The Green Dolphin
clover playin’ fox an’ geese in the same sneakin’ fashion among my
aster plants? I’ve got to give the whole bed a regular overhaulin’.”
Lemuel puffed a ring of smoke meditatively toward the sky.
“Heard anythin’ yet from those Canterbury bells you set out this
spring?” he interrogated.
“Not a yip. Althea said when I ordered ’em I was throwin’ my money in a
hole an’ I begin to believe her. But the catalogue read so temptin’:
“’_A noble border plant with large cup-an’-saucer-shaped flowers._
“’_Extremely handsome. Will succeed in any well-drained soil._’
“Now wouldn’t that coax you into buyin’? As it happens I ain’t, mebbe,
quite so keen on cups an’ saucers as I was a while back; I figger I’ve
seen too many of ’em. Still that ain’t the fault of the flowers.”
“My clarkia ain’t come up neither,” commiserated Lemmy. “Them
new-fangled things don’t pay, an’ every time I’m hypnotized into
attemptin’ to raise ’em I call myself a fool. Yet for all that I
wouldn’t be content not to try. That’s the devil of it. You buy an’
you’re sorry; an’ you don’t buy an’ you’re sorry. You’re bound to be
sorry anyhow.”
A scowl settled on his forehead as he continued:
“When it comes to temptation, a garden makes three times the
spendthrift of you strong drink does. Last summer, for instance, I
tucked away quite a tidy sum to have my roof mended. During the winter
the rain an’ snow had kep’ me runnin’ hither an’ yon with buckets an’
basins till I was clean out of patience. I was just on the point of
waylayin’ Lyman Bearse at the store an’ gettin’ him to come an’ put
fresh tar paper over the leaks when in my letter box I spied a bulb
catalogue advertisin’ Darwin tulips. Right off I sez to myself: ’What’s
a few holes in the roof?’ So while I had the cash I made out my list
an’ with the first snowfall rigged the washtubs an’ basins in place
again, reckonin’ I’d lived that way four or five winters an’ likely
could worry through another.”
“You ain’t regretted it, I’ll bet.”
“Regretted it! Why, just the sight of Clara Butt a-blowin’ in the wind
made swabbin’ the floors all winter of no account.”
“Them catalogue fellers should hear you, Lemmy. They’d give you a job
advertisin’ their goods.”
“Me? Oh, I ain’t got the smooth tongue of them rascals. Talk of
mermaids an’ sirens! Were you to take their word you’d be believin’
every vine you planted was goin’ to bust the trellis inside a season.
Yet in spite of the fact I know better, there’s somethin’ so convincin’
in the way they put things it drives what few grains of common sense
I’ve got clean out of my head. Call their talk bosh as I may, those
sentences about ‘mammoth blooms’ an’ ‘flowers of tremendous size’ get
me. They keep echoin’ through my mind till they have me seein’ pansies
bigger’n butter-plates.”
He paused to crowd more tobacco into his corn-cob pipe.
“I’d oughter be content with flowers of normal size,” he went on.
“That’s the trouble with me. I’m graspin’ an’ want the biggest I can
get. That’s why I get punished, I reckon. Any flower is pretty when you
come down to it. You don’t need to go feedin’ it up with fertilizer to
make it blossom different from what the Lord meant it to. Neither is
there call for chasin’ the highty-tighty ones. Those that’ll ‘grow in
any poor soil’ are full as good as the others if we only thought so.”
Straightening up, Asaph regarded his comrade soberly.
“I’ve always thought that was a shabby advantage to take of a plant,”
declared he. “Just ’cause a flower can manage to struggle along in
poor soil is no reason to announce in print to all the world that it
relishes growin’ that way. Blazin’ star, now, for all it perks up an’
makes the best of a junk heap, puttin’ out blooms brave as can be,
would most likely appreciate tryin’ somethin’ richer if it got the
chance.”
“I dunno whether it would or not,” replied Lemuel. “’Course it seems
so on the surface. Nevertheless, after all don’t you s’pose there’s
plants like folks that are full as happy not to be growin’ in marble
urns? I know I’m that way. Transplant me to Buckingham Palace an’
inside a day I’d be pinin’ for Cape Cod an’ my shack. I warn’t meant
for any great amount of prosperity. Like blazin’ star, I’m just one of
the common things that’ll succeed in any poor soil.”
He rose, put his pipe into his pocket and, stretching his arms, yawned
with profound contentment.
“Wal’,” announced he, “I must be gettin’ under way. By the by, Asaph,
you ain’t got a handful of bone meal I could have, have you? Mrs. Aaron
Ward needs somethin’ stimulatin’ the worst way; an’ so does the Duchess
of Wellington.”
“Seems to me that Duchess of yours is always demandin’ nourishment.”
“No matter. She’s a lady an’ pays for what she gets. There ain’t a
better bloomer in my whole garden.”
“Ain’t goin’ to stand by an’ hear her slandered, are you?” grinned his
companion. “That’s right. A gentleman should always speak a good word
for the weaker sex. I’ll fetch over the fertilizer by an’ by.”
“I can take it myself.”
“No; don’t you wait. It’s in a barrel out in the shed an’ mebbe
Althea--”
“Oh!”
Asaph ignored the significant monosyllable.
“I’ll be pokin’ over your way in a little while, an’ will fetch it
along in a bucket.”
“Suit yourself. You know where to find me,” called Lemmy as he ambled
off down the lane.
Lemuel Gill seldom hurried, but today visions of weeds and rose beetles
stimulated him to move with more purpose than he customarily displayed.
