Seraphine was almost a woman in spite of her smallness and childishness, and Budda Ben had worshiped her ever since that Christmas Day when Mary left her on the woodpile alone with him. Budda never saw anything wrong with her, for she never laughed at his infirmities and queer ways, but took his part whether he was right or wrong. When she wanted things Mary refused to let her have, Budda gave them to her. Last year when she craved to go off to town to school Budda sent her, although he had to dig up every cent he had saved and buried to keep, just as he had when Mary wanted a wedding-dress. But Mary had children enough left to look after her and take care of her when old age came to make her weak and helpless. Without them, she might fare poorly, for she had no husband or father or brother to depend on.
She was able to laugh and dance and sing again, her flesh had got back its old smoothness, her old sadness and weariness and bitterness were left behind. Thank God, she knew men at last, and she knew that not one of them is worth a drop of water that drains out of a woman’s eye. Once, long ago, she used to think that Cinder was a mean, low-down hussy, but now she knew Cinder was not to blame for July’s sins. Cinder’s heart got broken too, for July left her to run off with another woman. As likely as not he had been taking women and leaving them all through the years since he went away. God made July a devil. Cinder was not to blame for that.
Last summer Mary went to town on an excursion to see Cinder, a poor pitiful soul, living in a broken-down shack filled with wharf-rats and water bugs. Her black skin was ashy and dried up on her bones, not a decent tooth was in her head, yet she still grieved for July. Deep down in Mary’s heart she thanked God for all the other strong men that were in the world. July was not the only one. And June was not either.
The first real spring morning of the year had come and the sun blossomed in the east as bright and yellow as the jonquils and daffodils and butter-and-eggs around Mary’s door, dropping floods of warm light over the Quarters. Opening the creaky, dragging door of her cabin as soon as she woke, Mary peered outside to see what was going on.
She had overslept, but so had everybody else, that was plain enough. She had looked up at the sky, which promised a fair day, although a slight chilliness, brought, by the night, lingered in shady places. Winter was loath to go. But spring had come, with its round of work. Quilts must be washed and sunned and put away, summer things hunted up and mended.
Then she and the children could go fishing for the trout and bream were biting fast. She cared no more about the water-snakes coiled up on the tree limbs along the riverbank and the alligator eyes peeping slyly up out of the water at her children than she did for the yellow-bellied terrapins that sunned themselves on every log. She had learned not to meddle with such creatures and not to fear them.
Thank God, winter had not lasted long, and the few sharp spells of bitter cold which made everybody hug the big smoke-blackened fireplaces were short and soon forgotten. Summer would soon be here with blazing hot days and still hot nights. Field work would soon keep the clear salty sweat dripping off her hot face, and every thread of her clothing drenched from the skin out, for times had changed. Boll-weevils had come and would eat up the cotton unless it was worked fast. But sweating is good. Out-of-doors is good.
The old moss-hung oaks, towering and spreading with full-bodied strength, were so full of new life that drops of sap were falling like rain from their tasseled, new-leaved branches, and wasting on the ground. Life runs so thick inside them they become wasteful and careless and extravagant. The moss on them sheltered the boll-weevils all winter, giving warmth to the plantation’s worst enemy.
The widespread fields waiting to be plowed and planted held grass and weed seeds that would sprout and grow among the planted crops. Plows and hoes would have to work from dawn until dusk to keep them from binding their strong roots around the cotton and corn and choking the life out of the crops. Plants have sap, boll-weevils and people have blood. Summer makes both run hot and free. Winter makes them run slow and cold, but, thank God, winter’s time was out.
A free school opened a week ago. Another new thing. It began at nine, and if Keepsie wanted to go, she must hurry up breakfast and let him start, for the walk was long now that he had only one leg to go on.
A great fire soon leaped joyously up the chimney. The ashes roasted the potatoes, the skillet fried the breakfast meat, the three-legged spider baked the bread, then Mary woke up the children and put them to work, from Keepsie, the oldest one at home, to the yearling baby who strove to put on his one lone garment without help.
Two of them ran to the spring for water, two went to the woodpile for wood, one went with Mary to the cow pen to mind the calf and
