I
Down under my great pine is a pleasant place--even in April, if it is
but warm enough, and if the sun is shining, and if there is no great
wind, and if what wind there is comes from the southwest. It is not so
pleasant--I know many pleasanter--if the wind is from the northwest,
howling and shrieking as it does often in the winter, picking up the
fine snow and whirling it back, leaving the top of my bluff as clean as
though it had been swept. Such a wind roars through the ancient branches
of the pine, and twists them, and tears at them as if it would tear
them off. My pine stands sentinel-like on the top of the bluff, some
distance from the edge, and its branches have withstood the winds of
many winters. Its age must be measured in centuries, for it is a noble
great tree; and in times long past it must have had fellows standing
close. It is a forest tree, and its great trunk rises twenty feet
without a branch. But its fellows are gone, leaving no memory, and the
ancient pine now stands alone.
From the bench built against the trunk one can see many things: the
harbor, and the opposite shore, and rolling country beyond, and distant
hills, and one hill in particular with a tree upon it like a cross,
which stands out, at certain seasons, right against the disc of the
setting sun. One can see, too, the waters of the bay beyond the harbor,
and certain clam beds just at the point, and a certain water front; and
other things in their season. Old Goodwin's palace on the hill is not
visible, except for a glimpse of red roofs above the tops of the trees.
There is one other thing which I almost forgot to mention, and that is a
hole scooped in the ground just without the shadow of the pine, and
lined with great stones. That stone-lined hole has its uses, but the
time for them is not yet.
I was sitting on the seat under my old pine, gazing out but seeing
nothing of what lay before my eyes. And that was strange, too, for the
harbor before me was smiling under a warm spring sun, and the hills
beyond were bathed in the blue mist of summer. Indeed, it seemed like
summer. There will be cold weather in plenty, with skies gray and wet.
There is always more than enough of such weather in the first half of
May, but that day seemed like summer. I had had hard work to realize
that it was April until I looked about me and saw the grass just
greening in the moist and sheltered spots, and the trees spreading their
bare arms abroad. The buds were just swelling, some of them showing a
faint pale green or pink at their tips. And my garden was nothing but
freshly turned brown earth, not a spear of green.
I have put in my early peas, but not very long ago. They should be
poking through, any morning now. And I planted some corn yesterday. It
may get nipped by frost, but I hope not. What would the President think,
when he found that I had let my corn get nipped by frost? I mean to do
my share--in the garden. That is not the only reason why I hope my corn
will not get nipped. It is not likely, for we do not often have frost
here so late. It is much more likely that it will be stunted by the cold
in May. But what if it does not succeed? It will only mean my planting
those two rows over again, and if it escapes I shall be just that much
ahead of the others who did not take the chance. I no longer plant my
corn in hills. Hills have gone out. Corn is planted in drills now.
I even put in two rows of melons yesterday, but I am not telling my
neighbors about it. They would be amused at my planting melons in
April. Judson would not have been amused. Judson was a fine old man with
an open mind, and he would have been interested to see how the
experiment with melons succeeded. I should have told Judson all about
it,--he might have helped me plant,--but Judson is dead, and so is Mrs.
Judson. It is a loss for Eve and me, for a younger man lives in Judson's
house now, a younger man who is not so fine; and he has a wife and a
small girl--who pelts me with unripe pears when I venture near the
wall--and he has a talking machine which sits in the open window and
recites humorous bits in a raucous voice to the wide world. The
girl--she is not so very small, probably ten or eleven--would have
difficulty in pelting me with pears now, but she might use pebbles
instead. She is a pretty fair shot; and the talking machine is not
dependent upon season. They had the window open at that moment, and I
found myself listening for the raucous voice, while I thought of seed
potatoes--at four dollars a bushel, and scarce at that.
So the sun shone in under the branches of the pine, and I basked in its
warmth, and I gazed out and saw nothing of what lay before my eyes, and
I thought my thoughts. They came in no particular order, but as thoughts
do come, at random: the season, and peas and corn and melons and Judson
and his successor and the girl and the talking machine and pears and
potatoes. I suppose I should not speak of such rumblings of gray matter
as thoughts, for thoughts, we are told, should come in order, and should
be always under the control of the thinker. Mine are not always under my
control, and they seldom come in order. I might as well say that they
are never under my control, but are controlled by interest of one sort
or another. I make no claim to efficiency. Efficiency is a quality of a
machine, as I take it. When our brains become machines, why, Heaven help
us! But whatever my thoughts were, whether of my planting or my
neighbor's talking machine, they revolved around one idea, and always
came back to the point they started from, which sufficiently accounts
for the fact that I was looking at the harbor and not seeing it.
War. That was the central idea. We are at war. I looked out upon the
peaceful, smiling water and the peaceful, smiling country beyond, and
the tree like a cross upon its distant hill, and I laughed. I confess
it: What had war to do with that, or with me, or with mine? I could not
realize it. War means nothing to me. It means nothing to many people
over here, I believe, but flags flying, and parades, and brass bands,
and shouting. If we were in France now--but I am thankful that we are
not in France, and that there are two thousand and odd miles of water
between.
