In the Morning Glow: Short Stories. Gilson Roy Rolfe
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man that ever lived, Grandfather?"
"Jesus of Nazareth, boy."
"And who was the greatest soldier?"
"Ulysses S. Grant."
"And the next greatest?"
"George Washington."
"But Old Man Stubbs says Napoleon was the greatest soldier."
"Old Man Stubbs? Old Man Stubbs? What does he know about it, I'd like to know? He wasn't in the war. He's afraid of his own shadder. U. S. Grant was the greatest general that ever lived. I guess I know. I was there, wasn't I? Napoleon! Old Man Stubbs! Fiddlesticks!"
And Grandfather would sink back into his chair, smoking wrath and weed in his trembling corn-cob, and scowling at the blazing fagots and the curling hickory smoke. By-and-by —
"Who was the greatest woman that ever lived, Grandfather?"
"Your mother, boy."
"Oh, Father" – it was Mother's voice – "you forget."
"Forget nothing," cried Grandfather, fiercely. "Boy, your mother is the best woman that ever lived, and mind you remember it, too. Every boy's mother is the best woman that ever lived."
And when Grandfather leaned forward in his chair and waved his pipe, there was no denying Grandfather.
At night, after supper, when your clothes were in a little heap on the chair, and you had your nighty on, and you had said your prayers, Mother tucked you in bed and kissed you and called Grandfather. Then Grandfather came stumping up the stairs with his cane. Sitting on the edge of your bed, he sang to you,
"The wild gazelle with the silvery feet
I'll give thee for a playmate sweet."
And after Grandfather went away the wild gazelle came and stood beside you, and put his cold little nose against your cheek, and licked your face with his tongue. It was rough at first, but by-and-by it got softer and softer, till you woke up and wanted a drink, and found beside you, in place of the wild gazelle, a white mother with a brimming cup in her hand. She covered you up when you were through, and kissed you, and then you went looking for the wild gazelle, and sometimes you found him; but sometimes, when you had just caught up to him and his silvery feet were shining like stars, he turned into Grandfather with his cane.
"Hi, sleepy-head! The dicky-birds are waitin' for you."
And then Grandfather would tickle you in the ribs, and help you on with your stockings, till it was time for him to sit by the wall in the sun.
When you were naughty, and Mother used the little brown switch that hung over the wood-shed door, Grandfather tramped up and down in the garden, and the harder you hollered, the harder Grandfather tramped. Once when you played the empty flower-pots were not flower-pots at all, but just cannon-balls, and you killed a million Indians with them, Mother showed you the pieces, and the switch descended, and the tears fell, and Grandfather tramped and tramped, and lost the garden-path completely, and stepped on the pansies. Then they shut you up in your own room up-stairs, and you cried till the hiccups came. You heard the dishes rattling on the dining-room table below. They would be eating supper soon, and at one end of the table in a silver dish there would be a chocolate cake, for Lizzie-in-the-kitchen had baked one that afternoon. You had seen it in the pantry window with your own eyes, while you fired the flower-pots. Now chocolate cake was your favorite, so you hated your bread-and-milk, and tasted and wailed defiantly. Now and then you listened to hear if they pitied and came to you, but they came not, and you moaned and sobbed in the twilight, and hoped you would die, to make them sorry. By-and-by, between the hiccups, you heard the door open softly. Then Grandfather's hand came through the crack with a piece of chocolate cake in it. You knew it was Grandfather's hand, because it was all knuckly. So you cried no more, and while the chocolate cake was stopping the hiccups, you heard Grandfather steal down the stairs, softly – but it did not sound like Grandfather at all, for you did not hear the stumping of his cane. Next morning, when you asked him about it, his vest shook, and just the tip of his tongue showed between his teeth, for that was the way it did when anything pleased him. And Grandfather said:
"You won't ever tell?"
"No, Grandfather."
"Sure as shootin'?"
"Yes."
"Well, then – " but Grandfather kept shaking so he could not tell.
"Oh, Grandfather! Why didn't the cane sound on the stairs?"
"Whisht, boy! I just wrapped my old bandanna handkerchief around the end."
But worse than that time was the awful morning when you broke the blue pitcher that came over in the Mayflower. An old family law said you should never even touch it, where it sat on the shelf by the clock, but the Old Nick said it wouldn't hurt if you looked inside – just once. You had been munching bread-and-butter, and your fingers were slippery, and that is how the pitcher came to fall. Grandfather found you sobbing over the pieces, and his face was white.
"Sonny, Sonny, what have you done?"
"I – I d-didn't mean to, Grandfather."
In trembling fingers Grandfather gathered up the blue fragments – all that was left of the family heirloom, emblem of Mother's ancestral pride.
"'Sh! Don't cry, Sonny. We'll make it all right again."
"M-Moth – Mother 'll whip me."
"'Sh, boy. No, she won't. We'll take it to the tinker. He'll make it all right again. Come."
And you and Grandfather slunk guiltily to the tinker and watched him make the blue fragments into the blue pitcher again, and then you carried it home, and as Grandfather set it back on the shelf you whispered:
"Grandfather!"
Grandfather bent his ear to you. Very softly you said it:
"Grandfather, the cracks don't show at all from here."
Grandfather nodded his head. Then he tramped up and down in the garden. He forgot to smoke. Crime weighed upon his soul.
"Boy," said he, sternly, stopping in his walk. "You must never be naughty again. Do you hear me?"
"I won't, Grandfather."
Grandfather resumed his tramping; then paused and turned to where you sat on the wheelbarrow.
"But if you ever are naughty again, you must go at once and tell Mother. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Grandfather."
Up and down Grandfather tramped moodily, his head bent, his hands clasped behind him – up and down between the verbenas and hollyhocks. He paused irresolutely – turned – turned again – and came back to you.
"Boy, Grandfather's just as bad and wicked as you are. He ought to have made you tell Mother about the pitcher first, and take it to the tinker afterwards. You must never keep anything from your mother again – never. Do you hear?"
"Yes, Grandfather," you whimpered, hanging your head.
"Come, boy."
You gave him your hand. Mother listened, wondering, while Grandfather spoke out bravely to the very end. You had been bad, but he had been worse, he confessed; and he asked to be punished for himself and you.
Mother did not even look at the cracked blue pitcher on the clock-shelf, but her eyes filled, and at the sight of her tears you flung yourself, sobbing, into her arms.
"Oh, Mother, don't whip Grandfather. Just whip me."
"It isn't the blue pitcher I care about," she said. "It's only to think that Grandfather and my little boy were afraid to tell me."
And at this she broke out crying with your wet cheek against her wet cheek, and her warm arms crushing you to her breast. And you cried, and Grandfather blew his nose, and Carlo barked and leaped to lick your face, until by-and-by, when Mother's white handkerchief and Grandfather's red one were quite damp, you and Mother smiled through your tears, and she said it did not matter, and Grandfather patted one of her hands while you kissed the other. And you and Grandfather