'now a new oil furnace costs at least two hundred dollars,' continued father. 'i don't pay much more than that in rent every summer for the valley house. this house we own; it's ours. but though there's no rent there is a mortgage and there are taxes. in addition to that it needs new wallpaper, the roof has to be fixed, and the third-floor stairway has to be repaired before it goes down like a stack of dominoes. all that costs money, and an authority on economics always seems to be just as poor or a little poorer than other people. it's going to be rather a struggle. what i'm trying to tell you is this: we'll have to forget about the valley this summer. i hate telling you you'll have to stay in the hot city, but i don't know what else to do. maybe a couple of weeks at the shore in august. that's the most i can promise.'
there was an appalled silence.
'well,' said mona at last, 'other people do it. i guess we can if they can.'
'we have the yard,' added rush. 'and the roof.'
'and there's central park,' said randy. 'and the tops of buses, and the hose. we can cool off in the hose.'
'oh, boy!' cried oliver. 'that's what i like! cooling off in the hose.'
'well, you're good kids,' father said. 'there never were any better ones. cleaner, maybe, or quieter, but never any better.'
'and another thing,' randy said. 'i'm president of the i.s.a.a.c. (independent saturday afternoon adventure club), so it's all right for me to suggest it. we don't really need as much allowance as you give us. why, i bet we could get along fine on a quarter apiece, couldn't we, kids? except oliver of course...'
'i can get along on a nickel,' interrupted oliver stoutly.
'after all money isn't everything,' said randy, rather proud of herself, as if she had made a remarkable discovery.
'you're good kids,' repeated father. he didn't seem to be able to think of anything else to say.
'then there's the Pig If Necessary,' offered rush.
'the what?' father looked startled.
'the pig bank in the Office,' rush explained. 'it's got about a dollar and ninety-six cents in it. maybe more by now. it's not much, of course, but if you could use it...'
'oh. oh, thanks, rush,' father said. 'but i don't think i'm reduced to that just yet. you keep it in case of emergency.'
the first few days were fine; they all felt self-sacrificing and practised economy with zeal. every unnecessary light was turned off. the telephone was hardly ever used. they took all the empty ginger ale bottles back to the grocery, and went by the Good Humour man with their faces averted.
but by thursday it became very hot. the alianthus trees were in profuse full leaf. through the open windows of the house drifted the myriad noises of other people's living: radios quacking away, typewriter keys pecking, dishes clashing together in sinks, voices talking, pianos being played, and a woman singer who practised scales dutifully hour after hour, day after day.
'you know, ran,' mona confided that day after school. 'i keep thinking of the valley. last night i dreamed about it. do you remember the bobwhites? they say "bob" and then take a deep breath and say "white" afterwards.'
'i know,' said randy. 'and the mourning doves. the way they sound so far away even if they're right in the tree above you. i love mourning doves, the whole summer in the valley always sounded of them.'
up in the Office, rush was playing the piano. he started to thunder through the revolutionary etude as usual and then stopped.
'nuts!' he exclaimed. something had happened to a note in the middle register: it plinked like a guitar and ruined the whole effect. there was a pretty good piano in the valley house. 'oh, nuts, oh, nuts,' repeated rush unhappily, and closed the lid. and besides the piano there was a tennis court at the valley, and a damned up pool in the brook where they swam. the water was dark and tingling and cold; randy said it was like swimming in iced root beer. and besides that there was the treehouse rush had built in the beech tree, where no one else could come unless invited. there was the carpentry shop in the garage. there were the sayles kids on the next farm who had a hayloft as big as a hotel ballroom, and horses to ride on, a mother who made the kind of pie you think of when you say the word 'pie.'
from saturday seven of the saturdays, by elizabeth enright
jon seems to have a thing for ice-cream analogies. personally, i'm pretty fond of them too.
there was an appalled silence.
'well,' said mona at last, 'other people do it. i guess we can if they can.'
'we have the yard,' added rush. 'and the roof.'
'and there's central park,' said randy. 'and the tops of buses, and the hose. we can cool off in the hose.'
'oh, boy!' cried oliver. 'that's what i like! cooling off in the hose.'
'well, you're good kids,' father said. 'there never were any better ones. cleaner, maybe, or quieter, but never any better.'
'and another thing,' randy said. 'i'm president of the i.s.a.a.c. (independent saturday afternoon adventure club), so it's all right for me to suggest it. we don't really need as much allowance as you give us. why, i bet we could get along fine on a quarter apiece, couldn't we, kids? except oliver of course...'
'i can get along on a nickel,' interrupted oliver stoutly.
'after all money isn't everything,' said randy, rather proud of herself, as if she had made a remarkable discovery.
'you're good kids,' repeated father. he didn't seem to be able to think of anything else to say.
'then there's the Pig If Necessary,' offered rush.
'the what?' father looked startled.
'the pig bank in the Office,' rush explained. 'it's got about a dollar and ninety-six cents in it. maybe more by now. it's not much, of course, but if you could use it...'
'oh. oh, thanks, rush,' father said. 'but i don't think i'm reduced to that just yet. you keep it in case of emergency.'
the first few days were fine; they all felt self-sacrificing and practised economy with zeal. every unnecessary light was turned off. the telephone was hardly ever used. they took all the empty ginger ale bottles back to the grocery, and went by the Good Humour man with their faces averted.
but by thursday it became very hot. the alianthus trees were in profuse full leaf. through the open windows of the house drifted the myriad noises of other people's living: radios quacking away, typewriter keys pecking, dishes clashing together in sinks, voices talking, pianos being played, and a woman singer who practised scales dutifully hour after hour, day after day.
'you know, ran,' mona confided that day after school. 'i keep thinking of the valley. last night i dreamed about it. do you remember the bobwhites? they say "bob" and then take a deep breath and say "white" afterwards.'
'i know,' said randy. 'and the mourning doves. the way they sound so far away even if they're right in the tree above you. i love mourning doves, the whole summer in the valley always sounded of them.'
up in the Office, rush was playing the piano. he started to thunder through the revolutionary etude as usual and then stopped.
'nuts!' he exclaimed. something had happened to a note in the middle register: it plinked like a guitar and ruined the whole effect. there was a pretty good piano in the valley house. 'oh, nuts, oh, nuts,' repeated rush unhappily, and closed the lid. and besides the piano there was a tennis court at the valley, and a damned up pool in the brook where they swam. the water was dark and tingling and cold; randy said it was like swimming in iced root beer. and besides that there was the treehouse rush had built in the beech tree, where no one else could come unless invited. there was the carpentry shop in the garage. there were the sayles kids on the next farm who had a hayloft as big as a hotel ballroom, and horses to ride on, a mother who made the kind of pie you think of when you say the word 'pie.'
from saturday seven of the saturdays, by elizabeth enright
***
jon seems to have a thing for ice-cream analogies. personally, i'm pretty fond of them too.
No comments:
Post a Comment