IV
A Vacation
Louis became moody. Day by day the hillside school and all its doings irked him ruthlessly. In wood, field and meadow, his friends the birds were free. Why should he remain within these walls imprisoned and sad? He was a child of sudden resolves. On a morning early he went to the pantry. As he glanced over the shelves, his thoughts wandered to the pink and white smiling baker who delivered “Parker House rolls” every so often, and, with a cheery word left thirteen for a dozen. “A baker’s dozen” he would say every time he drove up to the kitchen door; and then in a busy way inquire: “How’s all the folks? Guess I don’t need ask if this boy’s a sample.” Then he would make a quick step into his light wagon and away with a rattling start. The boy in the quiet pantry unbuttoned his blouse, as his thoughts went on: Not so at the school; Teacher was not always kind. Twice with a rattan she had whipped the palm of his right hand while he placed his free arm across his eyes and bent his head and cried. It did not hurt much, but Teacher said it hurt her more than it did him. She told all the class so. She said she must make an example by having him stand on the platform and she said she did it to “learn him to mind and pay attention”; that it was her moral duty to do so; that she could not fail in her moral duty even though it pained her; that she punished not in anger but in grief; and then she cried, her forehead bowed between her hands, as she sat at her desk on the raised platform. He recalled that she had cried this way every time she had whipped a child, and she didn’t whip very often either; so he bore her no ill will; yet he wondered why he should be whipped at school when he was never whipped or punished at all, at home; and again came floating the thought of the dainty baker-man; nimble, pink-faced, blue twinkling eyes and jolly chuckle. Thus musing but intent he filled his blouse with rolls and doughnuts and cookies—and buttoned up. Also, he had, hidden in his bosom, a small tin cup, for he knew where he was going. He was preparing to answer the call of a wooded ravine through which wandered a noisy rivulet. He had seen it but once, while on a walk with Grandpa, but he marked it then as the favored spot in his imaginary world. Once found and marked for friendship, it often had called to him in his school—a distant call—he could not come. This morning it called to him irrevocably and nearby.
Without a word to anyone he set forth, following the Stoneham Road westward until he reached the gate of a right of way leading northward. He climbed the padlocked gate, and, following the road, soon passed a long hillock to the left crowned with tall hardwood trees, then down grade, then upgrade to a crest where the road ended. He climbed the gate and in new freedom, lightly traversing the down slope, reached the depths of the promised land. One bright particular spot was his goal. It lay in the narrow bottom of the ravine just where the gurgling water passed hurriedly among field stones under tall arching oaks. Here was the exact spot for a dam. He got immediately to work. He gathered the largest field stones he could handle, and small ones too. He had seen Scotchmen and Irishmen build farm walls and knew what to do. He was not strong enough to use a stone hammer if he had had one. So he got along without. He found a rusty remnant of a hoe, without a handle; with this he dug up some stiff earth. So with field stones, mud, twigs and grass he built his dam. It was a mighty work.
