hings to him. He makes them also, like the Creator, out
of nothing; if he wants a horse he has it on the instant by straddling a
stick or tying a string to a companion. He has epic uses for his
father's tools, his mother's knitting needles; they can slay a thousand
foes at one stroke and the button bag contains them alive and dead. Six
marching clothes-pins are his army and conquer the world in an
afternoon.

The dog still slept as I left the store, the merchant returned to his
chair, the sun shone on in noontide splendor. No shadow fell from the
Penniman mansion; it looked more lifeless and larger than ever. It
seemed too large to me to live in and like a meeting-house. Not a leaf
stirred on the great elm; the trim spires of the Lombardy poplars had
folded their limbs upward to rest, as sometimes one does his arms. The
grasshopper began with a sudden shrill note which grew drowsy toward the
close as if he were too lazy and hot to complete it. Over the sunburnt
fields shimmered the heated air. I seemed to be the only living, moving
thing; the intense hush, the high noon of the midsummer day interfused
my whole being so that I hardly dared to step for fear of disturbing the
universal repose. It oppressed me with a sense of loneliness. A wagon
coming along the road broke the spell and all things were restored to
life.

Before returning homeward I gazed once more over the Mendon hills and I
wonder where and what that new looming world is. It is not many years
before I know. My legs grow longer, the heart braver. I cross the bridge
fearless and careless. Stone walls conceal neither friend nor foe. The
forests contain only trees. I look down upon small boys; they are now my
natural prey. I throw stones at them and make them cry, which gives me
unspeakable delight. I am proud, restless, agitated by nameless
longings. The walls of my world oppress me. Destiny has determined that
I shall not be disenchanted before that world is entirely exhausted so
that after many years I may recover its earliest charm. Nothing
interests me more than a moment. I have become acquainted with Mistress
Barber, the aristocratic Pennimans and Dr. Thurber, the poet--for
Bellingham has a small poet, though I was like to forget it. He nods to
me from his sulky. They say he writes his prescriptions in rhyme. He
also composes epitaphs for his patients when his boluses fail to save
them, and divides the glory with the local Fourth of July orators with a