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Scarlet Ibis Full text PDF

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The Scarlet Ibis

JAMES HURST

Adapted from: Elements of Literature: Third Course. Austin: Holt, Rinehart and Winston. 2003.

It was in the clove of seasons, summer was dead but autumn had not yet

been born, that the ibis lit in the bleeding tree. 1 The flower garden was strained with rotting brown magnolia petals and ironweeds grew rank 2 amid the purple phlox. The five o'clocks by the chimney still marked time, but the oriole nest in the elm was untenanted and rocked back and forth like an empty cradle. The last graveyard flowers were blooming, and their smell drifted across the cotton field and through every room of our house, speaking softy the names of our dead. It's strange that all this is still so clear to me, now that summer has long since fled and time has had its way. A grindstone stands where the bleeding tree stood, just outside the kitchen door, and now if an oriole sings in the elm, its song seems to die up in the leaves, a silvery dust. The flower garden is prim, the house a gleaming white, and the pale fence across the yard stands straight and spruce. But sometimes (like right now), as I sit in the cool, green-draped parlor, the grindstone begins to turn, and time with all its changes is ground away-and I remember Doodle. Doodle was just about the craziest brother a boy every had. Of course, he wasn't crazy crazy like old Miss Leedie, who was in love with President Wilson and wrote him a letter every day, but was a nice crazy, like someone you meet in your dreams. He was born when I was six and was, from the outset, a disappointment. He seemed all head, with a tiny body which was red and shriveled like an old man's. Everybody thought he was going to die-everybody except Aunt Nicey, who had delivered him. She said he would live because he was born in a caul, 3 and cauls were made from Jesus' nightgown. Daddy had Mr. Heath, the carpenter, build a little mahogany coffin for him. But he didn't die, and when he was three months old, Mama and Daddy decided they might as well name him. They named him William Armstrong, which is like tying a big tail on a small kite. Such a name sounds good only on a tombstone. I thought myself pretty smart at many things, like holding my breath,

鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀

1 鈀  bleeding鈀 tree :鈀 reference鈀 to鈀 a鈀 certain鈀 tree鈀 prevalent鈀 in鈀 the鈀 South;鈀 the鈀 name鈀 derives鈀 from鈀 the鈀  fact鈀 that鈀 the鈀 tree鈀 emits鈀 a鈀 milky鈀 substance鈀 whenever鈀 a鈀 branch鈀 is鈀 broken鈀 from鈀 it.鈀  2 rank : thick and wild. Rank also means “smelly” or “overripe.” 3 鈀  caul :鈀 a鈀 membrane鈀 sometimes鈀 surrounding鈀 the鈀 head鈀 of鈀 a鈀 child鈀 at鈀 birth.鈀 

running, jumping, or climbing the vines in Old Woman Swamp, and I wanted more than anything else someone to race to Horsehead Landing, someone to box with, and someone to perch with in the top fork of the great pine behind the barn, where across the fields and swamps you could see the sea. I wanted a brother. But Mama, crying, told me that even if William Armstrong lived, he would never do these things with me. He might not, she sobbed, even be "all there." He might, as long as he lived, lie on the rubber sheet in the center of the bed in the front bedroom where the white marquisette 4 curtains billowed out in the afternoon sea breeze, rustling like palmetto fronds. 5 It was bad enough having an invalid 6 brother, but having one who possibly was not all there was unbearable, so I began to make plans to kill him by smothering him with a pillow. However, one afternoon as I watched him, my head poked between the iron posts of the foot of the bed, he looked straight at me and grinned. I skipped through the rooms, down the echoing halls, shouting, "Mama, he smiled. He's all there! He's all there!" and he was.

When he was two, if you laid him on his stomach, he began to move

himself, straining terribly. The doctor said that with his weak heart this strain would probably kill him, but it didn't. Trembling, he'd push himself up, turning first red, then a soft purple, and finally collapse back onto the bed like an old worn-out doll. I can still see Mama watching him, her hand pressed tight across her mouth, her eyes wide and unblinking. But he learned to crawl (it was his third winter), and we brought him out of the front bedroom, putting him on the rug before the fireplace. For the first time he became one of us. As long as he lay all the time in bed, we called him William Armstrong, even though it was formal and sounded as if we were referring to one of our ancestors, but with his creeping around on the deerskin rug and beginning to talk, something had to be done about his name. It was I who renamed him. When he crawled, he crawled backwards, as if he were in reverse and couldn't

鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀

4 marquisette : thin, netlike fabric. 5 paalmetto fronds: fanlike leaves of a palm tree. 6 鈀  invalid :鈀 ill,鈀 disabled,鈀 or鈀 weak鈀 and鈀 sickly.鈀 

change gears. If you called him, he'd turn around as if he were going in the other direction, then he'd back right up to you to be picked up. Crawling backward made him look like a doodlebug, 7 so I began to call him Doodle, and in time even Mama and Daddy thought it was a better name than William Armstrong. Only Aunt Nicey disagreed. She said caul babies should be treated with special respect since they might turn out to be saints. Renaming my brother was perhaps the kindest thing I ever did for him, because nobody expects much from someone called Doodle. Although Doodle learned to crawl, he showed no signs of walking, but he wasn't idle. He talked so much that we all quit listening to what he said. It was about this time that Daddy built him a go-cart and I had to pull him around. At first I just paraded him up and down the piazza, 8 but then he started crying to be taken out into the yard, and it ended up by my having to lug him wherever I went. If I so much as picked up my cap, he'd start crying to go with me and Mama would call from where she was, "Take Doodle with you." He was a burden in many ways. The doctor had said that he mustn't get too excited, too hot, too cold, or too tired and that he must always be treated gently. A long list of don'ts went with him, all of which I ignored once we got out of the house. To discourage his coming with me, I'd run with him across the ends of the cotton rows and careen him around corners on two wheels. Sometimes I accidentally turned him over, but he never told Mama. His skin was very sensitive, and he had to wear a big straw hat whenever he went out. When the going got rough and he had to cling to the sides of the go-cart, the hat slipped all the way down over his ears. He was a sight. Finally, I could see I was licked. Doodle was my brother and he was going to cling to me forever, no matter what I did, so I dragged him across the burning cotton field to share with him the only beauty I knew, Old Woman Swamp. I pulled the go-cart through the saw-tooth fern, down into the green dimness where the palmetto fronds whispered by the stream. I lifted him out and set him down in the soft rubber grass beside a tall pine. His eyes were round with wonder as he gazed about him, and his little hands began to stroke the rubber grass. Then he began to cry. “For heaven’s sake, what’s the matter?” I asked, annoyed. “It’s so pretty,” he said. “So pretty, pretty, pretty.” After that day Doodle and I often went down into Old Woman Swamp. I would gather wildflowers, wild violets, honeysuckle, yellow jasmine, snakeflowers, and waterlilies, and with wire grass we’d weave them into

鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀

7 doodlebug : larva of a type of insect; also, a shuttle train that goes back and forth between stations. 8 piazza : large covered porch.

necklaces and crowns. We’d bedeck ourselves with our handiwork and loll about thus beautified, beyond the touch of the everyday world. Then when the slanted rays of the sun burned orange in the tops of the pines, we’d drop our jewels into the stream and watch them float away toward the sea. There is within me (and with sadness I have watched it in others) a knot of cruelty borne by the stream of love, much as our blood sometimes bears the seed of our destruction, and at times I was mean to Doodle. One day I took him up to the barn loft and showed him his casket, telling him how we all had believed he would die. It was covered with a film of Paris green 9 sprinkled to kill the rats, and screech owls had built a nest inside it. Doodle studied the mahogany box for a long time, then said, “It’s not mine.” “It is,” I said. “And before I’ll help you down from the loft, you’re going to have to touch it.” “I won’t touch it,” he said sullenly. “Then I’ll leave you here by yourself,” I threatened, and made as if I were going down. Doodle was frightened of being left. “Don’t leave me, Brother,” he cried, and leaned toward the coffin. His hand, trembling, reached out, and when he touched the casket, he screamed. A screech owl flapped out of the box into our faces, scaring us and covering us with Paris green. Doodle was paralyzed, so I put him on my shoulder and carried him down the ladder, and even when we were outside in the bright sunshine, he clung to me, crying, "Don't leave me. Don't leave me."

When Doodle was five years old, I was embarrassed at having a

brother of that age who couldn't walk, so I set out to teach him. We were down in Old Woman Swamp and it was spring and the sick- sweet smell of bay flowers hung everywhere like a mournful song. "I'm going to teach you to walk, Doodle," I said. He was sitting comfortably on the soft grass, leaning back against the pine. "Why?" he asked. I hadn't expected such an answer. "So I won't have to haul you around all the time." "I can't walk, Brother," he said. "Who says so?" I demanded.

鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀

9 Paris green : poisonous green powder used to kill insects.

for a living. Beside the stream, he planned, we'd build us a house of whispering leaves and the swamp birds would be our chickens. All day long (when we weren't gathering dog’s-tongue 15 we'd swing through the cypresses on the rope vines, and if it rained we'd huddle beneath an umbrella tree and play stickfrog. Mama and Daddy could come and live with us if they wanted to. He even came up with the idea that he could marry Mama and I could marry Daddy. Of course, I was old enough to know this wouldn't work out, but the picture he painted was so beautiful and serene that all I could do was whisper Yes, yes.

Once I had succeeded in teaching Doodle to walk, I began to believe in

my own infallibility, 16 and I prepared a terrific development program for him, unknown to Mama and Daddy, of course. I would teach him to run, to swim, to climb trees, and to fight. He, too, now believed in my infallibility, so we set the deadline for these accomplishments less that a year away, when, it had been decided, Doodle could start to school. That winter we didn't make much progress, for I was in school and Doodle suffered from one bad cold after another. But when spring came, rich and warm, we raised our sights again. Success lay at the end of summer like a pot of gold, and our campaign got off to a good start. On hot days, Doodle and I went down to Horsehead Landing, and I gave him swimming lessons or showed him how to row a boat. Sometimes we descended into the cool greenness of Old Woman Swamp and climbed the rope vines or boxed scientifically beneath the pine where he had learned to walk. Promise hung about us like the leaves, and wherever we looked, ferns unfurled and birds broke into song. That summer, the summer of 1918, was blighted. 17 In May and June there was no rain and the crops withered, curled up, then died under the thirsty sun. One morning in July a hurricane came out of the east, tipping over the oaks in the yard and splitting the limbs of the elm trees. That afternoon it roared back out of the west, blew the fallen oaks around, snapping their roots and tearing them out of the earth like a hawk at the entrails 18 of a chicken. Cotton bolls were wrenched from the stalks and lay like green walnuts in the valleys between the rows, while the cornfield leaned over uniformly so that the tassels touched the ground. Doodle and I followed Daddy out into the cotton field, where he stood,

鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀

15 dog’s-tongue : wild vanilla. 16 infallibility : the state or condition of being incapable of error. 17 blighted : suffering from conditions that destroy or prevent growth. 18 entrails : inner organs; guts.

shoulders sagging, surveying the ruin. When his chin sank down onto his chest, we were frightened, and Doodle slipped his hand into mine. Suddenly Daddy straightened his shoulders, raised a giant knuckle fist, and with a voice that seemed to rumble out of the earth itself began cursing the weather and the Republican Party. 19 Doodle and I prodding each other and giggling, went back to the house, knowing that everything would be all right. And during that summer, strange names were heard through the house: Chateau-Thierry, Amiens, Soissons, and in her blessing at the supper table, Mama once said, "And bless the Pearsons, whose boy Joe was lost at Belleau Wood." 20 So we came to that clove of seasons. School was only a few weeks away, and Doodle was far behind schedule. He could barely clear the ground when climbing up the rope vines, and his swimming was certainly not passable. We decided to double our efforts, to make that list drive and reach our pot of gold. I made him swim until he turned blue and row until he couldn't lift an oar. Wherever we went, I purposely walked fast, and although he kept up, his face turned red and his eyes became glazed. Once, he could go no further, so he collapsed on the ground and began to cry. "Aw, come on, Doodle," I urged. "You can do it. Do you want to be different from everybody else when you start school?" "Does it make any difference?" "It certainly does," I said. "Now, come on," and I helped him up. As we slipped through dog days, Doodle began to look feverish, and Mama felt his forehead, asking him if he felt ill. At night he didn't sleep well, and sometimes he had nightmares, crying out until I touched him and said, "Wake up, Doodle. Wake up.” It was Saturday noon, just a few days before school was to start. I should have already admitted defeat, but my pride wouldn't let me. The excitement of our program had now been gone for weeks, but still we kept on with a tired doggedness. 21 It was too late to turn back, for we had both wandered too far into a net of expectations and left no crumbs behind. Daddy, Mama, Doodle, and I were seated at the dining-room table having lunch. It was a hot day, with all the windows and doors open in case a breeze should come. In the kitchen Aunt Nicey was humming softly. After a long silence, Daddy spoke. "It's so calm, I wouldn't be surprised if we had a

鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀

19 Republican party : At this time most Southern farmers were loyal Democrats. 20 Chateau-Thierry, Amiens, Soissons , ... Belleau Wood : World War I battle sites in France. 21 doggedness : stubbornness; persistence.

storm this afternoon." "I haven't heard a rain frog," said Mama, who believed in signs, as she served the bread around the table. "I did," declared Doodle. "Down in the swamp-" "He didn't," I said contrarily. "You did, eh?" said Daddy, ignoring my denial. "I certainly did," Doodle reiterated, 22 scowling at me over the top of his iced-tea glass, and we were quiet again. Suddenly, from out in the yard, came a strange croaking noise. Doodle stopped eating, with a piece of bread poised ready for his mouth, his eyes popped round like two blue buttons. "What's that?" he whispered. I jumped up, knocking over my chair, and had reached the door when Mama called, "Pick up the chair, sit down again, and say excuse me." By the time I had done this Doodle had excused himself and had slipped out into the yard. He was looking up into the bleeding tree. "It's a great big red bird!" he called. The bird croaked loudly again, and Mama and Daddy came out into the yard. We shaded our eyes with our hands against the hazy glare of the sun and peered up through the still leaves. On the topmost branch a bird the size of a chicken, with scarlet feathers and long legs, was perched precariously. 23 Its wings hung down loosely, and as we watched, a feather dropped away and floated slowly down through the green leaves. "It's not even frightened of us," Mama said. "It looks tired," Daddy added. "Or maybe sick." Doodle's hands were clasped at his throat, and I had never seen him stand still so long. "What is it?" he asked. Daddy shook his head. "I don't know, maybe it's-“ At that moment the bird began to flutter, but the wings were uncoordinated, and amid much flapping and a spray of flying feathers, it tumbled down, bumping through the limbs of the bleeding tree and landing at our feet with a thud. Its long, graceful neck jerked twice into an S, then straightened out, and the bird was still. A white veil came over the eyes and the long white beak unhinged. Its legs were crossed and its clawlike feet were delicately curved at rest. Even death did not mar its grace, for it lay on the earth like a broken vase of red flowers, and we stood around it, awed by its exotic 24

鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀 鈀

22 reiterated : repeated. 23 precariously : unsteadily; insecurely. 24 exotic : foreign; strangely beautiful, enticing.

beauty. "It's dead," Mama said. "What is it?" Doodle repeated. "Go bring me the bird book," said Daddy. I ran into the house and brought back the bird book. As we watched, Daddy thumbed through its pages. "It's a scarlet ibis," he said, pointing to the picture. "It lives in the tropics-South America to Florida. A storm must have brought it here." Sadly, we all looked back at the bird. A scarlet ibis! How many miles it had traveled to die like this, in our yard, beneath the bleeding tree. "Let's finish lunch," Mama said, nudging us back toward the dining room. "I'm not hungry," said Doodle, and he knelt down beside the ibis. "We've got peach cobbler for dessert," Mama tempted from the doorway. Doodle remained kneeling. "I'm going to bury him." "Don't you dare touch him," Mama warned. "There's no telling what disease he might have had." "All right," said Doodle. "I won't." Daddy, Mama, and I went back to the dining-room table, but we watched Doodle through the open door. He took out a piece of string from his pocket and, without touching the ibis, looped one end around its neck. Slowly, while singing softly "Shall We Gather at the River," he carried the bird around to the front yard and dug a hole in the flower garden, next to the petunia bed. Now we were watching him through the front window, but he didn't know it. His awkwardness at digging the hole with a shovel whose handle was twice as long as he was made us laugh, and we covered our mouths with our hands so he wouldn't hear. When Doodle came into the dining room, he found us seriously eating our cobbler. He was pale, and lingered just inside the screen door. "Did you get the scarlet ibis buried?" asked Daddy. Doodle didn't speak but nodded his head. "Go wash your hands, and then you can have some peach cobbler," said Mama. "I'm not hungry," he said. "Dead birds is bad luck," said Aunt Nicey, poking her head from the kitchen door. "Specially red dead birds!" As soon as I had finished eating, Doodle and I hurried off to Horsehead Landing. Time was short, and Doodle still had a long way to go if he was going

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Scarlet Ibis Full text PDF

Course: Literacy as Distributed Cognition (ENGL 631)

