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Show in my father's house/ 5 "When your Daddy was a boy," my father said, his voice soft and private as Bossy's udder, "I loved to watch my father milk, too. I learned as soon as my hands were strong enough. Want to try?" I sucked my breath and leaned forward, nearly upsetting the stool as I grasped the firm, hot teat. I squeezed gently and no milk came out. I felt my face prickle red. "Like this," my father whispered, setting his hand over mine. We pulled together, and as a long, steady stream bubbled into the pail, an answering stream of delight bubbled in me. I smiled into my father's eyes and he hugged me to him. For that moment, no one else lived but my father and me. The barn suddenly became a palace of light. "By the time I was baptized, I could herd cows and milk them, could plow and harrow and plant and harvest. Do you think you'll be able to do all that by the time you're eight years old?" he asked. I giggled. "Daddy, I'm a girl." He shrugged. "That's no excuse." And he set to telling about his boyhood, when he was twelve and his little horse, Fleet, had thrown and dragged him, bouncing his head off rocks until his spirit left his body and gazed over the wide world like an eagle tethered to the sun. It was then, he said, he realized he wouldn't die when his body did, but would live on. Then he told about Canada, where his own father had moved |