happily over her shoulder, “Remember, De Funiak is five miles from ARGYLE."
My father turned to Mamma and asked if anybody at Columbia University had questioned her about where De Funiak Springs was.
Mamma told him she would explain that it was the cultural and educational center of the South with the Chautauqua, our colleges, and a beautiful lake in the center of the town
Said Daddy, "My answer every time some smart-aleck Navy boy at the Key-West base asked me with a sarcastic laugh where a town with such a funny name was located was to say, "Why, it's five miles from Argyle, a Tm sure you know where that is!’ Somewhere in their minds, they thought they should know Argyle. Likely didn't realize the Scots in Northwest Flonda had to name something for their ancestral land, everything else having an Indian name, except, of course, De Funiak Springs.”
We had driven past Magnolia Cemetery, and occasional houses on clearings among the long leaf pine trees. Now we were approaching Argyle, Daddy's birthplace. It didn't look to me like a place many people outside Walton County would know about. It was an almost deserted village since many people long ago had moved into town. My father's family had moved over thirty years ago, in 1900, from Argyle to De Funiak. Before that, they lived in the nearby Euchee Valley where the earliest Scottish pioneers to Northwest Florida (by way of North Carolina) had settled around 1820. By the latter part of the 19th century, most of their descendants had gradually moved to other parts of the county or to Argyle or to De Funiak Springs, upon completion of the railroad.
"Daddy, where did a name like De Funiak come from?" I asked. “Nobody here is named that."
My father loved to talk, so explaining how our town got its name pleased him. “Well, let’s see," he began. "Frederick De Funiak was an official with the Louisville and Nashville railroad and was very impressed with the beauty of our area. When the big boys from the railroad companv saw our sparkling, perfect circle of a lake and the surrounding beautiful land. they thought it would make a fine winter resort. So, they built a grand hotel close to the railroad station and began promoting the town, which they named Lake De Funiak.
"Don't forget the Chautauqua programs that lasted six to eight weeks) Mamma said. Turning to us, she added, "You girls should know that De Funiak was selected as the site of the Southern Chautauqua like the original in New York State."
"Because," Daddy replied, "people who'd seen really big lakes were afraid the visitors would say, ‘Oh, what a small lake’, There are deep springs in the center of our lake, so it was decided it would be better for people to say, ‘Oh, what large springs,’ than ‘What a small lake."
Asserting my loyalty, I proclaimed, "It's still a perfect lake, a perfect circle.”
“It is," Daddy affirmed as we turned off the main highway at Argyle onto an unpaved road which ran along the side of the railroad tracks. “Argyle may not have a lake or springs in the center of the place, but remember," my father said as he took on the oratorical style and gestures of a preacher or politician, “Argyle was where Malcolm A. Morrison was born!” He concluded with a flourish of his flat-topped straw hat, while looking at Mamma for the laugh he expected. Seeing her in a pretty summer dress, her dark hair not covered by a hat, but glistening in the sun, Daddy said in a soft voice, "I do not know how this string bean from Argyle ever won such a prize.”
Mamma, always embarrassed at compliments, didn't answer. She just smiled and looked around at my sister and me, so we wouldn't feel excluded.
We stopped at the home of the two spinster ladies who'd stayed in Argyle. I don't recall if they were distant relatives or just friends of my father's family, but this was a call we made on occasional Sunday afternoons. The house was closed tight, even on a hot summer day, and old, musty smells greeted us at the door. In addition, my sister and I were expected to sit quietly on the uncomfortable, Victorian horse-hair stuffed chairs in the parlor whule the grown-ups talked. Mostly the elderly ladies talked about their ailments and who had died. Daddy tried to turn the conversation to current events or politics, subjects that interested him, but Mamma was a patiently sympathetic listener as the ladies returned to what they wanted to discuss. Her kindness kept them talking.
After much squirming, Chris and I were allowed to go outdoors. As we left, Daddy surreptitiously took a Milky Way candy bar out of each coat pocket and slipped them to us. We had dutifully sipped the unpalatably warm lemonade and now thanked our hosts.
Once away from the depressing dark house, we raced around the yard aimlessly for a few minutes before climbing a fig tree to enjoy our treat. The sturdy, low branches of the fig tree were just right for climbing or sitting. That is, until a person with sensitive skin rubbed against the leaves, which stung. I carefully tucked my dress under my legs and avoided the leaves.
Chris happily ate all her candy bars while I ate just half of mine, saving the remainder for the long afternoon ahead. As I was wrapping bits of Paper around the candy, I looked up to see a Negro girl, about my age but taller, walking on the other side of the road next to the railroad tracks. She was wearing a thin, white dress, which looked like flour sack material, but made attractive by a tiny lace collar and a wide, blue taffeta sash. Her hair was braided in two strands, tied with blue ribbons, and she was swinging her shoes in one hand as she strode purposefully along.
