Part 4 (1/2)
After the supper the young folks sang and danced before the big fires until ten o'clock, and then the crowd began to thin, and by eleven the last man was gone and the harvest festival was over.
It was nearly twelve before the Boy knelt at his mother's knee to say his prayers.
When the last words were spoken he still knelt, his eyes gazing into the flickering fire.
The mother bent low:
”What are you thinking about, Boy? The house you're going to build for me?”
”No.”
”What?”
”That n.i.g.g.e.r--wasn't he funny? You don't want me to get you any n.i.g.g.e.rs with the house do you?”
”No.”
”I didn't think you would,” he went on thoughtfully, ”because you said General Was.h.i.+ngton set his slaves free and wanted everybody else to do it too.”
He paused and shook his head thoughtfully. ”But he was funny--he was laughin' and whistlin' and singin'!”
V
The air of the Southern autumn was like wine. The Boy's heart beat with new life. The scarlet and purple glory of the woods fired his imagination. He found himself whistling and singing at his tasks. He proudly showed a bee tree to his mother, the honey was gathered and safely stored. A barrel of walnuts, a barrel of hickory-nuts and two bushels of chestnuts were piled near his bed in the loft.
But the day his martins left, he came near breaking down. He saw them circle high in graceful sweeping curves over the gourds, chattering and laughing with a strange new note in their cries.
He watched them wistfully. His mother found him looking with s.h.i.+ning eyes far up into the still autumn sky. His voice was weak and unsteady when he spoke:
”I--can--hardly--hear--'em--now; they're so high!”
A slender hand touched his tangled hair:
”Don't worry, Boy, they'll come again.”
”You're sure, Ma?” he asked, pathetically.
”Sure.”
”Will they know when it's time?”
”Some one always tells them.”
”Who?”
”G.o.d. That's what the Bible means when it says, 'the stork knoweth her appointed time.' I read that to you the other night, don't you remember?”
”But maybe G.o.d'll be so busy he'll forget my birds?”
”He never forgets, he counts the beat of a sparrow's wing.”
The mother's faith was contagious. The drooping spirit caught the flash of light from her eyes and smiled.