"He has straight new penny-red hair, which he parted on the left and combed unwetted. He never wore a hat and you could identify him at great distances. One afternoon at the club when I was teeing off with Helen Beebers, just as I pressed my pin and ball into the hard, winter-rules ground and was getting into my stance, I felt certain that if I turned around I would see Kenneth. Confidently I turned around. Sixty yards or so away, behind the high wire fence, he was sitting on the bicycle, watching us. He had that kind of red hair"
"He used a southpaw’s first basemen’s mitt. On the back of the fingers of the mitt he copied down lines of poetry in India ink. He said he liked to read it when he wasn’t at bat or when nothing special was going on in the field. By the time he was eleven he had read all the poetry we had in the house. He liked Blake and Keats best, and some of Coleridge very well, but I didn’t know until over a year ago - and I used to read his glove regularly, - what his last careful entry had been…were Browning’s “I would hate that death bandaged my eyes and forbore, and bade me creep past.” They weren’t such hilarious lines quoted by a kid with the severest kind of heart trouble."
"The sun was terrific. It showed up my pasty hands; ribbon-inky and nail-bitten at the fingers; but it struck and settled handsomely on Kenneth’s red hair, and that seemed fair enough."
' “I sure miss you Kenneth also Vincent also Phoebe. What color hair has Phoebe got. It is probly red I bet”. Kenneth put the letter and envelope back into his hip pocket. He picked up a smooth reddish pebble and looked at it, turning it over, as though he were hoping there were no flaws in it’s symmetry; then he said more to the pebble than to me: “He can’t make any compromises.” He looked at me bitterly. “He’s just a little old kid and he can’t make any compromises. If he doesn’t like Mr. Grover he can’t sing in the dining room even when he knows if he sings that everybody’ll leave him alone. What’s gonna happen to him Vincent?”’