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Updated: May 21, 2025
"I told you about Little Ant Red and Big Ant Black?" "No, you never!" exclaimed Bobaday. "Well, once there was Little Ant Red and Big Ant Black lived neighbors." "Whose aunts were they each other's?" inquired the boy. "They wasn't your father's or mother's sisters; they was antymires," explained Zene. "Oh," said Robert Day. "Ant Red, she was a little bit of a thing; you could just see her.
"If she's a lost child she ought to be restored to her people, and travelling along the 'pike we can't keep the showmen from finding her." Bobaday and Corinne gazed pensively at the stump fire, wondering how grown folks always saw the difficulties in doing what you want to do. J. D. Matthews spread his supper upon a log.
Bobaday thinks they stole her away." "If she'd only wake up and talk," said Robert, "maybe she could tell us where she lives. But she was afraid of the show people." "I should think that was likely," said Grandma Padgett. In the heat of his sympathy, he confided to his grandmother what he had seen of the darkened wagon the night they met the Virginians at the large camp.
Sing a pretty tune, Carrie. Come on, now." The docile child slid off the lounge and stood against it, piping directly one of her songs. Yet while her trembling treble arose, she had a troubled expression, and twisted her fingers about each other. In an instant this expression became one of helpless terror. She crowded back against the lounge and tried to hide herself behind Bobaday and Corinne.
After supper Bobaday went out to the barn and saw a whole street of horse-stalls, the farthest horse switching his tail in dim distance; and such a mow of hay as impressed him with the advantages of travel.
They were not; for besides an ancient flavor, the first kernel betrayed the fact that these were pig-nuts instead of hickory. "You would have 'em," said Bobaday, kicking the pile. "I didn't think they's good, anyhow." "They looked just like our little hickories," said aunt Corinne, twisting her mouth at the acrid kernel, "that used to lay under that tree in the pasture.
Her mamma hugged them warmly, and Bobaday endured his share of the hugging with a very good grace, though he was so old.
So large a slice out of the afternoon had their trip to the meeting-house taken, that it was quite dark when the party drove briskly into Indianapolis. It was a little city at that date. Still, Bobaday felt exalted by clanging car-bells and railroad crossings. It being Sunday evening, the freights were making up.
"Papa," whispered Carrie, like a baby trying the words. "Mamma. Papa mamma." "Yes, dear," exclaimed aunt Corinne. "Where do they live? She's big enough to know that if she knows anything." "Let's get her to sing a song," suggested Bobaday. "If she can remember a song, she can remember what happened before they made her sing." "That papa?" said Carrie, looking at the stranger by the table.
"No," returned aunt Corinne, deigning a glance his way. "That's only a gentleman goin' to eat supper here. Sing, Carrie. Now, Bobaday Padgett," warned aunt Corinne, shooting her whisper behind the curled head, "don't you go and scare her by sayin' anything about that pig-man." "Don't you scare her yourself," returned Robert with a touch of indignation. "You've got her eyes to stickin' out now.
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