Part 1 (2/2)
”See this streak o' black land where the rain's run down the road? Well, that means silveh, an' it's ow lan'.”
They started once more. ”It may not mean much, but we needn't care, when what doesn't mean silveh means dead loads of other things. Make haste an' grow, son; yo' peerless motheh and I are only wait'n'--” He ceased.
In the small of his back the growing pressure of a diminutive bad hat told the condition of his hidden audience. It lifted again.
”'Evomind, son, I can talk to you just as well asleep. But I can tell you somepm that'll keep you awake. I was savin' it till we'd get home to yo' dear motheh, but yo' ti-ud an' I don't think of anything else an'--the fact is, I'm bringing home a present faw you.” He looked behind till his eyes met a brighter pair. ”What you reckon you've been sitt'n'
on in one of them saddle pockets all the way fum Suez?”
John smiled, laid his cheek to his father's back and whispered, ”A kitt'n.”
”Why, no, son; its somepm powerful nice, but--well, you might know it wa'n't a kitt'n by my lett'n' you sit on it so long. I'd be proud faw you to have a kitt'n, but, you know, cats don't suit yo' dear motheh's high strung natu'e. You couldn't be happy with anything that was a constant tawment to her, could you?”
The head lying against the questioner's back nodded an eager yes!
”Oh, you think you might, son, but I jes' know you couldn't. Now, what I've got faw you is ever so much nicer'n a kitt'n. You see, you a-growin' so fast you'll soon not care faw kitt'ns; you'll care for what I've got you. But don't ask what it is, faw I'd hate not to tell you, and I want yo' dear motheh to be with us when you find it out.”
It was fairly twilight when their horse neighed his pleasure that his crib was near. Presently they dismounted in a place full of stumps and weeds, where a grove had been till Halliday's brigade had camped there.
Beyond a paling fence and a sandy, careworn garden of altheas and dwarf-box stood broadside to them a very plain, two-story house of uncoursed gray rubble, whose open door sent forth no welcoming gleam.
Its windows, too, save one softly reddened by a remote lamp, reflected only the darkling sky. This was their home, called by every mountaineer neighbor ”a plumb palace.”
As they pa.s.sed in, the slim form of Mrs. March entered at the rear door of the short hall and came slowly through the gloom. John sprang, and despite her word and gesture of nervous disrelish, clutched, and smote his face into, her pliant crinoline. The husband kissed her forehead, and, as she staggered before the child's energy, said:
”Be gentle, son.” He took a hand of each. ”I hope you'll overlook a little wildness in us this evening, my dear.” They turned into a front room. ”I wonder he restrains himself so well, when he knows I've brought him a present--not expensive, my deah, I a.s.sho' you, nor anything you can possible disapprove; only a B-double-O-K, in fact. Still, son, you ought always to remember yo' dear mother's apt to be ti-ud.”
Mrs. March sank into the best rocking-chair, and, while her son kissed her diligently, said to her husband, with a smile of sad reproach:
”John can never know a woman's fatigue.”
”No, Daphne, deah, an' that's what I try to teach him.”
”Yes, Powhatan, but there's a difference between teaching and terrifying.”
”Oh! Oh! I was fah fum intend'n' to be harsh.”
”Ah! Judge March, you little realize how harsh your words sometimes are.” She showed the back of her head, although John plucked her sleeves with vehement whispers. ”What _is_ it child?”
Her irritation turned to mild remonstrance. ”You shouldn't interrupt your father, no matter how long you have to wait.”
”Oh, I'd finished, my deah,” cried the Judge, beaming upon wife and son.
”And now,” he gathered up the saddle-bags, ”now faw the present!”
John leaped--his mother cringed.
”Oh, Judge March--before supper?”
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