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1 WINTER DREAMS by F. Scott Fitzgerald SOME OF THE CADDIES were poor as sin and lived in o ne- room houses with a neurasthenic cow in the front ya rd, but Dexter Green’s father owned the second best grocery -store in Black Bear–the best one was “The Hub,” patronized by the wealthy people from Sherry Island–and Dexter caddi ed only for pocket-money. In the fall when the days became crisp and gray, an d the long Minnesota winter shut down like the white lid of a box, Dexter’s skis moved over the snow that hid the fairways of t he golf course. At these times the country gave him a feeli ng of profound melancholy–it offended him that the links should lie in enforced fallowness, haunted by ragged sparrows for the long season. It was dreary, too, that on the tees where the gay colors fluttered in summer there were now only the desolate sand-boxes knee-deep in crusted ice. When he crosse d the hills the wind blew cold as misery, and if the sun was out he tramped with his eyes squinted up against the hard dimensionless glare. In April the winter ceased abruptly. The snow ran d own into Black Bear Lake scarcely tarrying for the early gol fers to brave the season with red and black balls. Without elatio n, without an interval of moist glory, the cold was gone. Dexter knew that there was something dismal about t his Northern spring, just as he knew there was somethin g gorgeous about the fall. Fall made him clinch his h ands and tremble and repeat idiotic sentences to himself, an d make brisk abrupt gestures of command to imaginary audiences a nd armies. October filled him with hope which November raised to a sort of ecstatic triumph, and in this mood the fl eeting brilliant impressions of the summer at Sherry Island were rea dy grist to his mill. He became a golf champion and defeated Mr . T. A. Hedrick in a marvellous match played a hundred time s over the fairways of his imagination, a match each detail of which he changed about untiringly–sometimes he won with alm ost laughable ease, sometimes he came up magnificently from behind. Again, stepping from a Pierce-Arrow automob ile, like Mr. Mortimer Jones, he strolled frigidly into the l ounge of the Sherry Island Golf Club– or perhaps, surrounded by an admiring crowd, he gave an exhibition of fancy divi ng from the spring-board of the club raft. . . . Among those wh o watched him in open-mouthed wonder was Mr. Mortimer Jones. And one day it came to pass that Mr. Jones–himself and not his ghost– came up to Dexter with tears in his eye s and said that Dexter was the—-best caddy in the club, and wouldn’t he decide not to quit if Mr. Jones made it worth his w hile, because every other caddy in the club lost one ball a hole for him– regularly—- “No, sir,” said Dexter decisively, “I don’t want to caddy any more.” Then, after a pause: “I’m too old.” “You’re not more than fourteen. Why the devil did y ou decide just this morning that you wanted to quit? You prom ised that next week you’d go over to the State tournament wit h me.” “I decided I was too old.” Dexter handed in his “A Class” badge, collected wha t money was due him from the caddy master, and walked home to Black Bear Village. “The best—-caddy I ever saw,” shouted Mr. Mortime r Jones over a drink that afternoon. “Never lost a ball! Wi lling! Intelligent! Quiet! Honest! Grateful!” The little girl who had done this was eleven–beaut ifully ugly as little girls are apt to be who are destined after a few years to be inexpressibly lovely and bring no end of misery to a great number of men. The spark, however, was perceptible. There was a general ungodliness in the way her lips twist ed ,down at the corners when she smiled, and in the–Heaven hel p us!–in the almost passionate quality of her eyes. Vitality is born early in such women. It was utterly in evidence now, shin ing through her thin frame in a sort of glow. She had come eagerly out on to the course at nine o ‘clock with a white linen nurse and five small new golf-clubs i n a white canvas bag which the nurse was carrying. When Dexte r first saw her she was standing by the caddy house, rather ill at ease and trying to conceal the fact by engaging her nurse in an obviously unnatural conversation graced by startlin g and irrelevant grimaces from herself. “Well, it’s certainly a nice day, Hilda,” Dexter he ard her say. She drew down the corners of her mouth, smiled, and glanced furtively around, her eyes in transit falling for a n instant on Dexter. Then to the nurse: “Well, I guess there aren’t very many people out he re this morning, are there?” The smile again–radiant, blatantly artificial–con vincing. “I don’t know what we’re supposed to do now,” said the nurse, looking nowhere in particular. “Oh, that’s all right. I’ll fix it up. Dexter stood perfectly still, his mouth slightly aj ar. He knew that if he moved forward a step his stare would be in her line of vision–if he moved backward he would lose his full view of her face. For a moment he had not realized how young sh e was. Now he remembered having seen her several times the year before in bloomers. Suddenly, involuntarily, he laughed, a short abrupt laugh– then, startled by himself, he turned and began to w alk quickly away. “Boy!” Dexter stopped. “Boy—-”
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