The clammer and the submarine

by William John Hopkins

I even put in two rows of melons yesterday, but I am not telling my neighbors about it. They would be amused at my planting melons in April. Judson would not have been amused. Judson was a fine old man with an open mind, and he would have been interested to see how the experiment with melons succeeded. I should have told Judson all about it,—he might have helped me plant,—but Judson is dead, and so is Mrs. Judson. It is a loss for Eve and me, for a younger man lives in Judson's house now, a younger man who is not so fine; and he has a wife and a small girl—who pelts me with unripe pears when I venture near the wall—and he has a talking machine which sits in the open window and recites humorous bits in a raucous voice to the wide world. The girl—she is not so very small, probably ten or eleven—would have difficulty in pelting me with pears now, but she might use pebbles instead. She is a pretty fair shot; and the talking machine is not dependent upon season. They had the window open at that moment, and I found myself listening for the raucous voice, while I thought of seed potatoes—at four dollars a bushel, and scarce at that.

So the sun shone in under the branches of the pine, and I basked in its warmth, and I gazed out and saw nothing of what lay before my eyes, and I thought my thoughts. They came in no particular order, but as thoughts do come, at random: the season, and peas and corn and melons and Judson and his successor and the girl and the talking machine and pears and potatoes. I suppose I should not speak of such rumblings of gray matter as thoughts, for thoughts, we are told, should come in order, and should be always under the control of the thinker. Mine are not always under my control, and they seldom come in order. I might as well say that they are never under my control, but are controlled by interest of one sort or another. I make no claim to efficiency. Efficiency is a quality of a machine, as I take it. When our brains become machines, why, Heaven help us! But whatever my thoughts were, whether of my planting or my neighbor's talking machine, they revolved around one idea, and always came back to the point they started from, which sufficiently accounts for the fact that I was looking at the harbor and not seeing it.

War. That was the central idea. We are at war. I looked out upon the peaceful, smiling water and the peaceful, smiling country beyond, and the tree like a cross upon its distant hill, and I laughed. I confess it: What had war to do with that, or with me, or with mine? I could not realize it. War means nothing to me. It means nothing to many people over here, I believe, but flags flying, and parades, and brass bands, and shouting. If we were in France now—but I am thankful that we are not in France, and that there are two thousand and odd miles of water between.

As for submarines—submarines in that harbor, where they could not turn around without getting stuck in the mud! Or in the bay, where there is none too much water either, and ledges and rocks scattered around impartially and conveniently here and there! I know them well: one ledge in particular which has but one foot of water on it at low tide. And with a sea running—well, I could lead a submarine a pretty chase. I would if the submarine was bound for this harbor. It might choose to get stuck in the mud and sand of my clam beds, which would make them unproductive for years. Even as a civilian I will defend my own.

Well, we shall see; but I cannot believe that the matter concerns us very nearly. And I sighed softly, and smiled, and again I looked at the harbor, and I saw it; saw it with the warm spring sun on its quiet water, and the wooded hills beyond bathed in a blue haze. And I heard a soft footstep behind me, and there came from above my head a low ripple of laughter, and my head was held between two soft hands and a kiss was dropped on the top of it. And Eve slipped down on the bench beside me.

"Why do you sigh?" she asked. "What were you thinking of, Adam?"

"War," I said, and she sobered quickly. Eve seems to have pacifist leanings. I smiled at her to comfort her. "I was thinking that if a submarine should come into this harbor, it might happen to get stuck in my clam beds, and it would stir them all up, and would be bad for the clams. I am afraid I should have to take a hand then. Do you suppose your father would object to my mounting a gun on the point?—say, just under that tree where he keeps his rubber boots?"

She laughed, which was what I wanted. Eve is lovely when she laughs—she is lovely always, as lovely as she was when I first saw her. And the warm spring sun, shining in under the branches of the pine, shone upon her hair, and it was red and gold; as red and as shining gold as it ever was—or so it seemed to me.

"My father would probably help you mount the gun," she said. "Shall I ask him?"