Well, as soon as I had got to the stage where I could sit up and laugh,
intermittently dabbing my eyes with a wad of handkerchief, we began
a review of Johnnie's case. The boy has a morbid heredity, and may be
slightly defective, says Sandy. We must deal with the fact as we would
with any other disease. Even normal boys are often cruel. A child's
moral sense is undeveloped at thirteen.
Then he suggested that I bathe my eyes with hot water and resume
my dignity. Which I did. And we had Johnnie in. He stood--by
preference--through the entire interview. The doctor talked to him, oh,
so sensibly and kindly and humanely! John put up the plea that the mouse
was a pest and ought to be killed. The doctor replied that the welfare
of the human race demanded the sacrifice of many animals for its own
good, not for revenge, but that the sacrifice must be carried out with
the least possible hurt to the animal. He explained about the mouse's
nervous system, and how the poor little creature had no means of defense.
It was a cowardly thing to hurt it wantonly. He told John to try to
develop imagination enough to look at things from the other person's
point of view, even if the other person was only a mouse. Then he went
to the bookcase and took down my copy of Burns, and told the boy what a
great poet he was, and how all Scotchmen loved his memory.
"And this is what he wrote about a mouse," said Sandy, turning to the
"Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, timorous beastie," which he read and explained
to the lad as only a Scotchman could.
Johnnie departed penitent, and Sandy redirected his professional
attention to me. He said I was tired and in need of a change. Why not
go to the Adirondacks for a week? He and Betsy and Mr. Witherspoon would
make themselves into a committee to run the asylum.
You know, that's exactly what I was longing to do! I need a shifting of
ideas and some pine-scented air. My family opened the camp last week,
and think I'm awful not to join them. They won't understand that
when you accept a position like this you can't casually toss it aside
whenever you feel like it. But for a few days I can easily manage. My
asylum is wound up like an eight-day clock, and will run until a week
from next Monday at 4 P.M., when my train will return me. Then I shall
be comfortably settled again before you arrive, and with no errant
fancies in my brain.