Chris and I scrambled down from the tree and ran eagerly to the picket fence to see her. We hoped she'd play with us and relieve t. monotony of this dead place.
"Hey," I called out to the girl.
“Hey, yourself," she answered, continuing to walk on.
"What's your name?” I tried again.
"Puddin ‘n tane. Ask me again and I'll tell you the same.”
Sensing how rebuffed we were at this reply, she stopped walking, looked directly at us and said, "My name's Rosalie.”
"Hey," I called out to the girl.
“Hey, yourself," she answered, continuing to walk on.
"What's your name?” I tried again.
"Puddin ‘n tane. Ask me again and I'll tell you the same.”
Sensing how rebuffed we were at this reply, she stopped walking, looked directly at us and said, "My name's Rosalie.”
‘Tm Marjorie,” I answered, “this is my sister, Chris. She's six and two 'years younger than me.”
“Where y'all from?” Rosalie asked.
“We're from De Funiak Springs. Where do you live?"
“Down the road apiece."
“Where're you coming from?" my sister asked.
"Qh, I been at church ALL day,” she answered in a complaining voice. “MY mamma finally said I could leave and go on home ‘cause I couldn't a still no longer.”
“Can you come in the yard and play with us?"
“Uh, uh," Rosalie said, shaking her head so vigorously the pigtails flopped around her face.“Why not?"
“Because I ain't goin' near them, crazy ladies."
“They're not crazy," I replied. "I think they're just old."
"No, they're plumb crazy. They wear them long black dresses like nobody wears anymore, and when I walk along here, one of them looks out through the curtains while the other one comes out on the porch and hollers for me to come feed the chickens. And, they ain't got no chickens. I know that for sure.“
“Maybe they're just lonesome," I said. "That's why Mamma said we were calling on them.”
Rosalie, feeling more comfortable with us, walked across the road to confide from the other side of the fence, "Maybe, but I ain't goin’ near them. They might put a hex on me."
"What's a hex?” we asked in unison.
“You know, like some people got the magic power, and if they don't like you, or they’re crazy, they can make bad things happen, like maybe even make you die.”
“Our grandmother died last winter," Chris blurted out.
“You think somebody put a hex on her?" Rosalie asked.
My sister began to back up, her eyes looking frightened as they did when Cattie told us ghost stories. I spoke up quickly in defense of my grandmother.
"I don't think so. She was a sweet lady. Everybody loved her."
Rosalie, not giving up on her own ideas, said, “Well, did you hear a rooster crow in the mght before she died?”
I shook my head.
"Likely you didn't hear it,” Rosalie said. “But, if a rooster crows when it's still dark, somebody's gonna die."
"Do you think there are ghosts in this house?" Chris whispered as she motioned to the house behind us.
“I ‘spect so," Rosalie answered positively. "Anyway, I ain't gonna go lookin,""
I began to squeeze the candy bar as Rosalie talked. Now I could feel the chocolate melting.
"y'all want to play walkin’ on the railroad tracks to see who can go the farthest without fallin’ off?" she asked.
"Cattie told us not to do that because a train could come along and run over us,” Chris said.
Rosalie was quick to refute that. "I don't know who Cattie is, but she don't know nuthin’ about trains. All you gotta do to find out if a train's comin’ is to put your ear down close to the track and you can hear if it's gettin’ close.”
"Cattie takes care of us," I explained.
"She a colored lady?" Rosalie asked and then, in a disparaging voice, added, "I bet she's black as coal."
I didn't understand why Rosalie spoke so scornfully of black skin. I'd never paid much attention before to shades of skin color, but now I looked closely at hers. Rosalie was a light brown. "Cattie's not black,” I answered. "She's chocolate colored like this candy." I opened my hand, which I noticed was pink, to show Rosalie, who looked eagerly at the candy.
"Cattie's pretty," my usually shy sister added. No one was going to say anything that sounded critical of her beloved Cattie.
We didn't understand that Rosalie was simply reflecting the attitude of Negro people of that time--that lighter skin color raised one's status.
I offered Rosalie the half-eaten candy bar. "You can have it. I don't want any more. Besides, it's gettin' all melted."
Rosalie took the candy, as I licked my chocolate-covered fingers. With one bite she finished it, murmuring, “Thank you."
“Come on,” Rosalie said to me, ignoring my sister.
As I opened the gate to follow our new friend, who was already across the road, Daddy came out on the porch and called to me, "Marjorie, where'ré you going?"
“Just over to the railroad tracks.”
‘Wait a minute. I'll go with you,” Daddy said, catching Chris by the hand as we ali ran to join Rosalie.
“Daddy, this is Rosalie. She can tell when a train's coming.”
“Hello, Rosalie. I bet I can too,” Daddy said.
Both of them knelt down, each putting an ear close to the track.
“What do you say, Rosalie? Is one coming?" Daddy asked.
"Sure is--likely a big freight.”
