On the Sunday after Christmas Claude and Ernest were walking
along the banks of Lovely Creek. They had been as far as Mr.
Wheeler's timber claim and back. It was like an autumn afternoon,
so warm that they left their overcoats on the limb of a crooked
elm by the pasture fence. The fields and the bare tree-tops
seemed to be swimming in light. A few brown leaves still clung to
the bushy trees along the creek. In the upper pasture, more than
a mile from the house, the boys found a bittersweet vine that
wound about a little dogwood and covered it with scarlet berries.
It was like finding a Christmas tree growing wild out of doors.
They had just been talking about some of the books Claude had
brought home, and his history course. He was not able to tell
Ernest as much about the lectures as he had meant to, and he felt
that this was more Ernest's fault than his own; Ernest was such a
literal-minded fellow. When they came upon the bittersweet, they
forgot their discussion and scrambled down the bank to admire the
red clusters on the woody, smoke-coloured vine, and its pale gold
leaves, ready to fall at a touch. The vine and the little tree it
honoured, hidden away in the cleft of a ravine, had escaped the
stripping winds, and the eyes of schoolchildren who sometimes
took a short cut home through the pasture. At its roots, the
creek trickled thinly along, black between two jagged crusts of
melting ice.
When they left the spot and climbed back to the level, Claude
again felt an itching to prod Ernest out of his mild and
reasonable mood.
"What are you going to do after a while, Ernest? Do you mean to
farm all your life?"
"Naturally. If I were going to learn a trade, I'd be at it before
now. What makes you ask that?"
"Oh, I don't know! I suppose people must think about the future
sometime. And you're so practical."
"The future, eh?" Ernest shut one eye and smiled. "That's a big
word. After I get a place of my own and have a good start, I'm
going home to see my old folks some winter. Maybe I'll marry a
nice girl and bring her back."
"Is that all?"
"That's enough, if it turns out right, isn't it?"
"Perhaps. It wouldn't be for me. I don't believe I can ever
settle down to anything. Don't you feel that at this rate there
isn't much in it?"
"In what?"
"In living at all, going on as we do. What do we get out of it?
Take a day like this: you waken up in the morning and you're glad
to be alive; it's a good enough day for anything, and you feel
sure something will happen. Well, whether it's a workday or a
holiday, it's all the same in the end. At night you go to
bed--nothing has happened."
"But what do you expect? What can happen to you, except in your
own mind? If I get through my work, and get an afternoon off to
see my friends like this, it's enough for me."
"Is it? Well, if we've only got once to live, it seems like there
ought to be something--well, something splendid about life,
sometimes."
Ernest was sympathetic now. He drew nearer to Claude as they
walked along and looked at him sidewise with concern. "You
Americans are always looking for something outside yourselves to
warm you up, and it is no way to do. In old countries, where not
very much can happen to us, we know that,--and we learn to make
the most of little things."
"The martyrs must have found something outside themselves.
Otherwise they could have made themselves comfortable with little
things."
"Why, I should say they were the ones who had nothing but their
idea! It would be ridiculous to get burned at the stake for the
sensation. Sometimes I think the martyrs had a good deal of
vanity to help them along, too."
Claude thought Ernest had never been so tiresome. He squinted at
a bright object across the fields and said cuttingly, "The fact
is, Ernest, you think a man ought to be satisfied with his board
and clothes and Sundays off, don't you?"
Ernest laughed rather mournfully. "It doesn't matter much what I
think about it; things are as they are. Nothing is going to reach
down from the sky and pick a man up, I guess."
Claude muttered something to himself, twisting his chin about
over his collar as if he had a bridle-bit in his mouth.
The sun had dropped low, and the two boys, as Mrs. Wheeler
watched them from the kitchen window, seemed to be walking beside
a prairie fire. She smiled as she saw their black figures moving
along on the crest of the hill against the golden sky; even at
that distance the one looked so adaptable, and the other so
unyielding. They were arguing, probably, and probably Claude was
on the wrong side.