White!”
“Take me!” Ma demanded. “Rosasharn, you watch that mush.”
She went out with Ruthie.
She ran heavily up the street behind the little girl.
Three men walked toward her in the dusk, and the center man carried Winfield in his arms.
Ma ran up to them.
“He’s mine,” she cried. “Give ’im to me.”
“I’ll carry ’im for you, ma’am.”
“No, here, give ’im to me.” She hoisted the little boy and turned back; and then she remembered herself. “I sure thank ya,” she said to the men.
“Welcome, ma’am.
The little fella’s purty weak.
Looks like he got worms.”
Ma hurried back, and Winfield was limp and relaxed in her arms.
Ma carried him into the house and knelt down and laid him on a mattress.
“Tell me.
What’s the matter?” she demanded.
He opened his eyes dizzily and shook his head and closed his eyes again.
Ruthie said,
“I tol’ ya, Ma. He skittered all day.
Ever’ little while.
Et too many peaches.”
Ma felt his head. “He ain’t fevered. But he’s white and drawed out.”
Tom came near and held the lantern down.
“I know,” he said. “He’s hungered. Got no strength.
Get him a can a milk an’ make him drink it.
Make ’im take milk on his mush.”
“Winfiel’,” Ma said. “Tell how ya feel.”
“Dizzy,” said Winfield, “jus’ a-whirlin’ dizzy.”
“You never seen sech skitters,” Ruthie said importantly.
Pa and Uncle John and Al came into the house. Their arms were full of sticks and bits of brush.
They dropped their loads by the stove.
“Now what?” Pa demanded.
“It’s Winfiel’.
He needs some milk.”
“Christ Awmighty!
We all need stuff!”
Ma said,
“How much’d we make today?”
“Dollar forty-two.”
“Well, you go right over’n get a can a milk for Winfiel’.”
“Now why’d he have to get sick?”
“I don’t know why, but he is.
Now you git!” Pa went grumbling out the door. “You stirrin’ that mush?”
“Yeah.” Rose of Sharon speeded up the stirring to prove it.
Al complained,
“God Awmighty, Ma!
Is mush all we get after workin’ till dark?”
“Al, you know we got to git.
Take all we got for gas.
You know.”