The Whistling Mother

by Grace S. Richmond

Next morning was just the same; and we had the greatest sort of a breakfast—everything tasting bully, the way it does at home, you know. Then I went down to the office with Dad, and saw the boys, who all came round and gave me the glad hand, and wished me luck. Everybody I met on the street wished me that, except an old lady or two, who sighed over me—but I didn't mind them, they just made me want to laugh. Then home, and lunch, with Mother looking ripping in the jolliest sort of a frock. And we had lots of fun over a letter she'd had from some inquiring idiot, who wanted to know a lot of things she couldn't tell him; and she asked our advice, and of course we gave it, in chunks. In the afternoon she and I took another spin and, as I'd quite ceased to fear I couldn't see it through, it went off mighty well.

I was a little owly about dinner, though, because soon afterward it would be train time. But I needn't have been. My family certainly is the gamest crowd I ever saw. Even Grandfather, who takes things rather seriously as a rule, told a couple of corking stories, and Grandmother laughed at them in a perfectly natural way, though I couldn't help suspecting her of bluffing. Of course, when it came to that, I knew they were all bluffing. But I tell you, a fellow wants a bluff at a time like that, and he isn't going to misunderstand it, either—not from my sort of people.

The time came at last when I had to go up to my room and get my stuff—and I knew what would happen then. Mother would come, too, and we'd say our real good-bye there. That's only fair to her—and to me, too, for I wouldn't miss it, even though it's the real crisis in every going away. But—that night—well....

Of course, you know, the room's full of my junk—things I've had since I was a little chap, all the way up, to things I had in my Freshman year and thought were awfully sporty—and then discarded and brought home to keep in remembrance of my foolish youth. I'm pretty fond of that old room. I don't need to explain that much, probably. Any fellow would know.

I took one look around before Mother came—I thought one would be about all that would be good for me. The fire was burning rather brightly on the hearth, but I'd put out the other lights.... Then Mother came in.

If I hadn't caught a glimpse of her hands I shouldn't have known, but I did happen to see them as she came in. They were clinched tight at her sides, just the way I've often clinched mine before I went into a game on which a good deal depended. But the next minute her arms were round my neck in the old way, and she was holding me so tight I could hardly breathe—and I don't believe she could breathe much, either, for I was giving her back every bit of that, with some to spare. I have an idea she was saying, inside, "I won't—I won't"—just the same way I was. And she didn't—and I didn't—though not to certainly pulled harder than anything I ever didn't do in my life!

She didn't keep me long. Just that one great hug, and something else that goes with it, and then what do you think she said? If I'd had a hat on I'd have taken it off to her at that moment. She looked up into my face, and showed me hers, all smiling, and not a tear in her eyes, and said:

"Jacky, you're a brick!"

And then I just broke out into a great laugh of relief, and I shouted:

"Mother, you're a whole brickyard!"