MRS. GASTON’S recovery from the brain fever which followed her
prostration was slow and painful. For days she would be quite herself as
she would sit up in bed and smile at the wistful face of the boy who sat
tenderly gazing into her eyes, or with swift feet was running to do her
slightest wish.
Then days of relapse would follow when the child’s heart would ache and
ache with a dumb sense of despair as he listened to her incoherent talk,
and heard her meaningless laughter. When at length he could endure it
no longer, he would call Aunt Eve, run from the house, as fast as his
little legs could carry him, and in the woods lie down in the shadows
and cry for hours.
“I wonder if God is dead?” he said one day as he lay and gazed at the
clouds sweeping past the openings in the green foliage above.
“I pray every day and every night, but she don’t get well. Why does He
leave her like that, when she’s so good!” and then his voice choked into
sobs, and he buried his face in the leaves.
He was suddenly roused by the voice of Nelse who stood looking down on
his forlorn figure with tenderness.
“What you doin’ out in dese woods, honey, by yo’ se’f?”
“Nothin’, Nelse.”
“I knows. You’se er crying ’bout yo Ma.”
The boy nodded without looking up.
“Doan do dat way, honey. You’se too little ter cry lak dat. Yer Ma’s
gittin’ better ev’ry day, de doctor done tole me so.”
“Do you think so, Nelse?” There was an eagerness and yearning in the
child’s voice, that would have moved the heart of a stone.
“Cose I does. She be strong en well in little while when cole wedder
comes. Fros ’ll soon be here. I see whar er ole rabbit been er eatin’
on my turnip tops. Dat’s er sho sign. I gwine make you er rabbit box
ter-morrer ter ketch dat rabbit.”
“Will you, Nelse?”
“Sho’s you bawn. Now des lemme pick you er chune on dis banjer ’fo I
goes ter my wuk.”
Of all the music he had ever heard, the boy thought Nelse’s banjo was
the sweetest. He accompanied the music in a deep bass voice which he
kept soft and soothing. The boy sat entranced. With wide open eyes and
half parted lips he dreamed his mother was well, and then that he
had grown to be a man, a great man, rich and powerful. Now he was the
Governor of the state, living in the Governor’s palace, and his mother
was presiding at a banquet in his honour. He was bending proudly over
her and whispering to her that she was the most beautiful mother in the
world. And he could hear her say with a smile, “You dear boy!”
Suddenly the banjo stopped, and Nelse railed with mock severity, “Now
look at ’im er cryin’ ergin, en me er pickin’ de eens er my fingers
off fur ’im!”
“No, I aint cryin’. I am just listenin’ to the music. Nelse, you’re the
greatest banjo player in the world!”
“Na, honey, hits de banjer. Dats de Jo-bloin’est banjer! En des ter
t’ink--er Yankee gin’er to me in de wah! Dat wuz the fus’ Yankee I
ebber seed hab sense enuf ter own er banjer. I kinder hate ter fight dem
Yankees atter dat.”
“But Nelse, if you were fighting with our men how did you get close to
any Yankees?”
“Lawd child, we’s allers slippin’ out twixt de lines atter night er
carryin’ on wid dem Yankees. We trade ’em terbaccer fur coffee en
sugar, en play cyards, en talk twell mos’ day sometime. I slip out fust
in er patch er woods twix’ de lines, en make my banjer talk. En den yere
dey come! De Yankees fum one way en our boys de yudder. I make out lak I
doan see ’em tall, des playin’ ter myself. Den I make dat banjer moan
en cry en talk about de folks way down in Dixie. De boys creep up closer
en closer twell dey right at my elbow en I see ’em cryin’, some un
’em--den I gin’er a juk! en way she go pluckety plunck! en dey gin ter
dance and laugh! Sometime dey cuss me lak dey mad en lam me on de back.
When dey hit me hard den I know dey ready ter gimme all dey got.”
“But how did you get this banjo, Nelse?”
“Yankee gin’er ter me one night ter try’er, en when he hear me des
fairly pull de insides outen ’er, he ’low dat hit ’ed be er sin
ter ebber sep’rate us. Say he nebber know what ’uz in er banjer.”
Nelse rose to go.
“Now, honey, doan you cry no mo, en I make you dat rabbit box sho, en
erlong ’bout Chris’mas I gwine larn you how ter shoot.”
“Will you let me hold the gun?” the boy eagerly asked.
“I des sho you how ter poke yo gun in de crack er de fence en whisper
ter de trigger. Den look out birds en rabbits!”
The boy’s face was one great smile.
It was late in September before his mother was strong enough to venture
out of the house--six terrible months from the day she was stricken.
What an age it seemed to a sensitive boy’s soul. To him the days were
weeks, the weeks months, the months, long weary years. It seemed to him
he had lived a life-time, died, and was born again the day he saw her
first walking on the soft grass that grew under the big trees at the
back of the house. He was gently holding her by the hand.
“Now, Mama dear, sit here on this seat--you mustn’t get in the sun.”
“But, Charlie, I want to see the flowers on the front lawn.”
“No, no, Mama, the sun is shinin’ awful on that side of the house!”
A great fear caught the boy’s heart. The lawn had grown up a mass of
weeds and grass during the long hot summer and he was afraid his mother
would cry when she saw the ruin of those flowers she loved so well.
How impossible for his child’s mind to foresee the gathering black
hurricane of tragedy and ruin soon to burst over that lawn!
Skillfully and firmly he kept her on the seat in the rear where she
could not see the lawn. He said everything he could think of to please
her. She would smile and kiss him in her old sweet way until his heart
was full to bursting.
“Do you remember, Mama, how many times when you were so sick I used to
slip up close and kiss your mouth and eyes?”
“I often dreamed you were kissing me.”
“I thought you would know. I’ll soon be a man. I’m going to be rich, and
build a great house and you are going to live in it with me, and I am to
take care of you as long as you live.”
“I expect you will marry some pretty girl, and almost forget your old
Mama who will be getting grey.”
“But I’ll never love anybody like I love you, Mama dear!”
His little arms slipped around her neck, held her close for a moment,
and then he tenderly kissed her.
After supper he sought Nelse.
“Nelse, we must work out the flowers in the lawn. Mama wants to see
them. It was all I could do to keep her from going out there to-day.”
“Lawd chile, hit’ll take two niggers er week ter clean out dat lawn.
Hits gone fur dis year. Yer Ma’ll know dat, honey.”
The next morning after breakfast the boy found a hoe, and in the
piercing sun began manfully to work at those flowers. He had worked
perhaps, a half hour. His face was red with heat and wet with sweat. He
was tired already and seemed to make no impression on the wilderness of
weeds and grass.
Suddenly he looked up and saw his mother smiling at him.
“Come here, Charlie!” she called.
He dropped his hoe and hurried to her side. She caught him in her arms
and kissed the sweat drops from his eyes and mouth.
“You are the sweetest boy in the world!”
What music to his soul these words to the last day of his life!
“I was afraid when you saw all these weeds you would cry about your
flowers, Mama.”
“It does hurt me, dear, to see them, but it’s worth all their loss to
see you out there in the broiling sun working so hard to please me. I’ve
seen the most beautiful flower this morning that ever blossomed on my
lawn!--and its perfume will make sweet my whole life. I am going to be
brave and live for you now.”
And she kissed him fondly again.