He was lost to all else. The impounded waters were rising fast behind the wall, and leaking through here and there. He must work faster. Besides, the wall must lengthen as it grew higher, and it leaked more at the bottom. He had to plug up holes. At last child power and water power became unequal. Now was at hand the grand climax—the meaning of all this toil. A miniature lake had formed, the moment had arrived. With all his strength he tore out the upper center of the wall, stepped back quickly and screamed with delight, as the torrent started, and, with one great roar, tore through in huge flood, leaving his dam a wreck. What joy! He laughed and screamed. Was he proud? Had he not built the dam? Was he in high spirits? Had he not built this dam all by himself? Had he not planned in advance just what happened? Had he not worked as hard as he had seen big men work? Wasn’t he a strong boy for his age? Could anything at school or at home compare with this? Exhausted with work and delight he lay stretched on his back, in the short grass, looking far up at the spreading branches, glimpsing bits of blue between the leaves, noting how these selfsame leaves rustled softly, and twinkled in the sunshine. This rested him. Then hunger sharply called. He had cached his Parker House rolls and doughnuts and cookies, and his tin cup, on a big boulder in the shade. The “hired girl,” Julia, had taught him to milk. Dipper in hand he went afield to hunt up a cow. All cows were his friends. Soon he had the dipper filled with warm fragrant milk—his delight. Then came the repast near the site of his triumph. Then he loafed and invited his soul as was written by a big man about the time this proud hydraulic engineer was born. But he did not observe “a spear of summer grass”; he dreamed. Vague day dreams they were—an arising sense, an emotion, a conviction; that united him in spirit with his idols—with his big strong men who did wonderful things such as digging ditches, building walls, cutting down great trees, cutting with axes, and splitting with maul and wedge for cord wood, driving a span of great workhorses. He adored these men. He felt deeply drawn to them, and close to them. He had seen all these things done. When would he be big and strong too? Could he wait? Must he wait? And thus he dreamed for hours. The shadows began to deepen and lengthen; so, satisfied, with a splendid day of work and pondering, he reached home in time for supper. Grandma said the usual grace; all heads were bowed as she appealed to her Lord of love to give strength and encouragement and to bestow his blessing upon this small family in their daily lives and tasks and trials and to give abundantly of His divine strength unto all that loved and obeyed Him. But the child’s thoughts were concrete and practical; parallel to the prayer but more locally concentrated. His Grandmama, in her appeal, spoke the beautiful old French with its liquid double-ell. Her voice soft and heartfelt meant peace on earth. He understood a little of it; he knew that the words Que Dieu nous benit which sounded to him like one word: Kudgernoo-baynee, meant: “May God bless us.” He had no objection to God as a higher member of the family; it was only the minister’s God, the God of Hell that he disliked and avoided. Nevertheless he wished the ceremony might be shorter—it would do just as well—for while Grandmama prayed, his mouth watered. He would have accepted prayer as a necessary evil were it not for the reconciling thought that God seemed to be Grandmama’s big strong friend; and what Grandmama loved he knew he ought to love too; even as he loved his own Idols—his mighty men.
The prayer done, a silver bell tinkled by Grandmama and Julia appeared, a glowing Irish vision, bearing high stacks of her wonderful griddlecakes, a pitcher of real syrup, and a—but why parade or parody a dreamer’s gluttony rising thus thrice daily like a Jinni of old within his nascent dream of power? After supper he visited his small garden in the large garden. It was more sizable than last year. Satisfying himself that the four o’clocks, nasturtiums, geraniums, mignonettes, and the rest of the family were doing well, he trotted down the granite steps to the dirt road in front where he might practice at throwing stones—a sport strictly taboo in the fields, but permissible in the sterile pastures. Between his house and the Tyler farmhouse opposite, was quite an open space, containing, at a level considerably lower than the road, a small spring-fed pond. In this pond were colonized bullfrogs, mud-turtles, minnows and leeches; bulrushes grew at each end. Stray cattle browsed about at times. This pond was one of his possessions. It didn’t make any difference if it were called “Tyler’s Pond,” it was his own just the same. Stone-throwing finished, he went to look things over and satisfy himself that everything was all right and as it should be. As he approached, the host of frogs were beginning their evening chant to the invisible king of all frogs; he waded in a bit; the clamor increased; then the bass volume became overtoned by the awakening sounds of tree toad, katydid and cricket, while fireflies softly shone here and there. These were his familiars. Then he found a glowworm in the damp grass. As he held it in his hand he noticed with surprise that the surface of the pond was crimson: This was new to him. He waded a little ahead and was pleased to see the ripples turn silver and crimson as they moved away from him. He was pleased and somewhat perplexed. Somehow he looked straight ahead from where he stood in the water, and there right in the woods on Tompson’s knoll, he saw the setting sun, the trees silhouetting against it, and the lower sky aglow. He had seen many sunsets, but there was something peculiar about this sunset—he would speak to Grandpa. The sun sank from sight; the western sky softened into gray, twilight deepened into gloaming as the child stood knee deep in the warm shallow water, lost in reverie so faint, so far, so near, so absorbing, so vibrant that the once noisy chorus seemed a tranquil accompaniment to a melody that was of earth and sun in duo with his dream. He awoke! He must speak to Grandpa about the sun.
