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awakened.
    And now he couldn't get back to sleep again.
    The sky outside his window to the east was a somber gray, and the sun wouldn't be up for another hour. Tom tried keeping his eyes closed, but it was of no use. He sat up in bed and turned on the light. Perhaps if he just took another look at Jimmy Creech's letter telling him what to do when the foal came, he'd be able to get to sleep again. Just one look to make sure he hadn't lost it.
    The letter was in the top drawer of his bureau, and he sat down on the side of his bed and read it again. Everything was there. He knew exactly what to do, without the aid of Uncle Wilmer, without a veterinary. He had it down pat now.
    He put the letter away, thinking,
Even if I'd lost the letter, I'd remember Jimmy's instructions. I've read it over enough times to know them by heart. Wipe the foal dry
—
that's the first thing I do. Make sure his nostrils are clear, so he can breathe well. Then make sure he nurses right away. He'll need all the nourishment he can get at that time. And feed the mare very light the first two days, giving her a hot bran mash right after she's had the foal. There's really not so much to remember. I can do it
.
    Tom let his head fall back on the pillow, figuring he could sleep until six o'clock. But sleep didn't come, nor was he able to keep his eyes closed. Instead he found himself gazing out the window to the west, toward the barn. It wasn't like him not to be able to sleep. Usually he could fall asleep at the drop of a hat. There must be something wrong with him; perhaps getting up so often during the night was responsible for it; perhaps—
    Tom felt the pounding of his heart, the swift surge of blood within his veins. He was out of bed and pulling on his overalls. He plummeted down the stairs, rushing out into the gray light of early morning. As he ran across the lawn, his gaze never left the stall door.
But the Queen's head couldn't be seen
.
    He flung himself through the rails of the paddock fence and ran to the stall door. The light was dim, but he had no trouble seeing inside. And Tom's body slumped hard against the door at the sight of the foal lying in the straw beside the Queen.

Wipe the Foal Dry!
4
    The Queen, her dark coat wet and matted with straw and manure, turned to Tom, and he saw the wildness in her eyes. He stepped back from the door, frightened, as she came swiftly to him.
    He didn't know how long he stood there, just staring at her disheveled head, trying to remember what he should do. But nothing came. His mind was a blank. He was dazed, bewildered.
    He found himself running along the corridor that led to the rear of the Queen's stall. He heard himself saying, "It's here. It's here." He repeated it over and over again, all the while knowing there were things to do, things to remember.
    He stood before the grain box, his hands plunged into the oats. The mare whinnied and, quickly, he turned to her. She was watching his every move.
    Feed her lightly the first two days.
    His mind was working better now. He wasn't calm yet, but things were starting to come. Jimmy had said— What else had Jimmy said?
    Bran mash. Give the mare a bran mash right after she's foaled.
    His eyes left the mare for the pail beside him. Picking it up, he went over to a sack of bran. The pail was half-filled when he set it down and turned again to the mare.
    It would take time to prepare the mash. He needed hot water and salt. He'd have to get the stove going.
    But the foal. What about the foal? The foal should come first.
    He walked to where he could get a better view of the stall, and the mare followed him. He could see the foal now, and his eyes became as liquid as those of the Queen as he watched.
    The small, dark bundle in the corner of the stall moved. With great effort, the foal raised its heavy head from the straw, only to let it fall back again. Its long legs, half-buried in the bedding, were straight and rigid. Slight ribs showed plainly beneath the wet