“Well, that was something for him.” “And they drove to his place.” “I suppose he’ll let her come back and live at home now.” “I wish you had seen Nancy Ellen.” “I’m going to see her after the milking is done.” “Seen her by the preacher,” insisted Willie’s passes. “She looked like a captive coming in chains to Rome.” “Yes, I’ll be bound she did. Every jolt of that twenty miles is stamped in _her_ mind.” “I wish,” flashed Willie, “I knew what the preacher sung to himself all along the road.” “What a notion! You’ll have to fix it up in poetry now, won’t you?” Willie shook his head many times and reddened. “You said the preacher used to sing home from meeting in the dark.” “Yes, he did,” affirmed Mrs. Harbison. “And Nancy Ellen used to listen for him to go by their place.” Their talk paused, and Willie looked up at the birds in the mulberry. Having afterward caught his mother’s eye, he wove out slowly:-- “When in the tree above his head The sap goes tingling through the bark, She will remember it was dead, And hear him singing in the dark.” “Oh, Willie, is that the first verse or the last? Have you written it down?” Willie smiled shyly, putting his head down toward one shoulder, without making any reply. His mother urged, with eager fingers:-- “Print it in some place when you get it done. Nancy Ellen would be pleased.” “I’m not an obituary poet,” wove Willie. “But that’s so good.” Mrs. Harbison moved her lips, repeating it to herself. “And ain’t you ever going to publish anything you write? I’ve heard of people getting money for it.” Willie uttered a gentle sneer. He laughed at his mother in a way that always made her laugh with him. “But if you would let your father fix up your writings,” she continued, repeating an old plea, “and send them to some publishing house, I know they would put them in a book for you.” The gate, weighted by a stone, slammed to behind his father coming to the evening meal. But before his mother rose, Willie found time to make dance before her eyes the characters indicating this promise:-- “Some day I’ll get on my bicycle and ride and ride until I come to a publisher. If you miss me, you’ll know where I’ve gone. You can just say to yourself, ‘He’s off having his poems published.’ Wait till then, mother; that will be soon enough.” “You’ll never do it,” said his mother, having no idea how near the time was. She gave her family their supper and helped to milk the cows. She thought of Willie’s stanza when the milk first sang in the pail, and kept repeating it until the rising froth drowned all sounds of the lashing streams quite at her pail’s brim.