DEAD SEA FRUIT
"Why don't I never have no fav-ver?"
Often David asked that question; upon awakening and upon going to
bed he was pretty sure to make inquiries that were never
satisfactorily answered. And now, one morning, it was a decided
relief to Mother to have him ask something else. With eager
questioning he said:
"Am I?"
Early, very early, he had awakened her to ask her that, for he
had been told, on going to bed, that when the day should come
again he would be four years old. Twice in the night he had
asked if he was It; so when the dawn at last showed with a
lovely pinkness in the lacy folds of the curtains, and the note
of a far-away meadow-lark called him into the glory of birthday
happiness, he wanted to be very certain that this famous period
of his life had actually come.
Before demanding if it were quite true, he lay still awhile and
thought about it. He looked at Mother's face, and snuggled his
fingers into the fairy foam of her nightgown, but the face and
the fairy foam at her throat had not changed in the least. They
were just the same as they had been yesterday and the day before
and the day before that.
It was very strange. He had supposed that when a little boy is
four years old, his life would be somehow--different. That is why
he was still in doubt; he was not at all sure about being four
years old. He would wake up Mother and then, if he _was_ It, she
would make him feel that he was.
Her reassurance, though, was not nearly so satisfying as he had
hoped.
"Yes, dear; it's your birthday. Now go to sleep awhile, my
pretty."
David lay very still, but he did not go to sleep. By and by he
asked rather uneasily:
"What do you do first?"
"What do you mean, little boy?"
"Little? _Am_ I little?"
"Of course you're growing," Mother told him.
But David would not be deceived. Already the suspicion had come
to him that there was nothing grand about being four years old.
It was not a success; it was a failure, and his one hope now
rested in Dr. Redfield, for this was the morning when the Doctor
had promised to waylay the little boy.
"How does _that_ begin?" David asked. He could not think what it
was that began.
"How does _what_ begin?" Mother inquired.
And that was not nice nor reasonable of her. Mothers are made to
answer questions, not to ask questions, and they are so
discouraging when they can't understand about being waylaid!
David felt abused, but he decided to have one more try at her.
Then, if she didn't give him satisfaction, he would know that
Four Years Old was all a humbug. As he looked longingly into her
face, his words faltered, as though he were again expecting
disappointment.
"Will he--will he wear his big, shiny hat when he does it?"
Into Mother's face came a puzzled, half knowing look. She
recalled the admiration inspired in a certain little boy by a
certain abominable top hat that a certain doctor had once worn to
a certain annual meeting of the State Medical Society. But this
was the extent of her knowledge.
"When he does what?" she asked.
The little boy's lip trembled, and he turned away his face. He
saw it wasn't any use. Mother didn't understand; she evidently
hadn't tried. It was plain that he was not four years old; he was
only three. It is very hard on little boys to be only that old
when they have made up their minds to be four. So, when David was
being dressed, he suffered all the while with a severe case of
what is commonly called pouts, but which in reality is something
much sadder.
"My, my!" said Mother, as she drew a stocking over the pink toes
of his right foot, "one mustn't look like that on his birthday."
"It is not my birthday," he said, not impertinently, but politely
and woefully.
Even a pair of new shoes did not prove that this was his
birthday, and yet they helped to prove it. One gets them at such
times as Christmas and birthdays, and such a delightful squeak
was in these shoes that David could scarcely eat his breakfast
for wanting to walk about in them. If a circus should come to
town, he would now be ready for it; he had the shoes. And
besides, there were tassels on them--wonderful tassels. It is
much easier to be a brave soldier-man if they have tassels.
Do you know what it is to be a brave soldier-man? Well, to be
that, one must be kind and sweet and unselfish and do right. And
doing right is doing mostly what you don't want to do. To wash a
lot--that is right; to keep your fingers out of the pie--that is
right; to keep your hands from spilling mucilage on the cat's
back--that is right. If you make dents with a tack-hammer in
Mother's piano, that is not right; that is a surprise.
