“Ma,” she said. “I got to ask.”
“Scared again?” Ma asked. “Why, you can’t get through nine months without sorrow.”
“But will it—hurt the baby?”
Ma said, “They used to be a sayin’, ’A chile born outa sorrow’ll be a happy chile.’ Isn’t that so, Mis’ Wilson?”
“I heard it like that,” said Sairy. “An’ I heard the other: ’Born outa too much joy’ll be a doleful boy.’”
“I’m all jumpy inside,” said Rose of Sharon.
“Well, we ain’t none of us jumpin’ for fun,” said Ma. “You jes’ keep watchin’ the pots.”
On the edge of the ring of firelight the men had gathered. For tools they had a shovel and a mattock. Pa marked out the ground—eight feet long and three feet wide. The work went on in relays. Pa chopped the earth with the mattock and then Uncle John shoveled it out. Al chopped and Tom shoveled. Noah chopped and Connie shoveled. And the hole drove down, for the work never diminished in speed. The shovels of dirt flew out of the hole in quick spurts. When Tom was shoulder deep in the rectangular pit, he said, “How deep, Pa?”
“Good an’ deep. A couple feet more. You get out now, Tom, and get that paper wrote.”
Tom boosted himself out of the hole and Noah took his place. Tom went to Ma, where she tended the fire. “We got any paper an’ pen, Ma?”