Dream Days | Page 6

me most
unreasonable. Within the last few days the time had come round for the
despatch of a hamper to Edward at school. Only one hamper a term was
permitted him, so its preparation was a sort of blend of revelry and
religious ceremony. After the main corpus of the thing had been
carefully selected and safely bestowed--the pots of jam, the cake, the
sausages, and the apples that filled up corners so nicely--after the last
package had been wedged in, the girls had deposited their own private
and personal offerings on the top. I forget their precise nature; anyhow,
they were nothing of any particular practical use to a boy. But they had
involved some contrivance and labour, some skimping of pocket
money, and much delightful cloud-building as to the effect on their
enraptured recipient. Well, yesterday there had come a terse
acknowledgment from Edward, heartily commending the cakes and the
jam, stamping the sausages with the seal of Smith major's approval, and
finally hinting that, fortified as he now was, nothing more was
necessary but a remittance of five shillings in postage stamps to enable
him to face the world armed against every buffet of fate. That was all.
Never a word or a hint of the personal tributes or of his appreciation of
them. To us--to Harold and me, that is--the letter seemed natural and
sensible enough. After all, provender was the main thing, and five
shillings stood for a complete equipment against the most unexpected
turns of luck. The presents were very well in their way--very nice, and
so on--but life was a serious matter, and the contest called for cakes and
half-crowns to carry it on, not gew-gaws and knitted mittens and the
like. The girls, however, in their obstinate way, persisted in taking their
own view of the slight. Hence it was that I received my second rebuff
of the morning.
Somewhat disheartened, I made my way downstairs and out into the
sunlight, where I found Harold playing conspirators by himself on the
gravel. He had dug a small hole in the walk and had laid an imaginary
train of powder thereto; and, as he sought refuge in the laurels from the
inevitable explosion, I heard him murmur: "'My God!' said the Czar,

'my plans are frustrated!'" It seemed an excellent occasion for being a
black puma. Harold liked black pumas, on the whole, as well as any
animal we were familiar with. So I launched myself on him, with the
appropriate howl, rolling him over on the gravel.
Life may be said to be composed of things that come off and things that
don't come off. This thing, unfortunately, was one of the things that
didn't come off. From beneath me I heard a shrill cry of, "Oh, it's my
sore knee!" And Harold wriggled himself free from the puma's clutches,
bellowing dismally. Now, I honestly didn't know he had a sore knee,
and, what's more, he knew I didn't know he had a sore knee. According
to boy-ethics, therefore, his attitude was wrong, sore knee or not, and
no apology was due from me. I made half-way advances, however,
suggesting we should lie in ambush by the edge of the pond and cut off
the ducks as they waddled down in simple, unsuspecting single file;
then hunt them as bisons flying scattered over the vast prairie. A
fascinating pursuit this, and strictly illicit. But Harold would none of
my overtures, and retreated to the house wailing with full lungs.
Things were getting simply infernal. I struck out blindly for the open
country; and even as I made for the gate a shrill voice from a window
bade me keep off the flower-beds. When the gate had swung to behind
me with a vicious click I felt better, and after ten minutes along the
road it began to grow on me that some radical change was needed, that
I was in a blind alley, and that this intolerable state of things must
somehow cease. All that I could do I had already done. As
well-meaning a fellow as ever stepped was pounding along the road
that day, with an exceeding sore heart; one who only wished to live and
let live, in touch with his fellows, and appreciating what joys life had to
offer. What was wanted now was a complete change of environment.
Somewhere in the world, I felt sure, justice and sympathy still resided.
There were places called pampas, for instance, that sounded well.
League upon league of grass, with just an occasional wild horse, and
not a relation within the horizon! To a bruised spirit this seemed a sane
and a healing sort of existence. There were other pleasant corners,
again, where you dived for pearls and stabbed sharks in the