Grandpa was willing, but careful. He well knew that a child’s mind was a tender thing. He was keenly observing, but said little. He quietly, even eagerly observed his grandson, as one might watch a precious plant growing of its own volition in a sheltered garden, but far was it from him to let the child suspect such a thing. He had often laughed at the child’s outrageous frankness. It infinitely amused him; but when it came to knowledge, he was cautious—dropping information by crumbs. But this time, when his grandson in eager child-words dramatized the sunset and climaxed all by a sudden antithesis, saying he had never seen the sunrise! How did the sun rise? Where did it rise? How did it rise? Would Grandpa tell him? Would Grandpa please tell him? Then Grandpa wide-eyed knew a mystic golden bell had struck the hour. He told the boy at once that the rising sun could not be seen from the house because Cowdrey’s hill shut off the view; that the sun truly arose far beyond this hill. That to see the sun rise one must go to the crest of the hill, whence one could see to the horizon. He used the word “horizon” boldly, as one throws down a card, and then with strategy of simple words, and easy similes he produced a sort of image for the child; difficult to do in a hilly country, and for the mind of one who had never viewed the open sea. Then he explained that the lay of the land westward of the house was not so hilly as that to the east, therefore one could view the sunset to fairly good advantage.
In his discourse, he was careful not to mention the revolution of the earth. He knew well enough the child was living in a world of the senses. “But Grandpa, is the sunrise as beautiful as the sunset?” “Far more so, my child; it is of an epic grandeur; sunset is lyric, it is an elegy.” These words escaped Grandpa in a momentary enthusiasm. He felt foolish, as he saw a small bright face turn blank. However, he patched up the “lyric” and the “elegy” fairly well, but “epic” was difficult. Had he but known of his grandson’s big strong men—how simple. Then Grandpa went on: “But you must know that in summer the sun rises very early, earlier than I; and I scarcely believe my young astronomer will get out of his comfortable bed long before daylight, just to see the sun rise out of his bed,” and Grandpa chuckled. “Yes, I will, Grandpa, yes, I will”—and he slipped from his Grandfather’s knee to arouse the somnolent cat, and shape his plans for tomorrow.
Restless through the night, he arose at twilight, made ready quickly, and passed up the road leading to the great ash tree whose companionship he ever sought on high occasions. Here, under the wondrous tree—and with Cowdrey’s farmhouse resting silently across the way—here in stillness of oncoming dawn punctured here and there by a bird’s early chirp, and chanticleer’s high herald call heard near and far, raucous, faint, and ever fainter far away; the few remaining stars serene within the dome of pale passing night, he stood, gazing wistfully over the valley toward a far away range of dark blue drowsy hills, as the pallid eastern sky, soon tremulous with a pink suffusion, gave way before a glow deepening into radiant crimson, like a vanguard of fire—as the top of the sun emerging from behind the hills, its slow-revealing disc reaching full form, ascended, fiery, imperious and passionate, to confront him. Chilled and spellbound, he in turn became impassioned with splendor and awe, with wonder and he knew not what, as the great red orb, floating clear of the hilltops overwhelmed him, flooded the land; and in white dazzling splendor awakened the world to its work, to its hopes, to its sorrows, and to its dreams. Surely the child, sole witness beneath his great ash tree, his wonder-guardian and firm friend sharing with him in its stately way as indeed did all the land and sky and living things of the open—the militant splendor of sunrise—the breaking of night’s dam—the torrent and foam of far-spreading day—surely this child that went forth every day became part of sunrise even as this sunrise became forevermore part of him. The resounding power of the voice of the Lord of the sky and earth found in him a jubilant answer—an awakening world within, now aroused from its twilight dream, its lyric setting sun, its elegy of the gloaming. The great world was alive to action. Men resumed the toil of countless ages; the child, illumined, lost in an epic vision, came slowly to a consciousness of his own small self, and the normal doings of his own small day.
