I have a poppy field. That is， by the grace of God andthe good-nature of editors， I am enabled to place eachmonth divers gold pieces into a clerical gentleman’shands， and in return for said gold pieces I am each monthreinvested with certain proprietary-rights in a poppyfield. This field blazes on the rim of the Piedmont Hills.
Beneath lies all the world. In the distance， across the silversweep of bay， San Francisco smokes on her many hills likea second Rome. Not far away， Mount Tamalpais thrustsa rugged shoulder into the sky； and midway between isthe Golden Gate， where sea mists love to linger. Fromthe poppy field we often see the shimmering blue of thePacific beyond， and the busy ships that go for ever out andin.
“We shall have great joy in our poppy field，” said Bess.
“Yes，” said I； “how the poor city folk will envy when theycome to see us， and how we will make all well again whenwe send them off with great golden armfuls！”
“But those things will have to come down，” I added，pointing to numerous obtrusive notices （relics of the lasttenant） displayed conspicuously along the boundaries， andbearing， each and all， this legend：
“Private Grounds. No Trespassing.”
“Why should we refuse the poor city folk a ramble overour field， because， forsooth， they have not the advantageof our acquaintance？”
“How I abhor such things，” said Bess； “the arrogantsymbols of power.”
“They disgrace human nature，” said I.
“They shame the generous landscape，” she said， “andthey are abominable.”
“Piggish！” quoth I， hotly. “Down with them！”
We looked forward to the coming of the poppies， didBess and I， looked forward as only creatures of the citymay look who have been long denied. I have forgotten tomention the existence of a house above the poppy field，a squat and wandering bungalow in which we had electedto forsake town traditions and live in fresher and morevigorous ways. The first poppies came， orange-yellow andgolden in the standing grain， and we went about gleefully，as though drunken with their wine， and told each otherthat the poppies were there. We laughed at unexpectedmoments， in the midst of silences， and at times grewashamed and stole forth secretly to gaze upon our treasury.
But when the great wave of poppy-flame finally spilleditself down the field， we shouted aloud， and danced， andclapped our hands， freely and frankly mad.
And then came the Goths. My face was in a lather， thetime of the first invasion， and I suspended my razor inmid-air to gaze out on my beloved field. At the far endI saw a little girl and a little boy， their arms filled withyellow spoil. Ah， thought I， an unwonted benevolenceburgeoning， what a delight to me is their delight！ It issweet that children should pick poppies in my field. Allsummer shall they pick poppies in my field. But they mustbe little children， I added as an afterthought， and theymust pick from the lower end—this last prompted by aglance at the great golden fellows nodding in the wheatbeneath my window. Then the razor descended. Shavingwas always an absorbing task， and I did not glance outof the window again until the operation was completed.
And then I was bewildered. Surely this was not mypoppy field. No—and yes， for there were the tall pinesclustering austerely together on one side， the magnoliatree burdened with bloom， and the Japanese quincessplashing the driveway hedge with blood. Yes， it was thefield， but no wave of poppy-flame spilled down it， nor didthe great golden fellows nod in the wheat beneath mywindow. I rushed into a jacket and out of the house. In thefar distance were disappearing two huge balls of colour，orange and yellow， for all the world like perambulatingpoppies of cyclopean breed.
“Johnny，” said I to the nine-year-old son of my sister，“Johnny， whenever little girls come into our field to pickpoppies， you must go down to them， and in a very quietand gentlemanly manner， tell them it is not allowed.”
Warm days came， and the sun drew another blazefrom the free-bosomed earth. Whereupon a neighbour’slittle girl， at the behest of her mother， duly craved andreceived permission from Bess to gather a few poppies fordecorative purposes. But of this I was uninformed， andwhen I descried her in the midst of the field I waved myarms like a semaphore against the sky.
“Little girl！” called I. “Little girl！”
The little girl’s legs blurred the landscape as she fled， andin high elation I sought Bess to tell of the potency of myvoice. Nobly she came to the rescue， departing forthwithon an expedition of conciliation and explanation to thelittle girl’s mother. But to this day the little girl seekscover at sight of me， and I know the mother will never beas cordial as she would otherwise have been.
Came dark， overcast days， stiff， driving winds， andpelting rains， day on day， without end， and the city folkcowered in their dwelling-places like flood-beset rats； andlike rats， half-drowned and gasping， when the weathercleared they crawled out and up the green Piedmontslopes to bask in the blessed sunshine. And they invadedmy field in swarms and droves， crushing the sweet wheatinto the earth and with lustful hands ripping the poppiesout by the roots.
“I shall put up the warnings against trespassing，” I said.
“Yes，” said Bess， with a sigh. “I’m afraid it is necessary.”
The day was yet young when she sighed again： “I’mafraid， O Man， that your signs are of no avail. People haveforgotten how to read， these days.”
I went out on the porch. A city nymph， in cool summergown and picture hat， paused before one of my newlyreared warnings and read it through with care. Profounddeliberation characterized her movements. She wasstatuesquely tall， but with a toss of the head and a flirt ofthe skirt she dropped on hands and knees， crawled underthe fence， and came to her feet on the inside with poppiesin both her hands. I walked down the drive and talkedethically to her， and she went away. Then I put up moresigns.
