Scarlet Sister Mary (1928, Bobbs-Merrill Company)/Chapter 8
The short winter passed quickly and before Mary knew it spring had come. The old black plum tree beside her door hid its knotty black branches with soft white blossoms, which became thicker and sweeter hour by hour as the sunshine gathered strength, and when honey-bees climbed in and out of them showers of fragrant petals were scattered around the old tree's foot. The crab-apple thickets were masses of soft pink. The birds which had gone away for the winter had come home and were picking out nesting-places. Tender green leaves screened a brown nest in the fig tree where a mocking-bird laid its eggs. The woods and hedgerows were alive with bird chatter. Woodpeckers and jays and redbirds scolded and fussed among themselves noisily. Humming-birds fluttered in and out of the red woodbine. A wren chose her last year's home in the knot-hole at one side of Mary's door. A bluebird used her same nesting-place in the corner post of the garden fence. Larks hopped about the fields and in the roads; doves mourned tenderly; squirrels chased each other up and down trees. Hens cackled up and down the length of the street telling of new-laid eggs, and cocks cackled back in loud encouragement. Yellow jessamines in full blossom made treetops gay and fragrant as new leaves pushed the old ones off the boughs and the wind scattered them in brown showers over the new grass. The old oaks tasseled out; pines sowed their winged seed. The whole earth was full of birthing and growth.
Men and teams, oxen, mules bent at their work, plowing, hauling and getting the fields ready for planting. The women cleared out the cabins, washed and sunned clothing, bed-coverings and beds; they scoured the floors, planted the gardens, set the hens, raked fresh pine straw to put in the stables, which were cleaned out to enrich the land.
Medicine men were going the rounds selling their brews to each household; they offered strong bitter stuff for the grown men; milder concoctions for the youths and women; gentle doses for the children.
Rabbits played in the gardens by the bright white moonlight and nibbled many buds off the peas and cabbages.
The clear sunshine was burning hot, but the cool moonlit nights were too bright for sleeping. Mocking-birds and whippoorwills left no silence. Roses and honeysuckles took up all the air with their fragrance. All through the noon hours people lay flat on the warm earth, resting, turning up the soles of their lazy feet to the sun, that great friend of man, who not only gives light and food, but healing.
In Mary's house, fat flies swam about in circles all day long, droning the same tunes over and over. Dusk brought swarms of hungry mosquitoes out of the woods to pester men and beasts until rags were set afire and the smoke smothered to make a stench that drove them away. Crickets sang, frogs called, lightning-bugs sparkled in the dusk. The sky came close to the earth, and a soft haze veiled the fields as a thin green tide of life spread and deepened over the world. Dawns grew pinker, noons brighter, afternoons long and yellow. Short fierce storms boomed up out of the west, growling and thundering, drenching the earth with clean cool rain, then passed on, leaving a rainbow behind them. Open windows let tattered curtains stream out gaily in the breeze. Fires in the old chimneys were neglected and left to burn low. Skillets and spiders and pots sat cold and dumb on the hearths. Thank God, winter was gone. Mary could feel the spring growing in herself warming her blood, mixing strength with her weakness.
Every fair morning she went to the field with her skirts tied up short with a string around her hips to keep them out of the dew. Field work was no hardship to her. All her people before her had been field hands. Hoeing cotton was no more than a game. The hoe in her hands became a sharp seeing edge that slipped in between the tender stalks and carefully cut out hiding grass blades. She could guide it without thinking or with her thoughts on something else.
On rainy days she sewed at home, and the needle in her fingers became a shining eye that ran ahead, leading the strong blind thread behind it, sewing cloth into garments for her child.
Her time to go down was not far off. The next change in the moon might bring it, and yet she was still light-footed and deft-fingered, thank God.
One morning while she was hurrying home from Grab-All, where she had been to buy a few more lengths of cloth to finish some of her baby's clothes, a terrible spasm of pain seized her body. It scarcely passed before it came back and seized her again, tearing her bones and sinews apart, fairly cutting at her very heart-strings. Lord, how scared she was. She cried for help as loud as she could, but nobody was in hearing distance, and her child was born right there in the middle of the road. The poor little creature set up such a pitiful wailing that she had to forget her own troubles and pick him up and wrap him in her apron and hurry home to Maum Hannah.
The old woman shook her head and looked very stern. "Dis child ain' no seven months' child. Look at de hair on his head. E got toe-nails an' finger-nails good as my own. You might could fool de people, but you can' fool me, gal, an' you can' fool God. All two o we can tell a full ripe baby from one what comes too soon. You know I'll forgive you quick, but I don' know how God feels. You better confess you sin, gal, an' beg de Master to forgive you.
"It's a bad sign to drop a child in de Big Road. Dis is gwine to be a far-roamin child. You'll see, too. His legs is awful long. Just like July's own. E ain' gwine to be no mild-mannered man what stays round home all de time."
Maum Hannah's words were scolding words, but they were spoken between chuckles for her old eyes beamed with pleasure as her deft old hands washed and dressed Mary's and July's fine, strong, new-born son.
When all the neighbors came hurrying to see Mary's son, tears trickled down her cheeks as they declared that Mary had a brave heart. She had done well in her first trial at birthing a child. A woman with plenty of experience could have done no better. God must have blessed her with the same wisdom he gave to the beasts, who know well when the time comes to birth their young, and instead of complaining of God's ways, as people do, go off alone without a word, and struggle with their labor as best they can. So many women who are made in the image of God himself, lie down helpless, full of groans and bitter words, quickened by fear as much as by the pain itself. Mary had a brave heart, and she had come through well. God had blessed her.
The neighbors said many fine words agreeing with Maum Hannah, but they looked to the child's hair and tiny nails and could hardly wait to get outside of Mary's door before they began whispering behind their hands that Mary's child was not a too-soon one. He was full ripe, come to full time. Mary was a sinner. Mary knew exactly what they were saying. But what if she had been married only half a year? What difference did it make? July was her lawful, wedded husband now, and her baby's father. What more could they ask?
July was as pleased as he could be. He hurried to Grab-All for the castor-oil Maum Hannah said Mary must have, and he not only brought back a jug of whisky for everybody to take a drink, but a piece of fine cloth for a dress for Mary. He named his son Unexpected. Mary had never heard that name before, but July explained to her that it meant coming as a great surprise. The baby had done that very thing. They would call him Unex for short; a nice name, a pleasant-sounding name.
Blessed little Unex, a better baby never came into the world. Happiness filled Mary's heart. Life was full of joy. She could have asked for nothing more in the world.