Grandparent and child -- Fiction; Spanish Americans -- Fiction
Her grandson rose to his feet. “Let's let well enough alone,
Grandmother,” he said. “Eighteen thousand will do, thank you. I'm like
Grandfather, I'm wondering who on earth bought them.”
Mrs. Snow was surprised and a little troubled.
“Why, Albert,” she said, “you act kind of--kind of queer, seems to me.
You talk as if your poetry wasn't beautiful. You know it is. You used to
say it was, yourself.”
He interrupted her. “Did I, Grandmother?” he said. “All right, then,
probably I did. Let's walk about the old place a little. I want to see
it all. By George, I've been dreaming about it long enough!”
There were callers that afternoon, friends among the townsfolk, and more
still after supper. It was late--late for South Harniss, that is--when
Albert, standing in the doorway of the bedroom he nor they had ever
expected he would occupy again, bade his grandparents good night. Olive
kissed him again and again and, speech failing her, hastened away down
the hall. Captain Zelotes shook his hand, opened his mouth to speak,
shut it again, repeated both operations, and at last with a brief,
“Well, good night, Al,” hurried after his wife. Albert closed the door,
put his lamp upon the bureau, and sat down in the big rocker.
In a way the night was similar to that upon which he had first entered
that room. It had ceased raining, but the wind, as on that first night,
was howling and whining about the eaves, the shutters rattled and the
old house creaked and groaned rheumatically. It was not as cold as
on that occasion, though by no means warm. He remembered how bare and
comfortless he had thought the room. Now it looked almost luxurious. And
he had been homesick, or fancied himself in that condition. Compared
to the homesickness he had known during the past eighteen months that
youthful seizure seemed contemptible and quite without excuse. He looked
about the room again, looked long and lovingly. Then, with a sigh of
content, drew from his pocket the two letters which had lain upon the
sitting-room table when he arrived, opened them and began to read.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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