When he was finally allowed to come down to eat breakfast with us, we looked him over good. He was my age but shorter and skinny from his ordeal. He had Irish blood with their white skin and red, corkscrew hair and freckles. In short, he was nothing to look at, but if he took his coloring from his mother, he got his most of his temperament from his father. He had a way about him; this was soon clear. He was tough and courageous, spunky in a way never associated with my brothers. At home in the woods, he could run like the wind and could track silently. He knew the calls of the wild birds and could imitate the noises of many animals. He rode bareback as if part of the horse. He had a big, angry, half-wild mare, although how he caught her is another story. He would rub her forehead while whispering in her ear, talking to her like a lover. He was graceful and quick, quiet and thoughtful, always ready with a smile and a friendly word. He was unlike either of my two brothers: Myles, noisy and boisterous, and Moses, withdrawn and studious. He stayed in my room two weeks, yet never touched my private diary within easy reach inside my dresser drawer, although he must have been bored silly. He swore to this, and to this day, I believe him. He had no need of diaries to read a person. We were at odds at the beginning, and it was clear to everyone, but me, that I was mad for him.
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