It was the only
thing worth while. That God would give her strength for this was all she
asked.
And then the great shadow fell.
The mother and children were walking home from the woods through the
glory of the Southern spring morning in awed silence. The path was
hedged with violets and buttercups. The sweet odor of grapevine,
blackberry and dewberry blossoms filled the air. Dogwood and black-haw
lit with white flame the farthest shadows of the forest and the music of
birds seemed part of the mingled perfume of flowers.
The boy's keen ear caught the drone of bees and his sharp eye watched
them climb slowly toward their storehouse in a towering tree. All nature
was laughing in the madness of joy.
The Boy silently took his mother's hand and asked in subdued tones:
"What is the pest, Ma, and what makes it?"
"Nobody knows," she answered softly. "It comes like a thief in the
night and stays for months and sometimes for years. They call it the
'milk-sick' because the cows die, too--and sometimes the horses. The old
Indian women say it starts from the cows eating a poison flower in the
woods. The doctors know nothing about it. It just comes and kills,
that's all."
The little hand suddenly gripped hers with trembling hold:
"O Ma, if it kills you!"
A tender smile lighted her dark face as the warmth of his love ran like
fire through her veins.
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