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When Miranda found any creature that didn’t move or make a noise, or looked somehow different from the live ones, she always buried it in a little grave with flowers on top and a smooth stone at the head. Even grasshoppers. Everything dead had to be treated this way.”This way and no other!” Grandmother always said when she was laying down the law about all kinds of things.”It must be done thisway, and no other!”

Miranda went down the crooked flat-stone walk hopping zigzag between the grass tufts. First there were pomegranate and cape jessamine bushes mixed together; then it got very dark and shady and that was the fig grove. She went to her favorite fig tree where the deep branches bowed down level with her chin, and she could gather figs without having to climb and skin her knees. Grandmother hadn’t remembered to take any figs to the country the last time, she said there were plenty of them at Cedar Grove. But the ones at Cedar Grove were big soft greenish white ones, and these at home were black and sugary. It was strange that Grandmother did not seem to notice the difference. The air was sweet among the fig trees, and chickens were always getting out of the run and rushing there to eat the figs off the ground. One mother hen was scurrying around scratching and clucking. She would scratch around a fig lying there in plain sight and cluck to her children as if it was a worm and she had dug it up for them.

“Old smarty,” said Miranda, “you’re just pretending.”

When the little chickens all ran to their mother under Miranda’s fig tree, one little chicken did not move. He was spread out on his side with his eyes shut and his mouth open. He was yellow fur in spots and pinfeathers in spots, and the rest of him was naked and sunburned.”Lazy,” said Miranda, poking him with her toe. Then she saw that he was dead.

Oh, and in no time at all they’d be setting out for Halifax. Grandmother never went away, she always set out for somewhere. She’d have to hurry like anything to get him buried properly. Back into the house she went on tiptoe hoping not to be seen, for Grandmother always asked: “Where are you going, child? What are you doing? What is that you’re carrying? Where did you get it? Who gave you permission?” and after Miranda had explained all that, even if there turned out not to be anything wrong in it, nothing ever seemed so nice any more. Besides it took forever to get away.

Miranda slid open her bureau drawer, third down, left-hand side where her new shoes were still wrapped in tissue paper in a nice white box the right size for a chicken with pinfeathers. She pushed the rustling white folded things and the lavender bags out of the way and trembled a little. Down in front the carry-all wheels screeched and crunched on the gravel, with Old Uncle Jimbilly yelling like a foghorn, “Hiyi, thar, back up, you steeds! Back up thar, you!” and of course, that meant he was turning Tom and Dick around so they would be pointing towards Halifax. They’d be after her, calling and hurrying her, and she wouldn’t have time for anything and they wouldn’t listen to a word. It wasn’t hard work digging a hole with her little spade in the loose dry soil. Miranda wrapped the slimpsy chicken in tissue paper, trying to make it look pretty, laid it in the box carefully, and covered it up with a nice mound, just like people’s. She had hardly got it piled up grave shape, kneeling and leaning to smooth it over, when a strange sound came from somewhere, a very sad little crying sound. It said Weep, weep, weep, three times like that slowly, and it seemed to come from the mound of dirt.”My goodness,” Miranda asked herself aloud, “what’s that?” She pushed her bonnet off her ears and listened hard.”Weep, weep,” said the tiny sad voice. And People began calling and urging her, their voices coming nearer. She began to clamor, too.