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
