SKY BLOSSOMS
David had learned a trick of loudly clacking his heels upon the
walk to make it seem that he was no longer a little boy. With the
picture held firmly in his hands he went strutting proudly at
Mother's side when they fared forth this early morning for the
Doctor's house.
The street was very still and smelled of yesterday's rain. In the
moist hush and semi-darkness which precedes the dawn, the
buildings were all silent and buried in mystery, and they gave
back a distinct replication of David's footstep. In response to
his question as to what other little boy was out of bed so
early, Mother answered:--
"That is no one, David. What you hear is an echo."
"Why can't I see Echo?"
"One never does see him."
"Is he a fairy?"
"Rather."
Here ended the conversation. And now, as Mother and Son trudged
onward in silence, a strange feeling came upon the little boy,
for the world at this hour was so new to him. A distant milk
wagon, resembling a block of shadow on wheels, went clattering
over the pavement, and from time to time a man smoking a pipe and
carrying a tin pail would pass by with long, swinging strides.
The upper air looked different, too. At one place a tall church
spire, topped by a copper cross, was blazing with sunshine, and
certain windows of the high buildings also began to flame. A pink
cloud lay asleep in the blue lap of heaven, and there was a
single star, like a pale drop of fire, that trembled up there as
though it were about to fall.
"What is that for?" asked David.
"What do you mean, my son?"
"Up there, Mother--see! It is a queer eye. It winks at us."
"One of the flowers of heaven, little boy; that's what it is."
"Did you ever have any?"
"Oh, no, David, because they are so hard to get."
Miss Eastman felt that in the serene beauty of the morning there
was something vaguely troubling. To think that all this
loveliness of the clear dawn, all this freshness of the sweet air
which to her and to David meant the joy of an exquisite
fairyland, could yet mean to others only the beginning of another
day of sorrow, of death, and squalid misery! How could it be
possible that the children of Duck Town, those who should be as
happy to-day and as full of health as this little boy of hers,
were still held fast in the grip of terrifying disease?
All the same, it was not a pleasant prospect to think of leaving
David with Dr. Redfield's housekeeper. As Miss Eastman considered
the situation she was suddenly seized with cowardice. She did not
want to go on to assist in the fight against contagion; she
wanted to turn back, and she began to walk more slowly,
loitering, regretting her resolution and seeking a pretext to
retreat.
For all that, she presently arrived at the Doctor's house, and
at the door-step she was greeted by Mrs. Botz, who appeared with
a gay shawl over her head and a letter in her hand.
"Zo early yet!" the housekeeper exclaimed. "You yust save me some
troubles. Herr Doctor say I am pleased to take you his letter."
"He wasn't expecting me, then?"
"_Ich weiss nicht._"
"He's waiting, isn't he? He hasn't gone, I hope."
"Ja, Herr Doctor he iss vendt."
"Oh, that is too bad!" Miss Eastman exclaimed with outward
regret, with inward gratification. Her heroic purpose to help in
the routing of disease from Duck Town had at least been
postponed.
She tore open the envelope which Mrs. Botz had given her, as she
began to read the brief communication, a slight puff of wind
stirred the wet maple boughs overhead. From the drenched leaves a
wee shower of liquid sparks came flashing down about her and the
little boy. Some of these pattering drops were caught in the soft
mesh of Miss Eastman's hair, where they trembled like rare jewels
and scattered the morning sunlight into rainbow gleams.
"There they are Mother--sky-blossoms!" David called out. He
clapped his hands gayly; he was greatly excited. "They have
fallen down out of heaven, and you have caught some of them."
Mother said not a word. She seized David in her arms. Her eyes
were wide open; they were as bright as the raindrops, and she was
breathing ever so fast.
"This letter," she said, "this letter, little boy, is for you.
Listen, David, only listen.... No; let us wait until we get home
before we read our letters."
When, presently, they were safely back in the House of Happiness,
this is what Mother read to her little boy on her lap:--
"'_To Mr. David Eastman_.
"'ESTEEMED SIR:--If you are in need of a father, I would like the
job. Will you please file my application? And will you please ask
your mother if you may have me? Ask her, David, if I may not live
at your house. Tell her, David--tell her, my little boy, that I
will be a good husband to her, and love her always.'"
The child took the written page from Mother's hand and looked at
it knowingly.
"I have a letter too," she said, but she could scarcely speak;
she was trembling so, and it seemed ever so hard for her to
breathe.
But indeed and indeed, hers was not a letter to be proud of. It
glowered; it smelled like a drug shop; it told her plainly that
Duck Town was no business of hers; it told her to stay at home,
to mind her own affairs and to go on being a good mother to her
little boy. But one sentence, the one at the end, was quite
different.
"Tell me," it said, "for I need very much to know; tell me
whether David has not put my picture into your heart."
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS
U.S.A.
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