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My brother was always my best friend when
I was a child, especially as we two were
almost alone in the world. We
lived with our old grandmother in a little house, almost a shack, in the country.
Whenever I think of him now,
I see a solemn, responsible boy, a boy too
old for his years, who looked out for me
no matter what. Once there was a bully,
John Anson, who looked enormous to me,
though he was probably an average twelve-year-old.
John had it in for me because he liked Littice Grant,
who liked me. He decided to beat me up right
before her eyes. I was lucky my brother
came by. He didn't interfere any.
He just stood there. Somehow,
though, his presence gave me confidence.
I licked the stuffing out of John Anson. If
my brother hadn't been there, I don't think
I could have done it.
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