The White Shadow | Page 2

mean the butterflies--flying about the roads and balm-of-Gilead trees,
and perhaps that is why I lingered there long enough to collect
hundreds of duplicates for exchange. And perhaps it wasn't.
I thought of these things as I sat in the sun-flecked arbour, watching the
yellow elm leaves flutter down from the branches. I thought, too, of
Sweetheart, and wondered how she would look with her hair up. And
while I sat there smoking, watching the yellow leaves drifting across
the lawn, a sharp explosion startled me and I raised my head.
Sweetheart was standing on the lawn, gazing dreamily at the smoking
debris of a large firecracker.
"What's that for?" I asked.
"It proclaims my independence," said Sweetheart--"my independence
forever. Hereafter my cousins will ask to accompany me on my walks;
they need no longer charitably permit me to accompany them. Are you
three boys going to ride your hobbies?"
"We are," I said.
"Then good-bye. I am going to walk."
"Can't we come too?" I asked, laughing.
"Oh," she said graciously, "if you put it in that way I could not refuse."

"May we bring our guns?" asked Donald from the piazza.
"May I bring my net?" I added, half amused, half annoyed.
She made a gesture, indifferent, condescending.
"Dear me!" murmured the aunts in chorus from the piazza as we
trooped after the Aspen beauty, "Sweetheart is growing very fast."
I smiled vaguely at Sweetheart. I was wondering how she would look
in long frocks and coiled hair.
II.
In the fall of the year the meadows of Aspen glimmer in the sunlight
like crumpled sheets of beaten gold; for Aspen is the land of golden-rod,
of yellow earth and gilded fern.
There the crisp oaks rustle, every leaf a blot of yellow; there the
burnished pines sound, sound, tremble, and resound, like gilt-stringed
harps aquiver in the wind.
Sweet fern, sun-dried, bronzed, fills all the hills with incense, vague
and delicate as the white down drifting from the frothy milkweed.
And where the meadow brook prattled, limpid, filtered with sunlight,
Sweetheart stood knee-deep in fragrant mint, watching the aimless
minnows swimming in circles. On a distant hill, dark against the blue,
Donald moved with his dogs, and I saw the sun-glint on his gun, and I
heard the distant "Hi--on! Hi-- on!" long after he disappeared below the
brown hill's brow.
Walter, too, had gone, leaving us there by the brook together,
Sweetheart and I; and I saw the crows flapping and circling far over the
woods, and I heard the soft report of his dust-shot shells among the
trees.
"The ruling passion, Sweetheart," I said. "Donny chases the phantom of
pleasure with his dogs. The phantom flies from Walter, and he follows

with his dust-shot."
"Then," said Sweetheart, "follow your phantom also; there are
butterflies every where." She raised both arms and turned from the
brook. "Everywhere flying I see butterflies--phantoms of pleasure; and,
Jack, you do not follow with your net."
"No," said I, "the world to-day is too fair to--slay in. I even doubt that
the happiness of empires hinges on the discovery of a new species of
anything. Do I bore you?"
"A little," said Sweetheart, touching the powdered gold of the blossoms
about her. She laid the tip of her third finger on her lips and then on the
golden-rod. "I shall not pick it; the world is too fair to-day," she said.
"What are you going to do, Jack?"
"I could doze," I said. "Could you?"
"Yes--if you told me stories."
I contemplated her in silence for a moment. After a while she sat down
under an oak and clasped her hands.
"I am growing so old," she sighed, "I no longer take pleasure in
childish things--Donald's dogs, Walter's humming birds, your
butterflies. Jack?"
"What?"
"Sit down on the grass."
"What for?"
"Because I ask you."
I sat down.
Presently she said: "I am as tall as mamma. Why should I study
algebra?"

"Because," I answered evasively.
"Your answer is as rude as though I were twenty, instead of sixteen,"
said Sweetheart. "If you treat me as a child from this moment, I shall
hate you."
"Me--Sweetheart?"
"And that name!--it is good for children and kittens."
I looked at her seriously. "It is good for women, too--when it is time," I
said. "I prophesy that one day you will hear it again. As for me, I shall
not call you by that name if you dislike it."
"I am a woman--now," she said.
"Oh! at sixteen."
"To-morrow I am to be seventeen."
Presently, looking off at the blue hills, I said: "For a long time I have
recognised that that subtle, indefinable attitude--we call it
deference--due from men to women is due from us to you. Donny and
Walter are slower to accept this.