As for submarines--submarines in that harbor, where they could not turn
around without getting stuck in the mud! Or in the bay, where there is
none too much water either, and ledges and rocks scattered around
impartially and conveniently here and there! I know them well: one
ledge in particular which has but one foot of water on it at low tide.
And with a sea running--well, I could lead a submarine a pretty chase. I
would if the submarine was bound for this harbor. It might choose to get
stuck in the mud and sand of my clam beds, which would make them
unproductive for years. Even as a civilian I will defend my own.
Well, we shall see; but I cannot believe that the matter concerns us
very nearly. And I sighed softly, and smiled, and again I looked at the
harbor, and I saw it; saw it with the warm spring sun on its quiet
water, and the wooded hills beyond bathed in a blue haze. And I heard a
soft footstep behind me, and there came from above my head a low ripple
of laughter, and my head was held between two soft hands and a kiss was
dropped on the top of it. And Eve slipped down on the bench beside me.
"Why do you sigh?" she asked. "What were you thinking of, Adam?"
"War," I said, and she sobered quickly. Eve seems to have pacifist
leanings. I smiled at her to comfort her. "I was thinking that if a
submarine should come into this harbor, it might happen to get stuck in
my clam beds, and it would stir them all up, and would be bad for the
clams. I am afraid I should have to take a hand then. Do you suppose
your father would object to my mounting a gun on the point?--say, just
under that tree where he keeps his rubber boots?"
She laughed, which was what I wanted. Eve is lovely when she
laughs--she is lovely always, as lovely as she was when I first saw her.
And the warm spring sun, shining in under the branches of the pine,
shone upon her hair, and it was red and gold; as red and as shining gold
as it ever was--or so it seemed to me.
"My father would probably help you mount the gun," she said. "Shall I
ask him?"
"I will ask him. But your hair, Eve,--"
"Oh, my hair, stupid, is turning dark. Everybody sees it but you. But I
don't care, and I love you for it. And you must look out now, for I'm
going to kiss you." She seized me about the neck as she spoke, and she
did as she had said she would. "There!" she said, laughing. "Did
anybody see? Look all about, Adam. The mischief's done. As if a woman
couldn't kiss her husband when she wanted to! Now, I'm going to rumple
your hair."
She proceeded to the business in hand thoroughly.
"Eve," I cried between rumplings, "there are laws in this State--I don't
believe they have been repealed--which forbid a woman's kissing her
husband whenever she wants to. It can't be done. And--"
"It can't be done? Oh, yes, it can." She did it. "Now, can it?
Say--quickly."
"Yes, yes, it can, Eve. I acknowledge it. But the submarine. You
interrupted me. I had not finished."
"Well," she asked, subsiding upon the bench and smiling up into my
face, "what about your submarine? I know of many things which I think
more important."
"I've no doubt that there are laws against rumpling hair. There ought to
be. It's important enough. But the submarine," I added hastily, for I
saw indications of further rumpling; "I was only about to remark that if
I were out in the bay--"
"In a boat?" Eve asked, still leaning forward and looking up into my
face with the smile lurking about her lovely eyes.
"In a boat. If I were out in the bay, and a submarine suddenly popped up
beside me, I should feel much more inclined to offer the crew my
luncheon than to shoot them."
"They would all line up on the deck, I suppose, and you would have your
choice."
I laughed. "I should have no gun. Besides, I am a civilian. That is
against me. Civilians seem to have no chance worth mentioning."
Eve was looking at me thoughtfully, and there was a look deep in her
eyes that I could not fathom.
"You are a civilian," she said softly, "and civilians have no--and what
then, Adam? Did you think of--"
"They don't want doddering old men of forty-three, and there is no need.
But if my clam beds were in danger I should not feel so amiable. I might
even strain a point and try to get a standing that would enable me to
shoot alien trespassers properly. But why, Eve? Did you want me to--"
"No," she answered quickly. "Oh, no. I was only thinking."
"I have been thinking. If we had to have a war I am glad that it has
come now. Pukkie cannot possibly go, and he might want to. How would you
like that?"
Pukkie is our son, and he is ten years old. I knew how it would feel to
have him go. I took him off to school last fall. It is a beautiful
school, with fine men for masters, and dignified buildings and extensive
grounds, nearly three hundred acres, with woods and a lake. I wish I
could have gone to such a school. It would have done me good. I mooned
about with Pukkie, seeing his room and the other dormitories, and the
dining hall and the gymnasium and the classrooms, and the football
field, and the woods and the lake, and I tried to be cheerful, but I
did not make a success of it. I could not say much. Pukkie was silent
too.
