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By Root 8969 0

’s errand. Red hair. Green eyes. Talked. “What a pretty sky,” says she. “My how nice the river smells,” says she. Very ladylike. River smells of mudbanks. Bad breath of the sea. Low tide. French kissed. Groin to groin. Put hand in front of dress. Little boys in bushes giggled. Tomfools. Walked in dusk, hip to hip. “I have a little room on Belmont Street,” she says. No thanks. Took her to railroad embankment. Cinders. Cornflowers. Stars. Big weeds like tropical vegetation. Samoa. S——d her there. Grand and glorious feeling. Forget for an hour all small things. Venalities. Money worries. Ambitions. Felt refreshed, generous toward sainted old mother. Hooker named Beatrice. Met often afterwards. Later went to New York. Rattled her glass rings on Twenty-third Street windows. Winter nights. Tried to find her later. Disappeared. Above may be in bad taste. If so, writer apologizes. Man born to trouble as the sparks fly upward.

Smells. Heat. Cold. All things like that most clearly remembered. Air in office fetid in wintertime. Coal stoves. Walking home to supper through cold. Joyous. Air in streets straight from snowcapped mountains. Washington. Jefferson. Lafayette. Franconia. Etc. Like mountain city in winter. Inhale smell of dead leaves on Common. Inhale north wind. Sweeter than any rose. Never get enough of sun and moon. Always sad to shut door. Got week’s vacation in July. Grimes informed writer purpose was to give another boy—relation of Whittier’s—chance at job. No good. Went to St. Botolphs with mother. Stayed with cousins. House still empty. Porch falling down. Garden overgrown. Few roses. Swam in river. Sailed. Caught three-pound trout in Parson’s Pond. Much pleasure walking on lonely beaches. Happy hours. Waves roar, rattle like New York, New Haven & Hartford. Underfoot dead skates. Sea grass shaped like bull whips, flowers, petticoats. Shells, stones, sea tack. All simple things. In the golden light memories of paradise perhaps; youth, surely, innocence. On beaches the joy and gall of perpetual youth. Even today. Smell east wind. Hear Neptune’s horn. Always raring to go. Pack sandwiches. Bathing suit. Catch ramshackle bus to beach. Irresistible. In blood perhaps. Father read Shakespeare to waves. Mouthful of pebbles. Demosthenes?

Planned life carefully. Gym. Sailing in summer. Read Plutarch. Never missed a day at the office. Not once. Raise in salary. Increase of responsibility. Other signs of success. A winter night. Clerks going home. Cleaning pens. Banking fires. Whittier called me in to sanctum sanctorum. Coarse-faced man. Strong. Suffered from flatulence. Kept whisky keg in comer of office. Drank from bunghole with straw. Kept me waiting half hour. Footsteps of last clerk—Grimes—heard going downstairs. “You like the business, Leander?” he says. “Yes sir.” “Don’t be so damned eager,” he says. “You look like a house nigger.” Clears throat. Uses spittoon. Slumps suddenly in chair. Sad? Sickness? Bad news? Bankruptcy? Failure? Worse? “I have no son,” he says. “I’m sorry, Mr. Whittier.” “I have no son,” he says again. Raises big face. Tears all over cheeks. Tears running from eyes. “Work hard,” he says. “Trust me. I’ll treat you like a son. Now good night my boy.” Pats me. Sends me home.

Mingled feelings of ambition and tenderness. My heart in the business. Whittier and Wapshot. Wapshot & Co. In love with the shoe business. Do anything for the boss. Visions of saving him from burning building, wrecked ship. Angry heirs at reading of will. Success ordained. Hurried through supper. Read Plutarch in cold room. Kept on gloves. Hat. Breath smoked. Got to office half hour early, next day. Ran. Smiled. Wrote letters. Shared lunch pail with Grimes. “How are you getting along with J. B.?” he asks. “All right,” I said. “Has he asked you in yet and told you that he doesn’t have a son?” Grimes said. “No,” I said. “Well, he will,” Grimes said. “He’ll ask you in to his office late some day and tell you to work hard and trust him and he’ll treat you like a son. He does it to everybody. Even Old Man Thomas. He’s seventy-three years old. That