WATCHING THE BEES
Father Ballard walked slowly up the path from the garden, wiping his
brow, for the heat was oppressive. "Mary, my dear, I see signs of
swarming. The bees are hanging out on that hive under the Tolman
Sweet. Where's Betty?"
"She's down cellar churning, but she can leave. Bobby's getting
fretful, anyway, and she can take him under the trees and watch the
bees and amuse him. Betty!" Mary Ballard went to the short flight of
steps leading to the paved basement, dark and cool: "Betty, father
wants you to watch the bees, dear. Find Bobby. He's so still I'm
afraid he's out at the currant bushes again, and he'll make himself
sick. Keep an eye on the hive under the Tolman Sweet particularly,
dear."
Gladly Betty bounded up the steps and darted away to find the baby who
was still called the baby by reason of his being the last arrival,
although he was nearly three, and an active little tyrant at that.
Watching the bees was Betty's delight. Minding the baby, lolling under
the trees reading her books, gazing up into the great branches, and
all the time keeping an eye on the hives scattered about in the
garden,--nothing could be pleasanter.
Naturally Betty could not understand all she read in the books she
carried out from the library, for purely children's books were very
few in those days. The children of the present day would be dismayed
were they asked to read what Betty pondered over with avidity and
loved. Her father's library was his one extravagance, even though the
purchase of books was always a serious matter, each volume being
discussed and debated about, and only obtained after due preparation
by sundry small economies.
As for worldly possessions, the Ballards had started out with nothing
at all but their own two hands, and, as assets, well-equipped brains,
their love for each other, a fair amount of thrift, and a large share
of what Mary Ballard's old Grannie Sherman used to designate as
"gumption." Exactly what she intended should be understood by the word
it would be hard to say, unless it might be the faculty with which,
when one thing proved to be no longer feasible as a shift toward
progress and the making of a living for an increasing family, they
were enabled to discover other means and work them out to a productive
conclusion.
Thus, when times grew hard under the stress of the Civil War, and the
works of art representing many hours of Bertrand Ballard's keenest
effort lay in his studio unpurchased, and even carefully created
portraits, ordered and painstakingly painted, were left on his hands,
unclaimed and unpaid for, he quietly turned his attention to his
garden, saying, "People can live without pictures, but they must
eat."
So he obtained a few of the choicest of the quickly produced small
fruits and vegetables and flowers, and soon had rare and beautiful
things to sell. His clever hands, which before had made his own
stretchers for his canvases, and had fashioned and gilded with gold
leaf the frames for his own paintings, now made trellises for his
vines and boxes for his fruits, and when the price of sugar climbed to
the very top of the gamut, he created beehives on new models, and
bought a book on bee culture; ere long he had combs of delicious honey
to tempt the lovers of sweets.
But how came Bertrand Ballard away out in Wisconsin in a country home,
painting pictures for people who knew little or nothing of art, and
cared not to know more, raising fruits and keeping bees for the means
to live? Ah, that is another story, and to tell it would make another
book; suffice it to say that for love of a beautiful woman, strong and
wise and sweet, he had followed her farmer father out into the newer
west from old New York State.
There, frail in health and delicate and choice in his tastes, but
brave in spirit, he took up the battle of the weak with life, and
fought it like a strong man, valiantly and well. And where got he his
strength? How are the weak ever made strong? Through strength of
love--the inward fire that makes great the soul, while consuming the
dross of false values and foolish estimates--from the merry heart that
could laugh through any failure, and most of all from the beautiful
hand, supple and workful, and gentle and forceful, that lay in his.
But this is not the story of Bertrand Ballard, except incidentally as
he and his family play their part in the drama that centers in the
lives of two lads, one of whom--Peter Craigmile, Junior--comes now
swinging up the path from the front gate, where three roads meet,
brave in his new uniform of blue, with lifted head, and eyes grave and
shining with a kind of solemn elation.
"Bertrand, here comes Peter Junior in a new uniform," Mary Ballard
called to her husband, who was working at a box in which he meant to
fit glass sides for an aquarium for the edification of the little
ones. He came quickly out from his workroom, and Mary rose from her
seat and pushed her mending basket one side, and together they walked
down the path to meet the youth.
"Peter Junior, have you done it? Oh, I'm sorry!"
"Why, Mary! why, Mary! I'm astonished! Not sorry?" Bertrand took the
boy's hand in both his own and looked up in his eyes, for the lad was
tall, much taller than his friend. "I would go myself if I only had
the strength and were not near-sighted."
"Thank the Lord!" said his wife, fervently.
