Read Online Young Mr. Keefe by Stephen; Birmingham - Free Book Online Page A

“Centuries ago, it lived and walked among us.”
    â€œWell, not us ,” Claire said.
    â€œAnd here is a relic of the Pleistocene Age …”
    Tadpoles darted from the edges of the pool where they stepped.
    â€œHow do they get here?” Claire asked. “Such nice big fat ones, too!”
    â€œThey’re disgusting,” Blazer said.
    â€œYes,” Claire said, “but don’t forget they turn into butterflies.”
    â€œNo, they turn into swans,” said Blazer.
    â€œNo,” Jimmy said, “they turn into frogs that turn into princes. I read it somewhere.”
    There was another short rise to climb before the whole panorama of the western slope came into view. The lake, and Nevada, had passed behind the ridge. They were looking across a greener, softer expanse into California. There was a small lake below them, rimmed with small firs. “Look,” Blazer said, “that’s where we’ll camp!”
    â€œWe can swim with no clothes on,” Claire said. “We can skinny-dip!”
    â€œLet’s go.” Blazer looked at her. “How’d you cut your chin?” he asked.
    â€œA branch snapped in my face,” Claire said casually.
    Going down from there was mostly running and leaping from stone to stone, and half falling, slipping, and sliding. At times, they lost sight of the lake, and then again they would see it, correct their course, and head for it again. Although it was past noon, the sun was still on the morning side of the mountain, and they were in the mountain’s dark brown shadow. Soon they were among sequoias and pines and thick patches of sweet fern, stepping and climbing over fallen trees that resembled giant graves. They came unexpectedly to a clearing in the trees where the grass was thick and tall and green and spattered with buttercups. Claire flopped on her stomach in the grass. “I’ve wanted to do this all day,” she said.
    â€œAll of a sudden, it’s hot,” Jimmy said. He unbuttoned his shirt and let his shirt-tails hang loose.
    â€œBut, oh, God, what a lovely day!” Claire said. “Does anybody feel like gambolling? Let’s gambol on the greensward.”
    For a while, they gambolled. They played hide-and-seek for a minute or two, but there were no good places to hide. They played run, sheep, run. They chased each other until Claire said, “Oh, dear, I’m getting a headache. Let’s stop now.” They took off their shoes and sat in the grass and dug their bare toes into the moist earth. They sang songs and tried to remember good rhymes. “On the top of the mountain,” Claire said, “I remembered Edna St. Vincent Millay—‘The world stands out on either side, no wider than the heart is wide.’ Isn’t that the loveliest thought? She was nineteen when she wrote that.” Claire produced some sandwiches from her knapsack. Later, Claire said, “Let’s climb trees,” and they did. When Claire reached the outermost branch of her tree, she hung on, swaying fantastically, and called, “I’m never coming down! No, no, never-nonnie-nay!”
    Then, since it was getting late, they picked up their packs again, and went on through the last remaining stretch of woods. Presently they reached the lake.
    â€œThis makes it worth all the trouble,” Claire said. “It’s not real—it’s a Maxfield Parrish painting.”
    And it was. Even though it had formed itself in a hollow of the mountains, there was a long strip of sand along its shore, and another section where the shore was cragged with rocks and boulders that stretched like huge stepping-stones into the water.
    They took off their packs and sat down, looking at it. Fish plopped quietly out of the water for flies, and, except for this noise, it was remarkably silent. The slanting sunlight came through the trees and struck every ripple. The branches of the spruces