INDIAN SUMMER
It was the time of Indian Summer. Mild was the night; a night golden
with harvest and fruition. Frank at the window saw the blood-red
harvest moon, saw it rise across the heavens, saw it sink low and large
and disappear.
He was in his coat-sleeves; not for a moment could he sit still, but
wandered like a caged tiger up and down, up and down. At times he was
crazy with suspense. He listened at the closed door, and the tears ran
down his face. The young wife was fighting bravely; hardly a groan
escaped her; but the little noise cut his heart as with a knife-blade.
He would hurry to the window and lean out into the night. Blood-red was
that harvest moon! He watched it, and thought of the harvest in the far
fields, and of the human harvest here.
As the night wore on, silence deepened and deepened. Suddenly, standing
still, he seemed to feel the room full of a Presence, a Power: it swept
about him: he was steeped in it. Was it God? Was it God at his mighty
labors? Was it God creating new life on this planet?
Slowly went the hours; higher and higher climbed the blood-red moon;
lower and lower it sank. He listened and waited; he walked; he tried to
read; he flung down the book; he stood at the closed door; he pulled
off his collar; he opened a deck of cards and tried to play solitaire.
Nothing helped him; the Power was there, at work; he could not shake it
off. Steeped in it was his soul. Oh, the divine mystery! Oh, miracle of
reproduction--out of a seed a human being; out of a cell a Shakespeare
or a Wagner; out of a microscopic particle such wonders as we are.
Awe filled him; and pity. A soft pity for women, who are called upon to
bear the pain of the wonder, to pay with their agony for the miracle.
A soft pity for the young wife, so young, so sweet, so happy. Why did
she have to suffer this night? He gazed out at the harvest moon, which
shone unperturbed on the still and fruitful Earth.
All of the mystery of existence, the mystery of being a human being, of
being born and of dying, went to his heart. He returned to the center
of the room. He could not bear to be alone. He waited and watched, he
listened, he stood at the closed door. Would the ordeal never be ended?
How long must this last?
And then he leaned out again. The moon was gone. White and trembling
arose the sweet dawn; birds were somewhere singing in the soft
darkness; a smell of earth came to his nostrils on rising wind. Dawn!
dawn was rising!
He stood back; a thrill went through his heart. He felt the time was
at hand. And then suddenly in the silence rose a great cry--the cry
of the Mother. He felt faint; he gasped; put his hand to his dripping
forehead; cried out:
“God! God!”
And leaned on the back of a chair.
The door opened; the fat, red-faced midwife came out. In her arms was
something tiny, carefully wrapped. Frank was breathless, almost afraid.
He stepped over. He spoke in an awed whisper:
“What is it?”
“It’s a girl, Mr. Lasser.”
A girl! He gazed down at the tiny face. It was real, it was living, it
was his own baby, his own child. Suddenly his eyes swam in tears; he
crumpled up in a chair, and sobbed, sobbed brokenly.
A little while later the midwife called him.
“She wants to see you a moment.”
He staggered in; the tremulous light of dawn lay on the room; and in
the bed the Mother with the sleeping babe in her arms. Frank leaned
near, Edith smiled wanly.
“Father!” she whispered.
He thrilled and thrilled.
“Mother!”
Their lips met.
“Our baby,” said Edith, “our little girl; our little daughter!”
What miracle is greater than this: to have a child?