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At the national boundary the flags showed different colors； though the same breeze blew them。 You stopped for customs and immigration； and were suddenly a stranger； unfamiliar。 〃Look；〃 you said； 〃that policeman has a different uniform！〃 You got new money； and even for picture post…cards the stamps had to have another face on them。 〃Better drive extra carefully；〃 you said。 〃Wouldn't be good to get arrested over here。〃 That was a funny business！ You stepped across a line you couldn't see； and then you were one of those queer people…a foreigner！
But boundaries fade even faster than fences。 Imaginary lines need no rust to efface them。 Then there will be no quick shifts； and adjustments； and perhaps it will be easier on the mind。 They will say as in the beginning： 〃About where oaks start to get thin； and the pines take over。 〃 They will say： 〃Over across there…can't tell exactly…in the foothills where it gets drier and you start seeing sage…brush。
After the boys had left； there seemed to be a settling down into another one of those calm and happy periods which had led them to name one certain time the Good Year。 Day after day things drifted； week after week。 The rains held on late…hard showers； quickly clearing afterwards； with fine blue weather； so that the far…off towers of the Golden Gate Bridge stood out clean…etched and still majestic against the the western sky。
In the mornings； Ish usually managed to herd enough of them together to get some work done on the well。 Their first shaft hit bed rock before water； for on the slope of the hill the soil was thin。 But they managed to take the second shaft down； until they struck a good flow。 They walled the well in with planking； and covered it； and rigged a hand…pump。 By this time； they had all bee accustomed to using the outhouses； and the thought of the labor involved to make the toilets work again by means of pipes and tanks and hand…pumping seemed more than was worthwhile。 And so they put it off。
The fishing was good now。 Everyone wanted to go fishing； and other matters seemed to take second place。
In the evenings； they often gathered together； and sang songs to the acpaniment of Ish's accordion。 He sometimes suggested that they should try singing parts。 When they did； old George carried a good resonant bass； and the others caught on to the idea； but no one seemed very much interested in this sophistication。
No； Ish decided again as he had decided long before； they were not a very musical group。 Years before； he had tried bringing home records of symphonies and playing them on the wind…up phonograph。 Such rendition of course was not very good； even so； you could follow the themes。 But he never got the children interested。 At some melodic passage they might leave off their own playing or wood…carving and look up； listening with pleasure for a moment。 As soon； however； as the development became a little plicated； the children went back to their own play。 Well； what could you expect of merely a few average people and their descendants？ （No； a little better than average； he insisted…but possibly not in musical appreciation。） In the Old Times one American in a hundred might have had a deep or real appreciation of Beethoven； and those few were probably just among those more sophisticated and intense people who； like the more highly bred dogs； had apparently been less able to survive the shock of the Great Disaster。
As an experiment； he also tried jazz records。 At the loud blare of the saxophones； the children again left off their own enterprises； but again the interest had been momentary。 Le jazz hot！ It too； with all its involuted rhythms； had been a sophistication； it appealed； not to a simple and primitive mind； but to one that was highly developed and specialized； at least along that particular line。 You might as well expect the children to appreciate Picasso or Joyce。
In fact…and this was something that encouraged him…the younger generation showed little interest in listening to the phonograph at all； they preferred to do their own singing。 He took this as a good sign： that they would rather participate than listen； rather be actors than audiences。
They failed； however； to take the next step and pose tunes and words of their own。 Ish himself occasionally tried making up a verse with topical references； but either he had no knack for it or else his efforts met with unconscious resistance as being a violation of tradition。
So they sang in unison against the background of the standardized chords and bumping bass of the accordion。 The simpler tunes； he observed； they liked the best。 The words seemed to make little difference。 They sang 〃Carry me back to old Virginny〃 although they had no idea what 〃Virginny〃 was or who was asking to be carried back。 They sang 〃Halleluiah； I'm a bum！〃 without caring what a bum was。 They sang plaintively of Barbara Allen although none of them had even known of unrequited love。
Often； in those weeks； Ish thought of the two boys in the Jeep。 Perhaps the children would call for 〃Home on the Range；〃 and as his left hand shifted to the G…buttons； he would have a sudden thought； and a pang with it。 Just now Bob and Dick might be somewhere far out in the old range country。
Playing mechanically； he would wonder。 Were the deer and the antelope playing there now？ Or was it cattle？ Or had the buffalo e back？
More often； however； thoughts of the boys came to him in the dark hours of the night when some dream； caused by his very anxiety； brought him out of sleep in sudden terror to lie nervously considering possibilities。
How could he ever have let them try it？ He thought of all the dangers of flood and storm。 And the car！ You could never trust young fellows with a car； and even though there was no danger from traffic； they might run off the road。 There would be many bad places。 The boys would take chances。
There would be mountain…lions and bears and bad…tempered bulls。 Bulls were worst of all； because they never seemed to have lost a certain contempt for men； sprung perhaps from age…old familiarity。
