I
Little Horace was walking home from school, brilliantly decorated by a
pair of new red mittens. A number of boys were snowballing gleefully
in a field. They hailed him. "Come on, Horace! We're having a battle."
[Illustration: "Little Horace"]
Horace was sad. "No," he said, "I can't. I've got to go home." At noon
his mother had admonished him: "Now, Horace, you come straight home as
soon as school is out. Do you hear? And don't you get them nice new
mittens all wet, either. Do you hear?" Also his aunt had said: "I
declare, Emily, it's a shame the way you allow that child to ruin his
things." She had meant mittens. To his mother, Horace had dutifully
replied, "Yes'm." But he now loitered in the vicinity of the group of
uproarious boys, who were yelling like hawks as the white balls flew.
[Illustration: "...Yelling Like Hawks as the White Balls Flew"]
Some of them immediately analyzed this extraordinary hesitancy.
"Hah!" they paused to scoff, "afraid of your new mittens, ain't you?"
Some smaller boys, who were not yet so wise in discerning motives,
applauded this attack with unreasonable vehemence. "A-fray-ed of his
mit-tens! A-fray-ed of his mit-tens." They sang these lines to cruel
and monotonous music which is as old perhaps as American childhood,
and which it is the privilege of the emancipated adult to completely
forget. "Afray-ed of his mit-tens!"
Horace cast a tortured glance towards his playmates, and then dropped
his eyes to the snow at his feet. Presently he turned to the trunk of
one of the great maple-trees that lined the curb. He made a pretence
of closely examining the rough and virile bark. To his mind, this
familiar street of Whilomville seemed to grow dark in the thick shadow
of shame. The trees and the houses were now palled in purple.
"A-fray-ed of his mit-tens!" The terrible music had in it a meaning
from the moonlit war-drums of chanting cannibals.
[Illustration: "Horace: I've got to go home."]
At last Horace, with supreme effort, raised his head. "'Tain't them I
care about," he said, gruffly. "I've got to go home. That's all."
Whereupon each boy held his left forefinger as if it were a pencil and
began to sharpen it derisively with his right forefinger. They came
closer, and sang like a trained chorus, "A-fray-ed of his mittens!"
When he raised his voice to deny the charge it was simply lost in the
screams of the mob. He was alone, fronting all the traditions of
boyhood held before him by inexorable representatives. To such a low
state had he fallen that one lad, a mere baby, outflanked him and then
struck him in the cheek with a heavy snowball. The act was acclaimed
with loud jeers. Horace turned to dart at his assailant, but there was
an immediate demonstration on the other flank, and he found himself
obliged to keep his face towards the hilarious crew of tormentors. The
baby retreated in safety to the rear of the crowd, where he was
received with fulsome compliments upon his daring. Horace retreated
slowly up the walk. He continually tried to make them heed him, but
the only sound was the chant, "A-fray-ed of his mit-tens!" In this
desperate withdrawal the beset and haggard boy suffered more than is
the common lot of man.
[Illustration: "When He Raised His Voice to Deny the Charge"]
Being a boy himself, he did not understand boys at all. He had, of
course, the dismal conviction that they were going to dog him to his
grave. But near the corner of the field they suddenly seemed to forget
all about it. Indeed, they possessed only the malevolence of so many
flitter-headed sparrows. The interest had swung capriciously to some
other matter. In a moment they were off in the field again, carousing
amid the snow. Some authoritative boy had probably said, "Aw, come
on!"
[Illustration: "Aw, Come On!"]
As the pursuit ceased, Horace ceased his retreat. He spent some time
in what was evidently an attempt to adjust his self respect, and then
began to wander furtively down towards the group. He, too, had
undergone an important change. Perhaps his sharp agony was only as
durable as the malevolence of the others. In this boyish life
obedience to some unformulated creed of manners was enforced with
capricious but merciless rigor. However, they were, after all, his
comrades, his friends.
They did not heed his return. They were engaged in an altercation. It
had evidently been planned that this battle was between Indians and
soldiers. The smaller and weaker boys had been induced to appear as
Indians in the initial skirmish, but they were now very sick of it,
and were reluctantly but steadfastly, affirming their desire for a
change of caste. The larger boys had all won great distinction,
devastating Indians materially, and they wished the war to go on as
planned. They explained vociferously that it was proper for the
soldiers always to thrash the Indians. The little boys did not pretend
to deny the truth of this argument; they confined themselves to the
simple statement that, in that case, they wished to be soldiers. Each
little boy willingly appealed to the others to remain Indians, but as
for himself he reiterated his desire to enlist as a soldier. The
larger boys were in despair over this dearth of enthusiasm in the
small Indians. They alternately wheedled and bullied, but they could
not persuade the little boys, who were really suffering dreadful
humiliation rather than submit to another onslaught of soldiers. They
were called all the baby names that had the power of stinging deep
into their pride, but they remained firm.
Then a formidable lad, a leader of reputation, one who could whip many
boys that wore long trousers, suddenly blew out his checks and
shouted, "Well, all right then. I'll be an Indian myself. Now." The
little boys greeted with cheers this addition to their wearied ranks,
and seemed then content. But matters were not mended in the least,
because all of the personal following of the formidable lad, with the
addition of every outsider, spontaneously forsook the flag and
declared themselves Indians. There were now no soldiers. The Indians
had carried everything unanimously. The formidable lad used his
influence, but his influence could not shake the loyalty of his
friends, who refused to fight under any colors but his colors.
Plainly there was nothing for it but to coerce the little ones. The
formidable lad again became a soldier, and then graciously permitted
to join him all the real fighting strength of the crowd, leaving
behind a most forlorn band of little Indians. Then the soldiers
attacked the Indians, exhorting them to opposition at the same time.
The Indians at first adopted a policy of hurried surrender, but this
had no success, as none of the surrenders were accepted. They then
turned to flee, bawling out protests. The ferocious soldiers pursued
them amid shouts. The battle widened, developing all manner of
marvellous detail.
Horace had turned towards home several times, but, as a matter of
fact, this scene held him in a spell. It was fascinating beyond
anything which the grown man understands. He had always in the back of
his head a sense of guilt, even a sense of impending punishment for
disobedience, but they could not weigh with the delirium of this
snow-battle.