So he went back, lifted Peaches from the tub and laid
her on the floor, where he dried her with the sheet.
Then he put the nightdress over her head, she slipped
her arms in the sleeves, and he stretched her on his
bed. She was so lost in the garment he tied a
string under her arms to hold it, and cut off the
sleeves at her elbows. The pieces he saved for
washcloths. Mickey spread his sheet over her,
rolled the bed before the window where she could have
air, see sky and housetops, then brought her supper.
It was a cup of milk with half the bread broken in,
and a banana. Peaches was too tired to eat, so
she drank the milk while Mickey finished the remainder.
Then he threw her rags from the window, and spread
his winter covers on the floor for his bed. Soon
both of them were asleep.
Moccasins and Lady Slippers
“No messenger boy for those,” said Douglas
Bruce as he handed the florist the price set on the
lady slippers. “Leave them where people
may enjoy them until I call.”
As he turned, another man was inquiring about the
orchids; he too preferred the slippers; but when he
was told they were taken, he had wanted the moccasins
all the time, anyway. The basket was far more
attractive. He refused delivery, returning to
his waiting car smiling over the flowers. He
also saw a vision of the woman into whose sated life
he hoped to bring a breath of change with the wonderful
gift. He saw the basket in her hands, and thrilled
in anticipation of the favours her warmed heart might
prompt her to bestow upon him.
In the mists of early morning the pink orchids surrounded
by rosemary and ladies’ tresses had glowed and
gleamed from the top of a silvery moss mound four
feet deep, under a big tamarack in a swamp, through
the bog of which the squaw plunged to her knees at
each step to uproot them. In the evening glow
of electricity, snapped from their stems, the beautiful
basket untouched, the moccasins lay on the breast of
a woman of fashion, while with every second of contact
with the warmth of her body, they drooped lower, until
clasped in the arms of her lover, they were quite
crushed, then flung from an automobile to be ground
to pulp by passing wheels.
The slippers had a happier fate. Douglas Bruce
carried them reverently. He was sure he knew
the swamp in which they grew. As he went his way,
he held the basket, velvet-white, in strong hands,
swaying his body with the motion of the car lest one
leaf be damaged. When he entered the hall, down
the stairs came Leslie Winton.
“Why Douglas, I wasn’t expecting you,”
she said.
Douglas Bruce held up the basket.
“Joy!” she cried. “Oh joy unspeakable!
Who has been to the tamarack swamp?”
“A squaw was leaving Lowry’s as he put
these in his window,” answered Douglas.
“Bring them,” she said.
He followed to a wide side veranda, set the basket
on a table in a cool spot, then drew a chair near
it. Leslie Winton seated herself, leaning on
the table to study the orchids. Unconsciously
she made the picture Douglas had seen. She reached
up slim fingers in delicate touchings here and there
of moss, corolla and slipper.
