Athalie
When Mrs. Greensleeve first laid eyes on her baby she knew it was
different from the other children.
"What is the matter with it?" she asked.
The preoccupied physician replied that there was nothing the matter.
In point of fact he had been admiring the newly born little girl when
her mother asked the question.
"She's about as perfect as they make 'em," he concluded, placing the
baby beside her mother.
The mother said nothing. From moment to moment she turned her head on
the pillow and gazed down at her new daughter with a curious,
questioning expression. She had never gazed at any of her other
children so uneasily. Even after she fell asleep the slightly puzzled
Her husband, who had been wandering about from the bar to the office,
from the office to the veranda, and occasionally entirely around the
exterior of the road-house, came in on tiptoe and looked rather
vacantly at them both.
Then he went out again as though he was not sure where he might be
going. He was a little man and mild, and he did not look as though he
had been created for anything in particular, not even for the purpose
of procreation.
It was one of those early April days when birds make a great fuss over
their vocal accomplishments, and the brown earth grows green over
night--when the hot spring sun draws vapours from the soil, and the
please anybody but a native.
Peter Greensleeve, wandering at hazard around the corner of the
tavern, came upon his business partner, Archer B. Ledlie leisurely
digging for bait in the barn-yard. The latter was in his
shirt-sleeves--always a good sign for continued fair weather.
"Boy?" inquired Ledlie, resting one soil-incrusted boot on his spade.
"Another girl," admitted Greensleeve.
"Gawsh!" After a moment's rumination he picked up a squirming
angle-worm from the edge of the shallow excavation and dropped it into
the empty tomato can.
"Going fishing?" inquired Greensleeve without interest.
Ledlie, who was a large, heavy, red-faced man with a noticeably small
mouth, faded blue eyes, and grey chin whiskers, picked a budding sprig
from a bush, nibbled it, and gravely seated himself on the edge of the
horse-trough. He was wearing a cigar behind his ear which he
presently extracted, gazed at, then reconsidering the extravagance,
replaced.
[Illustration: "'Boy?' inquired Ledlie, resting one soil-incrusted
boot on his spade."] "Three gals, Pete--that's your record," he remarked, gazing
reproachfully out across the salt meadows beyond the causeway. "They
won't bring you in nothin'," he added, shutting his thin lips.