THE WORLD'S END
Sometimes, when David was working hard on his siesta, Mother
would tell him that he was to whistle as soon as the Sand Man
came. But even that doesn't always help. You have to ask so many
times to make sure that the Sand Man _hasn't_ come, and after you
have been told repeatedly that you are not yet asleep it makes
you discouraged. You know, too, that you mustn't cheat; it's not
fair to whistle until you actually see the Sand Man.
Hardly anything is so wearing on a little boy as to wait. This is
especially true of siesta-time, when there are always such a
number of interesting things going on outside. Through the
shutter's chink the yellow sunshine comes squirting into the
room--such amazing sunshine, just as it is on circus day! Only to
think of what great events must be in progress while you and
Mother lie here together in the darkened room, and toss
hopelessly in the dreadful throes of trying to get through with
your siesta!
One of the mean things about it is that neither side of the
pillow has any cool spot. You turn it over once more and once
more, and yet once more again, but it is no use. It is utterly
impossible to cuddle down and obey orders and go to sleep like a
brave soldier-man. The more you try it the more squirmy and itchy
you feel; for at such a time one is usually fretted by the
repeated ticklings of some bothersome fly. He will sneak along
the edge of the pillow and rub his hands together in front of
him, and then he's ready. Down he swoops upon your nose, hitting
it precisely in the same place where he lit before.
It is easy for Mother to say, "Go to sleep, now," but what bad
shift a little boy will sometimes make of his siesta!
There came a day in June when David believed he never in this
world could get through with it. He heard the chuck and drowsy
clack of the sprinkling-wagon as it ponderously advanced upon its
lazy way; he heard the almost whispered clucking of a mother-hen
who was calling her chicks to come shuffle with her in the cool
loose earth under the shade of the crooked old apple-tree, and
presently there came a time when the out-of-doors was all so
still that even the falling of a shadow would have made a sound.
David was right sure of that. There was such mystery, such an
unwonted sense of unreality a-quiver in this silence, that he
wanted, very much, to learn what it was all about. Then, ever and
ever so cautiously, he slipped down off the bed. His dimpled toes
went patting daintily across the polished floor, and presently he
had stolen forth upon a great adventure. His eyes narrowed; he
winked rapidly; so dazed he was with the sunshine and the
strangeness of a world that had never looked like this before.
He had found out where summer is. It was here in Mother's garden,
and you knew it was, for you could feel it in the stillness, and
you could see it in the sleepiness of blossoms that drowsed and
drooped and hung their lazy heads in the languishing sweetness of
good air and golden sunshine. It was all very strange and very
dear to David. The sky had never before been so blue, and never
so big nor deep nor cool, and the ground was pleasantly warm and
nice. As the seeded grass touched his ankles he could feel warm
shivers run over his legs, delightful thrills which came to him
this day for the first time. He had found out where summer is.
David paused, and listened, and heard nothing. The whole world
was listening. By and by a honey-burdened bumblebee began talking
to himself; you couldn't quite understand what he said because he
mumbled and bumbled so. David knew he was such a very tired and
sleepy bumblebee that nobody could understand what he was talking
about; and besides, he wasn't nearly so wonderful as a big
butterfly that balanced with blazing wings upon a nodding rose.
He was too heavy for the wee, sweet flower. David was right sure
the butterfly should have rested less heavily there, for pretty
soon the bonnie bloom came all apart and began to fall. One after
another the crimson petals slipped away, and dipped and floated
and came falling and falling down. David was confident that he
could hear the warm whisper of them as they fell, so in tune he
was with the summer and the sunshine, out here in Mother's
garden.
It was good he had stolen forth into the ardent glory of the
noon-time, for if he had not he never would have learned about
the place where the world stops. Only a few of us have found out
about that place. You don't think about it at all, and then,
pretty soon, you _do_ think about it. The way David learned of
it was a new way. He laid him down upon the petunia bed--dear,
old-fashioned flowers, lavender and pink and white, that peeped
between the palings of the white fence--he laid him down and
smelled deep the good, queer smell of them, and like the flowers
themselves, he, too, peeped between the bars into the vast world
which lay beyond. And that is how he learned of the place where
the world stops.
Down a long, long lane--down there, a little way past the
cottonwood tree, where the lane quits going on, that is where the
world stops. You know that is the place because of the awesomeness
that comes to you. The old cottonwood stands sentinel over that
region of the Great Beyond. So tall and big and still he is that
if you look at him awhile you will get the strange feeling of
things. High up in the glossy leaves one can sometimes hear a
little pattery sound, finer than the crinkle of tissue paper--a
pretty little sound like a quiet sprinkle of cooling rain. When he
does that he is whispering to the clouds that bring the freshness
of the summer shower.
Beyond him, down there where the world stops, is the place where
the clouds go to sleep after their long, slow journeyings across
the deep, sweet blue of the sky.
"What does my little boy see with his two big, shining eyes? And
what does my little boy hear?"
It was Mother's voice above him that was thus humbly asking
admission into the strange world he had found, and so well she
knew it was marvelous fine, this world of his, that she snuggled
his cheek against _her_ cheek, and tried and tried, in her poor,
grown-up way, to understand all the pretty things the great
silent tree was whispering to the clouds.
"Is it there?" she asked very softly and very earnestly. "Is it
down there that the clouds go to sleep?"
And they remained together, these two, side by side, thinking
about the sweet go-to-bed place of the clouds. A silence which
was new to them, a cool and reposeful silence, had come upon them
and held them. They were conversing in a language which has no
words. It was a melody in silver--the spirit of motherhood, the
soul of childhood blending into music, bringing them nearer,
deepening their love and making it more dear to them.
They understood each other, that woman and that little boy. They
did not move. David had taken hold of Mother's hand, and he held
to it while they kept on looking down there, afar off, where the
great silent tree was softly whispering to the summer clouds.