her on lookout as the ship pitched in a gray sea. He closed his eyes and kissed her as the spray wet the forecastle. His greatest fear was that when he came home she would be taken.
He kept a journal, and despite the fact of his delinquency, âMarch 21, 1900 ... December 22, 1900,â wrote some good things. He wanted to tell her about the beaches of Alexandria, âwhich are bordered by poppies and sea-lakes, and clean, bright, white, blue, and washed by the winds of Africa from the west. Thousands of years of man cannot spoil even the thin rim of this placeâ; of Athens and the Acropolis, âYesterday I was at the Acropolis, and although it is very beautiful and affords a beautiful view, I was much disappointed. They are only buildings, and stone, and stone is akin to dust which is everywhere and too much. I am done with antiquities, suspicious of dreams; Suzanna is my only relevance.â
Late on a winter night when the snow quieted Three Mile Harbor and put out the street lights, when it edged beautifully on the merchants tin and wooden signs, when it hissed into chimneys, Michael came dressed in black (with a broader face than he had had when he left) to the store and sail loft, where they hardly recognized him. Tom strained in the yellow gas light. âMichael?â Michael had an important question. Then he ran through the snow all the miles to Suzannaâs house, where much out of breath he came into a warm room. There were two bright fires, and they burned strongly, heating the air until Suzannas cheeks were vermilion, as were Michaelâs from the touch of the snow. Her parents bustled about and gently maneuvered Michael into a chair. The gas lamps were yellow and singing, the window black and frosted, and Suzannas eyes were blasting back at Michael the heat of a forge. They looked directly at each other.
He saw that things were not the same, but better, that she was a woman and better than a girl, and then for the first time, before they had said a word, he realized that he had changed and become a man. Without once consulting his journal, Michael told Suzanna all that had happened to him, and evidently he told it well. They were married.
Â
W HEN THE President arose that day and glanced at the sky through a window in the White House, he sent for his favorite artist, and told him to duplicate the blue of the sky on all the medals, banners, and plumes of the army and the navy. The artist said quite flatly that it was impossible.
Suzanna Tyler Ashely stood by a wooden table next to their water pump. She was wearing a new white linen apron, starched, dazzling, and large, and she was opening clams, buckets of them. An autumn day without a cloud, the wind and the sea were fierce. After cutting the mud-colored back muscle she pushed the knife into the shell and worked it around until the two halves separated and her pink fingers were wet. She put the meat in a bowl and the juice in a bottle. Occasionally she would drink from a particularly well formed shell, holding it to her lips, bending her eyes to see the absolute white pearly cup; the wind was so wild it made little waves and bubbles in the liquid before she drank it. It washed in the shell like a small sea, and the shell was the color of her apron which was the color of the clouds and the whitecaps on the sea, which was blue like the sky and her eyes. She felt in her dreaming a power; she felt as if she were conjuring the wind.
Several months past when they were traveling to Boston they had argued on the way. Michael in a rage stopped the horses, tied the reins, and jumped off the wagon, leaving it and her by the side of the road. She looked straight ahead and pridefully refused to watch him or turn. A group of sailors came down the road, crowded into a wagon, drunk, rowdy. As they neared she wanted to run to Michael, for they had seen her golden hair from afar and all eyes were centered upon her. As a compromise, she took out a
He kept a journal, and despite the fact of his delinquency, âMarch 21, 1900 ... December 22, 1900,â wrote some good things. He wanted to tell her about the beaches of Alexandria, âwhich are bordered by poppies and sea-lakes, and clean, bright, white, blue, and washed by the winds of Africa from the west. Thousands of years of man cannot spoil even the thin rim of this placeâ; of Athens and the Acropolis, âYesterday I was at the Acropolis, and although it is very beautiful and affords a beautiful view, I was much disappointed. They are only buildings, and stone, and stone is akin to dust which is everywhere and too much. I am done with antiquities, suspicious of dreams; Suzanna is my only relevance.â
Late on a winter night when the snow quieted Three Mile Harbor and put out the street lights, when it edged beautifully on the merchants tin and wooden signs, when it hissed into chimneys, Michael came dressed in black (with a broader face than he had had when he left) to the store and sail loft, where they hardly recognized him. Tom strained in the yellow gas light. âMichael?â Michael had an important question. Then he ran through the snow all the miles to Suzannaâs house, where much out of breath he came into a warm room. There were two bright fires, and they burned strongly, heating the air until Suzannas cheeks were vermilion, as were Michaelâs from the touch of the snow. Her parents bustled about and gently maneuvered Michael into a chair. The gas lamps were yellow and singing, the window black and frosted, and Suzannas eyes were blasting back at Michael the heat of a forge. They looked directly at each other.
He saw that things were not the same, but better, that she was a woman and better than a girl, and then for the first time, before they had said a word, he realized that he had changed and become a man. Without once consulting his journal, Michael told Suzanna all that had happened to him, and evidently he told it well. They were married.
Â
W HEN THE President arose that day and glanced at the sky through a window in the White House, he sent for his favorite artist, and told him to duplicate the blue of the sky on all the medals, banners, and plumes of the army and the navy. The artist said quite flatly that it was impossible.
Suzanna Tyler Ashely stood by a wooden table next to their water pump. She was wearing a new white linen apron, starched, dazzling, and large, and she was opening clams, buckets of them. An autumn day without a cloud, the wind and the sea were fierce. After cutting the mud-colored back muscle she pushed the knife into the shell and worked it around until the two halves separated and her pink fingers were wet. She put the meat in a bowl and the juice in a bottle. Occasionally she would drink from a particularly well formed shell, holding it to her lips, bending her eyes to see the absolute white pearly cup; the wind was so wild it made little waves and bubbles in the liquid before she drank it. It washed in the shell like a small sea, and the shell was the color of her apron which was the color of the clouds and the whitecaps on the sea, which was blue like the sky and her eyes. She felt in her dreaming a power; she felt as if she were conjuring the wind.
Several months past when they were traveling to Boston they had argued on the way. Michael in a rage stopped the horses, tied the reins, and jumped off the wagon, leaving it and her by the side of the road. She looked straight ahead and pridefully refused to watch him or turn. A group of sailors came down the road, crowded into a wagon, drunk, rowdy. As they neared she wanted to run to Michael, for they had seen her golden hair from afar and all eyes were centered upon her. As a compromise, she took out a
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