He turned and waved.
"Good-bye, Bobby," she called again, but her voice was not so loud.
He turned. "Good-bye," he said. It was like casting at her head a chunk of ice. Ice would not be the most disagreeable thing on that day, but one would prefer it in some other way than thrown at his head. Elizabeth seemed to think so, for she shrugged her shoulders almost imperceptibly, and I saw tears in her eyes as she turned away.
Captain Fergus hurried after the others, and our other guests melted away. I found myself standing at the edge of the bluff, just where Bobby had been standing, and I gazed out over the waters of the bay—as if I could see the Nantucket lightship! Ogilvie's boat shot out at full speed, and I watched her until she was a gray speck vanishing into the grayness. Gazing out and seeing nothing, and thinking of submarines! It was absurd. They are not, and yet they haunt me. And I looked down at the little strip of marsh at the foot of my bluff, its waving greens turned to orange under the afternoon sun. A blackbird was flying over those green stems waving in the water. The tide was full, and the Great Painter spread his colors on the little waves. It breathed peace, and here was I thinking of submarines. I cannot get rid of them. What if one of these reports turn out to be true? Why, anything might be happening out by the lightship.
And I saw the red shoulders of the blackbird as he flew. He lighted on a reed stem, which swayed down nearly to the surface of the water; and so swaying up and down, he sent out his clear whistle again and again. He is not troubled by the thought of submarines. His heart is not in turmoil over them.
VII
Over my hayfield, that morning toward the last of June, a pleasant breeze was blowing, and from the southwest, as is the habit of breezes hereabout. A man clad in white flannels, and wandering slowly about, would have found that hayfield cool enough and pleasant, I have no doubt. I found it pleasant, but not cool, for I was mowing. For weeks I sought some one—any one—who would cut my grass, and cut it in June, for I have a prejudice in favor of June for cutting hay. In the last week of June the grass is in full flower—tiny blossoms of a pale violet color—and the stems are swollen with the juices, and rich and tender. I, in my ignorance, believe that it makes more succulent hay than if cut in July, when the stalks have begun to dry up and become thin and wiry. Besides, if it is cut in June it is out of the way, and I can use my hayfield for a ball-field if I am so minded.
I am no mower, and I have not known what a scythe should be. I was dimly aware that my old scythe was not everything that could be desired, for I remember that when I took it to be ground the man applied it lightly to his stone, then harder, then cursed and bore on with all his might, and cursed again and sweated for half an hour, and charged me ten cents, holding the scythe out to me as if he never wanted to see it again. He observed that it was the hardest scythe he ever see; and I smiled and thanked him, and thought no more of the matter, and walked off with my scythe. And I struggled with that scythe for ten years, never being able to keep it sharp, and spending much more time with the whetstone than I did in mowing, but I did but little mowing, only trimming around here and there. I never got the scythe sharp. I know that now, but I did not know it then, attributing the fault to my own lack of skill.