Part 6 (1/2)

VII.

Over my hayfield, that morning toward the last of June, a pleasant breeze was blowing, and from the southwest, as is the habit of breezes hereabout. A man clad in white flannels, and wandering slowly about, would have found that hayfield cool enough and pleasant, I have no doubt. I found it pleasant, but not cool, for I was mowing. For weeks I sought some one--any one--who would cut my gra.s.s, and cut it in June, for I have a prejudice in favor of June for cutting hay. In the last week of June the gra.s.s is in full flower--tiny blossoms of a pale violet color--and the stems are swollen with the juices, and rich and tender. I, in my ignorance, believe that it makes more succulent hay than if cut in July, when the stalks have begun to dry up and become thin and wiry. Besides, if it is cut in June it is out of the way, and I can use my hayfield for a ball-field if I am so minded.

I am no mower, and I have not known what a scythe should be. I was dimly aware that my old scythe was not everything that could be desired, for I remember that when I took it to be ground the man applied it lightly to his stone, then harder, then cursed and bore on with all his might, and cursed again and sweated for half an hour, and charged me ten cents, holding the scythe out to me as if he never wanted to see it again. He observed that it was the hardest scythe he ever see; and I smiled and thanked him, and thought no more of the matter, and walked off with my scythe. And I struggled with that scythe for ten years, never being able to keep it sharp, and spending much more time with the whetstone than I did in mowing, but I did but little mowing, only tr.i.m.m.i.n.g around here and there. I never got the scythe sharp. I know that now, but I did not know it then, attributing the fault to my own lack of skill.

I got a new scythe the other day, being unwilling to whet through two acres. I can get it as sharp as a razor in half a dozen strokes of the stone. When I tried it the other afternoon, just before dinner, I found myself laughing, and I should have gone at the hayfield then if Eve had not stopped me. Now I go about with my scythe in my hand, and hunt for clumps of gra.s.s tall enough to cut, for the hayfield is shorn close and tolerably smooth, and the gra.s.s lies in the sun and gives off all manner of sweet odors.

The mowing of that hayfield with that new scythe was simply a joy--a delight. I swung to and fro with the rhythmic motion of rowing--mowing is not unlike rowing, and one swings about thirty or more to the minute--with my eyes on the ground, and I listened to the sounds: a soft ripping with a little metallic ting as the scythe advanced, and a gentle swish as it swung back again. Yes, mowing is a delight--with a good scythe; but it is a hot sort of amus.e.m.e.nt. If I could regulate matters mowing time should fall in November. All mowing should be done by hand, and mowing should be compulsory for all able-bodied men. They would be the better for it.

I stood for a few minutes, leaning on my scythe and letting the breeze blow through me and gazing down the bay. Then I went at my mowing again and the scythe sang a new song. It was sub--marine; sub--marine, over and over. And I kept at my mowing mechanically while I thought my thoughts. There had been no reports of submarines since the day of Eve's party, and nothing further said of the report of that day. Even Bobby would say no more than that they did not find any; and when I would have rallied him, remarking that I feared he had not baited his traps properly, he glowered at me, which hurt my feelings. It was not like Bobby to glower. But Bobby seemed tormented by that restlessness which seizes on men in a certain case. I did not laugh at him, for I feared lest he take it but ill, but I did counsel him to take to clamming; at which he gave me a smile that would have brought tears to Eve's eyes. He has not yet found that fount of eternal youth, and whether he will find it or not no one can guess. I hope he will, and that joy and peace will be in his abiding place forever. And the one who should show him the fount is not far to seek, as he well knows; but, as I think, and Eve too, he is stubborn and cherishes some fancied grievance, hugging it to his heart. The poor fool!

Then I stopped mowing, and straightened my back, and rested. And, on a sudden, that talking machine of my neighbor began pouring forth a strident voice, and I looked and there was the little Sands girl watching me over the wall. She no longer throws things. But I was not giving an exhibition of mowing, and I nodded to her, and went back to my garden. Melons are a lottery; but I looked at my peas--my second look that morning--to make sure that they will be ready for the Fourth, and I took a turn about the garden. And all the while I listened, much against my will, to that strident voice. And when it had finished that particular humorous selection, I fled, my scythe on my arm, for fear that I should have some sort of secret liking for the next selection; and I came to my pine, and I sat me down on the seat, and again my gaze ran across the waters of the harbor, well ruffled by the breeze and dancing in the sun, to the sh.o.r.e opposite; and down that curving line of sh.o.r.e to the lighthouse on its rock; and over the blue-gray water beyond, that was lightly veiled in haze, to the islands floating high. And on the water between the lighthouse and the islands I saw the Arcadia. She was coming fast, with all her light canvas set, a thing of beauty. It would be a fast submarine I thought, that could damage her--in any sort of breeze. Then I thought idly of Captain Fergus, and of Elizabeth and Olivia, and Bobby and Ogilvie, and of Eve and Pukkie. That is the goal--Eve and Pukkie and Tidda--little Eve.

