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Show then a slingshot, made out of the parts of a doll, to hit the fledgling tree-sparrows in the nest outside his window. Finally the father did come, but something was different. He did not abuse the mother or strike her, as he often did; he whistled a little under his breath, and helped her put on her coat. "Two hours," she said sharply. "Give her a kiss," said the father. The boy could not imagine why, but he did what he was told, thinking of kidney stew and broccoli. When she was gone, the father looked at the boy's metal soldiers. "They're going off on a long march," he said. The boy tried to ask where, but his father seemed to be in a hurry. He led the boy out to his car and opened the trunk: in it were folded cardboard cartons, brand new. "For the long march," said the father, "we must take everything." "In two hours?" asked the boy. "Maybe a little longer," answered the father, "she won't care." They wrapped the soldiers in tissue paper, and laid them, side by side in careful rows, in one of the cartons. They packed the boy's clothes, his shoes, his baseball glove, although he almost never used it. "Everything?" asked the boy. "I don't want the bears." "On a long march we cannot leave anything behind," said the father. So the boy stuffed the bears into a box, head first, and brought it out to the garage. Then they got into the car and drove a long time, so many days |