— What whale.
— Juniper won’t need any fish heads or fish tails today, he had a mouse this morning.
— What mouse.
— But he never eats them, Aunt Norah.
Juniper followed me on to the tennis court, and I caught a grasshopper for him, which spat tobacco juice in my hand. What’s the use, what’s the use, chew tobacco and swallow the juice. I gave Juniper the grasshopper, and he purred, crunching it, and swished his striped tail against my leg. He ran after me, crying, when I went to the stone wall by the sumac, I bent down the loose strand of barbed wire to stoop through to the other side, and he stood on a lichen-covered stone as I walked away across the field toward the front beach. The silly little cat, always expecting me to take him with me, wherever I went. And now he would probably be sick on the porch, leave a little waffle of grasshopper legs and wings for me to clean up when I came back. Andy, the cat’s been sick again. Andy, will you turn on the windmill, the tank’s low. Andy, will you get out the targets, we’re going to have some archery practice. Andy, will you mix some limewash for the tennis court. Andy, you shouldn’t feed him grasshoppers, you know it always makes him sick. But he likes them, Mother. He likes them, Aunt Norah. All right then, but you must expect to clean up after him when he makes a mess.
The long grass combed and seething in the southwest wind, the dry whistle of the sand in the wind, the sea grass hissing as it bowed in green waves, and the short quick waves of green-and-white water rushing up amongst the bared brown roots of the eelgrass. The fiddler crabs hurried away, clicking, as I approached the edge of the mud flats, or farther off stood and waved their little fiddles, dancing absurdly on their hind legs, and when I trod beside the air holes in the mud, the clams squirted water like little geysers. We hadn’t had clams for a week. The clambake looked farther off than ever. This year I would help to build the fireplace of round stones, and fetch the driftwood myself, and lay the fire, and gather the wet seaweed, and put in the clams and sweet potatoes, the yams, the green corn. And we would take our bathing suits and bathe in the surf, the surf that came all the way from Provincetown. And after lunch, while the others dozed in the warm hollows among the sand dunes, Porper with his dolls and Susan with her collection of razor shells, and Uncle Tom reading Gray’s Botany. I would walk all the way to the Gurnett, see the twin lighthouse at the end of the Long Beach, come back in triumph and tell them about it. Look, Susan, I found this shell at the Gurnett. Look, Aunt Norah, I found this new kind of seaweed, one that we never got before, at the Gurnett. Mother, do you think Father will like this, it’s very fine, and a lovely red, do you think it will mount well, when it’s spread out.
There was a mullein wagging in the wind above my head when I lay down in the grass at the top of the beach, it was in flower, a tall one, but not as tall as the one Susan had found in the field between the McGills’ and the Horse Monument. Why did she always call them Grandfather Jacksons. And niggerhead grass, why was it called niggerhead grass, and who had invented the game of niggerheads. Uncle David always won, was it because he held them with a shorter stem, was it cheating, or did he pick out the good ones. Brothers looked very much alike, Uncle David looked like Father, but with red mustaches, like a Visigoth; he was taller too, and stronger, but his face was long and funny; I didn’t like it, and he looked at you with narrow blue eyes as if he didn’t like you. Why did he speak so much more quickly than Father, always making jokes. Why did he have so much money, and a motorboat, and an office in Boston that he never went to. And staying here all summer, making me help him hoe the tennis court.
I counted the flowers I could see from where I lay. Mullein. Marsh rosemary. Beach-plum. Vetch. Three kinds of goldenrod. Milkweed. Beach pea. Hawkweed. Button bush. Dandelion. Butter-and-eggs. And when we got back to Cambridge the chicory would be in bloom, with its large stars of pale blue, or deep blue, or sometimes pink—
— the quarreling hour after supper, the croquet hour, when we took down the soapbox sailboat, lowering the spritsail, which was made of gunny sack, and coiling the ropes, and putting the soapbox under the porch — and the wickets and posts put into their worn holes, among the crickets and grasshoppers, and our favorite mallets chosen. The black one was cracked, I always took it because it was cracked and no one else liked it, but it was heavy, and I liked it. The handle was too long for Porper, he bumped his chin and cried.
— Oh, Porper, how many times have I told you, why don’t you hold it by the end, not the middle.
— How can he, twit, he couldn’t get anywhere near the ball.
— He could, too.
— Here, Porper, like this.
— And don’t try to hit the ball so hard.
The long sunset light lay glistening on the humped grass of the slope, golden and ruddy, and clear amber through the gap in the oak woods. The crickets chirped faster and faster. What were they doing now. What were they talking about now. Why had we been sent out right after supper, like that, and told to play croquet for half an hour. Why half an hour, exactly. And why had they all stayed in the sitting room instead of coming out on the porch as they usually did. Did they know that Father had come, or think he was coming. The croquet balls went clop and clap and bounced over the hummocks and went along the worn familiar grooves and pathways. Mosquitoes hung in a cloud round Porper’s legs. I slapped them off with my handkerchief.
— Andy, you cheated, you didn’t keep your foot on the ball.
— I did too. It slipped. But I’ll play it over if you like, and you’ll see. It was a split shot.
— Let’s play poison.
— All right, let’s play poison. Porper, you can be poison. Try to hit my ball with yours. You can have two turns.
Molly and Margaret came out of the kitchen door, which slammed behind them on its spring with a double clack. It was their night out, and they were going to the village, dressed in dark blue. They looked over their shoulders at us and went quickly round the corner. I pretended to make a golfing stroke with my mallet, aiming toward the house, and let go of the handle, so that my mallet flew up on to the porch and skidded along the boards to the wall. When I went up to get it, I looked in through the long dining-room window. Mother was at the other end of the room, with her back turned, standing at the seaward window as if she were staring at the tennis court. Aunt Norah was rocking in the wicker rocking chair. Uncle Tom and Uncle David were walking to and fro, in opposite directions, along the long room, with their hands in their pockets. Nobody seemed to be saying anything. The lamps hadn’t been lighted. I dropped my mallet to the grass, and slid down under the porch railing. The boards of the porch were still warm under my hands.
— Oh, I’m sick of playing croquet. Let’s go down to the playhouse.
— But it’s Porper’s bedtime.