by Kate Seredy
“I guess so, Dad. You mean that what Mike knows, he found out for himself, not out of books. Is that what you mean?”
“Partly,” Father nodded and was about to say more, but Dick said:
“No, wait, Dad. I’ve got to figure this out for myself.”
They walked silently, side by side and were almost at their house when Dick spoke again. “Isn’t it the same thing that makes Andy’s drawings so . . . right? He just loves animals and trees and things on the farm and he is . . . sort of like the things he loves.”
“Exactly.” Father’s voice was pleased.
“It’s a good thing, isn’t it, Dad? I mean, when you feel comfortable . . . and don’t hurt any place because you sort of . . . fit in?” Dick used an expressive gesture, turning one fist into the other, cupped hand. Father smiled at him. “Uhum . . . like perfectly meshing gears.”
“Ye . . . es,” Dick sounded unsatisfied, then his eyes lighted up. “No! Like a bird fits into its nest. That’s the way I feel here.”
Father, with his hand on the screen door, paused and looked at him for a long good moment. “Dicky, my son, bless you. What you just said has made this day perfect.”
As the days of August went by, Dick felt more and more like a bird in its own nest. His growing friendship with Andy had a lot to do with this “at home” feeling. That friendship, that had welled up on the first day like a clear spring, had grown into a steady, deep stream. They didn’t have to speak about it; they both went to a lot of trouble not to even look at it, but it was good to have Janet with them because she always put her feelings into words; she was always splashing, like a baby duck, in that shining stream of love and friendship. The two boys, knowing it was there, anyway, could pretend not to see it, or to smile at each other over Janet’s head. It made them feel very grown up and that was a good feeling. They both did everything they could to amuse her, to keep her playing in that steady stream, because the sparkling spray of words and laughter made that stream seem all the more beautiful. Once, Andy almost fell in to make a big splash himself, but Dick grabbed him in time. It happened soon after Andy had received more than two hundred dollars for his first batch of drawings.
After a long talk with Father, Andy let him put all of it in the bank. He never mentioned it afterwards. One day the two boys were hoeing late potatoes and Dick asked him what he planned to do with the money. That was a slip too; they never pried into each other’s affairs.
“I ain’t figured out yet,” Andy answered, resting on his hoe. “Your Pa, he said it’d breed like guinea-pigs if I leave it alone; so I give it a try. Let it breed for a spell.” His glance flicked Dick’s face. “Why? You want some? Say if you do, you can have it all.”
Dick flushed partly with pleasure, partly with fear that Andy was going to make an emotional splash. So he frowned. “What would I want with your old money? I got all I want.”
“Y-a-a-ah,” Andy made a face at him. “City slicker!”
“Y-a-a-ah yourself,” Dick grinned. “Bet I get to the end of the row quicker than you!”
Andy accepted the challenge with a cool smile, spit on his hands and both fell to hoeing for all they were worth. They finished side by side and looked critically at each other’s work. Andy’s eyes narrowed; Dick thought he was going to find fault, but Andy dropped his hoe and got on his knees, peering along the long, narrow little valleys between rows of plants. It was a long field; it ran level for a stretch of a few hundred feet, then dipped out of sight into a small hollow.
“Can’t figure it quite right, never could . . .” Andy said in a puzzled voice. He motioned to Dick to get down close. “Rows are one stride apart, ain’t they? Rows are one stride apart the other end, I know, I planted them that way. But when I sit at one end, something always plays Ned with the other end. ‘T ain’t right. At that end they come together. See? I tried drawin’ it on paper. ‘T don’t come out right, except when I draw them wrong; the way I know they ain’t . . . like spokes of a wheel all runnin’ into the hub.”
“Oh,” Dick understood what puzzled Andy. He had learned about perspective in school.
“I know what you mean. That’s called perspective, Andy. I’ll try to explain, but you’ll have to do a lot of make believe. Listen: When you draw a picture of a landscape, or a street or a house or anything that’s too far away or too big to measure, or to see all of it from where you are standing, you must not think of what you KNOW. I mean, you must not worry about how far apart rows of potatoes really are, or that one side of the house is just as wide as the other. When you think of what you know, that mixes you all up. Perspective drawing goes like this. Stand up, Andy. Now, you are standing on what they call the ground plane. From your feet we draw a straight line, as far as you can see. Then, from your eyes we make believe to draw a string. That’s another straight line going to meet the point that’s as far as you can see. Now, what’s between the two lines?”