Elizabeth has been our guest for the past two weeks when she has not been on the Arcadia. She puzzles me yet. What is she doing here so long--a poor girl, seeming to be loafing out the summer? She should be conducting her cla.s.ses in swimming. It is likely enough that the same question has been a puzzle to Bobby; but he takes it harder than I. I am content to let the question go unanswered and have her stay with us. She is a good comrade, and a comfort to Eve, and she is fond of Tidda, and Pukkie is her willing slave. For Pukkie is at home again.

He came on the twelfth. I remember that we had had a hard rain for two days before, and that all the ploughed land was no better than a bog, and all the fields were covered with water under their cover of gra.s.s, so that the water was running out through the crevices of the stone walls, through each crevice a rivulet. But not my field, and my garden was no bog. And I waited, sitting just where I was at that moment and gazing idly at the same things that were there before my eyes. I could not work in peace, nor sit in peace for many minutes at a time, but I spent the morning going like a shuttle from garden to pine and wandering the sh.o.r.e, then back again.

Eve had gone with Old Goodwin in his fastest car to bring him back--”him” being Pukkie, my son. But as the time approached for his arrival I sat upon the bench and simulated peace and content, and gave no outward sign of other; but every muscle was tense, and every nerve on edge; I listened so hard that it hurt, and I wished devoutly that Old Goodwin's car was not so perfect and so silent, and I resolutely kept my gaze fixed upon the distant hills, and did not see them.

At last I heard the latch of the gate click faintly, as though somebody had tried to lift it without noise, and I heard an excited chuckle, instantly subdued. And I turned quickly, forgetting that I had resolved not to turn, and there was Pukkie running toward me. And I whipped up and ran, and I sank upon one knee and held my arms wide. And Pukkie ran into them at full speed, almost knocking me over, and he threw his arms around my neck, and he hugged me. He hugged me so tight that I was nearly strangled; but not quite--not so nearly but that I could hug him close and whisper in his ear.

”Oh, Pukkie!” I whispered. ”My dear little son! My well beloved!”

For answer he but hugged me the harder, and gave an excited little laugh that was near to tears. That was enough for me. Indeed, I was not so far from tears. I looked up at Eve, who had followed close, and tears stood in her eyes, but she was smiling. Oh, such a smile! A smile that belongs to wives and mothers--of a certain kind. And, seeing her, I gave thanks. But that is nothing new that I give thanks for that, for I have done the same many times a day for many years.

Then Old Goodwin came up behind Eve.

”If you and Pukkie can spare the time,” he said to me, ”I should be glad to have you ride home with me--you and Eve. I have something to show you.”

Pukkie went somewhat eagerly, and Eve and I, having devoted ourselves to following our son about, went after, not so eagerly. And Old Goodwin took us down to his boathouse, which is at the head of his stone pier and gives upon his artificial harbor, and out of the car and into the boathouse.

”Grandfather,” said Pukkie, trying in vain to keep all signs of excitement out of his voice, ”is it my dory that we're going to see? Is it?”

Old Goodwin smiled to himself. ”Well, no, Pukkie. It isn't your dory. I didn't manage that. But it's something of that nature.”

”Oh,” said Pukkie in low tones of disappointment, ”I didn't know but--” Old Goodwin had opened the door at the other side. ”Oh! What's that?”

Made fast to the stage there lay a perfect little sloop about twenty feet long which seemed to be an exact reproduction in miniature of a large boat. Every sail was there which the large boats carried, every rope and block and stay, although they had drawn the line at a separate topmast. I realized at a glance that there were too many ropes and blocks and stays for her size. It would take more of a crew to handle her easily than she could carry.

But Pukkie realized nothing of the kind. He ran toward her, and stood beside her, touching with a fearful hand her smooth deck, and the pretty blocks and cleats of s.h.i.+ning bra.s.s, and smiling.

There was even a gangway ladder, and her gunwale not much more than a foot above the water.

Pukkie turned his s.h.i.+ning face to me.

”Oh, daddy,” he cried, ”look at her dear little jibs. Aren't they cunning?”

They were cunning and tiny.

Old Goodwin, simple-hearted gentleman that he was, was as pleased as Pukkie. He seemed delighted.

”There are other sails,” he said, smiling and eager. ”In the sail locker you will find a gafftopsail and a jibtopsail and a flying jib. We couldn't very well manage any more,” he added to me.

”They are quite enough,” I returned, ”for her size--and for her crew to manage.”

