The Snakes and All

And now Fellows is telling him that to tear down the trees—his trees—would be catastrophic! He actually said "catastrophic." Not a subtle bone in the man's body. His thin body bent like a wire, his hat battered between two porcelain paws. His lower lip wriggling in dismay. This trembling leaf of a man is telling him what he can and cannot do! Catastrophic! If it's a catastrophe, then it's his catastrophe. His stars to throw out of alignment. His money to spend mobilizing the troops.

And so he does. With a phone call, the river's course is changed. Fellows now, pirouetting in pain. The birds! Isn't he worried about the birds? The only birds he's ever worried about are the Thanksgiving turkey and the Christmas goose, and actually, now that he thinks of it, he always had maid to do that sort of worrying. So, no, he can answer, he's not worried about the birds.

Then what about the snakes? The snakes? (So it's a farce Fellows has in mind!) He goes on; several species of snake make their home in that stretch of forest. Rare species. What better kind of snake species, is what he'd like to know. But Fellows won't give it up. He's working up to a swoon now, really throwing himself into the performance. But what he doesn't understand, what his sniffing and scolding are drowning out: those are his trees, and so, by extension, his snakes. And his birds. And his speckled snails. And whatever else is damned to live in those trees. They live their at his leave. And now he wishes to remove them, trees and all. So be it.

The land is worth far more to him that way, and what business is it of Fellows's? None. He's actually on his knees now, pleading. Such whimpering. It disgusts one.