SCIPIO MAKES PREPARATIONS
Scipio's impulses were, from his own point of view, entirely
practical. Whatever he did, he did with his whole heart. And if his
results somehow missed coming out as he intended them, it was scarcely
his fault. Rather was it the misfortune of being burdened with a
superfluous energy, supported by inadequate thought.
And he felt something of this as he sat in his living-room and glanced
round him at the unaccountable disorder that maintained. It was Sunday
morning, and all his spare time in his home on Saturday had been spent
in cleaning and scrubbing and putting straight, and yet--and yet--He
passed a stubby hand across his forehead, as though to brush aside the
vision of the confusion he beheld.
He knew everything was wrong, and a subconscious feeling told him that
he had no power to put things right. It was curious, too. Every
utensil, every stick of furniture, the floor, the stove, everything
had been scrubbed and garnished at a great expense of labor.
Everything had been carefully bestowed in the place which, to his
mind, seemed most suited for its disposal. Yet now, as he gazed about
him at the result, he knew that only a cleanly untidiness prevailed,
and he felt disheartened.
Look at the children's clean clothes, carefully folded with almost
painful exactness; yet they were like a pile of rags just thrown
together. And their unironed condition added to the illusion. Every
cooking-pot and pan had been cleaned and polished, yet, to his eyes,
the litter of them suggested one of the heaps of iron scraps out on
the dumps. How was it every piece of china looked forlornly suggestive
of a wanderer without a home? No, he did not know. He had done his
very best, and yet everything seemed to need just that magic touch to
give his home the requisite well-cared-for air.
He was disappointed, and his feelings were plainly to be perceived in
the regretful glance of his pale eyes. For some moments his optimistic
energy rose and prompted him to begin all over again, but he denied
himself this satisfaction as he glanced through the window at the
morning sun. It was too high up in the sky. There was other work yet
before him, with none too much time for its performance before the
midday meal.
Instead, he turned to the "regulations" which Sunny Oak had furnished
him with, and, with an index finger following out the words, he read
down the details of the work for Sunday--in so far as his twins were
concerned.
"Ah," he murmured, "I got the wash done yesterday. It says here
Monday. That's kind of a pity." Then he brightened into hopefulness.
"Guess I kin do those things again Monday. I sort o' fancy they could
do with another wash 'fore the kiddies wear them. I never could wash
clothes right, first time. Now, Sunday." His finger passed slowly from
one detail to another. "Breakfast--yes. Bath. Ah, guess that comes
next. Now, 'bout that bath." He glanced anxiously round him. Then he
turned back to the regulations. "It don't say whether hot or cold," he
muttered disappointedly.
For a moment he stood perplexed. Then he began to reason the matter
out with himself. It was summer. For grown-ups it would naturally be a
cold bath, but he was not so sure about children. They were very
young, and it would be so easy for them to take cold, he thought. No,
it had best be hot. He would cook some water. This thought prompting
him, he set the saucepan on the stove and stirred the fire.
He was turning back to his regulations, when it occurred to him that
he must now find something to bathe the children in. Glancing about
amongst the few pots he possessed, he realized that the largest
saucepan, or "billy," in the house would not hold more than a gallon
of water. No, these were no use, for though he exercised all his
ingenuity he could see no way of bathing the children in any of them.
Once during his cogitations he was very nearly inspired. It flashed
through his mind that he might stand each child outside of a couple of
pots and wash them all over that way. But he quickly negatived the
thought. That wasn't his idea of a bath. They must sit _in_ the
water.
He was about to give the matter up in despair, when, in a moment of
inspiration, he remembered the washing-tub. Of course, that was the
very thing. They could both sit in that together. It was down at the
river, but he could easily fetch it up.
So he turned again in relief to the regulations. What next? He found
his place, and read the directions out slowly.
"'After their bath kids needs an hour's Bible talk.'"
He read it again. And then a third time, so as to make quite sure.
Then he turned thoughtfully to the door, staring out at the bright
sunlight beyond. He could hear the children's voices as they played
outside, but he was not heeding them. He was delving around in a hazy
recollection of Bible subjects, which he vaguely remembered having
studied when a child.
It was difficult--very difficult. But he was not beaten. There were
several subjects that occurred to him in scraps. There was Noah. Then
there was Moses. He recalled something of Solomon, and he knew that
David slew a giant.
But none of these subjects amounted to more than a dim recollection.
Of details he knew none. Worked into a thorough muddle with his worry,
he was almost despairing again when suddenly he remembered that Jessie
possessed a Bible. Perhaps it was still in the bedroom. He would go
and see. It would surely help him. So he promptly went in search of
it, and, in a few moments, was sitting down beside the table poring
over it and studiously preparing himself for his forthcoming tutelary
duties.