This bush looked like it was in its second year because it had flowering stalks blooming with attractive white flowers. The dead give-away (pardon my pun) was the purple splotching on the stems. I’d been taught by Granny Biglo that everything about poison hemlock is toxic, from the leaves, seeds, and flowers, clear down to the stems and roots.
I warned the boys about the danger of it, but they said they knew. Their mother had told them not to touch the bush or go near it. So why did their mother allow the obnoxious thing to flower and multiply in their yard? I found that puzzling. Did it have something to do with a husband who kept beating her up in his drunken rages? Had she intended to use it to allay her problems?
I had earlier taken the saddle and bridle off Frey so he could forage. I’d placed my tack on the ground, not seeing a fence or other place to put them, but my saddle had occupied the ground often enough while I was resting by the river. It wouldn’t hurt it, only it had made me anxious to leave it where I couldn’t see it while I was inside the shack. I was relieved to find that it was still in the same place. This place was apparently so isolated that no one came by.
I whistled for Frey, and he came running. The boys were impressed with that. They wanted to know how I’d trained my horse to come to me. I wasn’t sure I ever had. It was just that I’d raised Frey from a baby, and I think he sometimes believed I was his mother, so of course, he came running.