I walk about with my hands in my pockets. The nuts shake and rattle.
Busie walks beside me, step by step. I cannot go slowly. I am carried
along. I want to fly, to soar through the air like an eagle. I let
myself go. Busie follows me. I jump from one log of wood to the other.
Busie jumps after me. I am up; she is up. I am down; she is down. Who
will tire first? "How long is this to last?" asks Busie. And I answer
her in the words of the "Song of Songs": "'Until the day break, and the
shadows flee away.' Ba! Ba! Ba! You are tired, and I am not."
* * *
I am glad that Busie does not know what I know. And I am sorry for her.
My heart aches for her. I imagine she is sorrowful. That is her nature.
She is glad and joyous, and suddenly she sits down in a corner and weeps
silently. My mother comforts her, and my father showers kisses on her.
But, it is useless. Busie weeps until she is exhausted. For whom? For
her father who died so young? Or for her mother who married again and
went off without a good-bye? Ah, her mother! When one speaks of her
mother to her, she turns all colours. She does not believe in her
mother. She does not say an unkind word of her, but she does not believe
in her. Of that I am sure. I cannot bear to see Busie weeping. I sit
down beside her, and try to distract her thoughts from herself.
* * *