"Don't you want to go to meeting and hear the new preacher?" she asked persuasively.
"No, I'm tired."
The mother smiled indulgently. He was young—far too young yet to know the meaning of true religion. She was a Baptist, and the first principle of her religion was personal faith and direct relations of the individual soul with God. She remembered her own hours of torture in childhood.
"All right, Boy," she said graciously. "Be good now, while we're gone."
His big toe was digging in the dirt while he murmured:
"Yes'm."
The wagon had no sooner disappeared than he and Austin were flying with swift bare feet along the path that led to the creek. It was the hottest day of the spring—a close air and broiling sun to be remembered longer than the hottest day of August.
They ran for a mile without a pause, rolled in the sand on the banks of the creek and shouted their joy in perfect freedom. They explored the deep cane brakes and stalked imaginary buffaloes and bears without number, encountering nothing bigger than a grey fox and a couple of muskrats.
"Let's cross over!" Austin cried. "I saw a bear track on that side one day. We can trail him to his den and show him to your Pap when he comes home. Here's a log!"
The Boy looked dubiously, measured it with his eye, and shook his head.