The Bent Twig | Page 3

all, that every one ended in the ocean. Something she had read on a
piece of paper made her see the familiar home field with the yellow
water of the little creek, as a part of the whole world. It was very
strange. She tried to tell Mother something of what was in her mind,
but, though Mother listened in a sympathetic silence, it was evident that
she could make nothing out of the incoherent account. Sylvia thought
that she would try to tell Father, the next chance she had. Even at seven,
although she loved her mother passionately and jealously, she was
aware that her father's mind was more like her own. He understood
some things that Mother didn't, although Mother was always, always
right, and Father wasn't. She fell into silence again, standing by her
mother's knee, staring out of the window and watching the clouds move
steadily across the sky doing their share of the world's work for all they

looked so soft and lazy. Her mother did not break in on this meditative
contemplation. She took up her sewing-basket and began busily to sew
buttons on a small pair of half-finished night-drawers. The sobered
child beside her, gazing up at the blue-and-white infinity of the sky,
heard faintly and distantly, for the first time in her life, the whirring
reverberations of the great mystic wheel of change and motion and life.
Then, all at once, there was a scraping of chairs overhead in Father's
study, a clattering on the stairs, and the sound of a great many voices.
The Saturday seminar was over. The door below opened, and the
students came out, Father at the head, very tall, very straight, his ruddy
hair shining in the late afternoon sun, his shirt-sleeves rolled up over
his arms, and a baseball in his hand. "Come on, folks," Sylvia heard
him call, as he had so many times before. "Let's have a couple of
innings before you go!" Sylvia must have seen the picture a hundred
times before, but that was the first time it impressed itself on her, the
close-cut grass of their yard as lustrous as enamel, the big pine-trees
standing high, the scattered players, laughing and running about, the
young men casting off their coats and hats, the detached fielders
running long-legged to their places. At the first sound of the voices,
Judith, always alert, never wasting time in reveries, had scampered
down the stairs and out in the midst of the stir-about. Judith was sure to
be in the middle of whatever was going on. She had attached herself to
young Professor Saunders, a special favorite of the children, and now
was dragging him from the field to play horse with her. Father looked
up to the window where Sylvia and Mother sat, and called: "Come on,
Barbara! Come on and amuse Judith. She won't let Saunders pitch."
Mother nodded, ran downstairs, coaxed Judith over beyond first base to
play catch with a soft rubber ball; and Sylvia, carried away by the
cheerful excitement, hopped about everywhere at once, screaming
encouragement to the base runners, picking up foul balls, and sending
them with proud importance back to the pitcher.
So they all played and shouted and ran and laughed, while the long,
pale-golden spring afternoon stood still, until Mother held up her finger
and stopped the game. "The baby's awake!" she said, and Father went

bounding off. When he came back with the downy pink morsel,
everybody gathered around to see it and exclaim over the tiny fat hands
and hungry little rosebud mouth. "He's starved!" said Mother. "He
wants his supper, poor little Buddy! He doesn't want a lot of people
staring at him, do you, Buddy-baby?" She snatched him out of Father's
arms and went off with him, holding him high over her shoulders so
that the sunshine shone on his yellow hair, and made a circle of gold
around his flushed, sleepy face. Then everybody picked up books and
wraps and note-books and said, "Good-by, 'Perfessor!'" and went off.
Father and Sylvia and Judith went out in the garden to the hotbed to
pick the lettuce for supper and then back in the kitchen to get things
ready. When Mother was through giving Buddy his supper and came
hurrying in to help, Sylvia was proud that they had nearly everything
done--all but the omelet. Father had made cocoa and creamed
potatoes--nobody in the world could make creamed potatoes as good as
his--and Sylvia and Judith had between them, somewhat wranglingly,
made the toast and set the table. Sylvia was sure that Judith was really
too little to be allowed to help, but Father insisted that she should try,
for he said, with a turn in his voice that made Sylvia aware he was
laughing