Andy frowned. “Nothin’ but fields is what I make it.”
“Well, I’m not very good at explaining,” Dick conceded. “There is supposed to be a triangle between the two lines, like a . . . wedge of pie standing on its side. You, from the ground plane to your eyes, is the short, crusty edge, the two other sides running to a joint, way out there at the edge of the mountain. That’s called the vanishing point. If you imagine a straight, horizontal line across that point, that’s called the horizon. Now all the lines, like rows of potatoes or edges of a field or rows of trees, things that go from here to there, seem to get closer and closer together and smaller and smaller.”
“No, they don’t. That tree is a hundred feet tall any way you look at it.”
Dick looked around, ran to get the hoe, stuck it into the ground about ten feet ahead of Andy, then came back and stood very close to his friend. “Now, Andy, you know that that hoe is only as high as you are. We know that that tree is a hundred feet high. All right. But, making believe that those two lines are there, one from your eyes, one from your feet, coming together, the tree is about half-way between here and the vanishing point on the horizon. Forget how tall it is, and tell me how tall it looks, compared to the hoe.”
Andy didn’t answer right away. He was concentrating, his hands following make-believe lines, his eyes narrowed to sharp points. “Well I’ll be jiggered,” he suddenly exclaimed. “ ‘T ain’t no bigger than a good size caterpillar crawlin’ up the hoe! Is that the way I should draw it on paper to make it come out right?”
“Sure. I can’t draw, but we learned about these things in school.”
“Is it them strings runnin’ from your eyes that make it seem so?” Andy asked suspiciously. “Make rows of potatoes run together and roads get narrower?”
“I don’t know what makes those things seem smaller as they get farther away,” Dick said truthfully. “I only know that if you forget how big things are and remember that triangle business, you can draw things the way they look. You could, anyway. I can just tell you about perspective.”
“I’ll be jiggered! Seems to make sense, seein’ the hoe and the tree.” Andy’s eyes lighted up. “I’ll give it a try.” Then he hesitated, frowning at Dick. “You . . . you want to finish hoeing or want me to saddle the mare for you?”
This was saying “thank you”; Dick knew it. He shrugged. “No fun riding alone. We could go after supper . . . take Janet, if it’s all right with you.”
“Could,” Andy nodded, picking up his hoe. Working easily, now that there was no need of a contest, they talked in snatches.
“How much longer can we ride Lady and Clover Girl without hurting the foals?” Dick asked.
“Snow an’ ice will put an end to ridin’ before time, anyways. You could use them in a sleigh, easy like, up to March. We got an old cutter in the shed; Gramp might let you use it. He won’t let nobody in our house go sleighin’. You know why.”
Dick nodded. He knew. But that would, in time, be changed too. Gran said it would be. By Christmas time, maybe. Gran was working
to make the old Van Keurans see how wrong it was for Andy not to have any Christmas, ever. She told Dick how hard it was to change old people. Like trying to bend an old tree. You couldn’t do it in a hurry or it might break. But there was already a little change in them. Grandma Van Keuran was still a hard task master and ruled her household with a sharp tongue and an iron will, but the sharpness of her words didn’t hurt any longer, because there was a smile lurking in her eyes even when she scolded. And Gramp Van Keuran went around whistling, even singing at times in a voice that sounded like a foghorn with a bad cold. But it was singing; something, Andy said, he had never done before. Not as long as Andy could remember. So, Dick smiled to himself, maybe by Christmas, Gran would thaw away the last traces of that old, frozen grief and Andy would have a tree. It was a nice thought, and Dick’s face was all smiles. Andy noticed and frowned. “What you grinnin’ about like an old cat? Leavin’ me do the hoeing. Go on home if’n you are tuckered out, I can finish by myself.”
Dick’s smile grew broader. “Tuckered out, my eye. I can grin if I want to, can’t I?”
