Read Online The Long Valley by John Steinbeck - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Steinbeck
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don’t want any animals in my garden, any kind.”
“No,” he said. “I won’t do that. No, I can’t do that. But I’ll get up early in the morning. I’ll take the new air gun and I’ll shoot that cat so he’ll never come back. The air gun shoots hard. It’ll make a hurt the cat won’t forget.”
It was the first thing he had ever refused. She didn’t know how to combat it; but her head ached, terribly. When it ached its worst he tried to make it up to her for refusing the poison. He kept a little pad soaked with Florida Water, and he patted it on her forehead. She wondered whether she should tell him about the white quail. He wouldn’t believe it. But maybe if he knew how important it was, he might poison the cat. She waited until her nerves were calm before she told him. “Dear, there was a white quail in the garden.”
“A white quail? Are you sure it wasn’t a pigeon?”
There it was. Right from the first he spoiled it. “I know quail,” she cried. “It was quite close to me. A white hen quail.”
“That would be a thing to see,” he said. “I never heard of one.”
“But I tell you I saw it.”
He dabbed at her forehead. “Well, I suppose it was an albino. No pigment in the feathers, something like that.”
She was growing hysterical again. “You don’t understand. That white quail was me, the secret me that no one can ever get at, the me that’s way inside.” Harry’s face was contorted with the struggle to understand. “Can’t you see, dear? The cat was after me. It was going to kill me. That’s why I want to poison it.” She studied his face. No, he didn’t understand, he couldn’t. Why had she told him? If she hadn’t been so upset she never would have told him.
“I’ll set my alarm clock,” he assured her. “Tomorrow morning I’ll give that cat something to remember.”
At ten o’clock he left her alone. And when he had gone Mary got up and locked the door.
His alarm-clock bell awakened Mary in the morning. It was still dark in her room, but she could see the gray light of morning through the window. She heard Harry dressing quietly. He tiptoed past her door and went outside, closing the door silently for fear of awakening her. He carried the new shining air gun in his hand. The fresh gray morning air made him throw back his shoulders and step lightly over the damp lawn. He walked to the comer of the garden and lay down on his stomach in the wet grass.
The garden grew lighter. Already the quail were twittering metallically. The little brown band came to the edge of the brush and cocked their heads. Then the big leader called, “All’s well,” and his charges ran with quick steps to the pool. A moment later the white quail followed them. She went to the other side of the pool and dipped her beak and threw back her head. Harry raised the gun. The white quail tipped her head and looked toward him. The air gun spat with a vicious whisper. The quail flew off into the brush. But the white quail fell over and shuddered a moment, and lay still on the lawn.
Harry walked slowly over to her and picked her up. “I didn’t mean to kill it,” he said to himself. “I just wanted to scare it away.” He looked at the white bird in his hand. Right in the head, right under the eye the BB shot had gone. Harry stepped to the line of fuchsias and threw the quail up into the brush. The next moment he put down the gun and crashed up through the undergrowth. He found the white quail, carried her far up the hill and buried her under a pile of leaves.
Mary heard him pass her door. “Harry, did you shoot the cat?”
“It won’t ever come back,” he said through the door.
“Well, I hope you killed it, but I don’t want to hear the details.”
Harry walked on into the living room and sat down in a big chair. The room was still dusky, but through the big dormer window the garden glowed and the tops of the lawn oaks were afire with sunshine.
“What a skunk I am,” Harry
“No,” he said. “I won’t do that. No, I can’t do that. But I’ll get up early in the morning. I’ll take the new air gun and I’ll shoot that cat so he’ll never come back. The air gun shoots hard. It’ll make a hurt the cat won’t forget.”
It was the first thing he had ever refused. She didn’t know how to combat it; but her head ached, terribly. When it ached its worst he tried to make it up to her for refusing the poison. He kept a little pad soaked with Florida Water, and he patted it on her forehead. She wondered whether she should tell him about the white quail. He wouldn’t believe it. But maybe if he knew how important it was, he might poison the cat. She waited until her nerves were calm before she told him. “Dear, there was a white quail in the garden.”
“A white quail? Are you sure it wasn’t a pigeon?”
There it was. Right from the first he spoiled it. “I know quail,” she cried. “It was quite close to me. A white hen quail.”
“That would be a thing to see,” he said. “I never heard of one.”
“But I tell you I saw it.”
He dabbed at her forehead. “Well, I suppose it was an albino. No pigment in the feathers, something like that.”
She was growing hysterical again. “You don’t understand. That white quail was me, the secret me that no one can ever get at, the me that’s way inside.” Harry’s face was contorted with the struggle to understand. “Can’t you see, dear? The cat was after me. It was going to kill me. That’s why I want to poison it.” She studied his face. No, he didn’t understand, he couldn’t. Why had she told him? If she hadn’t been so upset she never would have told him.
“I’ll set my alarm clock,” he assured her. “Tomorrow morning I’ll give that cat something to remember.”
At ten o’clock he left her alone. And when he had gone Mary got up and locked the door.
His alarm-clock bell awakened Mary in the morning. It was still dark in her room, but she could see the gray light of morning through the window. She heard Harry dressing quietly. He tiptoed past her door and went outside, closing the door silently for fear of awakening her. He carried the new shining air gun in his hand. The fresh gray morning air made him throw back his shoulders and step lightly over the damp lawn. He walked to the comer of the garden and lay down on his stomach in the wet grass.
The garden grew lighter. Already the quail were twittering metallically. The little brown band came to the edge of the brush and cocked their heads. Then the big leader called, “All’s well,” and his charges ran with quick steps to the pool. A moment later the white quail followed them. She went to the other side of the pool and dipped her beak and threw back her head. Harry raised the gun. The white quail tipped her head and looked toward him. The air gun spat with a vicious whisper. The quail flew off into the brush. But the white quail fell over and shuddered a moment, and lay still on the lawn.
Harry walked slowly over to her and picked her up. “I didn’t mean to kill it,” he said to himself. “I just wanted to scare it away.” He looked at the white bird in his hand. Right in the head, right under the eye the BB shot had gone. Harry stepped to the line of fuchsias and threw the quail up into the brush. The next moment he put down the gun and crashed up through the undergrowth. He found the white quail, carried her far up the hill and buried her under a pile of leaves.
Mary heard him pass her door. “Harry, did you shoot the cat?”
“It won’t ever come back,” he said through the door.
“Well, I hope you killed it, but I don’t want to hear the details.”
Harry walked on into the living room and sat down in a big chair. The room was still dusky, but through the big dormer window the garden glowed and the tops of the lawn oaks were afire with sunshine.
“What a skunk I am,” Harry
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