I pray the Lord I may not shirk.
If I should die before the night,
I pray the Lord my work's all right.
Amen."

"If you don't git up, Johnny, I won't give you a bite to eat!"

The threat had no effect on the boy. He clung stubbornly to sleep,
fighting for its oblivion as the dreamer fights for his dream. The boy's
hands loosely clenched themselves, and he made feeble, spasmodic blows at
the air. These blows were intended for his mother, but she betrayed
practised familiarity in avoiding them as she shook him roughly by the
shoulder.

"Lemme 'lone!"

It was a cry that began, muffled, in the deeps of sleep, that swiftly
rushed upward, like a wail, into passionate belligerence, and that died
away and sank down into an inarticulate whine. It was a bestial cry, as of
a soul in torment, filled with infinite protest and pain.

But she did not mind. She was a sad-eyed, tired-faced woman, and she had
grown used to this task, which she repeated every day of her life. She got
a grip on the bedclothes and tried to strip them down; but the boy, ceasing
his punching, clung to them desperately. In a huddle, at the foot of the
bed, he still remained covered. Then she tried dragging the bedding to the
floor. The boy opposed her. She braced herself. Hers was the superior
weight, and the boy and bedding gave, the former instinctively following
the latter in order to shelter against the chill of the room that bit into
his body.