“I can water all I like, all afternoon until Daddy gets home. Your hose here is heavy. I couldn’t hold it right—”
While the little boy was talking, Judy vaguely recalled Allen’s speaking about Willie’s parents. His mother had had a breakdown of some sort; mountain air and rest were supposed to help. His father played the drums and timpani in the orchestra and had a part-time job besides. The boy was of necessity much alone. The camp had been such a happy solution. But Judy had forgotten the story and its possible bearing on little Willie.
“The next time you want to water your garden at camp, you must first ask permission,” she said. She put her arms about the boy. “After all, I’m not a tree.” They both laughed gaily. When they returned to the others, Judy couldn’t help noticing an air of pleased expectancy on their faces as if they rather hoped more fireworks were in order.
“Willie didn’t intend to do anything mean,” Judy said offhandedly. “He was trying to water his garden,” and she pointed to the twigs planted in the mud.
Happy to dismiss the subject, she asked, “Let me see, children, what you’ve accomplished?”
She was delighted with their skill and assured them that the Aspen church would want to acquire the animals and assorted instruments for its bazaar. “Then your parents can buy them right back again,” she said laughingly.
“Wouldn’t it be nice to let Willie take charge of feeding the ducks this week? You don’t mind, Paul, do you?”
“But I do mind.”
“Look, Paul, Willie’s only five years old, the youngest in camp. Don’t you think we could show him we don’t bear any grudge, that we trust him enough to give him this responsibility?”
The appeal to Paul’s better nature succeeded and Willie was acclaimed the mascot for the week. In the days that followed Willie followed Judy about camp much as the little lamb is said to have followed Mary.