“How do you know that?" I asked.
"Easy," she said. “Passenger train's not due ‘til about dark, so this has got to be a freight.”
Daddy took out the gold watch his mother had given him and studied it. Then he said, “I figure it'll be by here in about five minutes, don't you, Rosalie?
As he snapped shut the watch case, Rosalie nodded in agreement, her ear still to the track measuring the sound..
“Marjorie, go ahead and listen. You can hear it."
“I hear it,” I shouted as if I were the first person ever to make such a discovery.
"Y'all better step back now,” Rosalie ordered with the authority my father had accorded her. “And remember to keep your eyes sorta closed when the engine goes by so you won't get a cinder in your eye. That really hurts."
My sister had already run back to the yard and was swinging on the gate while Daddy, Rosalie, and I stood looking up and down the tracks.
“Rosalie,” Daddy asked, "what's your last name?"
“Campbell,” she replied.
"Are you Ezekiel Campbell's daughter?"
"Yes, sir."
“I heard he fought in France in the War--gallantly, I'm sure.”
"Yes, sir, he did. He got some medals, but we don't ever get to Armistice celebration in De Funiak."
"Why not?” I asked. Armistice Day was a major holiday in our town with all-day events and excitement. I couldn't imagine anyone's missing it. ‘My daddy says as long as some white people don't want colored veterans marching in the parade, we ain't going near it,” Rosalie said to daddy, Standing up straight as she looked into Daddy's eyes.
My father was quiet, a frown on his face. I knew how he felt about fairness, and this didn't sound fair to me.
"It's not right, Rosalie...for men to fight in a foreign country, the world safe for democracy, and come home to..." his voice trailed a long sigh. “I don't have much pull with the American Legion boys since I'm not even a member, though I did serve in the Navy." Rosalie was lo him closely. Daddy was searching for some way to ease this little girl's discomfort, or perhaps that of all of us, with some kind of plausible explanation. He said, "Maybe there just aren't enough Negro doughboys in the county to make up a marching unit."
“I don't know,” Rosalie replied in a sad voice, "but I guess we'll never: get to see the parade.”
Changing the subject, Daddy asked, "What's your father doing these days? We played together when we were boys roaming these beautiful woods all the way to Eucheeanna."
“He was working at the turpentine still in Caryville, but that closed down. He says there ain't many jobs anywhere." "Times are really hard now. This Depression has put a lot of people out of work."
"Oh, he stays busy. He says you can't be idle." Rosalie wanted us to know.
“He goes huntin’ and fishin’, he says, so we can eat. And we keep chickens and a garden. My father says he has good land. My mother likes flowers, but mostly we grow corn, greens, string beans and tomatoes."
"Your father's a good man, Rosalie. Tell Zeke that Malcolm sends his regards."
"Yes, sir, I'll tell him."
While Daddy and Rosalie talked, we all kept our eyes on the railroad tracks. "Here it comes,” Rosalie and I shouted together, jumping up and down as we saw the single powerful light and smoke way down the straigh tracks, We could also feel the earth begin to shake as the powerful steam engine came closer and closer.
The engineer saw us too for he began to blow the whistle, not just with a single long blast, but as if it were a musical instrument.
Daddy took Rosalie's hand and my hand and we backed up almost to the road. When the engine roared past us, we forgot about cinders and waved and shouted greetings to the engineer. He waved back and tipped his cap. Too soon he and the engine were gone followed by a long line of different kinds of freight cars, which grew ever more quiet until the caboose sounded insignificant. We got a final wave from a man riding it. His was not nearly as enthusiastic a wave as the engineer's. I decided he was not having as much fun as the engineer. But Rosalie and I waved back furiously anyway.
“They'll be in De Funiak in a few minutes," Daddy said.
“Takes me longer'n that to get to town," Rosalie said wistfully.
"Do you walk down the tracks, Rosalie? That's what I sometimes did when I lived in Argyle."
"Yes, sir, but I don't get there much. One time though my mother's brother came to see us in a car from Atlanta and we rode to De Funiak," she told us with pride. “Argyle's about five miles from De Funiak."
“No, Rosalie," Daddy said. "You must remember that De Funiak is five miles from ARGYLE."
Rosalie laughed and nodded in agreement, as I tried to figure out the difference. Matter of fact, I thought about that a long time. I decided Rosalie must be smarter than I was. By the time we took our eyes off the disappearing train and turned towards the house, Mamma was walking towards the gate. Rosalie turned just in time to see Miss Maggie and Miss Mary step onto the porch.
“Oh, oh," she said, "I gotta be going."
“Rosalie, wait," I called to the swiftly running figure. "You forgot your shoes."
Without changing her graceful stride, Rosalie turned, circled around, scooped up her shoes and continued her pace. As she went past my father, she gave him a broad smile and called out happily over her shoulder, “Remember, De Funiak is five miles from ARGYLE."
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