Pearl brushed away the tears, and laughed: "I just hit on the wrong song—that one always makes me cry, I can see them, too, going their own ways and feeling so bad, and moping around instead of cutting out the whole thing the way they should. People are foolish to mope!" Pearl spoke sternly.
"I think you sing just lovely," said Mary, "now go on, and I'll get back to the dishes. Sing 'Casey Jones'—that's the best one to wash dishes to. It's sad, too, but it's funny."
Mrs. Watson held the iron to her cheek to test its heat, and listened—too—as Pearl sang:—
"Casey Jones—mounted to the cabin,
Casey Jones—with the orders in his hand,
Casey Jones—mounted to the cabin
And took his farewell tri-ip—to the promised land!"
"It's well for them that can be so light-hearted," she said, "and leave all belonging to them—as easy as Pearl. Children do not know, and never will know what it means, until one of their own ups and leaves them! It's the way of the world, one day they're babies, and the next thing you know they're gone! It's the way of the world, but it's hard on the mother."
Pearl came down the stairs, stepping in time with Casey Jones's spectacular home-leaving:—
"The caller called Casey, at—a half-past-four,
He kissed his wife at the station door."
"How goes the ironing, honest woman," she said, as she lovingly patted her mother's shoulder. "It's a proud old bird you ought to be getting one of your young robins pushed out of the nest—instead of standing here with a sadness on your face."
The mother tried to smile through her tears.
"Pearlie, my dear, you're a queer girl—you never seem to think of what might happen. It may be six weeks before you can get home—with the roads breaking up—and a lot can happen in that time. Sure—I might not be here myself," she said, with a fresh burst of tears.