VI
UNDER THE PLUM TREES
IT'S no use. I can't tell it. Old Jon was almost as gay and joyous as Dave, after a while—that's how glorious old Jonthy got to be with Evelyn about.
I use' to go out under the plum trees at night, sometimes, to reflect about my wife who was dead. And, one night, when I was laying on the flat of my back on that old yellow bench, looking at the moon through the trees—I can reflect much better that way—Jonathan and Evelyn came out and sat on the red bench. Evelyn folded her hands—this way—and looked up, through the trees, at the big yellow moon, as if she had some one dead to think of, also, and nothing much to say. Jonathan begun to tune his guitar. He was a nice player, and he kept picking soft little chords for a while, just rambling round among the notes
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