But, as the boy rode home, more slowly, past the river full of
splutter-docks, the yellow masts of vessels rising above the woods, the
flat fields of corn everywhere bounded by forest, and the small white
houses of the better farmers, and at last entered the murmurous,
complaining woods, he saw but one thing--his mother.
Was she to disappear from the lonely clearing, and leave only the hut
and its orphans? she, who kept heaven here below, and was the saints,
the arts, the all-sufficient for her child? With her there could be no
poverty; without her riches would be only more sand. With a little
molasses she made Christmas kingly with a cake. She could name a little
chicken "Meshach," and every egg it laid was a new toy. A mocking-bird
caught in the swamp became one of the family by her kindness; would it
ever sing again? The religion they knew was all of her. The poor slaves
saw no difference in mistresses while she was theirs. In sickness she
was in her sphere--health itself had come. And once, the tenderest
thing in life, when his father and she had quarrelled, and the light of
love being out made the darkness of poverty for the only time visible,
Meshach saw her weeping, and he could not comfort her.
Then, blinded by tears, he lashed his nag along, and entered the low
door. She was dead!
"Sonny, mammy's gone!" the wretched father groaned; the little children,
huddling about the form, lifted their wail; the mocking-bird could find
no note for this, and was hushed.
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