The Pastures of Heaven by John Steinbeck

initials, she scratched: “Here I have been and left this part of me,” and pressed her bloody finger against the absorbent chalk rock.
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    That night, in a letter, she wrote: “After the bare requisites to living and reproducing, man wants most to leave some record of himself, a proof, perhaps, that he has really existed. He leaves his proof on wood, on stone or on the lives of other people. This deep desire exists in everyone, from the boy who writes dirty words in a public toilet to the Buddha who etches his image in the race mind. Life is so unreal. I think that we seriously doubt that we exist and go about trying to prove that we do.” She kept a copy of the letter.
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    On the afternoon when she had read about the gnomes, as she walked home, the grasses beside the road threshed about for a moment and the ugly head of Tularecito appeared.
    â€œOh! You frightened me,” Miss Morgan cried. “You shouldn’t pop up like that.”
    Tularecito stood up and smiled bashfully while he whipped his hat against his thigh. Suddenly Miss Morgan felt fear rising in her. The road was deserted—she had read stories of half-wits. With difficulty she mastered her trembling voice.
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    â€œWhat—what is it you want?”
    Tularecito smiled more broadly and whipped harder with his hat.
    â€œWere you just lying there, or do you want something?”
    The boy struggled to speak, and then relapsed into his protective smile.
    â€œWell, if you don’t want anything, I’ll go on.” She was really prepared for flight.
    Tularecito struggled again. “About those people—”
    â€œWhat people?” she demanded shrilly. “What about people?”
    â€œAbout those people in the book—”
    Miss Morgan laughed with relief until she felt that her hair was coming loose on the back of her head. “You mean—you mean—gnomes?”
    Tularecito nodded.
    â€œWhat do you want to know about them?”
    â€œI never saw any,” said Tularecito. His voice neither rose nor fell, but continued on one low note.
    â€œWhy, few people do see them, I think.”
    â€œBut I knew about them.”
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    Miss Morgan’s eyes squinted with interest. “You did? Who told you about them?”
    â€œNobody.”
    â€œYou never saw them, and no one told you? How could you know about them then?”
    â€œI just knew. Heard them, maybe. I knew them in the book all right.”
    Miss Morgan thought: “Why should I deny gnomes to this queer, unfinished child? Wouldn’t his life be richer and happier if he did believe in them? And what harm could it possibly do?”
    â€œHave you ever looked for them?” she asked.
    â€œNo, I never looked. I just knew. But I will look now.”
    Miss Morgan found herself charmed with the situation. Here was paper on which to write, here was a cliff on which to carve. She could carve a lovely story that would be far more real than a book story ever could. “Where will you look?” she asked.
    â€œI’ll dig in holes,” said Tularecito soberly.
    â€œBut the gnomes only come out at night, Tularecito. You must watch for them in the night. And you must come and tell me if you find any. Will you do that?”
    â€œI’ll come,” he agreed.
    She left him staring after her. All the way home she pictured him searching in the night. The picture pleased her. He might even find the gnomes, might live with them and talk to them. With a few suggestive words she had been able to make his life unreal and very wonderful, and separated from the stupid lives about him. She deeply envied him his searching.
    In the evening Tularecito put on his coat and took up a shovel. Old Pancho came upon him as he was leaving the tool shed. “Where goest thou, Little Frog?” he asked.
    Tularecito shifted his feet restlessly at the delay. “I go out into the dark. Is that a new thing?”
    â€œBut