Keeper of the Doves by Betsy Byars

chapter one
    A for Amen
    â€œA nother girl? Not another girl? Don’t tell me I’ve got another daughter!”
    These were the first words my father spoke after I was born. Of course I was just minutes old—way too little to remember—but I have heard the story so often that I really think it is my memory.
    It was a hot summer evening, 1891, and thunder could be heard as a storm rolled in from the west.
    Papa’s voice was very loud—especially when he was upset. The words certainly would have come through the door to Mama’s room, rivaling the thunder for attention.
    â€œShe’s a fine, healthy girl,” Grandmama said. It was she who had brought the bad news. “Be grateful, Albert.”
    Papa seemed not to hear her. He looked up at the ceiling. “What’s left?” He dropped his hands to his sides in a gesture of hopelessness.
    â€œWe’ve got Abigail! Augusta! Arabella! Annabella!”
    My father, in his despair, said the names so loudly that my sisters, thinking they had been summoned, rushed into the hall in their nightclothes.
    â€œYou have a sister,” he said.
    â€œA sister?” In my memory they were disappointed as well.
    â€œYes!”
    â€œWhat’s her name?” Abigail asked. As the oldest, she spoke for all of them.
    â€œI’m thinking.”
    My father had insisted that his children’s names all begin with an A . “When I have used up all the beautiful A names, I will move on to B ,” was his explanation.
    â€œThere’s nothing left,” he said.
    â€œDoes this mean you will go on to the B s?” Abigail asked.
    I waited in my blanket for my fate. It came, but I was too little to know how I was doomed.
    â€œAmen!” my father pronounced.
    There was a silence.
    â€œPapa, that’s not a name,” Abigail said, “That’s something you say at the end of a prayer.”
    â€œIt is the end of a prayer—a prayer for a son. Amen!”
    â€œAlbert,” Grandmama said, “you’re upset. Think about it and—”
    â€œAmen!”
    My father ran down the stairs. “Albert,” Grandmama called after him, “the storm!” He slammed the screen door as he left the house, driven by his own inner storm.
    In her room, my mother kissed my brow. She whispered, “We’ll call you Amie,” in a soothing way.
    But in the family Bible—where it counts—it says: Born July 11, 1891, a daughter—Amen McBee.

chapter two
    The Bellas and the Parts of a Dog
    â€œB ellas! Bellas! Are you looking after your sister?”
    â€œYes, Aunt Pauline,” the twins called back in unison.
    â€œWell, don’t get into any mischief.”
    â€œNo, Aunt Pauline.”
    I had just had my third birthday and was, as usual, in the Bellas’ care. The twins—Arabella and Annabella—were called the Bellas. No one—not even Mama—could tell them apart.
    The Bellas were only two years older than I, but because there were two of them, they seemed twice as smart. They had taken me on as their personal improvement plan and on this day were enlarging my vocabulary.
    We were beneath one of the willow trees from which our home got its name—The Willows. Keeping us company was Scout, the dog.
    â€œWhat is that?” a Bella said, pointing to the dog.
    â€œChin.”
    â€œA dog doesn’t have a chin,” she said.
    â€œHe do.”
    â€œDo not.”
    â€œIt be a little chin, but it do be a chin,” I argued. My grammar wasn’t perfect, but I did know the parts to a dog. I had recently learned that everything had a name and gobbled up words the way other three-year-olds gobble sweets.
    Scout sat quietly, stoically waiting the outcome of the debate over his chin.
    â€œOh, all right. It be a chin,” a Bella said, stressing my bad grammar.
    Scout was Papa’s dog, but he’d had four other little girls teach him patience,