# War; or, What happens when one loves one's enemy/Chapter 10

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THE PICNIC
ONE day Evelyn proposed that we all have a picnic to Rostrom Rock over there. But she was trembly and excited about it in a way I never saw before.
"It'll take us all day to go and come," says I.
"All the better," says she. "Betsy'll bring all of her best pies—and leave the armies to do without them for one day. Let us hurry to get off early."
"Is Betsy to go, too?" asks I.
"Everybody—even the hireland!" cries Evelyn, dancing—crazy—with unusual excitement.
I wasn't exactly pleased to eat ants with my pie. But Dave and Jon didn't care for a few ants more or less—if Evelyn went with 'em. Betsy was against me, saying that the idea was providential, inasmuch as she had ​baked a fine lot of gooseberry pies! And not a soldier had come after 'em yet.
But I said no!—and put my foot down, and Evelyn said yes and put hers down.
And so it stood—both stubborn.
Then Evelyn backed down herself—sudden.
"No, we won't go," she says. "I'm afraid. I daren't do it. I won't—I won't do it!"
And she starts away to the house, and up to her room. I saw her look out the window, and swing her arms.
But she had hardly reached it before she came running back, scared and excited, saying:
"Yes—come on. We got to go. It's orders."
"Don't you feel well, Evelyn?" asks Jon.
"No," says Evelyn, then, "yes."
"We'd better not go," says Jon.
"I don't know what to do—I don't know what—yes, we've got to do it. If I disobey—"
She didn't waver any more. But I was still stubborn. Though after Betsy said gooseberry pies I had wobbled.
​"I hardly think there will be any left, after the picnic," says Betsy, and that she had about used up the crop.
That finished me. Gooseberry pies—Betsy's kind—with molasses instead of sugar in—was my besetting sin from my youth up. The boy's mother used to set 'em up for me when I went to see her nights, to catch me. Well, they done it—notwithstanding many a colic—and the Jamaica ginger she gave me for the way home. And she had taught Betsy to make 'em her way. So I went on that picnic just to get a last piece of gooseberry pie! And it was the last for years to come. Eight miles going and eight miles coming for three—no four, pieces of pie—and a pain! What do you think of that for an old fool! But I wasn't so old then as I am now—though even now—I fall to gooseberry pie!
The hireland filled the hay wagon with straw, and we all sat on the bottom. I never saw Dave so happy. He just stretched out in the hay with his back against the seat aside of ​Evelyn, and enjoyed her. And she seemed to enjoy Dave. Though now and then a funny scare would come over her face like she remembered something and she would look back the way we had come. For, as we were climbing upward most of the time, you could look back at our house a couple miles of the way. She made Jon come to her other side.
And once I heard her whisper, when she was scared that way:
"Oh, God! I hope they won't! I hope they can't!"
"Won't and can't what?" asks I.
"Beat me!"
Right away she laughs—and begins a game with old Jonthy.
It's piling hands on top of one another and pulling them from under and getting caught and kissed. It didn't take Jon long to catch her—for she was always looking back that way.
"Kiss her, Jonthy," laughs Dave, and Jon he kissed the hand he had caught.
​"No," says Dave. "You're entitled to one right here—"
Dave kissed her smack on the lips.
"One, to your credit, Jonthy," says Dave.
And then, just absently, when she was looking back that way, and Jon was looking up at her, she catches him!
"Now you got to kiss him!" says Dave, and holds Jon fast while he makes Evelyn kiss him. She don't know she's doing it—always looking back.
Well, you'd think if there was anything to show on Jon's face it would be blushes. But he closed his eyes and got pale as a sheet.
And then he made Dave play and get caught—and even me! And Betsy!
Jonthy got away into a corner of the wagon and lay there with his eyes closed and his face still pale, as if he wanted to keep what he had.
When we got about a mile or so from the house—down over some hills—where you couldn't even see the chimleys, Evelyn stops ​looking back and is happier—so happy that we all had a nice time—even the hireland.
Well, I hadn't wanted to go, but, after all, it was fine. I fell in the Ice-Spring, and a snake bit Jon. Otherwise it was a good picnic.
Coming back, it was just like all picnics—all was tired and we lay on our backs in the yellow straw and let the hireland drive. The three youngsters, with little help from me, were happy as happy, and sang a lot of the old songs that took me back to my wife in her grave: Annie Laurie, Her Bright Smile Haunts Me Still, Home Sweet Home, and so on, until we begun to get near home. Then every little while Evelyn would rise and look down the valley—until about that same mile from home, when she shivered a bit after looking, and slid down into the straw, cuddled up between Jonathan and Dave, and began to cry.
"What makes you cry, dear?" asks Dave.
She said nothing.
"Often," says nice old Jonthy, always ready with oil on the water, "women cry for—joy!"
