The Murmurs of Silence (excerpt) William Phillips ’29 It had been five days since Billy Taylor died. Robert’s parents were still in a bad mood. Robert didn’t really know what to think of his grandfather’s death, all he knew was to not talk about it. The funeral had been a very humble affair, as there weren’t too many people in their district, and Billy wasn’t really a man known elsewhere. But he had he district’s best chickens, and Robert knew that was something to be proud of. The house had an air of foreboding, and the adults were too preoccupied bickering over the will to pay him any notice, so he had been spending the last few days out of the house. Now, as the shadows cast in the groves of peach and pecan trees began to shift and elongate in the late afternoon sun, he languished at the bottom of the hill in the shade of the mighty oak with his cousin Dick, rocking on the rustic tyre swing that had been there for as long as he could remember. As they talked, the gentle and soothing song of starlings floated along with the breeze. The sun would be setting soon. Then, he heard his mother’s voice calling him from up the hill, “Bobby, baby! It’s getting late!” “I’d better go,” said Robert reluctantly, with a look of disappointment on his face. The sky began to dim as the sun graced the horizon. “Alright,” said Dick, “see you at dinner.” Robert smiled and turned away, trotting up the hill to the farmhouse at the top. It had been a while since the grass had been cut; its long stalks tickled and itched Robert’s bare legs as he went. When he got to the top, his mother was waiting for him. She was sitting elegantly on the porch swing, her floral dress fluttering faintly in the light breeze. 46
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