“What are these?” I asked. “Does he draw?”
“Well—not exactly,” she answered,—“nothing that can be called drawing. He tries sometimes to copy what he sees.”
“I suppose I may look at them,” I said, picking up one of the bits of paper. “Pray what is this?”
Grandmother put on her spectacles, and turned the paper round, as if trying to find the up and down of it.
“O, this is Uncle Jacob chasing the calf,” said she; “those things that look like elbows are meant for his legs kicking up. And on this piece he’s tried to make the old gobbler flying at Georgiana. You see the turkey is as big as she is. But maybe you don’t know which the turkey is! That one is the fat man, and that one is the cat and kittens. And that one is a dandy, making a bow. He saw one over at the hotel that he took it from.”
She was sitting by the bed, and as she named them, spread them out upon it, one by one, along with some others I have not mentioned, all very comical. When I had finished laughing over them I said,—
“I should like to send these pictures in my barrel. ’T would give the little sick contrabands something to laugh at.”
“Well, I’ll tell Billy when he comes,” she answered, then gathered them up and smoothed the quilt again.
The bedstead was a low one, without any posts, except that each leg ended at the top with a little round, flat head or knob. The quilt was made of light and dark patchwork. Grandmother told me, lowering her voice, that Billy’s mother made that patchwork when she was a little girl just learning to sew; but ’t was kept laid away, and about the last work she ever did was to set it together. And ’t was her request that Billy should have it on his bed. She said Billy was a very feeling boy, though he didn’t say much. One time, a couple years ago, she hung that quilt out to blow, and forgot to take it in till after the dew began to fall, so, being a little damp, she put on another one. But next morning she looked in, and there ’t was, over him, spread on all skewy!