On a fine afternoon in the late summer, Mary stayed at home to wash the clothes and to cook a fine fat possum July had caught the night before for supper.
The Quarter street was quiet, except for the children playing around Maum Hannah's door, while their mothers were in the field picking the first cotton that was opening. The stillness was peaceful except when merry laughter drifted in from the cotton-pickers. Contentment filled the world as Mary went about her tasks, humming low to herself so as not to wake the baby, stopping now and then to look at him as he slept.
Sunshine fell on the floor through the open window making the room look cheerful and bright. Outside in the yard, the clean clothes were hanging on the line, drying. Inside, all the pots on the hearth steamed merrily, the possum was roasting, new potatoes were softening in the ashes. When the rooster hopped up on the door-step, flapped his wings three times and crowed, Mary stopped to listen, for that rooster had