No…more likely； the car would break down。 Then they would be marooned； hundreds or even thousands of miles away！
But what raised the worst shivers in Ish at such moments in the night was the thought of men！ What people might the boys encounter？ What strange munities…warped and perverted by curious circumstances； unrestrained by any flywheel of tradition！ There might be munities with universal and death…dealing hostility to the stranger。 Outlandish religious rites might have developed…human sacrifice； cannibalism！ Perhaps； like Odysseus himself； the two youngsters would encounter lotus…eaters and sirens and unspeakable Laestrygonians。
This munity of their own； here on the hillside； might be stodgy and dull and uncreative； but it had at least preserved the human decencies。 That was no guarantee that other unities had done the same。
But in the morning light； all these bug…a…boos of the darkness lost their reality。 Then he thought of the two boys as enjoying themselves； stimulated by new scenes； perhaps by new people。 Even if the car should break down and they were unable to start another one； still they could walk back over the same road they had driven。 There would be no lack of food。 Twenty miles a day； at least a hundred a week…even if they had to walk a thousand miles； they should be home before fall。 Actually； if they kept a car running； they should be home a great deal sooner。 When he thought of it； he could scarcely contain himself for excitement at the thought of all the news they would bring。
So the weeks passed； and the rains were over。 The grass on the hills lost its fresh greenness； and then seeded and turned brown。 In the mornings the low summer clouds hung so close that the towers of the bridges sometimes reached up into them。
Chapter 5
As time passed； Ish stopped thinking； and dreaming； so much about the two boys。 Their being gone so long seemed to show that they had traveled far。 It was barely time to expect their return from a transcontinental journey； and certainly not time to begin worrying over their failure to return。 Other thoughts； and worries； occupied his mind。
He had reorganized the school； and was back at what he felt to be his essential work of teaching the young ones to read and write and work a little arithmetic； and thus to maintain for The Tribe some hold on the basic skills of civilization。 But the young ones； ungratefully； fidgeted on their chairs； and looked restlessly toward the windows； and he knew that they wanted to be outside； running on the hillside； and playing at bulldodging； fishing。 He tried various lures； attempting the techniques which in the old days he remembered had been called 〃progressive education。〃
Wood…carving！ Curiously to Ish； wood…carving had bee the chief means of artistic expression。 Obviously this was a heritage from old George。 Perhaps； stupid as he was； George had unconsciously managed to pass along to the children his love of wood…working。 Ish himself had no interest in it； and no knack。
No matter what it had e from！ Could he； Ish； as a teacher； make use of this hobby to stimulate an intellectual interest？
So he began to teach them geometry； and to show them how with pass and ruler they could lay out designs on the surface of the wood。
The bait took； and soon with great enthusiasm everyone talked of circles and triangles and hexagons； and had laid out a geometrical design； and was eagerly carving。 Ish himself became interested。 He felt the fascination of the work as the mellow sugar…pine block…aged for almost a quarter century…began to peel off from his knife…edge。
But even before the first geometrical designs were executed； the children were losing interest。 To draw your knife along the edge of a steel square and thus get a straight linethat was easy and uninteresting。 To follow the outline of a circle…that was difficult enough； but was mechanical and dull。 And the designs when finished； even Ish had to admit； looked like bad imitations of old…time machine…work。
The children reverted to free…running handwork； often improvising as they went。 It was more fun to do； and in the end it looked be tter also。
Best of them all at carving was Walt； although he could never read； except in a halting stammer。 But when it came to doing a frieze of cattle on the smooth surface of a plank； Walt carved with sure touch。 He did not have to measure things out ahead； or to use the tricks of geometry。 If his row of three cows did not quite fill up the space； he merely carved a calf at the end of the line to take up what was left。 And yet； when he finished； it all looked as if he had planned it from the beginning。 He could work in low relief； or in three…quarters； or even sometimes in the full round。 The children admired his work； and him； tremendously。
So； Ish realized； he had failed in what had seemed his shrewdly planned attempt at using a hobby to stimulate an intellectual interest； and again he was left with little Joey。 Joey had no talent at wood…carving； but of them all； only he had kindled at those eternal truths of line and angle which had survived even the Great Disaster。 Once Ish found him cutting different…shaped triangles from pieces of paper and then recutting the ends from each triangle and placing them together to form a straight line。
〃Does it always work？〃 Ish asked。
〃Yes； always。 You said it always would。〃
〃Why do you do it then？〃
Joey could not explain why he did it； but Ish shared enough of the workings of his son's mind to be sure that Joey must be really paying a kind of homage to universal and unchangeable truth。 He was as much as saying to the powers of chance and change： 〃Here； make this one e out different； if you can！〃 And when those dark powers could not prevail； it was again a triumph for intellect。
So Ish was left with little Joey…spiritually； and sometimes also physically。 For； when the other children ran out of school whooping loudly； Joey often made a point of not going； but of sitting with some biggish…looking book； and even seeming a little superior in his attitude。
Physically； the other boys