Part 37 (1/2)

”Why not?” Bob asked, straightening up.

The girl found it hard to give her answer. ”See how it's trying to get away,” she said at last. ”I believe it would rather live a few hours free, in the suns.h.i.+ne, than to be caged for life.”

”I'll give it some crumbs, anyway,” said Bob, and, strewing bread along the path, went back to his more engrossing ducks.

The bird of the tree tops refused the bread of grain and, making a tremendous effort, rose to the birch tree again and moved among the leaves, its black head bobbing about hunting for insects, its free wing fluttering with pleasure. ”What a comfort it is,” Hertha thought to herself, ”that it lives only in to-day.”

Becoming weary of his ducks, Bob joined his companion where she sat on the gra.s.s, and leaning up against her asked to hear about Tom-of-the-Woods. Tom was a wonderful boy who lived in the forest, eating roots and fruit, for he would not kill any living creature. The berries that he found and the oranges that he plucked from the trees were finer than any other oranges and berries in the world. Tom made his house out of palm leaves tied together and set up on shoots of bamboo.

He did not use it much, however, for at night he loved to sit under the stars listening to the screech owls and the toads and the little four-footed creatures that came out of their hiding-places when the sun went down. It was then that he talked with the rabbits and the great white owl, the wisest bird in the world. Tom went to the city and purchased a top that he could spin so fast on the sidewalk that it disappeared. How he got it back he never told, but it was always there in his pocket whenever he came to town. It was a long, comfortable story, without plot and with little incident, the kind of story that you could begin and leave off at your convenience. But before Bob was half tired of it, some one called out ”Hallo,” and d.i.c.k appeared coming along the path toward them.

”Glad I found you,” he said gaily, and then, turning to the little boy, ”Your mother says it's time for you to be trotting home.”

Bob viewed the newcomer suspiciously. It was not his first experience in having d.i.c.k interrupt when he and Miss Ogilvie were enjoying a good time.

”Very well,” said Hertha, rising, ”we'll go home together.”

This arrangement was not in the least what d.i.c.k desired, but he said nothing and the three walked slowly away from the lake to the park's entrance where Bob's house could be seen across the broad street.

”Say,” d.i.c.k whispered, ”let the little fellow go and come out rowing with me.”

Bob heard and clutched Hertha's hand tight.

”I'm going on the road Monday,” d.i.c.k added.

Bob only clutched the harder and tried to drag his friend across the street.

Realizing the need of strategy, d.i.c.k put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a dime. ”Run over and get yourself a soda, sonny,” he said; ”I bet you know the way.”

Bob's hesitation was short. ”Sure,” he replied after an infinitesimal wait, and dropping Hertha's hand dashed across the street. They saw him enter the friendly drug store and then, at d.i.c.k's earnest pleading, they walked back along the path that they had come.

It was a day for dreaming, for lightly putting the oar in the water to withdraw it again. On the soft wind, from the bushes, white and purple and golden, from the new buds of the resinous trees, came a fragrance, sweet and pungent. Rowing beside the west bank, the boat kept in shadow, but beyond this restful line of dimmed light the sun danced upon the water, the ripples streaming with silver and gold. The late blossoming trees still stood tall, dark, with naked limbs, but the drooping willow gleamed pale yellow, and the maples and elms were dropping their small blossoms to stand clothed in summer green. Robins called to one another across the lake, busy carrying bits of gra.s.s and twigs to make their nests. Her hat off, Hertha sat in the stern of the boat, sometimes trailing her hand in the water, her head bent as she watched the trickling drops, again sitting erect gazing among the trees and out to the sky beyond.

”Thinking about home?” d.i.c.k asked, and she nodded and smiled.

”Let's visit the garden,” she suggested, when having rowed the length of the lake they returned to the landing.

There was a riot of flowers in the great stretches of the formal garden, but the girl leading, they made their way to the pansy beds. Deep, velvety purple blossoms nodded up at them; soft blues and lavenders, streaked with deeper blue and purple, touched plants of glowing yellow.

Hertha bent and began to talk to the nodding heads as though they were children.

”They're more alive,” she said to d.i.c.k, apologizing for her childishness, ”than any flowers I know.”

He entered her conceit. ”There's a lot of difference among them, though, don't you think?” He bent over with her to look closely. ”The blue ones don't look like they were blue at all; but that dark lady down there, for instance, she hasn't enjoyed her dinner. Perhaps last night she had an overdose of dew.”

”I'm afraid the expression is chronic,” Hertha answered gravely.

They wandered on where bushes of spirea grew on either side the path--”Bridal wreath, don't they call it?” d.i.c.k asked timidly--on among the tall hickory and chestnut trees; then up the hill to the rose garden, the green buds of the newly trimmed plants beginning to show touches of color, and down again to the little valley where the mischievous bronze baby, standing in the water surrounded by his guard of spouting turtles, clutches a duck that pours out a constant stream of sparkling drops into the pool below.

”How does any one think of such things?” d.i.c.k asked gazing with admiration at the miniature fountain.