Under the Mercy Trees by Heather Newton

Poetically known as Queen Anne’s lace. True stinkweed is something else altogether.”
    â€œIt does stink, though. If you smell it for too long it’ll give you a headache,” Martin said.
    â€œThank you for the warning. And what is this? We don’t have these in Ohio, where I’m from.” Mr. Samuels squatted and hooked two fingers under the pinkish purple blooms of a small fuzzy-leafed plant, as if he were lifting its chin.
    â€œWe call it shepherd’s whistle.” Liza pulled off one of the tiny, tube-shaped flowers, bit the end off and squeezed a drop of nectar onto her tongue. “Try it.”
    Mr. Samuels copied her. “Very nice. The leaves look like something in the mint family.” He opened his field guide and began flipping pages. “Here we go. Henbit. A weed introduced from Europe. Latin name Lamium amplexicaule .” He showed them the picture. “But I like shepherd’s whistle better. Thank you for teaching me the local name.”
    Hodge called over, “How many things y’all got?”
    â€œIt’s quality, not quantity, that counts,” Mr. Samuels called back.
    â€œI’m waiting for a rabbit to come out of this hole,” Hodge said. The younger boy who was his partner got up and went searching for more interesting things to drop into their circle.
    â€œThat’s cheating,” Martin said.
    â€œYou can’t import objects,” Mr. Samuels said. “Just write down what’s already there.”
    Over to their left, Liza heard Betty, the slow Gaddy sister, observe, “Bird doo.”
    Mr. Samuels was still crouched over Liza and Martin’s circle. He poked at a piece of quartz embedded in the earth inside the circle, then pried it out of the ground.
    â€œI thought we weren’t supposed to disturb anything,” Martin said.
    Mr. Samuels held the rock out on the flat of his hand. He had the callus of a writer on the inside of his middle finger, but his palm was hard. He was a man who worked as well as studied. “Look.”
    They looked. The rock was an Indian arrowhead.
    Martin raised his eyebrows, asking permission to pick it up. Mr. Samuels nodded. He held perfectly still, as if inviting a wild bird to feed from his hand. From where Liza sat she could see the vein in Mr. Samuel’s neck pulsing faster than it should have. Martin took the arrowhead and held it up, testing its sharpness. Sunlight shone through the thin edges. “That’s a nice one.” He handed it back to the teacher.
    â€œDo you find many of them around here?” Mr. Samuels said.
    â€œDepends on the place. One of my daddy’s fields turns one or two up every time we till.”
    Hodge gave up waiting for his rabbit and came over to look. “We find some every summer in the creek.”
    â€œWhat do you do with them?” Mr. Samuels said.
    â€œSkip ’em in the water. They make good skipping rocks.”
    â€œNext time you find one, bring it to me instead of skipping it.” Mr. Samuels pocketed the arrowhead.
    â€œDoes that mean we win the prize?” Martin said.
    Mr. Samuels let the class vote. Liza and Martin lost to a team who put their yarn around a half-eaten frog. The winners got horehound candy to suck.
    On the walk back, a boy grabbed the Gaddy twins’ list and began making fun of Betty Gaddy’s bird doo. “Stop it,” Mr. Samuels said sharply. “Miss Gaddy did exactly as I asked. Her observation of avian feces was entirely appropriate.” He reached in his pocket and handed her a piece of candy. Betty Gaddy had never heard praise from a teacher before. Her face turned a mottled red. She walked back to school sucking her candy, not looking left or right, her shoulders straighter than usual.
    Liza and Martin fell back. “What do you think of him?” Liza said.
    Up ahead, Mr. Samuels walked beside Betty Gaddy, talking to the students around him, pointing out