"Darn it," he mused, "what did the Lord give us bodies for to want and want and then add minds to think?"
They came to a New England graveyard, perched on a rise of ground, where the road cut through a hill, a lonely, neglected place, overgrown with weeds and tall rank grasses, the gravestones flat or falling. Hardly aware of what they did, they turned in and picked their way among the sunken graves.
"God's acre," whispered Billy softly, for youth loves sadness, at certain times.
The Watermelon tossed away his cigarette and took off his hat. Somewhere, over there among the Green Mountains, in just such another place, his tired little mother slept. Was her grave sunken, he wondered, her tombstone flat or falling limply sidewise?
The moon was sinking slowly in the west, a silver crescent just above the dark outlines of the woods. The sky was bright with stars, like the kindled hopes of those who have gone. A wind stole softly by, rustling the tall grasses and swaying the tree tops. But there among the graves, it was very dark and still.
Billy sat down on the bank by the driveway, and the Watermelon sat beside her, not too near. There was at least a foot between them.
"We are all alone," said the Watermelon, thinking aloud half of his thoughts. "All alone, but for the dead."
Alone, and the seven seas could not have parted them farther.
"And God," added Billy piously.
"If there is one," admitted the Watermelon.