"Why, once I took my turkles upstair in a cup so I would have them as soon as I got up, and—they got out and was promenadin' around, and—in the morning Mama didn't see 'em and she stepped on Lily and she squshed." Then with a spasm of reminiscence, "Mama don't 'preciate turkles."
When Richard De Jarnette went into his library that night it was with a strange feeling of the freshness of life. He had been walking up and down the garden walks for an hour, holding his nephew by the hand.
Mammy Cely had come for him at last, saying in an aside. "I'm gwineter git him off while times is good." Then to Philip, "Tell yo' Uncle Richard good-night, honey."
"Good-night, Uncle Wichard," he said, obediently.
"Good-night, Philip."
The child stood as if waiting.
"He's waiting fur you to kiss him," prompted Mammy Cely. "He ain't used to goin' off 'thout bein' kissed."
Richard De Jarnette stooped down to the little boy, who put his arms around his neck as if that were the only way to do.
"Good-night, Philip," he repeated.
"Good-night. Uncle Wichard. Now you have to say, 'God bless my boy.'"