A small white boy was standing near the fat lady, watching the
proceedings with a critical eye. His dress was very primitive, and his
home-made veldschoens were very large, but he was a healthy-looking
boy.

'Ma,' he said at length, looking up into the fat lady's face, 'I see
something.'

This was rather a peculiar remark to make, because undoubtedly he must
see something, not being blind.

'Yes,' returned his 'ma,' without taking her eyes off the mealie
patch, 'what do you see, son?'

'I won't tell you, ma.'

'Ma' paid no particular attention to this decision on the part of her
small son, but he continued to look into his 'ma's' face as if
uncertain about something.

'Ma, I won't tell you what I see,' he continued, coming up closer to
the stout lady and catching hold of her hand.

'Why won't you tell me, son?' asked 'ma,' looking down affectionately
upon the white head of her boy.

'Not until you promise me something, ma.'

'Well, what must I promise you?'