They engaged themselves to be married when they were so young they
couldn't tell anybody about it for fear of being laughed at; and if I
mentioned their years to you, you would laugh at me. They thought they
were full-grown, but they weren't even that. When they were finally
married they couldn't either of them have worn the clothes they got
engaged in. The day they got engaged they wore suits made of white
woollen blankets, white knitted toques, and white knitted sashes. It was
because they were dressed exactly alike that they first got excited
about each other. And Cynthia said: "You look just like a snowman." And
G. G.--which was his strange name--said: "You look just like a
snowbird."
G. G. was in Saranac for his health. Cynthia had come up for the
holidays to skate and to skee and to coast, and to get herself engaged
before she was full-grown to a boy who was so delicate that climate was
more important for him than education. They met first at the rink. And
it developed that if you crossed hands with G. G. and skated with him
you skated almost as well as he did. He could teach a girl to waltz in
five minutes; and he had a radiant laugh that almost moved you to tears
when you went to bed at night and got thinking about it. Cynthia had
never seen a boy with such a beautiful round head and such beautiful
white teeth and such bright red cheeks. She always said that she loved
him long before he loved her. As a matter of fact, it happened to them
both right away. As one baby, unabashed and determined, embraces a
strange baby--and is embraced--so, from their first meeting in the great
cold stillness of the North Woods, their young hearts snuggled together.
G. G. was different from other boys. To begin with, he had been born at
sea. Then he had lived abroad and learned the greatest quantity of
foreign languages and songs. Then he had tried a New England
boarding-school and had been hurt playing games he was too frail to
play. And doctors had stethoscoped him and shaken their heads over him.
And after that there was much naming of names which, instead of
frightening him, were magic to his ear--Arizona, California,
Saranac--but, because G. G.'s father was a professional man and
perfectly square and honest, there wasn't enough money to send G. G. far
from New York and keep him there and visit him every now and then. So
Saranac was the place chosen for him to get well in; and it seemed a
little hard, because there was almost as much love of sunshine and
warmth and flowers and music in G. G. as there was patience and courage.
The day they went skeeing together--which was the day after they had
skated together--he told Cynthia all about himself, very simply and
naturally, as a gentleman farmer should say: "This is the dairy; this is
the blacksmith shop; this is the chicken run." And the next day, very
early, when they stood knee-deep in snow, armed with shot-guns and
waiting for some dogs that thought they were hounds to drive rabbits for
them to shoot at, he told her that nothing mattered so long as you were
happy and knew that you were happy, because when these two stars came
into conjunction you were bound to get well.
A rabbit passed. And G. G. laid his mitten upon his lips and shook his
head; and he whispered:
"I wouldn't shoot one for anything in the world."