“I don’t believe in your signs, anyhow,” declared Mr. Parks, “for, this morning, as I went to the field, a red bird, a pretty one, flew across the road in front of me, and I have heard it said that that is the sign that you are going to see your sweetheart, dressed in her best clothes, and I know I haven’t seen any sweetheart to-day.”
“O, yes, you is, Marse George,” said Matt, as she handed him the greens for a second help.
“Who? Where?”
“Here she is, Miss Jule, de onlies’ sweetheart dat you ever had.”
“Don’t you believe that, Matt,” said Mrs. Parks, fishing for a compliment.
“I guess you are right, Matt, and she’s got on a new dress,” conceded the lord and master of the Parks Big House.
Dinner and the hour of rest over, the hands started for the field. Everybody, save Mary, the mother of Runt, had gone, and she hunted everywhere for the fatherless waif, but could not find him. Squire Parks, Miss Jule, and Matt organized themselves into a searching party, but hunt where they would they could not find the little negro. The big bell that hung on the red oak in front of the lot gate was sounded, and all the workmen came in, knowing that the ringing of it meant a general alarm, and were formed into groups and sent to the fields to look for the missing child. Aunt Matt took a mirror and reflected the sun in the well, thinking that he might have tumbled in there. Every nook and corner about the barn and every wash, or gulley, or weed patch about the place was examined, but no trace of Runt was found.
“Somebudy done tuck an’ stole dat chile,” said Matt. “Told you so. I knowed dat de Lawd wuz gwine to let somebudy have ’im dat woul’ care fur ’im.
“Po’ little chile, I hope dat nothin’ ain’t happen to ’im.”