He did not like being
in the parlour, because he had to sit there with his best clothes on
every Sunday afternoon and read the parish magazine to his sleepy
parents. But the front window was lovely, like a picture, and,
indeed, he thought that his mother, with the flowers all about her
and the red sky overhead, was like a lady on one of the beautiful
calendars that the grocer gave away at Christmas. He finished his
sweet and started another; he always meant to suck them right
through to make them last longer, but when the sweet was half
finished he invariably crunched it up. His father had done the same
thing as a boy.
The room behind him was getting dark, but outside the sky seemed to
be growing lighter, and mother still stooped from bed to bed, moving
placidly, like a cow. Sometimes she put the watering-pot down on the
gravel path, and bent to uproot a microscopic weed or to pull the
head off a dead flower. Sometimes she went to the well to get some
more water, and then Jack was sorry that he had been shut indoors,
for he liked letting the pail down with a run and hearing it bump
against the brick sides. Once he tapped upon the window for
permission to come out, but mother shook her head vigorously without
turning round; and yet his stockings were hardly wet at all.
Suddenly mother straightened herself, and Jack looked up and saw his
father leaning over the gate. He seemed to be making grimaces, and
Jack made haste to laugh aloud in the empty room, because he knew
that he was good at seeing his father's jokes.
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