BLUE FOR A BOY
"But would she have been happy?" A critic whose sex is indicated by
her usage of the pronoun _she_ instead of _they_ once raised the
question.
"Why not?" I asked unguardedly.
Obviously such stupidity as my counter-question evinced was worthy of
some pity.
"Why, she was an--ah--superior sort of a girl; breeding, you know, and
all that, or so I have gathered, while he--"
But I stayed no longer to listen. What was the use? There was not
merely a little of snobbishness in her. I did not even insist that
"she" might have been, or add that it was really true. But I went West
promptly to see.
Perry Blair had scarcely guessed at the possibilities of that valley.
There were five dozen, or five hundred white-faced Herefords under
fence; or five thousand. I forget which, for I was not curious
concerning these.
But having cornered her at last I put the question bluntly.
"What about that career?" I wanted to know. "There's a crying need
just now for good senators--plain statesmanship handled neatly."
She colored a little.
"Wel-l-l," she was going to slide out of it if she could, "Perry's
awfully busy right now, it's so hard to get trustworthy men. And--and
then, anyhow, I'm not so sure I'd care to have him enter politics, as
they are at present--even if--"
"Don't blame you," I concluded. "Wise decision. But what about the
ministry--how about that?"
Here, however, she would have rallied and protested hotly that she had
never been keen about the ministry--not at all!--when an occurrence
just outside the open door saved her the need.
Perry Blair--Blue Jeans, with no rent in his shirt and a nonsensically
expensive hat--had been driving a nail into the wall. The nail had
dodged and he had struck his thumb, and was commenting upon it plainly,
though with no great heat, aloud.
And she grew pinker still.
"You are a hypocrite," I complained with scorn. "You should blush!"
And dropped the matter there.
But I was less concerned with the question of their happiness. And
that evening, when a puncher brought a pasteboard box in the mail and
all innocently they opened it before me, I became very sure.
For the box held a pair of those inadequate articles of apparel known,
I believe, as bootees, designed and executed in knitted silk for an
expected new arrival. And they forgot me, forgot that this expectation
was supposed to be a secret, in exclaiming over the mystery of who had
found them out.
Then she came upon the card. There was no name or address; just one
line:
"Winner take all!" it read.
Yes--Felicity.
After a long period of grave silence which had come upon them:
"See!" she exclaimed softly. "Pink! A girl! Haven't I been telling
you so, all along?"
"How does that signify?" Quickly he took up the challenge. Clearly
here was a matter which had seen much discussion.
"Pink for a girl, and blue for a boy," she explained with conscious
superiority.
But she couldn't continue to tease him. His face had become long.
"Perhaps not, dear," she murmured. And then, with a little air:
"Anyway, they'll be very useful, I'm sure. They are exceedingly fine
and dainty, and it is not easy to get things good enough, away out
here."
But there he put his foot down. _She_ had not been very keen about
politics! Or the ministry! Indeed!
"Pink for a girl?" he asked. "That's straight?"
"That's straight."
"Then he'll not wear them, ever. No son of mine shall be made a sissy
of, while he's still too helpless to prevent."
But there they started and grew red at my presence which they had
forgotten, for I had to laugh.
Happy? I didn't answer the amateur critic, but I don't mind saying so
here. And somehow I feel that I should know.
I'm Hamilton.