The Whistling Mother | Page 4

called her my whistling mother. It's a queer title, but
it's hers in a peculiar way. She always could whistle like a blackbird.
She never did it for exhibition; I don't mean that--I should say not--but
she did do it 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.