That afternoon I remembered that I wanted to see Coretta about making me a mattress of new splintered shucks. I did not often seek Coretta. Married at fifteen, at twenty-two she was the mother of four. If she had taken her maternal honors lightly, as a child should, I could have gone happily to and from her presence. But she was determined “to do right by the Lord’s gifts,” and her soft scramble for any crumbs of wisdom that I inadvertently dropped usually hurried my departure to a spot more suitable for meditation, where I could wonder what I had said anyhow. I should have liked to carry off Coretta’s children and free her petunia-blue eyes from clouds; but I remembered that I had once impulsively taken a broom from a child who was struggling to use it, and then found that I could not stay to do the child’s work. I really had to be going. And four children might prove more embarrassing than a broom. Four futures billowing to seas, and my life already pinched for room! No; better the hurried step and remote gaze as I passed. In the least matter of business, the Unakasian expects to be approached by polite indirection. The more you curve and circle, softly as an Indian in the enemy’s woods, casually as a sparrow hops, the surer you may be of attaining your object. A straight march to the point, and you will find yourself gesturing to empty air, so swiftly will he withdraw from negotiations; so surely your breach of manners will be punished. In half an hour’s talk with Coretta, I came somewhat hastily to the mattress, and she sat troubled. I could safely begin on my home curve. “His name is Richard Cecil, isn’t it? Richard is a fine old name. I suppose you’ll call him that when he is older.” Her surprised eyes swam in the gauze-light of pathos that I had learned to ignore. “Cecil is good enough for a little boy. But so many famous men have been named Richard.” “What men?” “There was Richard Lovelace.” “What did he do?” “He wrote poetry.” “Like you write?” “Yes--no--not exactly,” I hastened. “And there was Richard Burbage, a great actor.” “One o’ them movie men?” “No, he played in great plays--not like you see nowadays. And Richard Lion-Heart, a mighty king. They buried him in that place I showed you the picture of--Westminster Abbey,” I ventured, though I had visions of his death in the arms of Saladin somewhere beyond the Balkans. She was impressed, and I thrust on. “And Dick Turpin,--Richard Turpin,--who was afraid of nothing.” “Did they bury him in the Abbey, too?” “No, but he died famously. Half of London went to his--er--funeral.” She was silent a moment, and then said: “I’ll shore fix that bed for you as soon as Sam can shuck out the corn.”