"Why, Mary--Mary--I'm astonished!" he said again. "Our country--"
"Yes, 'Our Country' is being bled to death," she said, taking the
boy's hand in hers for a moment; and, turning, they walked back to the
house with the young volunteer between them. "No, I'm not reconciled
to having our young men go down there and die by the thousands from
disease and bullets and in prisons. It's wrong! I say war is
iniquitous, and the issues, North or South, are not worth it. Peter, I
had hoped you were too young. Why did you?"
"I couldn't help it, Mrs. Ballard. The call for fifty thousand more
came, and father gave his consent; and, anyway, they are taking a
younger set now than at first."
"Yes, and soon they'll take an older set, and then they'll take the
small and frail and near-sighted ones, and then--" She stopped
suddenly, with a contrite glance at her husband's face. He hated to be
small and frail and near-sighted. She stepped round to his side and
put her hand in his. "I'm thankful you are, Bertrand," she said
quietly. "You'll stay to tea with us, won't you, Peter? We'll have it
out of doors."
"Yes, I'll stay--thank you. It may be the last time, and mother--I
came to see if you'd go up home and see mother, Mrs. Ballard. I kind
of thought you'd think as father and Mr. Ballard do about it, and I
thought you might be able to help mother to see it that way, too. You
see, mother--she--I always thought you were kind of strong and would
see things sort of--well--big, you know, more--as we men do." He held
his head high and looked off as he spoke.
She exchanged a half-smiling glance with her husband, and their hands
clasped tighter. "Maybe, though--if you feel this way--you can't help
mother--but what shall I do?" The big boy looked wistfully down at
her.
"I may not be able to help her to see things you want, Peter Junior.
Maybe she would be happier in seeing things her own way; but I can
sympathize with her. Perhaps I can help her to hope for the best, and
anyway--we can--just talk it over."
"Thank you, Mrs. Ballard, thank you. I don't care how she sees it,
if--if--she'll only be happier--and--give her consent. I can't bear to
go away without that; but if she won't give it, I must go anyway,--you
know."
"Yes," she said, smiling, "I suppose we women have to be forced
sometimes, or we never would allow some things to be done. You
enlisted first and then went to her for her consent? Yes, you are a
man, Peter Junior. But I tell you, if you were my son, I would never
give my consent--nor have it forced from me--still--I would love you
better for doing this."
"My love, your inconsistency is my joy," said her husband, as she
passed into the house and left them together.
The sun still shone hotly down, but the shadows were growing longer,
and Betty left baby asleep under the Harvest apple tree where she had
been staying patiently during the long, warm hours, and sat at her
father's feet on the edge of the porch, where apparently she was
wholly occupied in tracing patterns with her bare toes in the sand of
the path. Now and then she ran out to the Harvest apple tree and back,
her golden head darting among the green shrubbery like a sunbeam. She
wished to do her full duty by the bees and the baby, and at the same
time hear all the talk of the older ones, and watch the fascinating
young soldier in his new uniform.
As bright as the sunbeam, and as silent, she watched and listened. Her
heart beat fast with excitement, as it often did these days, when she
heard them talk of the war and the men who went away, perhaps never to
return, or to return with great glory. Now here was Peter Junior
going. He already had his beautiful new uniform, and he would march
and drill and carry a gun, and halt and present arms, along with the
older men she had seen in the great camp out on the high bluffs which
overlooked the wide, sweeping, rushing, willful Wisconsin River.
Oh, if she were only a man and as old as Peter Junior, she would go
with him; but it was very grand to know him even. Why was she a girl?
If God had only asked her which she would rather be when he had made
her out of dust, she would have told him to make her a man, so she
might be a soldier. It was not fair. There was Bobby; he would be a
man some day, and he could ride on a large black horse like the
knights of old, and go to wars, and rescue people, and do deeds of
arms. What deeds of arms were, she little knew, but it was something
very strong and wonderful that only knights and soldiers did.
Betty heaved a deep sigh, and put out her hand and softly touched
Peter Junior's trousers. He thought it was the kitten purring about.
No, God had not treated her fairly. Now she must grow up and be only a
woman, and wash dishes, and sweep and dust, and get very tired, and
wear dresses--and oh, dear! But then perhaps God had to do that way,
for if he had given everybody a choice, everybody would choose to be
men, and there would be no women to mind the home and take care of the
little children, and it would be a very sad kind of world, as she had
often heard her father say. Perhaps God had to do with them as Peter
Junior had done with his mother when he enlisted first and asked her
consent afterwards; just make them girls, and then try to convince
them afterwards that it was a fine thing to be a girl. She wished she
were Bobby instead of Betty--but then--Bobby might not have liked
that.
She glanced wistfully at the sleeping child and saw him toss his arms
about, and knew she ought to be there to sway a green branch over him
to keep the little gnats and flies from bothering him and waking him;
and the bees might swarm and no one see them.
"Father, is it three o'clock yet?"
"Yes, deary, why?"
