"Why don't you like 'em, Ma?" he asked, while one was singing with
unusually deep and haunting voice so near the cabin that its echo seemed
to come from the chimney jamb.
It was some time before she replied:
"They say it's a sign of death for them to come so close to the house."
The Boy laughed:
"You don't believe it?"
"I don't know."
"Well, I like 'em," he stoutly declared. "I like to feel the cold
shivers when they sing right under my feet. You're not afraid of a
little whip-poor-will?"
He looked up into her sombre face with a smile.
"No," was the gentle answer, "but I want to live to see my Boy a fine
strong man," she paused, stooped, and drew him into her arms.
There was something in her tones that brought a lump into his throat.
The moon was shining in the full white glory of the Southern spring. A
night of marvellous beauty enfolded the little cabin. He looked into her
eyes and they were shining with tears.
"What's the matter?" he asked tenderly.
"Nothing, Boy, I'm just dreaming of you!"
* * * * *
The first day of the fall in his sixth year he asked his mother to let
him go to the next corn-shucking.
"You're too little a boy."
"I can shuck corn," he stoutly argued.
"You'll be good, if I let you go?" she asked.
"What's to hurt me there?"
"Nothing, unless you let it.
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