He made a long detour through the solemn pine woods near Whittemore’s, crossed the road there, descended into the small valley, followed it to and through a lumpy bog where skunk-cabbages grew and their synonyms wandered, scaled a low wall, followed a rivulet that traced from the considerable spring in the hollow of his own pasture, sat there watching a small frog, fell asleep, woke up, followed the hollow to the pasture’s high ground, turned into the walled road leading to the barn, stopped at the pump in the kitchen yard—and was late to breakfast. Grandpa looked at him quizzically, but said nothing—he knew what the imp had been up to—he had heard him leave the house and had hastily donned gown and slippers, to watch his grandson disappear up the road to sunrise land. Julia was furious in rich brogue concerning punctuality, and the child, usually so naively communicative, said not a word to anyone about his adventure—it seemed to have happened for himself alone. Grandpa, amused, amazed and disturbed by this freak of his grandson, feared precocity—in much the manner that academically trained men are apt to fear manifestations of instinct.
The only thing that reassured him was the fact that his grandson, between spells, was as ridiculously practical. As a matter of fact Louis was living almost wholly in the world of instinct. Whatever there was of intellect consisted in keen accuracy of observation, and lively interest in all constructive affairs. Without reflection he admired work. To see men at work, and himself to work, especially if he could participate, was his childish joy. With never a serious illness, most carefully reared as to his diet and early hours, he was sound. Though he was his grandparents’ pet, disparity in age, occupation and thought left him much to himself and he did mostly as he pleased. What marked him apart and comforted his elders was an entire absence in him of destructive tendency. Therefore they allowed him the utmost freedom to go and come and do. This morning, breakfast out of the way, and Julia also, he went at once to his garden. His quick eye detected a fallen nasturtium; with his finger he dug up the offending cutworm. How could a cutworm do so shocking a thing? Had he not reared all these cherished beauties from the very seed? Had he not watched them growing, day by day, from infancy to blossom-time—putting forth tender leaf after leaf, and unfolding their tiny buds into lovely flowers? Had he not watered them and weeded? How often had he wondered at what made them grow. How often, on hands and knees—close up—had he peered and gazed long, hungrily, minutely at them one by one, absorbed in their translucent intimacy; indeed worshipped them in friendship until he seemed to feel them grow; that they were of his world and yet not of his world; that they seemed to live their own lives apart from his life. But he never said a word of this to Grandpa or to Grandma—They might not understand—and Grandpa might laugh.
After further careful inspection, he left his garden friends for the day; and equipped as before, made his way to the ravine with its sturdy rivulet and the wreckage of a dam. But this he judged was not dam-building day. He had not seen the full spread of his domain. He must explore. So saying, he followed the rivulet eastward out of the heavily wooded ravine, into a broad field of meadow grass where the small clear stream now flowed—in tranquillity winding its way. As he lifted his eyes from its course, there, solitary in the meadow, stood the most beautiful tree of all. He knew it at once for an elm; but such tall slender grace he had never seen. Its broad slim fronds spreading so high and descending in lovely curves entranced him. He compared it with the two Tompson elms. They were tall and spreading but stiff and sturdy. Now he knew why he had never adopted them:—they were pruned from the ground way up to the big strong branches, while this lovely sister of the meadow, beneath her branching plume, put forth from her slender trunk delicate frothy branchlets reaching almost to the meadow grass. Her beauty was incomparable.
Then he thought of his great ash tree. How different it was—so grand, so brooding, so watchful on the crest of the hill; and at times, he firmly believed so paternal—so big-brotherly. But the lovely elm was his infatuation—he had adopted her at first sight, and still gazed at her with a sweetness of soul he had never known. He became infiltrated, suffused, inspired with the fateful sense of beauty. He melted for an instant into a nameless dream, wherein he saw he was sufficient unto herself, that like his garden plants she lived a life of her own, apart from his life. Yet they both lived in the same big world—they both, for the moment, stood in the same green field. Was there nothing in common? Did she not know he was there?
