Managing performance in turbulent times analytics and insight 1st Edition Neely
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- 5. Managing performance in turbulent times analytics and insight 1st Edition Neely Digital Instant Download Author(s): Neely, Andy D.; Barrows, Ed ISBN(s): 9781119202547, 1118059859 Edition: 1 File Details: PDF, 3.32 MB Year: 2012 Language: english
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- 8. Managing Performance in Turbulent Times ffirs.indd i ffirs.indd i 12/10/11 10:06 AM 12/10/11 10:06 AM
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- 10. Managing Performance in Turbulent Times ANALYTICS AND INSIGHT Ed Barrows Andy Neely John Wiley & Sons, Inc. ffirs.indd iii ffirs.indd iii 12/10/11 10:06 AM 12/10/11 10:06 AM
- 11. Copyright © 2012 by Ed Barrows and Andy Neely. All rights reserved. Published by John Wiley & Sons, Inc., Hoboken, New Jersey. Published simultaneously in Canada. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee to the Copyright Clearance Center, Inc., 222 Rosewood Drive, Danvers, MA 01923, (978) 750-8400, fax (978) 646-8600, or on the Web at www.copyright.com. Requests to the Publisher for permission should be addressed to the Permissions Department, John Wiley & Sons, Inc., 111 River Street, Hoboken, NJ 07030, (201) 748-6011, fax (201) 748-6008, or online at www.wiley .com/go/permissions. Limit of Liability/Disclaimer of Warranty: While the publisher and author have used their best efforts in preparing this book, they make no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. No warranty may be created or extended by sales repre- sentatives or written sales materials. The advice and strategies contained herein may not be suitable for your situation. You should consult with a professional where appropriate. Neither the publisher nor author shall be liable for any loss of profit or any other commercial damages, including but not limited to special, incidental, consequential, or other damages. For general information on our other products and services or for technical sup- port, please contact our Customer Care Department within the United States at (800) 762-2974, outside the United States at (317) 572-3993 or fax (317) 572-4002. Wiley also publishes its books in a variety of electronic formats. Some content that appears in print may not be available in electronic books. For more information about Wiley products, visit our web site at www.wiley.com. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: Barrows, Ed. Managing performance in turbulent times : analytics and insight / Ed Barrows, Andy Neely. p. cm. Includes index. ISBN 978-1-118-05985-2 (hardback); ISBN 978-1-118-16159-3 (ebk); ISBN 978-1-118-16161-6 (ebk); ISBN 978-1-118-16168-5 (ebk) 1. Organizational effectiveness. 2. Performance—Management. I. Neely, A. D. (Andy D.) II. Title. HD58.9.B37 2012 658.3'14—dc23 2011029139 Printed in the United States of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 ffirs.indd iv ffirs.indd iv 12/10/11 10:06 AM 12/10/11 10:06 AM
- 12. To Shelley, Henry, Hannah, Hugh, and Howard —E.B. To Liese, Lizzie, Ben, Tom, and Emma —A.N. ffirs.indd v ffirs.indd v 12/10/11 10:06 AM 12/10/11 10:06 AM
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- 14. vii Contents Foreword xi Preface xv Acknowledgments xxi PART ONE Turbulence and Performance Management Today Chapter 1 Understanding Turbulence 3 The World Is More Turbulent Today 3 Understanding Turbulence 10 Effects of Turbulence on Organizations 14 What We’re Seeing in Practice Today 16 Summary 18 Case Study: The Decline of the Handleman Company 18 Notes 20 Chapter 2 Performance Management Today 21 Performance Management—Still an Emerging Discipline 21 Shortcomings of Today’s Performance Management Systems 25 Principles of Managing Performance in Turbulent Times 28 Performance Management for Turbulent Environments: The PM4 TE Process 31 Summary 37 Notes 38 ftoc.indd vii ftoc.indd vii 11/10/11 11:30 AM 11/10/11 11:30 AM
