The Trinity Egg Still beating at the wilderness Daddy burned back a bare hundred paces, stunned and stunned again by winters we'd believed were only rumor; we were ripe, I guess, for miracles. It must have been her, Burroughs' niece, the black Trinitarian. Too much hip and lip, devil's-imp grinning in chapel, secret lover of dancing, speaking plain as day to strangers at the store. All I know for sure is Tom Currier's boy, Davy, found the Egg just before dawn in the nest of a scrawny Red. "Wo," it said, "wo be he who denies the doctrine of the Trinity." Raised right up from the smoothness of the shell. Who could blame the boy, or even the wag-tongues in town for setting it to type? I had my night of doubt, maybe two if truth be told. It was a wonder. Manassah's woman made a velvet pillow to cradle the thing. It got carried to meeting-house from Buck's Bridge to Judge Raymond's new town. A Frenchie from Dorval offered a round five hundred in gold for the Egg, or the Hen, whichever. Tom stood pat. Sad to see him take on airs like that. But truth will out, they say. Tongues grow loose at winter firesides. A little hot tallow and a brush, some vinegar to etch it in, like the acid printers use. The girl's long gone, and the church already built. © Dale R. Hobson. All rights reserved.