"No, I'm tired."
The mother smiled indulgently. He was young--far too young yet to know
the meaning of true religion. She was a Baptist, and the first principle
of her religion was personal faith and direct relations of the
individual soul with God. She remembered her own hours of torture in
childhood.
"All right, Boy," she said graciously. "Be good now, while we're gone."
His big toe was digging in the dirt while he murmured:
"Yes'm."
The wagon had no sooner disappeared than he and Austin were flying with
swift bare feet along the path that led to the creek. It was the hottest
day of the spring--a close air and broiling sun to be remembered longer
than the hottest day of August.
They ran for a mile without a pause, rolled in the sand on the banks of
the creek and shouted their joy in perfect freedom. They explored the
deep cane brakes and stalked imaginary buffaloes and bears without
number, encountering nothing bigger than a grey fox and a couple of
muskrats.
"Let's cross over!" Austin cried. "I saw a bear track on that side one
day. We can trail him to his den and show him to your Pap when he comes
home. Here's a log!"
The Boy looked dubiously, measured it with his eye, and shook his head.
"Nope--it's too little and too high in the air--it'll wobble," he
declared.
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