Andy grinned too then. “Yep. I guess you can. I got things to grin ‘bout too, things I ain’t tellin’ you now. Want we should ride to my hollow-pond t’night?“ he asked in a conciliatory voice. Dick nodded. “Right after supper. That’ll be won . . . that’ll be
all right,” he said casually and fell to hoeing. Inside, he was glowing, for the hollow-pond was one of Andy’s secret hiding-places that no one had ever been to, except Andy. That feeling of belonging here, with these people, was very strong in him and he sighed with deep contentment.
CHAPTER XII
“THANK YOU, AMERICA!”
THE three had gone riding that evening, over the hill, up the mountainside and into a small, heavily wooded hollow that held a dark silent pond as a deep emerald cup would hold a spoonful of indigo. The almost invisible path that led to it, winding between dark, silent trees, was springy soft with the decaying, fallen leaves of many years; the horses’ hoofs didn’t make a sound. Rabbits scampered in the underbrush and squirrels played daring acrobatics in the branches overhead; chipmunks flashed from rock to rock, their spiky little tails held erect like tiny flags.
Andy had taken a gun, an old but well oiled .22, heavy but true. “For snappers, if we see any,” he answered Dick’s unspoken question. “Can’t tolerate the critters. A’lurkin’ under water, ugly, awful ugly head just showin’ if you look sharp, silent and wary, like some floatin’ death under water.” He shook his head. “Nothin’ I know of, near as bad. It just ain’t an upright, honest critter; I often get to wonderin’ just why God ever created anything as ugly-bad. Others, even a rattler, will give warning, a snapper don’t. It’s a’hidin’ in the dark mud and slime and it strikes when it’s safe, when the critter it’s layin’ for can’t strike back. Then it don’t kill clean, it drowns the critter first in slime . . . ugly way to die. Hell you read about in the Bible can’t be half as bad; it says it’s all fire. Fire hurts but it’s a clean hurt. Drownin’ in black slime and be et by ugliness, that to me seems a heap worse than Hell.”
Dick just nodded, because Janet did all the shuddering and horrified exclaiming for him. They dismounted near the edge of the pond, then went to sit close together on a large, flat rock, jutting over the water. Andy loaded, then turned over on his stomach, gun ready.
“You can talk all you like, but don’t move. Come you see a dark shadow and maybe a dark speck above it comin’ out of the water, tell me where, if I don’t plug it before you see it. But don’t go pointin’ your finger at it,” he admonished Janet with a glance. She shook her head briefly, then pressed her lips together and sat on her hands.
The eerie silence of the place made Dick reluctant to speak too. Andy was absorbed in watching the water, his eyes constantly traveling over the surface, prying into the depth of the motionless water. It was the most amazingly still water Dick had ever seen; he began to wonder if anything alive could be in it. Then, from the cat-tails across the pond, came a faint chirping sound and a family of wild ducks emerged, like a miniature fleet. Mother duck launched herself first. She seemed like a battleship as the tiny ducklings floated onto the water and surrounded her like so many smaller boats. Janet stirred and Andy’s eyes flickered at her. She froze, but her face showed her delight. The family was feeding among the floating green water weeds, ducking under for invisible specks of delicacies. The little ones were saucy, independent mites, scurrying like so many waterbugs, hardly making a ripple on the water. There was one, whose little tail was shaped like a miniature fan; he seemed to be the most independent of the lot. He struck out boldly across the pond again and again, not heeding the anxious, chirping call of his mother, and returning only when he was good and ready. Andy’s hands tightened around the gun. Dick saw his lips move; he was saying almost soundlessly: “Askin’ for trouble.”
The water remained silent, motionless, almost sinister in its oily smoothness. Fantail sailed off on another lone voyage, this time clear to the center of the pond. Then, when he was floating there, a lone, helpless little mite, everything happened at once, all without warning and so quickly, that to the children the whole thing seemed to be over before they realized what was happening. There was a harsh, loud cry of an invisible bird in the trees and Fantail gave a terrified, high squeal. Then he wasn’t there at all. He had disappeared as if he, had been charmed away. The mother duck, with a great flutter of wings reached the spot and dove under, once, twice, and a third time; she seemed to be striking at something with her beak. Fantail appeared again out of nowhere, skimming like mad to shore and Andy’s gun barked, the bullet hitting the water not six inches from the escaping little bird. There was a terrific commotion, the water churned and a twitching, arm-long serrated tail flayed the surface, then disappeared, leaving only heavy, dark clouds of mud and a great fountain of bubbles to disperse slowly.