”She is rather deep for her length,” Old Goodwin went on. ”A boy can stand straight in her cabin, and a man very nearly. Go aboard, Puk, and see. Go down into the cabin.”

So Pukkie, excited and solemn, went aboard, stepping carefully, and opened the cabin doors, and disappeared. We followed him on deck and looked down. There was a little table in the middle which would fold up out of the way, and there were two small transoms with little netted hammocks for the sleeper's clothes, like a sleeping-car. And there was a silver pitcher for ice water, and racks for gla.s.ses and dishes, and shelves with bra.s.s rails around them, and lockers tucked away in every corner, and a door at the forward end which should have led to the galley. Old Goodwin saw my look of incredulity, and he smiled.

”There is a galley,” he said, ”although a very small one. But I think a boy could manage it. About the size of a cupboard.” Old Goodwin pushed the slide farther back. ”We had to put this slide on her,” he said apologetically, ”or there couldn't have been a cabin of any use to anybody. I was sorry.”

I was not sorry. It would help to keep the seas off. But Pukkie took one last look around, drew one long, quivering breath, and came up.

”Oh, see!” he cried.

I turned and looked where he was pointing. There was the little wheel, which we had seen before; and there too was a tiny binnacle with its compa.s.s, cunningly contrived to take no room, set just forward of the wheel.

”Do you like it, Pukkie?” Old Goodwin asked somewhat wistfully. ”Do you think that you'll like her as well as you would have liked a dory?”

”Like her!” cried Pukkie. ”Like her! Oh, grandfather!”

And he leaped at his grandfather, and seized him about the neck, and hid his face; and Old Goodwin patted Pukkie's shoulder, somewhat awkwardly, and smiled at Eve and me. I wonder what is the market value of the time that Old Goodwin wastes upon his grandson.

Then Pukkie would go sailing at once. It did not matter that it was time for luncheon, although my clock that I carry beneath my belt told me that it was. He was not hungry. It did not occur to him to wonder about me, or he would have offered to get me a luncheon in his galley. So we set forth to sail the raging main; a little sail of half an hour, with Eve and Old Goodwin to see us off.

So we set all the little sails, but we did not get out from the sail locker that gafftopsail and the jibtopsail and that wonderful flying jib. The wind was moderately strong. And we glided out from Old Goodwin's harbor with me at the wheel, and Pukkie sitting beside me with s.h.i.+ning face. The little boat was handy, and she went about her business with no fuss, and the water began to hiss past under her rail. And I sat the straighter. Truly, what is luncheon?

We pa.s.sed some fishermen going out--the same way that we were going, and we pa.s.sed them as if they were at anchor; and they gazed in amazement and I saw them pointing. I headed for a lighter that I saw dimly through the light haze--she was anch.o.r.ed by a wreck, as I chanced to know--and I gave up the wheel to Pukkie.

He had never steered with a wheel, but I undertook to teach him--although the art of steering, whether with a wheel or with a tiller, cannot be taught. One learns to steer by feeling. And Pukkie was alert and anxious to learn. I told him to keep the boat headed for the lighter, at which he looked at me in surprise, and suggested that it might be too far to get back in half an hour. It was; but I did not tell him so.

Thereafter, for some time, the boat cut some astonis.h.i.+ng capers, which must have set those fishermen to wondering. We pa.s.sed the fish traps, with men in rowboats busy with taking in the catch; and we pa.s.sed innumerable terns, or, rather, they pa.s.sed us, and they were fis.h.i.+ng and sending forth their harsh metallic cry; and we saw a pair of fishhawks, and they too were fis.h.i.+ng. All fis.h.i.+ng. Truly, the business of the waters is catching fish. And Pukkie was getting the hang of the wheel and steering a straighter course, so that he could give some attention to other matters.

There were rocks which looked like monsters just risen from the deep, and with the water was.h.i.+ng over their backs.

”They look like submarines,” said Pukkie. ”Don't they, daddy?”

I explained to him the appearance of the back of a modern submarine; but the rocks did remind me of submarines. Everything reminds me of submarines. And we saw, afar off upon the water, a small gray speck. And the speck grew until it became a motor-boat, painted a dark gray. Why they paint them a gray that is almost black is a mystery. There is no concealment in it. This motor-boat was small, and was heading right for us, it seemed.

”Is that a chaser, daddy?” Pukkie seems to have the jargon pat. Probably he learned it at school. ”It isn't very fast, is it? It couldn't catch a submarine, could it? It wouldn't be any use to chase with that.” His words held a depth of scorn. Always submarines. I cannot get away from them. ”Why don't you go out and chase them, daddy? I should think you would like to. I would.”

I am thankful that he cannot. I gave him some answer that seemed to satisfy him.

”That chaser is trying to meet us,” he resumed. ”Whichever way I go, she goes too.”