"Goody! The bees won't swarm now, will they? Will you bring Bobby in,
father?"
"He is very well there; we won't disturb him."
Peter Junior looked down on the little girl, so full of vitality and
life and inspiration, so vibrant with enthusiasm, and saw her vaguely
as a slightly disturbing element, but otherwise of little moment in
the world's economy. His thoughts were on greater things.
Betty accepted her father's decision without protest, as she accepted
most things,--a finality to be endured and made the best of,--so she
continued to run back and forth between the sleeping child and the
porch, thereby losing much interesting dialogue,--all about camps and
fighting and scout duty,--until at last her mother returned and with a
glance at her small daughter's face said:--
"Father, will you bring baby in now and put him in his cradle? Betty
has had him nearly all day." And father went. Oh, beautiful mother!
How did she know!
Then Betty settled herself at Peter Junior's feet and looked up in his
eyes gravely. "What will you be, now you are a soldier?" she asked.
"Why, a soldier."
"No, I mean, will you be a general--or a flag carrier--or will you
drum? I'd be a general if I were you--or else a drummer. I think you
would be very handsome for a general."
Peter Junior threw back his head and laughed. It was the first time he
had laughed that day, and yet he was both proud and happy. "Would you
like to be a soldier?"
"Yes."
"But you might be killed, or have your leg shot off--or--"
"I know. So might you--but you would go, anyway--wouldn't you?"
"Certainly."
"Well, then you understand how I feel. I'd like to be a man, and go to
war, and 'Have a part to tear a cat in,' too."
"What's that? What's that? Mary, do you hear that?" said her father,
resuming his seat at Peter's side, and hearing her remark.
"Why, father, wouldn't you? You know you'd like to go to war. I heard
what you said to mother, and, anyway--I'd just like to be a man and
'Have a part to tear a cat in,' the way men have."
Bertrand Ballard looked down and patted his little daughter's head,
then caught her up and placed her on his knee. He realized suddenly
that his child was an entity unfathomed, separate from himself,
working out her own individuality almost without guidance, except such
as he and his Mary were unconsciously giving to her by their daily
acts and words.
"What books are those you have there? Don't you know you mustn't take
father's Shakespeare out and leave it on the grass?"
Betty laughed. "How did you know I had Shakespeare?"
"Didn't you say you 'Would like a part to tear a cat in'?"
"Oh, have you read 'Midsummer Night's Dream'?" She lifted her head
from his bosom and eyed him gravely a moment, then snuggled
comfortably down again. "But then, I suppose you have read everything."
Her father and Peter both laughed.
"Were you reading 'Midsummer Night's Dream' out there?"
"No, I've read that lots of times--long ago. I'm reading 'The Merry
Wives of Windsor' now."
"Mary, Mary, do you hear this? I think it's time our Betty had a
little supervision in her reading."
Mary Ballard came to the door from the tea table where she had been
arranging her little set of delicate china, her one rare treasure and
inheritance. "Yes, I knew she was reading--whatever she fancied, but I
thought I wouldn't interfere--not yet. I have so little time, for one
thing, and, anyway, I thought she might browse a bit. She's like a
calf in rare pastures, and I don't think she understands enough to do
her harm--or much good, either. Those things slide off from her like
water off a duck's back."
Betty looked anxiously up at her mother. What things was she missing?
She must read them all over again.
"What else have you out there, Betty?" asked her father.
Betty dropped her head shamefacedly. She never knew when she was in
the right and when wrong. Sometimes the very things which seemed most
right to her were most wrong. "That's 'Paradise Lost.' It was an old
book, father. There was a tear in the back when I took it down. I like
to read about Satan. I like to read about the mighty hosts and the
angels and the burning lake. Is that hell? I was pretending if the
bees swarmed that they would be the mighty host of bad angels falling
out of heaven."
Again Peter flung back his head and laughed. He looked at the child
with new interest, but Betty did not smile back at him. She did not
like being laughed at.
"It's true," she said; "they did fall out of heaven in a swarm, and it
was like over at High Knob on the river bank, only a million times
higher, because they were so long falling. 'From morn till noon they
fell, from noon till dewy eve.'" Betty looked off into space with
half-closed eyes. She was seeing them fall. "It was a long time to be
in suspense, wasn't it, father?" Then every one laughed. Even mother
joined in. She was putting the last touches to the tea table.
"Mary, my dear, I think we'd better take a little supervision of the
child's reading--I do, really."
The gate at the end of the long path to the house clicked, and another
lad came swinging up the walk, slightly taller than Peter Junior, but
otherwise enough like him in appearance to be his own brother. He was
not as grave as Peter, but smiled as he hailed them, waving his cap
above his head. He also wore the blue uniform, and it was new.
"Hallo, Peter! You here?"
