PUPPY LOVE: AN ADVENTURE IN HOLDING HANDS

New Zealand Graphic, 6 April 1907, Page 13

PUPPY LOVE: AN ADVENTURE IN HOLDING HANDS

By

EDWIN L. SABIN

Oh, puppy love! Oh, puppy love! Oh, sappy hearts, that touch! When things tha\t mean so little Seem things that mean so much!

a ROUND about, the whippoorwills had resumed their nightly cadence ; over the grass the fire flies were going their mystic way, while already spellbound, the river lay dusky and still. The west was faintly pink from the departed sun, the east was faintly golden from the arriving moon, and the mid-heaven between was a faintly spangled blue. The air was mild and sweet, languorous with all lingering memories of a summer day. A subtle fragrance floated now here, n there, telling of great peonies drooping and drowsy, of musky petunias sighing for the hawk-moth’s kiss, of modest mignonette dreaming of the bee, of a host of sweet peas unfolding to be plucked. It was the hour for lovers —for hand-

in-hand and eye-in-eye; for the replighting of troth but yester-given, and for the breathing of vows as yet unspoken. Amidst this, the glamourous aftermath of a day in June, the village rested, its people relaxed for peace. On the front walk of the Emerson cottage, half-way betwixt porch and gate, four figures stood for a moment hesitant: then they paired, one couple (the elder) proceeding through the gate, the other (the younger) proceeding across the lawn. “You’d better sit in Grandpa Emerson’s chair, kid,” called back the man from the gateway. “That hammock looks very weak.” “We’ll hurry back. Beulah.” informed in her turn, his companion serenely—so serenely that one could with difficulty detect the sly banter in her tones. They laughed wisely, as those whose thoughts are in accord: the man passed his arm through hors, drawing her closer, and, step matched with step, they paced away down the gloaming path outside the pickets. Beulah, seventeen and just out of the high school, and Harold, eighteen and a “prep.” graduate, standing, surveyed the new hammock, hanging unoccupied ami inviting, in the musky dimness beneath the apple tree. “Shall 1 get in first.” asked Harold—“to test it?” “No; 1 was in it this afternoon, and

it seemed strong. Bnt you bring out a ehair, if you’re afraid.” “Oh, I’m not afraid on my account!” lie assured bravely. “It ought to hold two people.” “Of course!” asserted Beulah, with a little toss of the head. “Please steady it for me.” She slipped in. and. with feminine aptitude, was adjusted at once, presenting to him a bewildering medley of soft, white dimity, black hair and arched brows. “Now,” she directed, looking up at him and thereby displaying a pair of violet eyes, “you may come.” Harold diffidently obeyed. “No: from the other side would be better, wouldn't it?” she volunteered. “Dear me! Why are men so funny in a hammock? They are either all in or all out. Are you comfortable? You ean’t be!” “I’m fine,” he declared. “Are you comfortable ?” “Grand—as long as you don't move and make me slide. It’s the same way with couch-pillows,” she continued with sage raillery. “A girl will take one pillow and put it behind her. and it’s exactly right: but a man will use every pillow in the whole house, and then he won’t be fixed! He’ll look all bolstered like an invalid, or else on the edge of a precipice, and expecting every minute to tumble off.”

“I know it.” admitted Harold meekly. “Where’s your grandfather to-night?” “Grandfather is discussing crops with old Air. Maxley. Neither of them ever did one stroke of farming, but to listen you would never suspect it.” “I was going to wear my ducks,” remarked Harold, apropos of nothing whatsoever that had yet been said. “All the fellows at school wear them.” he added. “1 adore men in ducks.” “I’ll skip and change, then. Shall I?” “Of course not. silly! I moan. I adore ducks on men. They look so starchy and military in them—the men do: don’t they. What do you suppose Ford and Helen are talking about?” “Perhaps they aren’t talking. I’ve seen them, honestly, sit by the hour and not say a word: just happy and eying each other.” “Yes,” mused Beulah, dreamily, gazing into the round, yellow moon now upfloating as if released from the farther bank of the river before them. “I suppose that’s the way with two persons who love each other and know that they love each other. Thev can talk without speaking. It must bo splendid.” “I wonder when they’ll be married.” “In the fall. I guess. I hope so. I’ve always wanted a brother—and Ford’s perfectly grand.” “And I’ve always wanted a sister.” “Well. Helen’s a lovely sister, you’ll find.” assured Beulah, still dreamily. A figure entered the gate. “There's grandfather.” she announced. “You go and tell him where wo arc. and have him bring his chair out. if he’d like to.” “It’s pretty damp for him here, isn’t it?” suggested Harold, evincing a desire to parley over the matter. “Tie’ll get the rheumatism.” “Tic never has rheumatism, and he's eighty years old. Isn’t that wonderful ? Go and tell him. please; or else T will.” “W-well.” assented Harold, shifting reluctantly. “Bnt lie ought not to risk if.” “He ought io bo told, though, anyway.” insisted Beulah. “Really, he ought.” “All right.” assented her companion in an injured tone, shifting farther. “But like enough lie'll make you sit on the porch, then.” “Mavbe. It is damp out here.” agreed Beulah readily. Harold straightened, with a great show

