“My son,” said the old judge, speaking slowly, “it's so hard that I know nothin' I could say or do would be any comfort to you. But I'm sorry—I'm mighty sorry for you all. I know what it is. I buried mine, both of 'em, in one week's time, and that's thirty years and more ago; but it still hurts mightily sometimes. I wish't there was something I could do.”
“Well, there is,” said Hammersmith—“there is, judge, maybe. That's why I've been standin' down here waitin' for you. You see, Lemmy he was tumble sharp set on goin' to the circus today. He's been readin' the circus bills that I'd bring home to him until he knew 'em off by heart. He always did have a mighty bright mind for rememberin' things. We was aimin' to take him to the show this evenin', bundled up in a bedquilt, you know, and settin' off with him in a kind of a quiet place somewhere. But he had a bad night and we just can't make out to do it—he's too weak to stand it—and it was most breakin' his heart for a while; but then he said if he could just see the parade he'd be satisfied.
“And, judge, that's the point—he's took it into his head that you can fix it some way so he can see it. We tried to argue him out of it, but you know how it is, tryin' to argue with a child as sick as Lemuel Junior's been. He—he won't listen to nothin' we say.”
A great compassion shadowed the judge's face. His hand went out and found the sloping shoulder of the father and patted it clumsily. He didn't say anything. There didn't seem to be anything to say.
“So we just had to humor him along. His maw has had him at the front window for an hour now, propped up on a pillow, waitin' for you to come by. He wouldn't listen to nothin' else. And, judge—if you can humor him at all—any way at all—do it, please—”
He broke off because they were almost in the shadow of the catalpa tree, and now the judge's name was called out by a voice that was as thin and elfin as though the throat that spoke it were strung with fine silver wires.
“Oh, judge—oh, Mister Judge Priest!”
The judge stopped, and, putting his hands on the palings, looked across them at the little sick boy. He saw a face that seemed to be all eyes and mouth and bulging, blue-veined forehead—he was shockingly reminded of a new-hatched sparrow—and the big eyes were feverishly alight with the look that is seen only in the eyes of those who already have begun to glimpse the great secret that lies beyond the ken of the rest of us.
“Why, hello, little feller,” said the judge, with a false heartiness. “I'm sorry to see you laid up again.”
“Judge Priest, sir,” said the sick boy, panting with weak eagerness, “I want to see the grand free street parade. I've been sick a right smart while, and I can't go to the circus; but I do want mightily to see the grand free street parade. And I want you, please, sir, to have 'em come up by this house.”