Part 30 (1/2)
”I didn't say that.”
”You as much as said it. Spoof may have advantages--I admit his travel, and all that--but will those things keep him big? Won't section Two bound him in a year or so, just as you say Fourteen bounds me now? Is he different clay; less ox, more soul?”
”Section Two can never hold Spoof, because he--because he is _big_, don't you see? He reads, he thinks, he sings, he dreams. No section can hold one who does those things.”
”Does he write poetry?” I inquired, innocently.
”I--I don't think so,” said she, not scenting my trap, ”but he is very fond of it. You should hear him read----”
”Hear him read 'Come to me. . . . . Spoof!'”
She turned to me fairly again. She had withdrawn her hands from mine and was crus.h.i.+ng little crusts of snow between her mittens. Now she dropped the snow, shook her hands free of its powdery residue, then linked them about her knee. For a long moment she held me under her eyes without blinking.
”So you saw that, did you?”
”Jean--I'm sorry. I apologize. I saw it by accident--I couldn't help that. I could have helped speaking about it. I apologize.”
Then her eyes dropped. ”It was very foolish,” she murmured. ”You have a right to be amused.”
”But I'm not amused,” I protested. ”And I'm not sure it is really foolish. At any rate, I'll confess something, Jean; when I found it I tried to write a poem--to you--but I couldn't. The only rhymes I could think of were Jean and bean.”
”Splendid! Oh. Frank, I'm beginning to be afraid--to hope--that I didn't quite know you after all. Fancy you trying to write poetry--and about me! Let's write a verse now. I'll help you.”
She whipped a mitten from her hand and sat with her fingers lightly drumming on her lips, summoning the muse.
”You'll have to write it,” I said. ”I'll sign it.”
”All right!” she exclaimed at length, and turning to the huge drift behind us she traced on its hard surface with her forefinger this inscription:
If you will only be my wife, No matter what the past has been I'll take a broader view of life And try to keep you guessing, Jean.
”Oh, you used my rhymes!” I exclaimed. ”But isn't that last line slangy?” I said, when we had it well laughed over and I had added at the side an idealistic sketch of Jean's face under a bridal veil. My drawing rather lost its point in the fact that I had to explain what it was.
”No, not slang--poetic license. That's a great advantage poets have; anything that isn't quite good English can always be called poetic license. Now sign it.”
I signed it in bold, printed letters, and then we fell into silence.
”What's the answer, Jean?” I said at length.
”Oh, Frank, I can't give you an answer--not now. That may have been slang, about keeping me guessing, but it goes a long way down in one's nature. If you would only read, and study, and think, and learn to appreciate beautiful things--”
”Oh, Jean, I do! I appreciate you.”
”Rather clever, Frank, but that isn't just what I mean. I mean like Spoof; we might as well be frank about it. I've seen him watch the sunset in the pond; watch the colors change and blend and run in little ripples with a touch of breeze as though the water had been stirred with a feather; I've seen him sit for hours watching the ambers and saffrons and champagnes of the prairie sunset, and----”
”And that's why he got so little plowing done.”
”Stop it! And he knows every flower on the prairies, and all you know is pigweed and----”
”And tiger lilies.”