Then he awoke!—he came to his senses, and turned to the practical business of hunting wild strawberries in the meadow grass. His dream had flitted by like a bird of passage. He looked upon her sanely now. She was still uniquely beautiful, he thought, in free admiration. So he had two trees now—all his own, and powerfully prized. It was all agreed. Then he moved further north to a dense mass of rather tall pines. He pushed in some distance, saw a crow’s nest overhead, climbed painfully up to it, had barely looked in when came a horrible cawing; angry crows came suddenly from everywhere, bent on his destruction. Amid a fierce clamor, he descended to safety and then and there fixed those gloomy pines as the eastern boundary of his domain. He explored until he found in another field, on slightly higher ground, the deep clear wellspring from which the rivulet flowed. Thence he followed its windings, wading as he went. Grasshoppers in alarm hopped foolishly into the stream and floated along; now and then a small frog jumped the other way for safety. There were a few strawberries peeping from the grass along the banks; the channel was cutting deeper into the meadow and held more water; as he rounded a long curve he became aware of a great presence near him; it was his elm; he craned his neck to look at the branches way up in the sky, but his interest was centered in his new friend the rivulet; he had not room for both just now. The little stream began to ripple and sing sweetly to the child all alone in the meadow in the full sunshine—all alone; with plenty of company. Then the rivulet began to hurry and gurgle. Louis scaled the fence quickly to see the water descend all at once in a beautiful cascade of about his own height. After this, noisily foaming, it poured among the boulders to the lower level where he had built the dam, and, as he knew, moved on to the marsh.
He had reached his sanctuary in the shady grove, and sat a while on the lower or northern bank, to watch the squirrels. It seemed so funny to see a gray squirrel run head first down a tall tree, sit up straight in the grass, frisk his tail, wag his head, scamper to the next tree, run up and out to the end of a branch and jump from that to a branch of the next tree. He laughed gleefully at these antics. Meanwhile came from the undergrowth the note of the brown thrush, and from above various twitterings, chirpings, and distant floating meadow songs. It was now time to establish the northern boundary. The north bank of the ravine sloped rather gently upward, and as it emerged from the grove it rounded and flattened into a lumpy pasture, with many boulders large and small, and plants of mullein scattered over its surface. He must include this pasture because here was the milk supply, and besides, the pasture was green. All along the north border of it stood a dense growth of young pines which he found impenetrable and repellant, so he fixed his northern boundary resolutely there. As to the southern boundary he was in some doubt. It should, properly, be located a little way south of the crest of the ravine where the grove ended. He mounted the height and stood at the edges of a sterile stony sunburned pasture—no trees, no cows; nothing but mulleins. This would not do. Yet he yearningly gazed beyond it to the long Tompson hillock crowned with beautiful lofty hard wood trees running parallel to the ravine. He wished this grove to be his, but could not accept the miserable pasture. He thought hard—and solved his problem this way: He would fix the south boundary at the crest of the ravine, and would annex the Tompson Grove as an outpost. The boundary of the meadow he had already fixed, much farther south than the ravine, at a cross fence near the spring, where the meadow ended and a cultivated field began. He contemplated for a while, and saw that all thus far was good.
Now for the marsh at which he had cast covetous eyes as he, yesterday, peered under the lower branches of his grove as through a portal. His expectations were far exceeded by the revelation. It was a lovely marsh, shaped like an oval, enshrined by the diminishing trees of his grove and a margin of heavy shrubbery all around. In the near background beyond the far end of the marsh were scattering swamp pines and cedars standing very straight and tapering to a point; they were welcome to him as they stood on guard behind the dense thicket. But the marsh itself—how beautiful—covered with water half-knee deep, filled with groups of tall bulrushes, of reeds, of blue flag, and slender grasses; and bright flowers here and there along the wavering edge. What joy to wade and wade, lengthwise and crosswise, pulling up a flag now and again and stripping it to reach the edible core; following the margin to seek out hidden flowers. It was too much; too much at one time for one small boy. And then, in mingled affection and gratitude he established as western boundary a vague semicircle of deep green holding in its heart a marsh—his marsh without price. Slowly he returned to the dam-site to think it all over. Now was the work done. The boundaries of his domain established. The domain his very own. His breast swelled with pride. It was all his. No other boy should ever enter those lovely precincts. No other boy could understand. Besides, he loved solitude as he loved activity, and the open.
