est old miser in the world. Trish thought he must be to treat the white horse so bad. She loved the old horse with its thick mane and kind eves. Once, when Mr. Harbison was sick, she had run down the lane across from his house to his barn. The white horse had eaten apples right out of her hand, tickling her palm with thick lips that reached out from the tall yellow teeth. But that had been last August when she was only seven. Trish’s left foot ached from being squeezed in the forked branches. She lifted it up, trying to reach the next branch, but let it slide back again into the fork. The white horse, the plow, and Mr. Harbison turned around and began the steady, jerking motion back along the yellow-brown furrows. Now they worked alongside the barbed wire fence that separated the field from Trish’s backyard. The yank and slap of the reins broke silence between of the gruff voice. the “Hua, hua” and “Giddap” Trish looked up at the autumn sun, high in the pale blue. She glanced around her at the tree. Several yellow apples still clung to branches high above the rotting apples on the ground. She thought about how Ted and his boy friends told her they stole apples from “Old Man Harbison’s” orchard. He had such a big orchard on the other side of the field. Trish thought he must be mean, or else he'd give some of his apples away, instead of having kids stealing them all the time. She rubbed her cheek with the palm of her right hand, then grasped the branch again. Mr. Harbison’s hunched back was almost out of sight, and Trish couldn’t see the white horse at all. She could still hear the low grunts though. She knew they’d come back again. They’d probably go back and forth all day. She felt sorry for the white horse. took a deep breath and concentrated on making her eight-year-old voice sound very serious. “Mama, why is Mr. Harbison such a mean man?” She tilted her head upward, looking at the underside of the eucalyptus leaves, yet seeing her mother straighten and turn around, a wet blue towel in her hands. Her mother’s mellow voice quavered a little. “Why, Patricia! He isn’t a mean man. What makes you say that?” Her cheeks flinched slightly under the brown eyes. Then she turned to reach into the clothespin bag. Trish’s voice rose. “Well, Mama, he must be. He beats his horse, and he keeps all those apples to himself, and...” Trish got up and stood as tall as she could. A leaf brushed her hair. “And when kids take his apples, he runs after them and yells, and kids call him “Old Man Harbison’, and that means he’s a mean old man.” “No it doesn’t, darling.” Her mother smiled and seemed to get taller. She finished pinning the towel on the clothesline, then spoke again. Her voice was soft and slow. “Mr. Harbison, I imagine, is sometimes harsh with children.” Her cheeks flinched slightly. “But that’s only because they aren’t nice to him.” Her short reddish hair looked lighter in the sunlight. Her hands reached down to straighten her apron over the dark print housedress. Trish walked to the silver clothesline pole, put her arms around it, and leaned against it hard. She stared down at the cement founda- She stepped over the fallen apples as she walked away from the tree and started up the walk toward the house. The sweet apple smell was behind her now, and the air was cold and fresh. The sun shone on the eucalyptus tree with its huge leaves, turned yellow with October. She sat down under the hanging leaves by the clothesline. Her mother’s slim body bent over the clothes basket, her back to Trish. Trish brought her hand up to rub the palm against her cold cheek. She tion and the grass. Her voice almost whined, “But, Mama, what about the white horse? He beats it. I saw him.” Her mother began hanging clothes again. A firmness took over the soft tones of her voice. “Well, honey, that’s his business and it’s not for us to worry about. Mr. Harbison is not a mean old man, and don’t let me hear you say that again. If you children were nice to him, I’m sure he’d be nice to you.” She flinched her cheeks again and smiled at Trish. Then she waved her hand and also sang the words, “Now run along, but don’t go out of the neighborhood.” She turned back to the clothes basket. Trish scuffed her keds in the dirt as she went slowly down the lane across from Mr. Harbison’s house. It was only the second time she’d been there, and this time she was even more afraid. On one side of the lane was a chain-link fence stretched along beside the coppered fruit trees. Their branches reached high up, scratching the blue sky. The sun hung high, almost overhead. A ditch ran along the other side of the lane; then a field of weeds and bushes went across to Chandler’s house and their green trimmed yard. Trish breathed hard and fast, though her feet still moved slowly toward the old barn and toward the partly plowed field. Her eyes looked straight ahead, then down at her feet, and back up again. She pushed the shagged hair away from her face and rubbed her cheek with a sweaty palm. Just ahead, Trish saw the white head of the big work horse. She heard a loud “Giddap.” They were coming toward her: the horse, the plow, and the man. Trish felt her insides jump and her skin chill to little goose bumps. She hadn’t expected them to stop the plowing 8 9 Trish climbed down the tree to the main branch. She caught hold of the branch just above her, pushed out with her feet, and swung back and forth twice before she dropped to the ground. An apple from high up in the tree bumped a branch, then fell with a swish and a thud into the raspberry patch on the other side of the tree. Trish’s foot barely missed a brown rotted apple as she stepped away from the tree trunk. She looked down at the twig scratches, white on her tanned legs. She wiped her hands on the faded levis and pulled the old green sweat shirt down. It always hiked up when she swung from that branch. Trish pushed the shagged hair back from her face. She stood there a minute, her back to the field, imagining how it would feel to pet the old white horse and climb up on its broad tack and ride him without the plow dragging behind and without Mr. Harbison.