"Of course I'm here. I thought you were never coming."
"You did?"
Betty sprang from her father's lap and ran to meet him. She slipped
her hand in his and hopped along at his side. "Oh, Rich! Are you
going, too? I wish I were you."
He lifted the child to a level with his face and kissed her, then set
her on her feet again. "Never wish that, Betty. It would spoil a nice
little girl."
"I'm not such a nice little girl. I--I--love Satan--and they're going
to--to--supervise my reading." She clung to his hand and nodded her
head with finality. He swung her along, making her take long leaps as
they walked.
"You love Satan? I thought you loved me!"
"It's the same thing, Rich," said Peter Junior, with a grin.
Bertrand had gone to the kitchen door. "Mary, my love, here's Richard
Kildene." She entered the living room, carrying a plate of light, hot
biscuit, and hurried out to Richard, greeting him warmly--even
lovingly.
"Bertrand, won't you and the boys carry the table out to the garden?"
she suggested. "Open both doors and take it carefully. It will be
pleasanter here in the shade."
The young men sprang to do her bidding, and the small table was borne
out under the trees, the lads enumerating with joy the articles of
Mary Ballard's simple menu.
"Hot biscuits and honey! My golly! Won't we wish for this in about two
months from now?" said Richard.
"Cream and caraway cookies!" shouted Peter Junior, turning back to the
porch to help Bertrand carry the chairs. "Of course we'll be wishing
for this before long, but that's part of soldiering."
"We're not looking forward to a well-fed, easy time of it, so we'll
just make the best of this to-night, and eat everything in sight,"
said Richard.
Bertrand preferred to change the subject. "This is some of our new
white clover honey," he said. "I took it from that hive over there
last evening, and they've been working all day as if they had had new
life given them. All bees want is a lot of empty space for storing
honey."
Richard followed Mrs. Ballard into the kitchen for the tea. "Where are
the other children?" he asked.
"Martha and Jamie are spending a week with my mother and father. They
love to go there, and mother--and father, also, seem never to have
enough of them. Baby is still asleep, and I must waken him, too, or
he won't sleep to-night. I hung a pail of milk over the spring to keep
it cool, and the butter is there also--and the Dutch cheese in a tin
box. Can you--wait, I'd better go with you. We'll leave the tea to
steep a minute."
They passed through the house and down toward the spring house under
the maple and basswood trees at the back, walking between rows of
currant bushes where the fruit hung red.
"I hate to leave all this--maybe forever," said the boy. The corners
of his mouth drooped a little, and he looked down at Mary Ballard with
a tender glint in his deep blue eyes. His eyes were as blue as the
lake on a summer's evening, and they were shaded by heavy dark brown
lashes, almost black. His brows and hair were the same deep brown.
Peter Junior's were a shade lighter, and his hair more curling. It was
often a matter of discussion in the village as to which of the boys
was the handsomer. That they were both fine-looking lads was always
conceded.
Mary Ballard turned toward him impulsively. "Why did you do this,
Richard? Why? I can't feel that this fever for war is right. It is
terrible. We are losing the best blood in the land in a wicked war."
She took his two hands in hers, and her eyes filled. "When we first
came here, your mother was my dearest friend. You never knew her, but
I loved her--and her loss was much to me. Richard, why didn't you
consult us?"
"I hadn't any one but you and your husband to care. Oh, Aunt Hester
loves me, of course, and is awfully good to me--but the Elder--I
always feel somehow as if he expects me to go to the bad. He never had
any use for my father, I guess. Was my father--was--he no good? Don't
mind telling me the truth: I ought to know."
"Your father was not so well known here, but he was, in Bertrand's
estimation, a royal Irish gentleman. We both liked him; no one could
help it. Never think hardly of him."
"Why has he never cared for me? Why have I never known him?"
"There was a quarrel--or--some unpleasantness between your uncle and
him; it's an old thing."
Richard's lip quivered an instant, then he drew himself up and smiled
on her, then he stooped and kissed her. "Some of us must go; we can't
let this nation be broken up. Some men must give their lives for it;
and I'm one of those who ought to go, for I have no one to mourn for
me. Half the class has enlisted."
"I venture to say you suggested it, too?"
"Well--yes."
"And Peter Junior was the first to follow you?"
"Well, yes! I'm sorry--because of Aunt Hester--but we always do pull
together, you know. See here, let's not think of it in this way. There
are other ways. Perhaps I'll come back with straps on my shoulders and
marry Betty some day."
"God grant you may; that is, if you come back as you left us. You
understand me? The same boy?"
"I do and I will," he said gravely.
That was a happy hour they spent at the evening meal, and many an
evening afterwards, when hardship and weariness had made the lads seem
more rugged and years older, they spoke of it and lived it over.