Thus an entire month sped by as he reigned supreme. Not a soul came to disturb him: Rabbits, squirrels, birds and snakes were company enough. When he wished to play with other boys he went to them and joined in their games. While his heart was fixed in one spot, he made many tours of exploration; he called on many farmers and shoemakers. He even went so far one day as to enter the stove foundry beside the tracks, near the depot. He went frankly to a workman, watched him a while and told the man he liked to see him work. The molder, much amused, said he would show him how it was all done. Louis spent the entire afternoon there; the molder carefully explained to him every large and minute procedure. The child was amazed; a new world had opened to him—the world of handicraft, the vestibule of the great world of art that he one day was to enter and explore. He went away holding this molderman in special honor, although he was not very big nor very strong. He even visited the rattan works but did not like the dust and noise. He saw nothing but a long slender cane coming out of a machine.
One day he saw a man in a wagon. The wagon was going without a horse. Also he visited a shoemaker named Boardman who lived near his home and whom he knew well; a swarthy little man, with black beard, black beady eyes, who both worked and chewed tobacco furiously. There he learned every detail of making pegged and sewed shoes; he saw them built from beginning to end. He would spend hours with this shoemaker who made shoes every day, while the farmers made shoes only in winter. The man liked to have him around; and once in a while he would suspend work, and, to amuse the child, would extinguish the life of a fly on the opposite wall with an unerring squirt of tobacco juice. Louis danced with joy. What a wonderful man to spit like that. He tried to spit that way himself—falling ignominiously. The man told him he must spit hard between his teeth; and Louis did spit hard between his teeth; without avail. Then the Boardman man would catch flies with his hand and eat them, or pretend to eat them. Louis believed he really ate them. Then the shoemaker would return to his furious work, and Louis in admiration would wander on. The neighbors said this man Boardman was a lowdown sport who stayed sober and worked hard only to get money to bet on the races—whatever that meant. But thus far Louis had made no social distinctions. It did delight him, though, at a certain season, to see Boardman, all dressed up and flashy, jump into his surrey behind a nervous high-stepping steed, start away with a prancing rush and disappear down the Stoneham Road lost in a trailing cloud of dust. For a long time after this event Boardman would not be seen thereabouts.
Also he would visit Farmer Hopkins to watch him break a fallow field with his monstrous team of oxen, swaying and heaving heavily against the yoke, with low-bending heads and foaming mouths, as the man, with one booted foot in the furrow, guided the plowshare as it turned up the beautiful black soil of the bottom land, while the man said, “gee-haw”; “haw”; “haw-gee.” Many such trips he made, always starting from his secret domain. Evenings he would tease Julia to tell him Irish fairy tales. How lovely, how beautiful they were, with fairies, elves, gnomes and a great company, weaving spells of enchantment in the moonlight. He lived them all. Julia was a robust Irish peasant who remained with the family for nine long years. Fiery was her hair; brilliant her white perfect teeth of which same she was very proud. And had she a temper? Sure! She had a temper that came and went like a storm. She was not long since come to America. Many evenings her Irish women friends called and they talked Irish together. He had never heard anything so sweet, so fluid, except the rivulet. He could listen by the hour; and Julia taught him a few words.
All was running smoothly. It had not in the least occurred to him that all this time he had been a truant. No one had said anything for a whole month; or asked any questions.
Then came the crash! Teacher had written. Little was said at home. He was simply sent back to school. Here he languished in misery. But help soon came as suddenly as the crash. His father had opened a summer school in Newburyport. Grandma had written to Mama; Mama had told it to Father; Father decided that the grandparents were too soft; they had let his child grow up like a weed; they had pampered him outrageously; it was high time his son was brought to him, that he might establish in him a sense of respect, order, discipline, obedience. So Mama took the train to South Reading. She spent a few days there visiting her parents. She looked at her son with a sadness he could not understand, but she found it not in her heart to chide. The day of their departure arrived. With many a sob he had said goodbye to all. They were driven to the depot. Mother and son boarded the train for Newburyport. The engine puffed—the train sped on its way. Came to an end the daydreaming of a child.