I took the quill, dipped it again and tried to write, but the words were unreadable. We stared at the paper for a moment.
“You must writer bigger,” Dola said.
I began again, making each letter an inch high.
“Is…this…a…” Dola read aloud as I wrote, “…good…way…to…write?” She laughed. “Yes, yes. It is very good.”
I sat back on my heels, staring at the paper. The few words had filled the entire scrap of paper. When I examined the end of the quill, I could see how the ink had softened it, making more of a brush than a pen.
* * * * *
The four boys from Burma slowly assimilated into the tribe. This, I guessed, was a natural process of young people. Within six months of my arrival at the Fusilier farm in Virginia when I was thirteen, I had learned the English language, as well as the local c
