Nevertheless, a few minutes later they were settled in the rocking chair, he on her knee, with his cheek against her shoulder. She was not as ungracious as her words would have made her seem, a fact of which he was aware.
"What'll I sing, Troublesome?"
"Sing 'Three Cups of Cold Poison.'"
So she sang in a sweet, true voice, the sort of childish voice which children love, her little boy joining in with her whenever he knew the words, but with only a hit-or-miss venture at the tune.
"Where have you been dining, Lord Ronald, my son?
Where have you been dining, my handsome young man?"
"I've been dining with my true love, mither, make my bed soon,
There's a pain in my heart, and I fain would lie doon."
"And what did she give you, Lord Ronald, my son?
And what did she give you, my handsome young man?"
"Three cups of cold poison, mither, make my bed soon,
There's a pain in my heart, and I fain would lie doon."
"What'll you will to your mither, Lord Ronald, my son?
What'll you will to your mither, my handsome young man?"
"My gowd and my silver, mither, make my bed soon,
There's a pain in my heart, and I fain would lie doon."
"What'll you will to your brither, Lord Ronald, my son?
What'll you will to your brither, my handsome young man?"
"My coach and six horses, mither, make my bed soon,
There's a pain in my heart, and I fain would lie doon."
"What'll you will to your truelove, Lord Ronald, my son?
What'll you will to your truelove, my handsome young man?"
"A rope for to hang her, mither, make my bed soon,
There's a pain in my heart, and I fain would lie doon."
His next conscious memory was more dramatic. He had been playing in the street, in what town he could never remember. They had recently moved, but they had always recently moved. A month in one set of rooms, and his mother was eager to be off. Rarely did they ever stay anywhere for more than the time of moving in, giving the necessary notice, and moving out again. When they stayed long enough for him to know a few children he sometimes played with them.
In this way the thing happened. The boy's name was Frankie Bell, a detail which remained long after the larger facts had escaped him. Frankie Bell and he had been engaged in scraping the dust and offal of the street into neat little piles, with the object of building what they called a "dirt-house." The task was engrossing, and to it little Tom Coburn gave himself with good will. Suddenly, as each bent over his pile, Frankie Bell threw off the observation, casually uttered:
"My mother says your mother's crazy."
Tom Coburn raised himself from his stooping posture, standing straight, and looking straight. The expression in his dark blue eyes, over which the eyebrows even now stood out bushily, was of pain, and yet of pain that left him the more dauntless. Though knowing but vaguely what the word crazy meant, he knew it was insulting.