Part 1 (1/2)

The Scarecrow and Other Stories.

by G. Ranger Wormser.

THE SCARECROW

”Ben--”

The woman stood in the doorway of the ramshackle, tumble-down shanty.

Her hands were cupped at her mouth. The wind blew loose, whitish blond wisps of hair around her face and slashed the faded blue dress into the uncorseted bulk of her body.

”Benny--oh, Benny--”

Her call echoed through the still evening.

Her eyes staring straight before her down the slope in front of the house caught sight of something blue and antiquatedly military standing waist deep and rigid in the corn field.

”That ole scarecrow,” she muttered to herself, ”that there old scarecrow with that there ole uniform onto him, too!”

The sun was going slowly just beyond the farthest hill. The unreal light of the skies' reflected colors held over the yellow, waving tips of the corn field.

”Benny--,” she called again. ”Oh--Benny!”

And then she saw him coming toward her trudging up the hill.

She waited until he stood in front of her.

”Supper, Ben,” she said. ”Was you down in the south meadow where you couldn't hear me call?”

”Naw.”

He was young and slight. He had thick hair and a thin face. His features were small. There was nothing unusual about them. His eyes were deep-set and long, with the lids that were heavily fringed.

”You heard me calling you?”

”Yes, maw.”

He stood there straight and still. His eyelids were lowered.

”Why ain't you come along then? What ails you, Benny, letting me shout and shout that way?”

”Nothing--maw.”

”Where was you?”

He hesitated a second before answering her.

”I was to the bottom of the hill.”