“Stay.”
“I can’t.”
She looked at her son, at the window, at the sky, and said softly:
“Do stay. I’ll cover my mug with a kerchief. … I do so want to thank you on my son’s account. I’ll cover up, eh?”
She spoke persuasively, humanly, so affectionately, with such warm feeling. And her eyes, a child’s eyes in a hideous face, shone with the smile not of a beggar, but of a person of wealth who can show gratitude in a substantial way.
“Mom,” the boy cried suddenly, starting, and hitching himself up. “They’re crawling! Mom, come!”
“He’s dreaming,” she said to me, bending over him.
I went out into the court-yard, and stood there, thinking. A nasal voice was pouring from the open window of the cellar singing a song with a jolly tune. The mother was singing a strange lullaby to her son, uttering the words distinctly:
Every unhappy thing,
Troubles that turn the wits
And tear the heart to bits,
Troubles and grief and care!
Where shall we hide, ah, where?
I walked quickly out of the court-yard, gritting my teeth so as not to bawl.
1917.