noon
He was under the medium stature , with a gentle and intellectual face whose antique dignity was only less attractive than his rich , quiet voice . His son John -- he had no other child -- was a fat-cheeked boy in his eighth year , oftenest seen on horseback , sitting fast asleep with his hands clutched in the folds of the Judge 's coat and his short legs and browned feet spread wide behind the saddle . It was hard straddling , but it was good company . One bright noon about the close of May , when the cotton blooms were opening and the cornsilk was turning pink ; when from one hot pool to another the kildee fluttered and ran , and around their edges arcs of white and yellow butterflies sat and sipped and fanned themselves , like human butterflies at a seaside , Judge March -- with John in his accustomed place , headquarters behind the saddle -- turned into the sweltering shade of a tree in the edge of town to gossip with an acquaintance on the price of cotton , the health of Suez and the last news from Washington -- no longer from Richmond , alas ! `` Why , son ! '' he exclaimed , as by and by he lifted the child down before a hardware , dry-goods , drug and music store , `` what 's been a-troublin ' you ? You a-got tear marks on yo ' face ! ''