“Look!” I said, pointing at the red fern. Staring wide-eyed, Mama gasped and covered her mouth with her hand.
I heard her say, almost in a whisper, “Oh-h-h-h, it’s a red fern—a sacred red fern.”
She walked over and very tenderly started fingering the long red leaves.
In an awed voice, she said, “All my life I’ve wanted to see one. Now I have. It’s almost unbelievable.”
“Don’t touch it, Mama,” my oldest sister whispered. “It was planted by an angel.”
Mama smiled and asked, “Have you heard the legend?”
“Yes, Mama,” my sister said. “Grandma told me the story, and I believe it, too.”
With a serious look on his face, Papa said, “These hills are full of legends.
Up until now I’ve never paid much attention to them, but now I don’t know.
Perhaps there is something to the legend of the red fern. Maybe this is God’s way of helping Billy understand why his dogs died.”
“I’m sure it is, Papa,” I said, “and I do understand. I feel different now, and I don’t hurt any more.”
“Come,” Mama said, “let’s go back to the wagon. Billy wants to be alone with his dogs for a while.”
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