His face was funny with love and footsore pride, The man beside him saw it, gave a laugh, “Curly’s thinking it’s time for a julep, boys! Hot work for fat men, Curly!”

The crows fly over the Henry House, through the red sky of evening, cawing, Judith Henry, bedridden, watches them through the clouded glass of old sight. (July is hot in Virginia⁠—a parched, sun-leathered farmer sawing Dry sticks with a cicada-saw that creaks all the lukewarm night.)

But Judith Henry’s hands are cool in spite of all midsummer’s burning, Cool, muted and frail with age like the smoothness of old yellow linen, the cool touch of old, dulled rings. Her years go past her in bed like falling waters and the waters of a millwheel turning, And she is not ill content to lie there, dozing and calm, remembering youth, to the gushing of those watersprings.