But I've got
to go through with it--and I will, if it takes a leg!"
Well--I've always called her my whistling mother. It's a queer title,
but it's hers in a peculiar way. She always could whistle like a
blackbird. She never did it for exhibition; I don't mean that--I
should say not--but she did do it for calls to her family, in the
woods or in the house when there were no guests about; and she often
whistled softly over her work. Perhaps you don't think that's a
womanly thing to do--but it's better, from my point of view--it's
sporting. For Mother's got something of a temper--you'd know anybody
with so much grit must have a temper--and lots of times when she
wanted to be angry, suddenly she'd break out in a regular rag-time
whistle, and then laugh, and everything would be all right again.
She and I had a special call of our own, one she'd made up. I'd know
it anywhere in the world. It was a pretty thing--just a bar or two,
but rather unusual. Well, as I came in the door that night she looked
round and gave that whistle. I thought for a minute I was gone--but I
bucked up all right and answered it. And that--yes, it was actually
the only minute she gave me that evening that tried my pluck.
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