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?"

"I will ask him. But your hair, Eve,—"

"Oh, my hair, stupid, is turning dark. Everybody sees it but you. But I don't care, and I love you for it. And you must look out now, for I'm going to kiss you." She seized me about the neck as she spoke, and she did as she had said she would. "There!" she said, laughing. "Did anybody see? Look all about, Adam. The mischief's done. As if a woman couldn't kiss her husband when she wanted to! Now, I'm going to rumple your hair."

She proceeded to the business in hand thoroughly.

"Eve," I cried between rumplings, "there are laws in this State—I don't believe they have been repealed—which forbid a woman's kissing her husband whenever she wants to. It can't be done. And—"

"It can't be done? Oh, yes, it can." She did it. "Now, can it? Say—quickly."

"Yes, yes, it can, Eve. I acknowledge it. But the submarine. You interrupted me. I had not finished."

"Well," she asked, subsiding upon the bench and smiling up into my face, "what about your submarine? I know of many things which I think more important."

"I've no doubt that there are laws against rumpling hair. There ought to be. It's important enough. But the submarine," I added hastily, for I saw indications of further rumpling; "I was only about to remark that if I were out in the bay—"

"In a boat?" Eve asked, still leaning forward and looking up into my face with the smile lurking about her lovely eyes.

"In a boat. If I were out in the bay, and a submarine suddenly popped up beside me, I should feel much more inclined to offer the crew my luncheon than to shoot them."

"They would all line up on the deck, I suppose, and you would have your choice."

I laughed. "I should have no gun. Besides, I am a civilian. That is against me. Civilians seem to have no chance worth mentioning."

Eve was looking at me thoughtfully, and there was a look deep in her eyes that I could not fathom.

"You are a civilian," she said softly, "and civilians have no—and what then, Adam? Did you think of—"

"They don't want doddering old men of forty-three, and there is no need. But if my clam beds were in danger I should not feel so amiable. I might even strain a point and try to get a standing that would enable me to shoot alien trespassers properly. But why, Eve? Did you want me to—"

"No," she answered quickly. "Oh, no. I was only thinking."

"I have been thinking. If we had to have a war I am glad that it has come now. Pukkie cannot possibly go, and he might want to. How would you like that?"

Pukkie is our son, and he is ten years old. I knew how it would feel to have him go. I took him off to school last fall. It is a beautiful school, with fine men for masters, and dignified buildings and extensive grounds, nearly three hundred acres, with woods and a lake. I wish I could have gone to such a school. It would have done me good. I mooned about with Pukkie, seeing his room and the other dormitories, and the dining hall and the gymnasium and the classrooms, and the football field, and the woods and the lake, and I tried to be cheerful, but I did not make a success of it. I could not say much. Pukkie was silent too.

And all too soon it was time for me to start on my three-mile ride for the station, and I gave him a long hug and a short kiss behind a clump of bushes; the last kiss, I suppose, that I shall ever give my little son. I have not forgotten how a boy of ten feels about that. And I jumped quickly into the car, and we started. I looked back and waved to him as long as I could see, and he waved to me once or twice. But he looked very small, standing