Condescension that Withers 



stalk ; Healey's beans are up the bean-poles while 

 mine have not begun to coil. 



And there is Tim. He shovels coal of nights 

 at the pumping station, sleeping in the morning 

 and emerging late in the afternoon like a little 

 gnome who has ventured forth to find the day- 

 light blinding. There are certain tasks that I 

 should never think of giving him. Even as he 

 turns the sod, his small legs staggering under 

 his big shovel, it is only my sex and his boasts 

 that keep me from lending him a hand. But 

 while my potatoes are a scant two bushels, mere 

 little brown eggs that leave my fervor at low ebb, 

 Tim's have grown unblighted and in half my 

 ground he has tripled my yield. 



With Patsy I feel less humiliation. As he 

 comes up the drive in his scarlet blazer, his broad 

 face and gold teeth shining under his visored cap, 

 you could best imagine him chinning with the 

 bleachers or sending a swift ball to third. In 

 reality he is a barber. Is it that I often wonder 

 that makes him so skillful with his clippers? 

 What trim edges he leaves. .Is the gravel path a 

 collar to his imagination? Do the peony bushes 



[297] 