The only safe way of doing right is to think of what you would
rather do, and then do something else. But often this is such
hard work that sometimes one doesn't care much about being a
brave soldier-man.
For all that, it's jolly fine to have soldier shoes. They came to
David in time to save his faith in the business of being four
years old. It now began to have a glad feel about it, and he
walked perkily to the garden's edge, and like a new Columbus
about to discover a fresh world, climbed up experimentally and
sat on the gate-post.
He was not at all sure that this was a proper place to get
waylaid, but something monstrous fine would of course happen
before long; there could be no doubt about that. How people would
be astonished when they came along and found that he had grown to
be four years old!
Who would be the first, he wondered, to be shocked and surprised
at him? While he was thinking of that, his eyes suddenly
brightened with excitement. The street-sprinkler, the dear old
street-sprinkler, was coming! David's heart beat faster as he
listened to the slow creak and clacking oscillation of the heavy
wheels. Then came the damp, dusty, good smell which always
brought to him such a sense of mysterious romance! No prince out
of a fairy story could be more marvelous to him than the coatless
driver up there on the seat under his great canvas umbrella that
had advertisements printed on it. Always when the street-sprinkler
passed, David had watched it covetously, and now was his chance.
He would proclaim himself. He would not have to wish--and
wish--and wish any more about it. That proud place up there by the
driver was for him. He didn't doubt it in the least; he called; he
called lustily; he kicked his new shoes against the fence-post and
called:
"Here I am! See, right down here!"
But will you believe it, now? The driver didn't look at him.
Perhaps the lazy clamor of the wagon and the hissing sound of
the steadily gushing water made too big a noise for the voice of
such a little boy to be heard.
Do you call that any way for the street-sprinkler man to act? But
of course there might be some good reason for such criminal
behavior. David remembered that he hadn't consulted any fairy
godmother about it; long since he would have done so, only he
could never catch any fairy godmothers hanging around. They were
always busy somewhere else. Even Mother herself had failed to
introduce him to any competent, respectable fairy godmothers. She
was all right on telling about them; she was strong on that, but
somehow they never seemed to know when they were wanted. That is
their great fault; they are so unreliable. Once let them get
loose from a Cinderella book, and their business system is
always defective.
How, then, can a little boy expect to accomplish any miracles
like riding on the street-sprinkler? It is not reasonable; David
himself decided that it wasn't, and he concluded to try something
more feasible, something that looked simple and easy and more
natural. Next time he would do better. Why shouldn't he? When one
is four years old, nearly anything ought to be possible. All he
had to do was to await another opportunity, and then pounce down
on it.
This time, though, it was slow in coming, and when it did come it
didn't look much like an opportunity. It was too easy. In shape
it was a very ragged man with a very dirty face and a very red
nose and a very greasy hat. He came by, a-munching on an apple, a
big apple, a crispy-sounding apple, a shiny ripe and luscious
apple. How cool it would feel in a little boy's hands if he were
to hold it tight and then take a big, sweet, juicy bite out of
it!
Should David accept the remainder of the man's apple? No, that
would not be right; little boys must not be greedy. Just the
teeniest, weeniest, wee bite would be quite sufficient for him.
But, heigh-ho and alack-aday! the dirty-faced man and the
red-nosed man and the man with the greasy hat passed slouchily
on, a-munching and a-crunching of his apple.
That was enough. David cast himself down from the fence-post of
deception and was off for the house, his arm before his eyes, and
his new shoes creaking dolorously. He must find refuge in
Mother's lap; she must help him to soothe away his hurt; he must
have solace for this wretched failure of great hopes.
But before reaching her, David suddenly found himself seized by
some mysterious force which sent him floating into space. Back
and forth he swam like, a pendulum, and when he alighted, it was
on a man's shoulder, and the man was Dr. Redfield.
"You're not hurt, are you?" he asked.
David would not be comforted. He struggled to the ground.
"What's the use?" he demanded between sobs. "What's the use of
being four years old?"