“’Tis even worse than that. He’s not pleased with the dear Lord’s world.”
Skipper Tommy stopped dead and stared me in the eye—but not coldly, you must know; just in mild wonder, in which, it may be, was mixed some admiration, as though he, too, deep in his guileless old heart, had had some doubt which he dared not entertain.
“Ay,” said I, loftily, “He’ve not made flowers enough t’ suit my taste.”
Skipper Tommy rubbed his nose in a meditative way. “Well,” he drawled, “He haven’t made many, true enough. I’m not sayin’ He mightn’t have made more. But He’ve done very well. They’s enough—oh, ay, they’s enough t’ get along with. For, look you! lad, they’s no real need o’ any more. ’Twas wonderful kind of Un,” he went on, swept away by a flood of good feeling, as often happened, “t’ make even one little flower. Sure, He didn’t have t’ do it. He just went an’ done it for love of us. Ay,” he repeated, delighting himself with this new thought of his Lord’s goodness, “’twas wonderful kind o’ the Lard t’ take so much trouble as that!”
My mother was looking deep into Skipper Tommy’s eyes as though she saw some lovely thing therein.
“Ay,” said I, “’twas fair kind; but I’m wishin’ He’d been a bit more free.”
My mother smiled at that. Then, “And my son,” she said, in the way of one poking fun, “would have flour grow out of the ground!”
“An’ did he say that!” cried Skipper Tommy.
My mother laughed, and Skipper Tommy laughed uproariously, and loudly slapped his thick thigh; and I felt woefully foolish, and wondered much what depth of ignorance I had betrayed, but I laughed, too, because Skipper Tommy laughed so heartily and opened his great mouth so wide; and we were all very merry for a time. At last, while I wondered, I thought that, perhaps, flour did grow, after all—though, for the life of me, I could not tell how—and that my mother and Skipper Tommy knew it well enough; whereupon I laughed the merrier.
“Come, look you!” then said Skipper Tommy, gently taking the lobe of my ear between his thick, hard thumb and forefinger. “Don’t you go thinkin’ you could make better worlds than the Lard. Why, lad, ’tis but play for Him! He’ve no trouble makin’ a world! I’m thinkin’ He’ve made more than one,” he added, his voice changing to a knowing whisper. “’Tis my own idea, but,” now sagely, “I’m thinkin’ He did. ’Tis like that this was the first, an’ He done better when He got His hand in. Oh, ay, nar a doubt He done better with the rest! But He done wonderful well with this one. When you’re so old as me, lad, you’ll know that though the Lard made few flowers He put a deal o’ time an’ labour on the harbours; an’ when you’re beatin’ up t’ the Gate, lad, in a gale o’ wind—an’ when you thinks o’ the quiet place t’other side o’ Frothy Point—you’ll know the Lard done well by all the folk o’ this world when He made safe harbours instead o’ wastin’ His time on flowers. Ay, lad, ’tis a wonderful well built world; an’ you’ll know it—then!”