This morning he was in front of his house, inspecting
the grass parking between the curb and the broad cement
sidewalk. Babbitt stopped his car and leaned
out to shout “Mornin’!” Littlefield
lumbered over and stood with one foot up on the running-board.
“Fine morning,” said Babbitt, lighting—illegally
early—his second cigar of the day.
“Yes, it’s a mighty fine morning,”
said Littlefield.
“Spring coming along fast now.”
“Yes, it’s real spring now, all right,”
said Littlefield.
“Still cold nights, though. Had to have
a couple blankets, on the sleeping-porch last night.”
“Yes, it wasn’t any too warm last night,”
said Littlefield.
“But I don’t anticipate we’ll have
any more real cold weather now.”
“No, but still, there was snow at Tiflis, Montana,
yesterday,” said the Scholar, “and you
remember the blizzard they had out West three days
ago—thirty inches of snow at Greeley, Colorado—and
two years ago we had a snow-squall right here in Zenith
on the twenty-fifth of April.”
“Is that a fact! Say, old man, what do
you think about the Republican candidate? Who’ll
they nominate for president? Don’t you think
it’s about time we had a real business administration?”
“In my opinion, what the country needs, first
and foremost, is a good, sound, business-like conduct
of its affairs. What we need is—a business
administration!” said Littlefield.
“I’m glad to hear you say that! I
certainly am glad to hear you say that! I didn’t
know how you’d feel about it, with all your associations
with colleges and so on, and I’m glad you feel
that way. What the country needs—just
at this present juncture—is neither a college
president nor a lot of monkeying with foreign affairs,
but a good—sound economical—business—administration,
that will give us a chance to have something like
a decent turnover.”
“Yes. It isn’t generally realized
that even in China the schoolmen are giving way to
more practical men, and of course you can see what
that implies.”
“Is that a fact! Well, well!” breathed
Babbitt, feeling much calmer, and much happier about
the way things were going in the world. “Well,
it’s been nice to stop and parleyvoo a second.
Guess I’ll have to get down to the office now
and sting a few clients. Well, so long, old man.
See you tonight. So long.”
They had labored, these solid citizens. Twenty
years before, the hill on which Floral Heights was
spread, with its bright roofs and immaculate turf
and amazing comfort, had been a wilderness of rank
second-growth elms and oaks and maples. Along
the precise streets were still a few wooded vacant
lots, and the fragment of an old orchard. It was
brilliant to-day; the apple boughs were lit with fresh
leaves like torches of green fire. The first
white of cherry blossoms flickered down a gully, and
robins clamored.
