said May， a maid about the bungalow. I went out on theporch and waited their advent. They plunged through thepine trees and into the fields， and as the roots of the firstpoppies were pulled I called to them. They were about ahundred feet away. The woman and the little girl turnedto the sound of my voice and looked at me. “Please do notpick the poppies，” I pleaded. They pondered this for aminute； then the woman said something in an undertoneto the little girl， and both backs jack-knifed as theslaughter recommenced. I shouted， but they had becomesuddenly deaf. I screamed， and so fiercely that the littlegirl wavered dubiously. And while the woman went onpicking I could hear her in low tones heartening the littlegirl.
I recollected a siren whistle with which I was wont tosummon Johnny， the son of my sister. It was a fearsomething， of a kind to wake the dead， and I blew and blew，but the jack-knifed backs never unclasped. I do not mindwith men， but I have never particularly favoured physicalencounters with women； yet this woman， who encourageda little girl in iniquity， tempted me.
I went into the bungalow and fetched my rifle. Flourishingit in a sanguinary manner and scowling fearsomely， Icharged upon the invaders. The little girl fled， screaming，to the shelter of the pines， but the woman calmly went onpicking. She took not the least notice. I had expected herto run at sight of me， and it was embarrassing. There wasI， charging down the field like a wild bull upon a womanwho would not get out of the way. I could only slow down，supremely conscious of how ridiculous it all was. At adistance of ten feet she straightened up and deigned tolook at me. I came to a halt and blushed to the roots ofmy hair. Perhaps I really did frighten her （I sometimes tryto persuade myself that this is so）， or perhaps she tookpity on me； but， at any rate， she stalked out of my fieldwith great composure， nay， majesty， her arms brimmingwith orange and gold.
Nevertheless， thenceforward I saved my lungs andflourished my rifle. Also， I made fresh generalizations. Tocommit robbery women take advantage of their sex. Menhave more respect for property than women. Men areless insistent in crime than women. And women are lessafraid of guns than men. Likewise， we conquer the earthin hazard and battle by the virtues of our mothers. We area race of land-robbers and sea-robbers， we Anglo-Saxons，and small wonder， when we suckle at the breasts of a breedof women such as maraud my poppy field.
Still the pillage went on. Sirens and gun-flourishingswere without avail. The city folk were great of heart andundismayed， and I noted the habit of “repeating” wasbecoming general. What booted it how often they weredriven forth if each time they were permitted to carryaway their ill-gotten plunder？ When one has turned thesame person away twice and thrice an emotion arisessomewhat akin to homicide. And when one has oncebecome conscious of this sanguinary feeling his wholedestiny seems to grip hold of him and drag him into theabyss. More than once I found myself unconsciouslypulling the rifle into position to get a sight on themiserable trespassers. In my sleep I slew them in manifoldways and threw their carcasses into the reservoir. Eachday the temptation to shoot them in the legs becamemore luring， and every day I felt my fate calling to meimperiously. Visions of the gallows rose up before me，and with the hemp about my neck I saw stretched outthe pitiless future of my children， dark with disgrace andshame. I became afraid of myself， and Bess went aboutwith anxious face， privily beseeching my friends to enticeme into taking a vacation. Then， and at the last gasp， camethe thought that saved me： Why not confiscate？ If theirforays were bootless， in the nature of things their forayswould cease.
The first to enter my field thereafter was a man.
I was waiting for him—And， oh joy！ it was the “Repeater”
himself， smugly complacent with knowledge of pastsuccess. I dropped the rifle negligently across the hollowof my arm and went down to him.
“I am sorry to trouble you for those poppies，” I said inmy oiliest tones； “but really， you know， I must have them.”
He regarded me speechlessly. It must have made a greatpicture. It surely was dramatic. With the rifle across myarm and my suave request still ringing in my ears， I feltlike Black Bart， and Jesse James， and Jack Sheppard， andRobin Hood， and whole generations of highwaymen.
“Come， come，” I said， a little sharply and in what Iimagined was the true fashion； “I am sorry to inconvenienceyou， believe me， but I must have those poppies.”
I absently shifted the gun and smiled. That fetchedhim. Without a word he passed them over and turned histoes toward the fence， but no longer casual and carelesswas his carriage， I nor did he stoop to pick the occasionalpoppy by the way. That was the last of the “Repeater.” Icould see by his eyes that he did not like me， and his backreproached me all the way down the field and out of sight.
From that day the bungalow has been flooded withpoppies. Every vase and earthen jar is filled with them.
