Keeper of the Doves Read Online Free

trying to do? Speak up!”
    â€œI was trying to make a poem.”
    â€œA what?”
    â€œA poem.”
    My father now looked puzzled, but over his head his father was still stern. “How old are you, Amen?”
    â€œSix, Papa.”
    â€œCan you read?”
    â€œYes, Papa.”
    â€œCan you write?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat was the poem?”
    â€œIt wasn’t very long.”
    â€œGood, there are enough long poems. Let’s hear it.”
    I said my poem.
    â€œGo on. What’s the next line.”
    â€œThat’s the whole poem.”
    â€œIt doesn’t rhyme, Amen. A poem ought to rhyme.” My father began to recite his favorite poem.
    â€œHe clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls:
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.”
    â€œTennyson was writing about an eagle.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œThat’s my idea of a poem.”
    â€œMine too.”
    He sighed. “Come here.”
    He took me on his lap. “Maybe a poem doesn’t have to rhyme. I’m no expert.” His long fingers gestured over his desk. “So you were trying to write down your poem.”
    â€œYes, Papa.”
    â€œThat makes sense. Would you like some help?”
    â€œYes, Papa.”
    Papa took a clean sheet of paper. He took my hand in his. We picked up the pen. We dipped the pen in ink. We wrote my poem.
    A poem is
a garden of words.
    â€œWe’ll put your name down at the bottom.” We did that.
    Amen McBee
    Papa handed me the poem and took out his pocket watch. This was always his signal that the interview was over.
    Grandmama’s story was over too. She laughed in a kind way at the thought of my poem.
    â€œHow long ago was that, Amen? I lose track of time.”
    â€œTwo years. I’m eight now.”
    â€œAnd do you still have the poem?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWell, you must show it to me. I’d like to see it. And do you remember what I called you?”
    â€œI could never forget that, Grandmama. It was the nicest thing anyone ever said to me.”
    â€œWhat was it?” Augusta asked.
    Grandmama said, “I called her my little wordsmith. You know, like a goldsmith works with gold and a locksmith works with locks. My little wordsmith.”

chapter nine
    I Shall Meet Thee Once More
    â€œI know I shall meet thee once more Albeit at Heaven’s great door.”
    Â 
    My sisters Abigail and Augusta were singing for Grandmama. It was Sunday evening. Normally we were not allowed to have music on Sunday, but Grandmama had begged for the rules to be relaxed, “just this once.”
    â€œWith a smile on my face
I’ll accept thy embrace,
And we’ll walk arm in arm as before.”
    The Bellas and I sat on the horsehair sofa. I was trying not to slide off as I seemed to do on real horses.
    This particular song had been written by and was at the request of Aunt Pauline. She stood behind the piano, her hand on a brooch at her neck. This pin contained the hair of a man Aunt Pauline had loved and who had died during the war. A lock of his hair was twisted with a lock of hers, and it was all she had left of Frederick.
    Augusta had told me that while Frederick had died “during the war,” he had died of chicken pox. I was never, never to mention this, especially not to the twins, who would probably cackle like chickens every time his name was mentioned.
    My sisters started on the chorus.
    â€œOnce more, just once more
May we meet on that heavenly shore.
Once more, just once more
May we walk arm in arm as before.”
    One of the Bellas was amusing the other by tugging the top of her hair and mouthing, “E—E—E.”
    Suddenly the Bellas gasped. They did this exactly together, and I looked from one to the other. Their eyes were turned to the