And all too soon it was time for me to start on my three-mile ride for
the station, and I gave him a long hug and a short kiss behind a clump
of bushes; the last kiss, I suppose, that I shall ever give my little
son. I have not forgotten how a boy of ten feels about that. And I
jumped quickly into the car, and we started. I looked back and waved to
him as long as I could see, and he waved to me once or twice. But he
looked very small, standing there in the middle of three hundred acres,
gazing after the car and waving his cap, and I almost broke down then.
It seemed almost as if I were deserting my small son among
strangers--enemies, perhaps, for he did not know a soul; my little son
who had never before been away from home a single night without Eve or
me. For Eve had taught him up to that time, and I had done what I
could,--with his Latin and the groundings of his Greek, the very
beginnings of it,--what one of my students once called the radishes. I
had not the heart to inflict science upon him. I hate it. I ought not
to, for I was bred in it, and taught it for some years, which are well
behind me. But that was small comfort to me then, and I had hard work to
keep myself in control all the way home. But Pukkie did not break down.
He may have come near it. I do not know. He has never said anything
about it. I have--to Eve. She understood. She always understands. That
is the comfort of it.
But Eve had made no reply. She was still regarding me with that look
that I could not fathom, although I looked deep into her eyes.
"I think I could manage it," I said, feeling strangely uneasy.
"Manage what?" she asked. "Pukkie's going?"
"Heaven forbid! It was that civilian business that I meant. I think I
could manage to change my condition."
"No, no. I want you here, Adam. There is no need to change, is there?" I
shook my head, and Eve reached out and took my hand. "You need not
change--anything."
It was as if with her love for me, she had great sorrow, and great
pity; though why I was to be pitied was beyond my understanding. I do
not regard myself as a proper subject for pity. But there are many
things beyond my understanding. Eve will enlighten me in her own good
time. And as we sat, there was another step on the grass behind us, not
soft, but hasty. And Eve unclasped her fingers from mine, and turned. It
was Ann, the nurse.
"What is it, Ann?" Eve said. "Where's Tidda? Gone again?"
Then Ann explained that she had but turned her back for a minute, had
gone into the house for her knitting, and come right back--had run every
step of the way going and coming--and Tidda had disappeared. Tidda is
our daughter, aged eight. Her name is not Tidda, but Eve, as it should
be. She has a propensity for running away, although I do not think that
her excursions are planned. She is a true apostle of freedom, and when
she observes that nobody is about, she regards it as an opportunity
heaven-born, and she makes the most of it. I can hardly blame her. A
girl of eight, and tied to the worthy Ann's apron strings! How should I
have liked it, at the age of eight? She would sympathize with our aims
in this war we have undertaken. But Eve had risen, and was about to go.
"I suppose I had better stop at Cecily's," she said, "and at every house
on the road to father's. She may turn up there. Ann can stay here. I
wish," she added, laughing, "that I knew some way--"
"I'll go with you."
"I'd love to have you, Adam, but you'd better go around by the shore.
Meet me at father's. Good-bye."
And she was gone, swiftly. She always has some ill-concealed anxiety
over these disappearances of Tidda's, and so, for that matter, have I. I
got up slowly and started toward the head of that steep path to the
shore; but stopped halfway, and turned and went to my shed, and got my
hoe and my rubber boots. It was yet early in the season for clamming,
but my way led past the clam beds, and the tide was almost down, and I
might at least see how they were getting on. So, my hoe and my boots in
my hand, I went down the steep path, and strode along the shore. And, as
I came nearer that place which is ever near my heart--where the sod
breaks off to the sand just above my clam beds--I thought I got a
glimpse of drapery behind a tree-trunk. There are trees there, pretty
near the edge of the three-foot bluff, the beginning of a grove which is
Old Goodwin's; and a path runs back to his house. I saw that the gleam
of white I had seen was from a white dress, a small white dress, a dress
that somehow seemed familiar; and I saw a small leg in the air, its
stocking in the process of removal. I stepped forward without caution,
and I grinned down at my small daughter. It is impossible to be cross
with her, she is always so perfectly confident of having done nothing
which she should not have done.
So I grinned down at her, and she looked up and grinned back at me.
"Going in wading," she announced cheerfully, continuing to push the
stocking, which did not seem to want to come off.
"Going wading, are you? Well, don't be in a hurry, Tidda. Let's talk it
over."
She did not relax her efforts, but she shook her head.
"Haven't got time to talk now," she said. "Daddy, you help me get my
stockings off. They won't un-come. They're an awful bother."
"Wait a minute." I stepped back and looked up at my bluff. There was Ann
watching me, and evidently anxious. I signalled to her that Tidda was
found--we have a code for the purpose, and Ann is letter-perfect in
it--and she signalled that she was much relieved and would find Eve and
tell her. Then she disappeared.
I sat down beside my daughter. "Now, Tidda," I said, "there are several
good reasons why you should not go wading. The water is very cold still,
and--"
"Pull this one, daddy," she said, ignoring my remarks, and sticking out
toward me the leg with its stocking half off. "If you take hold of the
toe and the heel and pull, it'll un-come. I can't do it, because I can't
get hold from that end."