“All the birdswerethere,With yellow feathers instead of hair.And bumblebees crocheted in the trees.And—”
“All the birdswerethere,With yellow feathers instead of hair.And bumblebees crocheted in the trees.And—”
“All the birdswerethere,With yellow feathers instead of hair.And bumblebees crocheted in the trees.And—”
“All the birdswerethere,
With yellow feathers instead of hair.
And bumblebees crocheted in the trees.
And—”
Short of complete annihilation, there was no satisfying vengeance whatsoever that the Senior Surgeon’s exploding passion could wreak upon his offspring. Complete annihilation being unfeasible at the moment, he merely climbed laboriously out of the car, re-cranked the engine, climbed laboriously back into his place, and started on his way once more. All the red, blustering rage was stripped completely from him. Startlingly rigid, startlingly white, his face was like the death-mask of a pirate.
Pleasantly excited by she didn’t know exactly what, the Little Girl resumed her beloved falsetto chant, rhythmically all the while with her puny iron-braced legs beating the tune into the White Linen Nurse’s tender flesh.
“All the birds were there,With yellow feathers instead of hair.And bumblebees crocheted in the trees,And—and—all the birds were there,With yellow feathers instead of hair.And—”
“All the birds were there,With yellow feathers instead of hair.And bumblebees crocheted in the trees,And—and—all the birds were there,With yellow feathers instead of hair.And—”
“All the birds were there,With yellow feathers instead of hair.And bumblebees crocheted in the trees,And—and—all the birds were there,With yellow feathers instead of hair.And—”
“All the birds were there,
With yellow feathers instead of hair.
And bumblebees crocheted in the trees,
And—and—all the birds were there,
With yellow feathers instead of hair.
And—”
Frenziedly as a runaway horse trying to escape from its own pursuing harness and carriage, the Senior Surgeon poured increasing speed into both his own pace and the pace of his tormentor. Up hill, down dale, screeching through rocky echoes, swishing through blue-green spruce-lands, dodging indomitable boulders, grazing lax, treacherous embankments, the great car scuttled homeward. Huddled behind his steering-wheel like a warrior behind his shield, every body muscle taut with strain, every facial muscle diabolically calm, the Senior Surgeon met and parried successively every fresh onslaught of yard, rod, mile.
Then suddenly in the first precipitous descent of a mighty hill, the whole earthseemed to drop out from under the car. Down, down, down, with incredible swiftness and smoothness, the great machine went diving toward abysmal space! Up, up, up, with incredible bumps and bouncings, trees, bushes, stone walls went rushing to the sky!
Gasping surprisedly toward the Senior Surgeon the White Linen Nurse saw his grim mouth yank round abruptly in her direction as it yanked sometimes in the operating-room with some sharp, incisive order of life or death. Instinctively she leaned forward for the message.
Not over-loud, but strangely distinct, the words slapped back into her straining ears:
“If it will rest your face any to look scared, by all means do so. I’ve lost control of the machine,” called the Senior Surgeon, sardonically, across the roar of the wind.
The phrase excited the White Linen Nurse, but it did not remotely frighten her. She was not in the habit of seeing the Senior Surgeon lose control of any situation. Merely intoxicated with speed, delirious with ozone, she snatched up the Little Girl close, close to her breast.
“We’reflying!” she cried. “We’re dropping from a parachute! We’re—”
Swoopingly, like a sled striking glare, level ice, the great car swerved from the bottom of the hill into a soft rolling meadow. Instantly from every conceivable direction, like foes in ambush, trees, stumps, rocks reared up in threatening defiance.
Tighter and tighter the White Linen Nurse crushed the Little Girl to her breast. Louder and louder she called in the Little Girl’s ear.
“Scream!” she shouted. “There might be a bump! Scream louder than a bump! Scream!Scream! S-c-r-e-a-m!”
In that first overwhelming, nerve-numbing, heart-crunching terror of his whole life as the great car tilted up against a stone, plowed down into the mushy edge of a marsh, and skidded completely round,crash-banginto a tree, it was the last sound that the Senior Surgeon heard—the sound of a woman and child screeching their lungs out in diabolical exultancy!
(The second instalment of this three-part serial story will be published in the September CENTURY.)