Dinky-Dunk has been called to Calgary on business. It sounds simple enough, in these Unpretentious Annals of an Unloved Worm, but I can’t help feeling that it marks a trivially significant divide in the trend of things. It depresses me more than I can explain. My depression, I imagine, comes mostly from the manner in which Duncan went. He was matter-of-fact enough about it all, but I can’t get rid of the impression that he went with a feeling very much like relief. His manner, at any rate, was not one to invite cross-examination, and he insisted, to the end, on regarding his departure as an every-day incident in the life of a preoccupied rancher. So I caught my cue from him, and was as quiet about it all as he could have wished. But under the crust was the volcano....

The trouble with the tragedies of real life is that they are never clear-cut. It takes art to weave a selvage about them or fit them into a frame. But in reality they’re as ragged and nebulous as 119 wind-clouds. The days drag on into weeks, and the weeks into months, and life on the surface seems to be running on, the same as before. There’s the same superficial play of all the superficial old forces, but in the depths are dangers and uglinesses and sullen bombs of emotional TNT we daren’t even touch!

Heigho! I nearly forgot my sursum-corda rÔle. And didn’t old Doctor Johnson say that peevishness was the vice of narrow minds? So here’s where we tighten up the belt a bit. But we humans, who come into the world alone, and go out of it alone, are always hungering for companionship which we can’t quite find. Our souls are islands, with a coral-reef of reserve built up about them. Last night, when I was patching some of Gershom’s undies for him, I wickedly worked an arrow-pierced heart, in red yarn, on one leg of his B.V.D.’s. This morning, I noticed, his eye evaded mine and there was marked constraint in his manner. I even begin to detect unmistakable signs of nervousness in him when we happen to be alone together. And during his last music lesson there was a vibrata of emotion in his voice which made me think of an April frog in a slough-end.

Even my little Dinkie, day before yesterday, asked 120 me if I’d mind not bathing him any more. He explained that he thought he could manage very nicely by himself now. It seemed trivial enough, and yet, in a way, it was momentous. I am to be denied the luxury of tubbing my own child. I, who always loved even the smell of that earthy and soil-grubbing young body, who could love it when it wasn’t any too clean and could glory in its musky and animal-like odors as well as the satin-shine of the light on its well-soaped little ribs, must now stand aside before the reservations of sex. It makes me feel that I’ve reached still another divide on the continent of motherhood.

This afternoon, when I wandered into the study, I observed Dinkie stooping over a Chesterfield pillow with his right hand upraised in a perplexingly dramatic manner. He turned scarlet when he saw me standing there watching him. But the question in my eyes did not escape him.

“I was pr’tendin’ to be King Arthur when he found out Guinevere was in love with Launcelot,” he rather lamely explained as he walked away to the window and stood staring out over the prairie. But for the life of me I can’t understand what should have turned his thoughts into that particular channel 121 of romance. Those are matters with which the young and the innocent should have nothing to do. They are matters, in fact, which it behooves even the old and the wary to eschew.