10. Kit at the Capital
In Washington, D. C., summer was well under way. The gentle breezes from the South warmed the city. A few weeks later, the capital would be sweltering in southern summer heat.
Frank Howard gazed out of the window of his office. From his desk he could just see a corner of the park where Washington’s monument and the Lincoln Memorial faced each other across the glassy pond. He smiled absently at the small, full, Japanese cherry trees lining the park.
Across the room sat Leslie Merrivale, Frank’s partner. He, too, studied the cherry trees, but his face was grim. “I never can see those things in bloom without shuddering,” he said.
Frank turned away from the window and laughed.
“I know what you mean, Les,” he answered. “I used to feel the same way. The trees were a gift from the Japanese, and the beetles were an unwitting gift from them. It’s strange how you keep connecting the two in your mind.” He shuddered slightly as he thought of the fierce battle entomologists all over the country had waged against the destructive insects from Japan.
Leslie grinned. “I tell you, I don’t know why people go into this work. Spring is supposed to be a happy time of year. Everything comes to life. Old people feel better. Young people fall in love. Babies stop having colds. And entomologists know that it’s time to go to work. How many larvae do you reckon are concealed in that elm down there?”
Frank shrugged and lit his pipe. “It’s time you went on a field trip, Les,” he said. “You’re getting finicky. What’s the matter? Don’t you like bugs?”
Leslie shook his head in mock despair. “You know what I mean. Sure, I love to study the little crawling things. But every year, after all the work we do, just to see those blossoming trees and plants and to know they’re infested with insects of every type imaginable—it’s a little discouraging.”