“But you know next summer will come, and you can begin all over again.”
Just here Theo’s mother thought, “I must stop this; the child is talking either to a ghost or a witch. Theo,” she called, “come to me.”
The child sprang up from her seat and came to her mother, rubbing her eyes.
“Now, mamma, you’ve frightened her away; she won’t come back again to-day. She doesn’t like folks.”
“Theo, who in the world are you talking about; and why do you race up and down the corn rows, laughing and chattering to yourself?”
“Well, I’ll tell you, mamma; but first let us go to the house; she might not like to hear me.”
Soon after, they were seated in the cool shaded parlor. The mother took the little girl on her lap. “Now, Theo, tell me,” she said. So the little child began.
“Well, mamma, it began long ago, by me being so lonesome. I haven’t any one to play with, and one day I was out in the cornfield when the corn was just as high as me. And I spoke out loud, and I said, ‘Oh, dear, what shall I do for some one to play with me? I shall go distracted’ (I have heard you say that word, mamma)! And I said, ‘I wish a little girl would grow out of those cornstalks;’ and just as I said that, the stalks parted, and out stepped the nicest little girl. She was so pretty! She had such curling brown hair, and blue eyes, and her dress was of green silk; and when she laughed, her teeth looked like little grains of white corn, and she was rubbing her eyes, as though she had just waked up. And she knew me, mamma; she said, ‘Why, Theo, did you come to play with me?’ and pretty soon we were the best friends you ever saw. And every day we played and played; only she never would tell me where she lived, and she wouldn’t ever come home with me to play. But one day, when the corn had grown way high above my head, and the roasting ears were getting ripe, she changed all at once into such a pretty young lady. At first I cried, for I didn’t want to lose my little girl; but the young lady was so lovely, mamma, and she sang to me, and we talked; and so one day last fall, when the cornstalks were turning yellow, I found my young lady had changed into an old one. And I was afraid of her at first, she was so bent over, and was queer looking. But I got real well acquainted with her, and she told me stories about gathering nuts, and about squirrels and birds, and oh, lots of things, and I just love her now!
“Well, I wanted to tell you, but you didn’t pay much ’tention when I talked to you; so, when husking time came, my poor old lady wrung her hands and cried, and told me good-bye, and I just couldn’t ’dure to see her go, and my dear cornfield torn down, and I have felt so lonesome.
“Well, this summer, the little girl came back, when the corn was tall enough for us to play in; and now we know each other so well that she changes just for fun, from a little girl to a young lady, and then to an old one; and she keeps me uneasy, mamma, for I never know just when she will change. She told me once she was an Indian woman, and that she was civilized now,—and that’s all.”