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?"
"God. 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 God'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.
"We'll watch for 'em next spring, won't we? And I'll put up new gourds
long before they come!"
Comforted at last, he went to the woods to gather chinquapins. The
squirrels were scampering in all directions and he asked his father that
night to let him go hunting with him next day.
"All right, Boy!" was the hearty answer. "We'll have some fun this
winter."
He paused as he saw the mother's lips suddenly close and a shadow pass
over her dark, sensitive face.
"Hit's no use ter worry, Nancy," he went on good-naturedly. "I promised
you not ter take him 'less he wanted ter go. But hit's in the blood, and
hit's got ter come out.
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