THE STUMP
My grandmother looked at the tree. Her eyes were full of tears again, but they weren't the kind that worried me. She held out a hand toward the tree and said some more poetry:
“What plant we in this apple tree?
Buds, which the breath of summer days
Shall lengthen into leafy sprays;
Boughs, where the thrush with crimson breast
Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest.
We plant upon the sunny lea
A shadow for the noontide hour,
A shelter from the summer shower,
When we plant the apple tree.”
Well, it wasn't an apple tree, but I didn't care, and neither did Swatty or Bony. I was just glad because Ladylove was glad, and I guessed she knew it wasn't an apple tree, because when you use poetry you have to use the kind there is, and it don't always fit. But this one fitted close enough to show how happy Ladylove was. She was very happy, and when she had said the verses she laughed and kissed Swatty's hand, and then Bony's and then mine, and took her skirt in two hands and made us a curtsy and went away as happy as anything. I felt pretty good.
So just then my father came home, because it was supper-time. He came into the yard, and he walked across the grass to where we were. He looked sort of sober, the way fathers do when they want to know what their sons have been doing.
“What's that?” he asked, short.
“It's a capstan,” I said. “Me and Bony and Swatty made it.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“I don't know. Maybe nothing.”
“Hm! And what is this tree doing here?”