of preparing to spring to the ground : his hand, slipping along the netting within, encountered something soft and warm and charged with electricity, it was another hand—but not his other hand : no. It did not move, and seemed quite insensible to the proximity of a stranger hand. Harold’s hand remained very still, daring to move not so much as a finger lest it should frighten the new-found playmate away. “Aw, no! He saw us; he must have.” protested Harold huskily, sinking back. “He’ll come, or he’ll call you, if he wants to.” “Maybe he will.” agreed Beulah, just as readily as before. “It’s —a —beautiful—night, isn’t it”

faltered Harold, striving to be matter-of-fact and collected, and not to indicate by his voice the whereabouts of his hand. But his voice sounded to him makeshift and self-conscious. “Perfectly divine!” exclaimed Beulah. From afar down the river reached their ears the mellow exhaust of a steamer. “There comes a boat.” informed Harold, maintaining the conversation. His hand had been turning, gently, so as not to be noticed, and. in an unobtrusive way. closed over the other hand —over the little, velvety, innocent of a hand. “So it does,” murmured Beulah abstractedly. “I’ve never been up the Ohio on a river-boat; have you?” pursued Harold, his hand gathering in the little, soft, velvety hand, inch by inch. “No—yes; I mean. I went to New York once.” responded Beulah absent mindedly. Tin* little, warm, velvety hand be I raved a disposition to go away. “But that isn’t on Hip Ohio.” cor reeled Harold. His hand endeavoured Io restrain Hie other hand; still unobtrusively, but persuasively.

“I know it. It’s on the Hudson,” replied Beulah. “What —what was it you asked me?” “I said I’d never l»een up the Ohio on a river-boat." explained Harold. “Oh, I have, loads of times; I’ve lived here all my life, you know.” The little, soft. warm, velvety, innocent of a hand was struggling and protesting. and the larger hand was pleading with it. “On —a —steamboat?” hazarded Harold fatuously. “No; I walked on the ice, winters, and swam, summers.” she rebuked briskly. “Ami when you’re through with my hand I should like to use it.” “Oh!” said Harold, with assumed jocularity. “Is that your hand?” His own relaxed slightly, and the other quietly withdrew. He did not dare retain it. and presently it emerged from bet wen them ami fluttered about Beulah’s hair. “I suppose a brother has a right to touch his sister’s hand,” he proffered, feeling it incumbent upon him to be nettled. “And I’m your brother, too — about.” “Why—yes. if he wants to,” mused Beulah. “But brothers don’t usually care to. do they?” “I don’t know. Being a brother to a sister is something new to me.” he con fessed. “But 1 should think they would.” he added hopefully. “Other girls’ brothers are all I’ve had experience with,” she vouchsafed slowly. “Some of them did seem to have got in the habit, though." “And other fellows’ sisters are the only ones I’ve had,’’ responded Harold. “It didn't seem to be anything very out-of-the-wa- with some of them, either.” “Didn’t it ?” murmured Beulah abstractedly. 'l'he little band had tucked in a hair pin or two, and had dropped to a very insecure position at the edge of her lap. Thence it slid, apparently unnoted by her. down in between them, about where it had been before. Harold's hand promptly found it. “W hat steamer was it ?” queried Harold. “Where?” she asked. “The one you went to —the one you went up on.” he stammered. Oh. that deli cious, warm, vivifying little hand! There were so many fascinating ways to hold it, and each was better than the preceding. “It —was I —don't —know.” murmured Beulah vacantly, staring hard into the moon. “I've never been up the Ohio.” announced Harold mechanically. “I—haven't — either,” she faltered. “Have you?” “N-no. 1 don't believe I ever have,” lie replied huskily, trying hard io focus upon the topic. “When was it. you say?” he asked—his lingers ami his brain strangely affected in sympathy. “When was what?" she returned faint ly. “When—you—went —up.” “I—don't—know." she mused. “Do you ?” “N-no-o.” he uttered, grappling with the problem. “There come Ford and Helen!” exclaimed Beulah abruptly: with a tiny pressure her hand tied. “They don't want us" he averred, blindly groping for it. “Oh. I'm sure they do!" she declared confidently. “I’ll beat you ” And whisking from tli<* hammock she sped, a dainty vision, through the moonlight, leaving hammock singularly cohl and empty, and moon mocking. Bewildered, resent fill, somew hat giddy. Harold slothfully tumbled out and fidlowed.