The Whistling Mother | Page 4

for calls to her family, in the woods or in the house when there were no guests about; and she often whistled softly over her work. Perhaps you don't think that's a womanly thing to do--but it's better, from my point of view--it's sporting. For Mother's got something of a temper--you'd know anybody with so much grit must have a temper--and lots of times when she wanted to be angry, suddenly she'd break out in a regular rag-time whistle, and then laugh, and everything would be all right again.
She and I had a special call of our own, one she'd made up. I'd know it anywhere in the world. It was a pretty thing--just a bar or two, but rather unusual. Well, as I came in the door that night she looked round and gave that whistle. I thought for a minute I was gone--but I bucked up all right and answered it. And that--yes, it was actually the only minute she gave me that evening that tried my pluck. She began to talk in the nicest, most matter-of-fact way in the world. Not too awfully cheerful, you know, overdoing it, but just as if I'd come home for the summer vacation, and there was all the time anybody needed to talk things over. And she kept that up. The only thing that marked the difference was that her hand was in mine all the time we sat there--but that was nothing new, either, and didn't break me up at all. Maybe you could imagine how grateful I was to her. Good Lord--what if I'd had to face a mother like Hoofy Gilbert's! What a chance to put a fellow on the grill and keep him there--his last evening at home! No wonder Hoofy had dreaded to go.
She kissed me good-night, when we broke up, in just exactly the old way--no extras. Oh, maybe I did put a little more muscle than usual into the hug I gave her--Mother's great to hug, just exactly like a girl--but that was all. We parted with a laugh. Afterward, when I was in bed, with the firelight still flickering on the little hearth in my old room, she came in, in some kind of a loose, rosy sort of silk thing, and her long black hair in two braids, and stooped down and kissed me, and patted my shoulder, and went out again without saying a word.... Maybe I didn't turn over then for a minute, and bury my head in my pillow and have it out a bit. But that didn't count, because nobody saw.
Next morning was just the same; and we had the greatest sort of a breakfast--everything tasting bully, the way it does at home, you know. Then I went down to the office with Dad, and saw the boys, who all came round and gave me the glad hand, and wished me luck. Everybody I met on the street wished me that, except an old lady or two, who sighed over me--but I didn't mind them, they just made me want to laugh. Then home, and lunch, with Mother looking ripping in the jolliest sort of a frock. And we had lots of fun over a letter she'd had from some inquiring idiot, who wanted to know a lot of things she couldn't tell him; and she asked our advice, and of course we gave it, in chunks. In the afternoon she and I took another spin and, as I'd quite ceased to fear I couldn't see it through, it went off mighty well.
I was a little owly about dinner, though, because soon afterward it would be train time. But I needn't have been. My family certainly is the gamest crowd I ever saw. Even Grandfather, who takes things rather seriously as a rule, told a couple of corking stories, and Grandmother laughed at them in a perfectly natural way, though I couldn't help suspecting her of bluffing. Of course, when it came to that, I knew they were all bluffing. But I tell you, a fellow wants a bluff at a time like that, and he isn't going to misunderstand it, either--not from my sort of people.
The time came at last when I had to go up to my room and get my stuff--and I knew what would happen then. Mother would come, too, and we'd say our real good-bye there. That's only fair to her--and to me, too, for I wouldn't miss it, even though it's the real crisis in every going away. But--that night--well....
Of course, you know, the room's full of my junk--things I've had since I was a little chap, all the way up, to things I had in my Freshman year and thought were awfully sporty--and then discarded and brought home to keep in