Free Clair De Lune by Jetta Carleton Page B

he returned, he offered Allen a hand, pulled her up. “Regard this sphinx,” he said. “Is it animal, mineral, or vegetable?”
    â€œTwo of the three,” said George. “Mineral in the immaculate form of a lion and a woman, both animal.”
    â€œHead on,” said Allen, “it looks something like Mrs. Medgar.”
    Having thus disposed of the riddle, they descended the steps and wandered on.
    â€œThey used to have a tiger out at the park,” said Toby.
    â€œWhen?” said Allen.
    â€œTwenty, thirty years ago. Before my time.”
    â€œWhere’d they keep it?”
    George said, “There’s a cave out there. We’ve passed it a thousand times. Didn’t you ever notice it?”
    â€œIt’s always dark.”
    â€œI’d have thought you could smell it.”
    â€œDoes it smell?”
    â€œIt ought to, it had a tiger in it.”
    â€œDo tigers smell?”
    â€œOf course they do.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œThey just do, that’s all.”
    â€œWhat happened to it?”
    â€œI don’t know. He died or something. Maybe ran away with the circus.”
    It was necessary then to go investigate the cave, and presently they were crossing the high bridge over the ravine that bounded one side of the park.
    â€œDown this walk,” said Toby, “and over there to the right.”
    A high fence guarded a sort of cave hollowed out of the limestone strata. They considered scaling the fence but gave up the notion and, after sniffing and snuffling along the bars, soon lost interest.
    Cutting across to the swings, they pumped themselves into the air a few times and from there wandered on past the lake and down a long, easy incline at the far end of the park. At the bottom of the slope a footbridge led across the creek at a narrow point and on to the country-club grounds. The evening was young yet, by their time, and they lingered on the bridge discussing tigers and zoos and whether they were or were not ethical or esthetic and if not why not, until the moon, rising behind the trees, prompted George to sing.
    Au clair de la lune
    Mon ami Pierrot…
    Miss Boatwright had chosen the song for the chorus, and the boys had learned it there. Toby picked up the harmony, more or less:
    Prete-moi la plume
    Pour ecrire un mot.
    Ma chandelle est morte
    Je n’a plus de feu…
    The sound of their voices pleased them almost as much as they pleased Allen. They sang it all the way through. Then they worked out the words in English. A boy pretends to be the god of love and gains admission to a brunette’s room, and they look for the pen, and for fire. “I don’t know what was found,” the song ends coyly, and closes the door on them.
    â€œOl’ Miss Maxie has us singing a dirty song.” George whooped with delight.
    Toby smirked. “She probably has no idea what the words mean.”
    Allen was unsure, and their speculations about why Maxine had assigned that song, none too innocent, occupied them for some minutes as they strolled on across the bridge into country-club territory.
    It was the very extent of the grounds that drew them on. Acres of lovely greensward—open, inviting, and forbidden. (After all, they were not members.) They stood on a low rise now, taking it in. The ground was mossy with moonlight, the gentle swells billowing off into the distance. In the tree-lined borders of the course, the light picked out the white trunks of sycamores, Every limestone outcrop had turned to rough silver.
    â€œListen!” Allen said. From the top of the hill, where the clubhouse glittered among the trees, came the faint sound of the band playing “All the Things You Are.”
    â€œThey’re having a party!”
    George said, “Let’s go up and crash it. Wouldn’t that rattle their bones!”
    â€œAnd get the dogs sicced on us too. Like Cathy and Heathcliff.”
    â€œ We’d get