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
