There between the graves, a beautiful red fern had sprung up from the rich mountain soil.
It was fully two feet tall and its long red leaves had reached out in rainbow arches curved over the graves of my dogs.
I had heard the old Indian legend about the red fern.
How a little Indian boy and girl were lost in a blizzard and had frozen to death.
In the spring, when they were found, a beautiful red fern had grown up between their two bodies.
The story went on to say that only an angel could plant the seeds of a red fern, and that they never died; where one grew, that spot was sacred.
Remembering the meaning of the legend, I turned and started hollering for Mama.
“Mama! Mama!” I shouted. “Come here! And hurry! You won’t believe it.”
In a frightened voice, she shouted back, “What is it, Billy? Are you all right?”
“I’m all right, Mama,” I shouted, “but hurry. You just won’t believe it.”
Holding her long skirt in her hand and with a frightened look on her face, Mama came puffing up the hillside.
Close behind her came Papa and my sisters. “What is it, Billy?” Mama asked, in a scared voice. “Are you all right?”
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