Jimmy Ruan went through the farmyard and climbed upon the gate that led into the field.  He saw the big straw stacks that had been built up only four days ago at the time of the threshing; he saw the black and sodden patch upon the turf where the steamy water had dripped ceaselessly, the ruts where the heavy thresher and the traction engine had driven deep into the soil.  He saw, too, the last little scales of chaff, still palely golden, that had lain hidden till this frolicsome wind had come to whirl them up in one last mad dance before it lost them for ever.  For it was a morning of clear and windy brightness, one of those first days of autumn which are also a last flicker of the summer.

The wind was everywhere—­high in the flocculent clouds, low between the closest grass-blades; scattering the seeded flowers in the hedgerows, rippling under the tarpaulin covers of the stacks so that they seemed to be drawing deep breaths, twisting the golden straws upon the cobbled yard until they seemed to be playing together—­playing mad games of wrestling, each slim golden combatant writhing from beneath his fellow at the last moment of contact.  The wind lifted also the collar of Jim’s tunic, making it flap about his rosy cheeks, and it sent streaming out the black silk tie that his mother had knotted there herself.

Jim put up his hand to make sure the black tie was still safe.  He was sorry that his grandfather was what people called dead, but with his sorrow went a tiny thrill.  Nothing so important had ever happened to Jimmy before.  He wondered if he would be put into black altogether so that the other children he met would know he was in mourning.

He swayed back and forth upon the gate.  First he pretended he was a soldier riding on horseback like his father had been in South Africa-on-the-map.  Next he was a sailor in a storm at sea, and the wind was shaking his good ship under him, and the waves were mounting, high, high, as they often had over the ship of old Uncle Archelaus, whom he had met long ago.

Thought of the sea and sight of the tiny ripples on the surface of the horse-trough suggested a new game to him.  He had been told to run away out of doors and not bother, so it was very quietly that he crept into the empty breakfast-room, which was also his playroom, and began to search in his toy chest for something he could pretend was a ship.  With a cry of joy he pounced upon a walnut shell that lay tucked away in a corner.  He sat upon his heels, the shell in his little brown hand.  He was remembering that it was one his grandfather had cracked for him and made into a boat by the addition of matches for seats and mast.  He loved it until his uncle Archelaus had made him a real boat of wood, and then he had thrown it aside and forgotten it.  In this corner it must have lain ever since while he played with and broke the other ship of wood.