Yet for all his haste he halted when part way on his journey to look
seaward to where the ocean, jade green above shoals of sand, rippled
with whitecaps. It was a brief glance. Nevertheless it was sufficiently
extended for the picture to etch itself on his consciousness and lift
him into a state of exaltation that prompted him to burst into a
lustily rendered bar of “Bonnie Sweet Bessie.”
He was still singing this refrain when he turned in at his gate, where
he again paused to gaze with satisfaction about him. Lemuel was very
proud of his domain, which to his mind never looked prettier than in
the gold of the morning sunshine.
In the little clearing of lawn was the faded green pump and the tub
beneath it dimpling with water that mirrored the blue of an azure
heaven. Along the clam-shell path leading up to it nodded tall Madonna
lilies flanked by spires of the lapis delphinium in which he took such
pride. Farther down the walk bloomed early phlox and Shasta daisies
nestling amid foliage dense and green as the tropics. In the dark he
could have put his hand on each one of these flowers in turn, so well
did he know their haunts.
In spite of the fact that the house was a mere toy of rose-buried
shingles and the grass plot before it nothing more than a pocket
handkerchief affair, no laird of sweeping acres held dearer his estate
than did Lemuel Gill.
“The place is mine, every inch of it--an’ mortgage free, too,” he was
frequently heard to boast.
“An’ what my roof ain’t big enough to cover I put outside under God’s
canopy.”
Unfortunately so trusting was Lemmy’s nature that a heterogeneous
collection of his possessions had gradually accumulated under the
latter shelter, and although they lent to the dwelling a certain
atmosphere of picturesqueness, they did not enhance the tidiness of the
place.
For example, there was Lemuel’s old yellow dory, the _Sally_, which he
had always meant to overhaul and repaint. He did not need her now that
he owned a motor boat. Once, long ago, when rigged with a leg-o’-mutton
sail, she had been capable of outdistancing any boat in the bay; but
that day, alas, was far in the past and the _Sally_ was at present only
a shell of rotting timbers. Nevertheless, Lemmy clung to her. One did
not lightly cast aside the companion of so many happy hours.
About this heirloom huddled a conglomeration of mackerel kegs,
dilapidated lobster traps, nets, oars, and a wheezy old blue
wheelbarrow which, though it creaked in every joint and constantly
threatened to fall in ruins, held together sufficiently well to be of
occasional service. And out of the resulting confusion stuck defiant
wooden handles, some of which terminated in rakes, hoes, and shovels,
and many that terminated in nothing at all but fragments of rusted
metal. To enumerate the tin cans and old iron that augmented this
unsightly heap would be impossible.
Altogether God’s canopy covered a so much larger proportion of Lemuel’s
belongings than did his own rooftree, that Althea Holmes could scarcely
be condemned for challenging the Captain’s right thus to impose on the
indulgence of the Almighty, and asserting he took too many liberties
with Divine Providence.
Perhaps he did. Lemmy had a childlike soul that trustingly expected
kindness. It was a soul very much at peace with itself and all the
world, and never had it been more entirely so than today, when, amid
the splendor of the morning’s early beauty the little man, still
humming to himself, stood delightedly regarding what was his.
The mundane world, however, offers few perfect moments to any of us,
and no sooner had Lemuel Gill abandoned himself to ecstasy than he was
brought abruptly to earth by the sight of a startled small boy darting
out of the garden.
“Hi!” bawled Lemuel. “Hi, there, you varmint! What are you doin’ among
my roses?”
The frightened child merely fled the faster.
“Stop where you are, you young devil, or I’ll flay the daylights out of
you.”
Appalled by the threat the trespasser ran faster yet.
In a twinkling the irate Captain was after him. He knew the boy would
be unable to scale the pile of rubbish lying directly in his path,
and the assumption proved to be true, for he soon overtook the little
fellow, who was now sobbing with terror.
Lemuel seized him by the arm.
“What you doin’ in my garden?” repeated he in a voice that might have
been heard to the tip of the Cape. “How dare you come in here breakin’
down my flowers an’ tramplin’ on ’em?”
“I--I--didn’t break ’em down,” the child panted. He was a shabby
urchin, tow-headed and with bare feet, which a worn pair of faded
overalls, sizes too large for him, all but concealed. Over his face,
streaked with dirt, now rolled two great crystal tears.
“I’ll have you hung for comin’ in here,” thundered the Captain. “I’ll
shake the life out of you. I’ll flay you till every bone in your body
is broken.”
With every threat the unlucky youngster cowered miserably.
“I’ll hang you up by the thumbs,” continued Lemmy, “an’ tar an’ feather
you afterwards.”
The captive uttered a strangling moan of fear.
“What brought you in here, anyhow?” fumed the little man in a voice
that began to evince exhaustion.
“I--I--wanted to--to see the roses,” gasped the boy.
“Do what?”
“See the--the roses,” reiterated the intruder with accumulating
courage. “I spied ’em from the beach. We ain’t got any at our house.”
“Where do you live?”
“Over Wilton way.”
“How’d you get here?”
“Father sailed some boarders over for a picnic.”
“An’ where are the rest of ’em?” demanded Lemmy, doubtful of the story.
“Down on the shore. I ran away.”
“You did, did you! Well, now you see what comes of it. Runnin’ away
ain’t ever the thing to do. It gets you into trouble. If you’d stayed
with your folks you wouldn’t ’a’ got the larripin’ I’m goin’ to give
you now.” He glowered down on the offender. “Whereabouts in the garden
have you been?”
“I didn’t go nowheres in the flower beds--only along the edge of the
border to look at this red rose,” whimpered the child.
“Humph! Like roses?” inquired Lemuel in a gruff tone.
“Yes.”
“What do you like about ’em?”
“The smell best--an’ the color,” answered the little boy, venturing for
the first time timidly to raise his eyes to those of the man standing