The Garden Without Walls

t how it had found its way into the world. We supposed that God had made

h were utterly disorganized. There was only one explanation—that we had been misinformed by Hetty and people could have babies by themselves. The effect of this conjecture on Ruthita was revolutionizing: it made our honeymoon unnecessary and me entirely dispensable. She had only been persuaded to elope for the sake of exchanging dolls for babies, a

he balls easily. The few chance throwers had no crowd to make them reckless; they shied singly now and not in showers. The gaudily dressed woman lost her hoarseness. She no longer had to shout night and morning, “Two shies a penny. Two shies a penny. Every ball ’its a cocoanut. Down she goes,” etc. Why should she? There wa

e evening the gaudy woman found her crying. She told G’liath that next morning he must harness in his little moke and

n the darkness to ask me needless questions. Whether I would ever forget her. “No.” Whether

hers, she commenced to kiss me passionately. “You shall. You shall,” she said. “I’ll make a gipsy of you, so you’ll always rem

Every little blade of grass was stiff and sword-like. It was as though

But she made me kneel down beside her. As the sun wheeled above the cold horizon she snatched a little knife from beneath her dress, and pricked her wrist and mine so that the

f me. If he goes where you do not grow, oh grass, then the trees shall call him back. If he goes where you do not grow, oh trees, then the wind shall tell him. His hand shall be as ours, against the works of

odding its head. From the dawn came a breath of wind, sweeping through

is donkey. We watched him drive down the road and vanish. I did not want to go back and he knew it; he looked ashamed of himself. The country was bitter a

you and I have learnt. They will tell you that the trees have no voices: that it is only the wind that stirs them. They will tell you that river

I had seen in the pool

t the fire burnt red. We sat round it in silence, watching the hard white road through the trees and li

She was thinking of the lighted room, perhaps, and the

I was glad of that. I could explain things to him so much more easily than to my father, and he was sure to understand. Catching sight of me by the fire, he ran forward and lifted me up in his arms. All he could say was, “Well, wel

Cardover,” he said. Then, because she was such a little girl and her face

ags. She wanted to take us into the caravan and dress us, but Uncle Obad woul

had our last look at the camp. The gaudy woman was standing up by the fire with her children huddled about her skirts. I could see the gleam of her ear-rings shaking, the lighted window of the caravan in the background, and the lurcher sneaking i

our great adventure was over. She had feared it while it lasted; now, womanlike, she was wishing that it was not quite ended. Every now and

why did y

see his face because of the darkness.

e garden,” I said; “we wanted t

you take the

int hope that by the time we reached Pope Lane I might have grown into a man. And then

, you get everything

what you call e

a house, and a p

alw

htn’t to have mentioned babies, be

Ruthie. She wanted them instead of dolls to play with. I wanted to b

to do this and not to do that, and locking doors behind you? You wanted always to be free and jo

Dollie dow

ou’ll never have it in this world, Dante. And don’t you see why you’ll never have it? You hurt other people in trying to get it. Your father and Ruthita’s mother, all of us have been very anxious. I’ve often been tempted to run away myself be

f. I’m a queer one to be talking—I’m not awfully successful. I’ve run away a little. But you must do better. And if you can’t bear things, just imagine. What’s the difference between the things you really have and the things you pretend? Imagination is the magic carpet; you can pretend your

rom

n’t there; she had been left already at her mother’s house. My father had me in his arms. He was standing in the hall. The door was wide open and my uncle was going down the steps, calling “Good-night” a

ers. A fire in the hearth was burning brightly. He drew up an easy-chair to the blaze and sat down, still holding me to him. I was always timid with my father, especially when we were alone

didn’t mean

lashed down. His face had lost that stem lo

y little son,”

gray light of morning was stealing in at the window. The fire had fallen away in ashes. The air was chilly. M