Willie smiled shyly, putting his head down toward one shoulder, without making any reply. His mother urged, with eager fingers:—
“Print it in some place when you get it done. Nancy Ellen would be pleased.”
“I’m not an obituary poet,” wove Willie.
“But that’s so good.” Mrs. Harbison moved her lips, repeating it to herself. “And ain’t you ever going to publish anything you write? I’ve heard of people getting money for it.”
Willie uttered a gentle sneer. He laughed at his mother in a way that always made her laugh with him.
“But if you would let your father fix up your writings,” she continued, repeating an old plea, “and send them to some publishing house, I know they would put them in a book for you.”
The gate, weighted by a stone, slammed to behind his father coming to the evening meal. But before his mother rose, Willie found time to make dance before her eyes the characters indicating this promise:—
“Some day I’ll get on my bicycle and ride and ride until I come to a publisher. If you miss me, you’ll know where I’ve gone. You can just say to yourself, ‘He’s off having his poems published.’ Wait till then, mother; that will be soon enough.”
“You’ll never do it,” said his mother, having no idea how near the time was.
She gave her family their supper and helped to milk the cows. She thought of Willie’s stanza when the milk first sang in the pail, and kept repeating it until the rising froth drowned all sounds of the lashing streams quite at her pail’s brim.