It takes a certain slow-moving type of intellect to enjoy or endure life in a small country town. To be a doctor in a place like this! or a lawyer! or a merchant! or a clerk!
In the main, in spite of many preliminary descriptions, Carmel did not interest me as much as I thought it would, or might. It was interesting—as one says with the wave of a hand or a shrug of the shoulders. Of more import to me was the Booth household, and the peculiar girl who would not come out to greet me at first, and Franklin’s father and mother and sister. This day passed rather dully, reading proofs which had been sent me and listening to passing expresses which tore through here northward and southward, to and from Indianapolis, only fifteen miles away—never even hesitating, as the negro said—and listening to the phonograph, on which I put all the records I could find. Three recitations by James Whitcomb Riley, “Little Orphant Annie,” “The Raggedy Man” and “My Grandfather Squeers,” captured my fancy so strongly that I spent several hours just listening to them over and over, they were so delightful. Then I would vary my diet with Tchaikowsky, Mendelssohn, Beethoven and Bert Williams.
During the afternoon Franklin and I went for a walk in a nearby woods—a beech and oak grove—the beeches occupying one section and the oaks another. Truly, grey and lowery described this day. It was raining, but in addition the clouds hung so low and thick and dark that they were almost smothery in their sense of closeness. And it was warm and damp, quite like a Turkish bath. I had arrayed myself in great thigh-length rubber boots borrowed from Franklin’s father, and my raincoat and a worthless old cap, so that I was independent of the long, dripping wet grass and the frequent pools of water.
“I know what I’ll do,” I exclaimed suddenly. “I’ll go in swimming. It’s just the day. Fine!”
When we reached the stream in the depth of the woods I was even more enchanted with the idea, the leafy depth of the hollow was so dark and wet, the water so seething and yellow, a veritable whirlpool, made so by the heavy rains everywhere about. Franklin would not come in with me. Instead, he stood on the shore and told me local tales of growths and deaths and mishaps and joys to many.
My problem was how to undress without getting my clothes wet and my feet so muddy when I came out that I could not put on my boots. By thought I solved it. I took off my raincoat, spread it down on the shore as a floor, then took off my boots and stood on it, dry and clean. Under one corner of it I tucked all my clothes to protect them from the rain; then, naked, I plunged into the swirling, boiling flood. It nearly swept me away, so terrific was the onslaught of the waters. I caught a branch hanging low, and, with my feet braced against a few rocks below, lay flat and let the water rush over me. It was wonderful to lie in this warm, yellow water, a bright gold color, really, and feel it go foaming over my breast and arms and legs. It tugged at me so, quite like a wrestling man, that I had to fight it to keep up. My arms ached after a time, but I hung on, loving the feel of it. Sticks and leaves went racing past. I would kick up a stone and instantly it would be swept onward toward some better lodging place farther down. I figured an angle finally by which I could make shore, letting go and paddling sidewise, and so I did, coming up bumped and scratched, but happy. Then I dipped my feet in the water, stood on my raincoat, drying myself with my handkerchief, and finally, dressed and refreshed, strode up shore.
Then we went off flower gathering, and made a big bouquet of iron weed. He told me how for years he had been coming to this place, how he loved the great oaks and the silvery beeches, huddled in a friendly company to the north, and how he had always wanted to paint them and some day would. The mania people have for cutting their names on beech trunks came up, for here were so many covered with lover’s hearts—their names inside—and so many inscriptions, all but obliterated by time that I could not help thinking how lives flow by quite like the water in the stream below.
Then we went back, to a fine chicken dinner and a banana pie made especially for me, and the phonograph and the rushing trains, the whistles of which I was never tired hearing—they sounded so sad.
Another black, rainy night, and then the next morning the sun came up on one of the most perfect days imaginable. It was dewy and glistening and fragrant and colorful—a wonder world. What with the new wet trees and grass as cool and delightful as any day could be, it was like paradise. There was a warm south wind. I went out on the lawn and played ball with Franklin, missing three fourths of all throws and nearly breaking my thumb. I sat on the porch and looked over the morning paper, watching the outing automobiles of many natives go spinning by and feeling my share in that thrill and tingle which comes over the world on a warm Sunday morning in summer. It was so lovely. You could just feel that everybody everywhere was preparing to have a good time and that nothing mattered much. All the best Sunday suits, all the new straw hats, all the dainty frocks, all the everything were being brought forth and put on. Franklin disappeared for an hour and came back looking so spick and span and altogether Sunday—summery—and like Ormonde and Miami Beach, that I felt quite out of it. I had a linen suit and white shoes and a sport hat, but somehow I felt that they were a little uncalled for here, and my next best wasn’t as good as his. Curses! He even had on perfect, glistening, glorious patent leather shoes, and a new blue suit.
It was while I was sitting here inwardly groaning over my fate that a young girl came swinging up, one of the most engaging I had seen anywhere on this trip—a lithe, dancing figure, with bright blue eyes, chestnut hair and an infectious smile. I had observed her approaching some seventy feet away, and beside her Speed, and I was wondering whether she was merely a town girl of his acquaintance or by any chance that half sister of whom I had heard Franklin and Speed speaking on the way west, saying that she was very talented and was hoping to come to New York to study music. Before I had time to do more than compliment her in my mind, she was here before me, having tripped across the grass in a fascinating way, and was holding out a hand and laughing into my eyes.