University: California State University Chico

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The Scarlet Ibis
JAMES HURST
Adapted from: Elements of Literature: Third Course. Austin: Holt, Rinehart and Winston. 2003.
It was in the clove of seasons, summer was dead but autumn had not yet
been born, that the ibis lit in the bleeding tree.1 The flower garden was strained
with rotting brown magnolia petals and ironweeds grew rank2 amid the purple
phlox. The five o'clocks by the chimney still marked time, but the oriole nest in
the elm was untenanted and rocked back and forth like an empty cradle. The last
graveyard flowers were blooming, and their smell drifted across the cotton field
and through every room of our house, speaking softy the names of our dead.
It's strange that all this is still so clear to me, now that summer has long
since fled and time has had its way. A grindstone stands where the bleeding tree
stood, just outside the kitchen door, and now if an oriole sings in the elm, its
song seems to die up in the leaves, a silvery dust. The flower garden is prim, the
house a gleaming white, and the pale fence across the yard stands straight and
spruce. But sometimes (like right now), as I sit in the cool, green-draped parlor,
the grindstone begins to turn, and time with all its changes is ground away-and I
remember Doodle.
Doodle was just about the craziest brother a boy every had. Of course,
he wasn't crazy crazy like old Miss Leedie, who was in love with President
Wilson and wrote him a letter every day, but was a nice crazy, like someone
you meet in your dreams. He was born when I was six and was, from the outset,
a disappointment. He seemed all head, with a tiny body which was red and
shriveled like an old man's. Everybody thought he was going to die-everybody
except Aunt Nicey, who had delivered him. She said he would live because he
was born in a caul,3 and cauls were made from Jesus' nightgown. Daddy had
Mr. Heath, the carpenter, build a little mahogany coffin for him. But he didn't
die, and when he was three months old, Mama and Daddy decided they might
as well name him. They named him William Armstrong, which is like tying a
big tail on a small kite. Such a name sounds good only on a tombstone.
I thought myself pretty smart at many things, like holding my breath,
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
1!bleeding(tree:!reference!to!a!certain!tree!prevalent!in!the!South;!the!name!derives!from!the!
fact!that!the!tree!emits!a!milky!substance!whenever!a!branch!is!broken!from!it.!
2 rank: thick and wild. Rank also means ÒsmellyÓ or Òoverripe.Ó
3!caul:!a!membrane!sometimes!surrounding!the!head!of!a!child!at!birth.!
running, jumping, or climbing the vines in Old Woman Swamp, and I wanted
more than anything else someone to race to Horsehead Landing, someone to
box with, and someone to perch with in the top fork of the great pine behind the
barn, where across the fields and swamps you could see the sea. I wanted a
brother. But Mama, crying, told me that even if William Armstrong lived, he
would never do these things with me. He might not, she sobbed, even be "all
there." He might, as long as he lived, lie on the rubber sheet in the center of the
bed in the front bedroom where the white marquisette4 curtains billowed out in
the afternoon sea breeze, rustling like palmetto fronds.5
It was bad enough having an invalid6 brother, but having one who
possibly was not all there was unbearable, so I began to make plans to kill him
by smothering him with a pillow. However, one afternoon as I watched him, my
head poked between the iron posts of the foot of the bed, he looked straight at
me and grinned. I skipped through the rooms, down the echoing halls, shouting,
"Mama, he smiled. He's all there! He's all there!" and he was.
When he was two, if you laid him on his stomach, he began to move
himself, straining terribly. The doctor said that with his weak heart this strain
would probably kill him, but it didn't. Trembling, he'd push himself up, turning
first red, then a soft purple, and finally collapse back onto the bed like an old
worn-out doll. I can still see Mama watching him, her hand pressed tight across
her mouth, her eyes wide and unblinking. But he learned to crawl (it was his
third winter), and we brought him out of the front bedroom, putting him on the
rug before the fireplace. For the first time he became one of us.
As long as he lay all the time in bed, we called him William Armstrong,
even though it was formal and sounded as if we were referring to one of our
ancestors, but with his creeping around on the deerskin rug and beginning to
talk, something had to be done about his name. It was I who renamed him.
When he crawled, he crawled backwards, as if he were in reverse and couldn't
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
4 marquisette: thin, netlike fabric.
5 paalmetto fronds: fanlike leaves of a palm tree.
6!invalid:!ill,!disabled,!or!weak!and!sickly.!

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