MUNITIONS
Hardzvare Store — Time: Midday Gazing out of a window which overlooked a training field for soldiers was a grizzled old man. Time had left his impress with no gentle mark, yet around the eyes was a lingering spark of youth, and about the mouth the lines told of a gentle and loving spirit.
As his eyes roamed over the field a small squad came into view, marching in “twos” and wheeling into “fours” and “right about,” as the command was given.
The gaze of the man grew more intense, and the lines about the mouth deepened, while, slowly, a flush of pride, which could not be controlled, swept over the face, and unconsciously his shoulders squared and his back straightened as his son came into view.
The straight boyish figure marched and wheeled in perfect unison with his comrades, but there was an indefinable power in the set of his head and poise of the body, which bespoke determination and control beyond the ordinary.
Suddenly the silence is broken by a voice, and the man, with a start, turns from the window and faces a customer who has entered so quietly that even the bell on the door has failed to make any sound.
“Good-day to you, sir,” said the customer. “I have been searching the town for some munitions. Have you any?”
“A complete stock — of everything,” the old man answered.
“Well, I want both large and small. Something suitable for a double-barrel and a self-repeater. Can you supply me?”
“Yes. How much of each will you have?”
The man hesitated, and then putting his hand in his pocket, he drew out a bundle of notes and handful of gold.
“That is all I have. Wrap up all you can give me for that amount.”
The old man gazed at the money and then his eyes traveled toward the field where young boys eagerly answered to the commands sent forth: Forward! March!
Turning to his shelves, he took down, first, a box marked “For double-barrel,” and wrapped it up. Then, next, came a box labelled “self-repeater — all sizes,” and then, with great care, came the last— “deadly mixture — guaranteed.”
Each one he made into a separate package and then pushed them toward his visitor, who thanked him and departed.
Gathering up the gold and bank notes, the old man went to a safe in the far corner, and, opening the door, took out a drawer marked “Munition Fund” and put the money into it, smiling as he did so.
Taking his place again at the window, he gazed over the field, lost in thought, and reviewing in memory the years of his youth, when he, too, obeyed the command “Forward! March!”
A sound made him turn, and he was confronted by his customer, who, in a state of extreme anger, waved his packages at him, exclaiming:
“I asked for munitions! See what you have given me!”
The old man came forward, and taking the boxes, proceeded to read:
“For double-barrel — warranted, ‘Kindness!’
“For self-repeater — guaranteed, ‘Joy!’
“Deadly mixture — Love! “Well, my friend, what is wrong? This is all as it should be!”
“Should be? I wanted gunpowder and cartridges — not that stuff!”
“You have lost your way, my man. On this planet those are our only munitions.”
Going Home
The sky was heavy with menacing clouds, and wind — howling dismally as it blew through the trees — when I met a wayfarer who was walking, with downcast eyes, along the highway which skirted the town.
Gazing at him sharply, I met a furtive glance, which held within it pleading, and yet had an assurance which was compelling. He hesitated when we came abreast, and as I felt in the mood for converse, I bade him “Good-evening.”
“It is a good evening, is it not,” he replied. “Good, in its freedom of elements. They make merry tonight.”
This was a strange answer, and my curiosity was piqued, and I felt constrained to lead him on further.
“You feel the elements are enjoying themselves?” I asked.
“Thoroughly,” he answered, “but one never knows what their decision will be.”
“Decision! What do you mean?”
“Whether they will be content with a simple little frolic or if they have mischief in their minds,” he answered.
“Mischief! in their minds!” Surely that is a strange expression to use regarding the wind and clouds.”
“Strange? You, too, find it strange?”
As he spoke he looked at, and yet again, not at me, but through me, and then continued:
“To me there is nothing in all the Universe without mind. All is alive and all make merry or are sad — bring joy or sorrow, as their bent may be. Just as man can be kind, or cruel, make beautiful the world or destroy, so do the Beings dwelling in the elements.
Tonight they will tell me whether I make merry or pass out in sorrow.”
“That is a strange thing you say! ‘Make merry or pass out in sorrow/ What does that portend?” I questioned.
“Sir,” he answered, “you do not understand, and yet you look to me as one of us.
Tonight I am going home and I have not yet made the necessary decision as to my going — whether it shall be a right merry leave-taking or one of sadness. Today a winged messenger came and told me my exile was ended and I could start for my home tonight.”
“And where is your home?” I asked.
“That is for me to decide.”
“For you to decide! Is it not where you lived last?” I asked.
“Alas! no. I have lost that beautiful place, but there are others for me to choose from. Or, perhaps, I shall elect to remain here a little longer — I have left so much undone. I find so many words unspoken which would have given joy, perhaps, — so many things postponed. I did not give heed to the passing of hours for I felt years were before me. But the summons has come and I am to go home — to go to the house I have been building.”
His eyes were fixed on the horizon and my gaze followed him, for so intent was he that I felt there was some thing there I could see. Then, suddenly, the wind swept past us with a mighty gust. The trees bent beneath its force, and. with a sudden upfling-ing of his head he turned toward me, and said, pointing to the horizon:
“See! There is my road and just at the end of the lane my home. Yes!
after all, it will be good to go back. The weeds are in the garden and it seems neglected, for no love has entered into the care of it; but there are blossoms among the grass which has overgrown the doorstep, and I can make it beautiful, after all. Just a little care, a bit of love, and time spent in taking out the nettles, and — yes, it can be made a home. See! there are children down the street. I can build swings and make toys for their playthings, and it can be a merry place.”
Watching him with amazement, I moved along at his side, speaking no word, until we came to a little shanty all by itself, on the dreariest part of the bluff. It was forbidding, and I remembered it was the place of the old miser and renegade of the town. As we reached the door a sudden noise within made