Doodle was just about the craziest brother a boy ever had.
When i was six he was born and from the start, a disapointment.Nobody thought he would make it, except for Aunt Nicey. Daddy had the carpenter make a little mahogany coffin. It was three months before we named him, William Armstrong. The kind of name that only sounds good on tombstones. I was the one to name him Doodle, because he crawled backwards like a doodle bug.
Mama said that I had to take him to play with me. The doctor said he couldn't get too hot, too cold, too tired, or too excited. I tried to discourage him from coming with me by pulling him cart behind me and sometimes flipping it over. He never told Mama, and before long he he grew on me.
I began to teach Doodle to walk.
I don't think I can do this, but I will try.
C'mon Doodle, you can do it!
After we had shown our parents that Doodle could walk, we saw a bird perch on the bleeding tree. Daddy told us it was not from around here and it had flown all this way just to die under our tree. Doodle was most upset and buried him.
We continued to make Doodle learn to do all the things that normal boys can do. But i pushed him too far, and i left him alone. When i found him he looked like the scarlet ibis. Dead.