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 nigger--wasn't he funny? You don't want me to get you any niggers
with the house do you?"
"No."
"I didn't think you would," he went on thoughtfully, "because you said
General Washington 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 shining
eyes far up into the still autumn sky.
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