​"Yes!" sobs Evelyn.
"And, it has been a very happy day, hasn't it, sister, dear? says old Goliath.
Evelyn nods and slips an arm about each of the boys.
The sun was just setting. We were driving toward it. The three faces were before me. Jon's was white—with the eyes staring and the hands clenched.
Evelyn was scared—and breathing hard and fast—harder and faster as we got nearer home. Her hands were clenched, too—and unconsciously she drew the boys as hard to her as she could, as if they were both to protect her from something.
Dave's face was full of pure—almost childish joy! Just nothing but joy! He was singing—all alone this time. But he had a bully big tenor voice and I liked to hear him. The nearest neighbors didn't.
"Dear Evelina,  Sweet Evelina, My love for you shall never, never, die!"
​Then, night fell. At the last I could still see the eyes of Jon and Evelyn staring out of the dusk. And Dave's voice, softer and softer, kept on singing:
"—My love for you shall never, never die!"
So we came home. It was very dark. The hireland told us to stand still and hold the horses till he got a lantern. My boys stood, one on each side of Evelyn. Dave was singing the last strain:
"—never, never die!"
We started away to the house as soon as the hireland got his lantern going. Evelyn left the boys and took my arm. For some reason we were all very quiet. It was queer.
I thought I saw several shadows move away from the house in the darkness.
"What is that, Evelyn?" I asks. "Men? What are they doing here?"
I was a little excited.
Evelyn quiets me and says:
​"Sh! No. I thi—think it's the cows. They were lying down and we disturbed them. Yes—it was the cows."
"Not on your life," says I. "The cows wouldn't run for us. Anyhow, it would be the first time they ever got out of the way. They'd let you fall over 'em first. We got to be careful about men around the place. I didn't think of it till now. But there's been no one about all day! It's war-times, Evelyn, and, if you ever see any one about you must tell me."
"Yes, daddy, dear," she says, excitedly.
"We'll look around and see whether they've taken anything," says I.
Things looked queer, even in the dark. And, first I know, I tumbles over a tree!
Well! Some one had cut down the finest oak in the circle around the house!—on the south side!
"My great-grandfather Hiliary planted that tree," says I, hot and hard, "and it would be as much as his life would be worth for me to find the rascal who did it!"
​Dave smells the chips and says:
"It's just been finished!"
Jon rubs his hand over the stump.
"The sap is still as thin as water," says he. "It hasn't been down ten minutes. I've cut down enough trees to know!"
"Come," says Dave, "he's not far away. That was him—or them—daddy saw. Come on, we can get him!"
He starts away, fighty as a young bull. But Evelyn clutches him.
Then she acts as if she didn't know why she done it.
"Don't—don't—leave me alone," she says, at last, and the way she was trembling proved that she oughtn't to be left alone.
Jonthy, he comes up and takes hold of Dave.
"Yes," he says, "there is something better than trees—after all—here to be anxious about. We've forgotten it in our anger."
Of course, Dave is scared about Evelyn and gives it up—killing the marauders.
​Jon and Dave had things to say, nevertheless, not warranted by Scripture, or their training, about secessionists and sympathizers getting even. But Evelyn said nothing—only I could feel her shaking.
"What do you think of this business, Evelyn?" asks I. "You got a good head."
"It was a bi—beautiful tri—tree, daddy, dear," she says, "and—and I think I will go to bed!"
And she starts right off, without another word, crying like a baby.
We were all stumped for a minute, and then, nice old Jon, as usual, fixes it.
"She loved that tree, daddy and Dave," and he puts his arms around both of us, and I know he was smiling that inward smile of his, "it was right before her window. She loved it just as she loves us—and, just as if one of us should be cut down in his strength, she weeps for it! Come! We can't quite weep. But we can understand her weeping—can't we, daddy and Dave? She loved it!"
​Yes, says Dave, and yes, says I. But I don't think either of us understood that like dear old Jonthy did.
The idea didn't occur to me until I saw it accidentally, some time after—that there was now a clear space between Crider and us! He could see our chimley-tops. From our garret window I could see his. And even then I didn't know what to do with the idea.
But Jon did.
He said that since our quarrel, about which I had told him, Crider was angry. He was a bad man to have against one, and had got even by doing for us what we had thought suspicious when he did it for himself.
"Yes," I says, "that's just it—the fire-wood business— Well, I'll let him know about it maybe with a club!—right off the old tree!"
"No, no," laughs Jon. "No fighting just now. No more enemies than we must make. Keep the peace, daddy, so that we keep our heads," laughs Jon. "We need 'em now—and ​here. Especially if our neighbors don't like our trees."
And as that seemed good advice, I let Crider pass a number of times when I could have tripped him over the bank into Mud Creek—where he belonged.