He paused and shook his head thoughtfully. "But he was funny—he was laughin' and whistlin' and singin'!"
V
The air of the Southern autumn was like wine. The Boy's heart beat with new life. The scarlet and purple glory of the woods fired his imagination. He found himself whistling and singing at his tasks. He proudly showed a bee tree to his mother, the honey was gathered and safely stored. A barrel of walnuts, a barrel of hickory-nuts and two bushels of chestnuts were piled near his bed in the loft.
But the day his martins left, he came near breaking down. He saw them circle high in graceful sweeping curves over the gourds, chattering and laughing with a strange new note in their cries.
He watched them wistfully. His mother found him looking with shining eyes far up into the still autumn sky. His voice was weak and unsteady when he spoke:
"I—can—hardly—hear—'em—now; they're so high!"
A slender hand touched his tangled hair:
"Don't worry, Boy, they'll come again."
"You're sure, Ma?" he asked, pathetically.
"Sure."