“Got him,” grunted Andy with satisfaction and sat up to reload his gun.
Breath came out of Janet in a rush. “She, the mother duck, went after him . . . didn’t she, Andy? Look, they are leaving the water. Oh but that was exciting! You killed the turtle, it upended, I saw it! You can shoot, can’t you?”
“Hit it but you can’t kill them that easy. I aim to fix him good afore we leave. He’ll be comin’ up for air in a spell; lost all the air he had in him. See the bubbles?”
Dick nodded. “Yes. But, Andy, that bird that cried, it almost sounded like a warning.”
“ ‘Twas. But for that, the hen duck wouldn’t have reached there in time. She pecked at the snapper’s eyes, that’s why he let go. It’s somethin’ right smart the way wild critters are watchin’ over each other. I recall a day I was sittin’ here in an evenin’ like this. Nothing stirred, quieter than today it was. Then, of a sudden, all frogs in creation commenced to holler, for no reason I could see. Well, they could. They’d seen a black snake layin’ for one of them, behind that stump it happened. I saw the frog streakin’ through the air but it was too late. Snake got him before he hit water. They know more than we pay attention to, wild critters do. Times there is a chicken hawk circlin’, no bigger ‘n a speck in the sky he might be, high up, but all the wild birds around the yard give warning. They see it afore . . .” his gun barked again, causing the same, wild thrashing turbulence; this time close to shore, right below the rock. They could see the ugly reptile turn over twice and dive, disappearing in billows of mud.
“I saw this first,” grinned Andy. “That’ll fix him now; right between the eyes I got him.”
“How will we get him to drag him home?” Janet asked.
“Him? We won’t see more of this one until he comes up all bloated for the fish to feed, on. In ‘bout a month he’ll be floatin’ dead.” Andy turned to Dick. “You saw the way the hen duck come wings a’spread and full of fury like? I’m a’goin’ to draw that on paper, beautiful she was. Spunky too, smart.”
He fell silent and pointed toward the narrow inlet on the
far side. A large, gray, long-necked bird had silently alighted on the edge of the water and now stood motionless.
“Bittern,” Andy whispered. They watched quietly. The bittern stood like a statue, watching them. And then, the duck family appeared again; this time all the little ones gathered close to the mother. She swam slowly up to where the bittern stood, then just treaded water, her head cocked to one side, gazing up at the majestic bird. One by one the ducklings took up the same pose, a ring of adoring little ducklings and a large one in the middle, just gazing at the silent, aloof, gray statue; as humble little people might gaze at a king.” ‘Twas the bittern that cried,” Andy whispered. “I know that, but how would they be knowin’?” He shook his head in wonder, then glanced at Janet who was squirming because the mosquitoes were getting thick. “Got bit on them bare arms? Know better next time. Well, time to go, anyway.”
They left quietly and went to get the horses. Before they mounted, Dick cast another glance at the now completely deserted water. The bittern was gone, so were the ducks; shadows were deepening and the hollow now seemed an eerie, creepy place. A little shiver ran through him, he was glad that he wasn’t alone.
“‘Tain’t bad now,” Andy spoke as if he had been reading Dick’s mind. “In winter, then at times you feel there just ain’t a livin’ soul anywhere, beside yourself.”
“Aren’t you ever afraid, Andy?” Janet said in a small, shivery voice. “All alone here, I . . . I’d just die!”
“‘Fraid? Nothin’ here to harm a body. Except a big cat at times in winter . . . that’s the only one.”
Now they were riding along the silent path, toward the open hillside. “What big cat?” Dick wanted to know.
“Catamount. ‘Bout the size of a new borned calf and ugly mad it can be if it’s hungry. Never met up with one but seen some dead that people shot up thataways.” Andy pointed at the mountain beyond the hollow they were leaving. “Biggest cat I come near having a scrap with was a bobtail. Gramp an’ I went coon huntin’ one winter. I had a good coon-dog, she was a smart one. Something chewed up one foreleg, so she was walkin’ on three, but did better than many a four-legged one. We called her ‘Rithmetic.”