Doctor Luke of the Labrador | Page 4

but I plunged bravely on,
wondering like lightning, the while, what else could grow in the ground
and on bushes. "I'd have flour grow in the ground, mum," I cried,
triumphantly, "an' I'd have sea-boots an' sou'westers grow on the
bushes. An', ecod!" I continued, inspired, "I'd have fishes grow on
bushes, already split an' cleaned!"
What other improvements I would have made on the good Lord's
handiwork I do not know. Skipper Tommy Lovejoy, being on the road
to Trader's Cove from the Rat Hole, where he lived alone with his twin
lads, had spied us from Needle Rock, and now came puffing up the hill
to wish my mother good-day: which, indeed, all true men of the
harbour never failed to do, whenever they came near. He was a short,
marvellously broad, bow-legged old man--but yet straight and full of
strength and fine hope--all the while dressed in tight white moleskin
(much soiled by the slime of the day's work), long skin boots, tied
below the knees, and a ragged cloth cap, which he kept pulled tight

over his bushy grey hair. There was a mild twinkle forever lying in the
depths of his blue eyes, and thence, at times, overflowing upon his
broad brown face, which then rippled with wrinkles, from the roots of
his hair to the fringe of white beard under his chin, in a way at once to
make one laugh with him, though one could not quite tell why. We lads
of the harbour loved him very much, for his good-humour and for his
tenderness--never more so, however, than when, by night, in the glow
of the fire, he told us long tales of the fairies and wicked elves he had
dealt with in his time, twinkling with every word, so that we were
sorely puzzled to know whether to take him in jest or earnest.
"I've a very bad son, the day, Skipper Tommy," said my mother, laying
a fond hand on my head.
"Have you, now, mum!" cried the skipper, with a wink. "'Tis hard t'
believe. He've been huntin' gulls' nests in parlous places on the cliff o'
the Watchman, I'm thinkin'."
"'Tis worse than that."
"Dear man! Worse than that, says you? Then he've took the punt
beyond the Gate all by hisself."
"'Tis even worse than that. He's not pleased with the dear Lord's
world."
Skipper Tommy stopped dead and stared me in the eye--but not coldly,
you must know; just in mild wonder, in which, it may be, was mixed
some admiration, as though he, too, deep in his guileless old heart, had
had some doubt which he dared not entertain.
"Ay," said I, loftily, "He've not made flowers enough t' suit my taste."
Skipper Tommy rubbed his nose in a meditative way. "Well," he
drawled, "He haven't made many, true enough. I'm not sayin' He
mightn't have made more. But He've done very well. They's
enough--oh, ay, they's enough t' get along with. For, look you! lad,
they's no real need o' any more. 'Twas wonderful kind of Un," he went

on, swept away by a flood of good feeling, as often happened, "t' make
even one little flower. Sure, He didn't have t' do it. He just went an'
done it for love of us. Ay," he repeated, delighting himself with this
new thought of his Lord's goodness, "'twas wonderful kind o' the Lard t'
take so much trouble as that!"
My mother was looking deep into Skipper Tommy's eyes as though she
saw some lovely thing therein.
"Ay," said I, "'twas fair kind; but I'm wishin' He'd been a bit more free."
My mother smiled at that. Then, "And my son," she said, in the way of
one poking fun, "would have flour grow out of the ground!"
"An' did he say that!" cried Skipper Tommy.
My mother laughed, and Skipper Tommy laughed uproariously, and
loudly slapped his thick thigh; and I felt woefully foolish, and
wondered much what depth of ignorance I had betrayed, but I laughed,
too, because Skipper Tommy laughed so heartily and opened his great
mouth so wide; and we were all very merry for a time. At last, while I
wondered, I thought that, perhaps, flour did grow, after all--though, for
the life of me, I could not tell how--and that my mother and Skipper
Tommy knew it well enough; whereupon I laughed the merrier.
"Come, look you!" then said Skipper Tommy, gently taking the lobe of
my ear between his thick, hard thumb and forefinger. "Don't you go
thinkin' you could make better worlds than the Lard. Why, lad, 'tis but
play for Him! He've no trouble makin' a world! I'm thinkin' He've made
more than one," he added, his voice changing to a knowing whisper.
"'Tis my own idea,