Then there was a sudden dash for the cabin door, and an eight-year-old
colored boy scurried down the path like a little wild rabbit, as fast as
his bare feet could carry him. The noise ended as suddenly as it had
begun; so suddenly, indeed, that the silence seemed intense, although
the air was full of all the low twitterings and soft spring sounds that
come with the early days of April.
Uncle Billy stood chuckling over the boy's escape. The situation had
been made clear to him by the angry exclamations he had just overheard.
John Jay, left in charge of the weekly washing, flapping on the line,
had been unfaithful to his trust. A neighbor's goat had taken advantage
of his absence to chew up a pillowcase and two aprons.
Really, the child was not so much to blame. It was the fault of the
fish-pond, sparkling below the hill. But old Mammy couldn't understand
that. She had never been a boy, with the water tempting her to come and
angle for its shining minnows; with the budding willows beckoning her,
and the warm winds luring her on.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25