A Death In The Family by James Agee Page A

corner.
    He blew dust from the cloth dog and offered it to the child. “You want Jackie?”
    He shook his head.
    “You don’t want poor little ole Jackie? So lonesome? Alayin back there in the corner all this time?”
    He shook his head.
    “Gettin too big for Jackie?”
    He nodded, uncertain that his father would believe him.
    “Then you’re gettin too big to cry.”
    Poor ole Jackie.
    “Pore ole Jackie.”
    “Pore little ole Jackie, so lonesome.”
    He reached up for him and took him, and faintly recalled, as he gave him comfort, a multitude of fire-tipped candles (and bristling needles) and a strong green smell, a dog more gaily colored and much larger, over which he puzzled, and his father’s huge face, smiling, saying, “It’s a dog.” His father too remembered how he had picked out the dog with great pleasure and had given it too soon, and here it was now too late. Comforting gave him comfort and a deep yawn, taking him by surprise, was half out of him before he could try to hide it. He glanced anxiously at his father.
    “Gettin sleepy, uh?” his father said; it was hardly even a question.
    He shook his head.
    “Time you did. Time we all got to sleep.”
    He shook his head.
    “You’re not skeered any more are you?”
    He considered lying, and shook his head.
    “Boogee man, all gone, scared away, huh?”
    He nodded.
    “Now go on to sleep then, son,” his father said. He saw that the child very badly did not want him to go away, and realized suddenly that he might have lied about being scared, and he was touched, and put his hand on his son’s forehead. “You just don’t want to be lonesome,” he said tenderly; “just like little ole Jackie. You just don’t want to be left alone.” The child lay still.
    “Tell you what I’ll do,” his father said, “I’ll sing you one song, and then you be a good boy and go on to sleep. Will you do that?” The child pressed his forehead upward against the strong warm hand and nodded.
    “What’ll we sing?” his father asked.
    “Froggy would a wooin go,” said the child; it was the longest.
    “At’s a long one,” his father said, “at’s a long old song. You won’t ever be awake that long, will you?”
    He nodded.
    “Ah right,” said his father; and the child took a fresh hold on Jackie and settled back looking up at him. He sang very low and very quietly: Frog he would a wooin’ go uh-hooooo!, Frog he would go wooin’ go uh -hooooo, uh-hoooooo, and all about the courting-clothes the frog wore, and about the difficulties and ultimate success of the courtship and what several of the neighbors said and who the preacher would be and what he said about the match, uhhoooo, and finally, what will the weddin supper be uhooooo, catfish balls and sassafras tea uhhoooo, while he gazed at the wall and the child gazed up into his eyes which did not look at him and into the singing face in the dark. Every couple of verses or so the father glanced down, but the child’s eyes were as darkly and steadfastly open at the end of the long song as at the beginning, though it was beginning to be an effort for him.
    He was amused and pleased. Once he got started singing, he always loved to sing. There were ever so many of the old songs that he knew, which he liked best, and also some of the popular songs; and although he would have been embarrassed if he had been made conscious of it, he also enjoyed the sound of his own voice. “Ain’t you asleep yet?” he said, but even the child felt there was no danger of his leaving, and shook his head quite frankly.
    “Sing gallon,” he said, for he liked the amusement he knew would come into his father’s face, though he did not understand it. It came, and he struck up the song, still more quietly because it was a fast, sassy tune that would be likely to wake you up. He was amused because his son had always mistaken the words “gal and” for “gallon,” and because his wife and to a less extent her relatives were not