- 15. PART TWO The Performance Management Core Process for Turbulent Environments Chapter 3 Model Performance 41 Why Model Performance during Turbulent Times? 43 Benefits of Modeling Performance in the PM4 TE Process 50 Steps to Modeling an Organization’s Performance 51 Critical Success Factors 60 Summary 61 Case Study: Ricoh Corporation 62 Notes 66 Chapter 4 Manage Projects 67 Why Manage Projects during Turbulent Times? 69 State of the Art 69 Benefits of Managing Projects in the PM4 TE Process 75 Steps to Managing an Organization’s Vital Projects 77 Critical Success Factors 83 Summary 85 Case Study: Hubbell Lighting, Inc. 85 Notes 91 Chapter 5 Measure Progress 93 Why Measure Progress during Turbulent Times? 95 State of the Art 95 Understanding Measurement Today 96 Performance Measurement Frameworks 98 Benefits of Measuring Progress in the PM4 TE Process 104 Steps to Measuring Progress 106 Critical Success Factors 111 Summary 113 Case Study: British Airways 113 Notes 118 Chapter 6 Make Decisions 119 Why Make Decisions during Turbulent Times? 120 State of the Art 122 Benefits of Making Decisions in the PM4 TE Process 130 viii Contents ftoc.indd viii ftoc.indd viii 11/10/11 11:30 AM 11/10/11 11:30 AM
- 16. Contents ix Steps to Making Decisions 132 Critical Success Factors 135 Summary 136 Case Study: 1st Marine Logistics Group, United States Marine Corps 137 Notes 141 PART THREE Performance Management for Turbulent Environments Model Enablers Chapter 7 Strategic Intelligence 145 Why Strategic Intelligence Is a Model Enabler 147 Understanding Strategic Intelligence 149 Critical Success Factors 159 Summary 160 Case Study: Federal Bureau of Investigation 161 Notes 166 Chapter 8 Continuous Conversation 167 Why Continuous Conversation Is a Model Enabler 169 Understanding Continuous Conversation 171 Critical Success Factors 177 Summary 178 Case Study: Google 179 Notes 183 Chapter 9 Accelerated Learning 185 Why Accelerated Learning Is a Model Enabler 187 Understanding Accelerated Learning 189 Critical Success Factors 197 Summary 199 Case Study: Progress Software 199 Notes 203 Chapter 10 Organizational Alignment 205 Why Organizational Alignment Is a Model Enabler 207 Understanding Organizational Alignment 209 Critical Success Factors 219 ftoc.indd ix ftoc.indd ix 11/10/11 11:30 AM 11/10/11 11:30 AM
- 17. x Contents Summary 220 Case Study: Altra Industrial Motion 221 Notes 226 Chapter 11 Engaged Leadership 229 Why Engaged Leadership Is a Model Enabler 231 Understanding Leadership Engagement 233 Critical Success Factors 240 Summary 241 Case Study: RSA Security 241 Notes 246 PART FOUR Making the Model Work Chapter 12 Making It Work 249 The Logic of Cycles 251 Stage 1: Performance Management Cycle 253 Stage 2: Execution Management Cycle 255 Stage 3: Model Enablers 259 The Performance Management in Turbulent Environments Assessment: Determining the Current State of the Model 260 Summary 260 Appendix: Deloitte Enterprise Value Map Excerpt 263 About the Authors 265 Index 267 ftoc.indd x ftoc.indd x 11/10/11 11:30 AM 11/10/11 11:30 AM
- 18. xi Foreword The story of performance management for most organizations has not been a happy or successful one in the past. Organizations and their managers typically get excited about some specific aspect of the topic. Because of advances in information technology and the blandishments of IT vendors, the most common topic of enthu- siasm is performance information—most frequently some form of scorecard. The vision is that better performance information will—more or less by itself—usher in a new level of performance management. This vision is seldom achieved, of course. Performance informa- tion by itself cannot lead to better performance; it must be accom- panied by effective decisions and actions, alignment with strategy and organization, and even other types of information. Better struc- turing of performance data, more colorful scorecard displays, or new analytics don’t lead to higher revenues or profits. Better infor- mation alone is (at best) the engine of the performance manage- ment car; to get the car to transport us, however, we also need a body, transmission, wheels, and other important components. What you have in your hands or on your screen is an entire per- formance management car. Managing Performance in Turbulent Times certainly focuses on the information side of performance manage- ment. But it also incorporates all the other necessary components to provide forward motion. Alignment to strategy, business or per- formance model, decision making, strategic intelligence, organiza- tional alignment—all of that and more are here, ready to run. Even better, this is not a particular model of car. It is really a frame- work for all the components you need to make a well-performing automobile—an open-source performance management approach, if you will. While it is clear in some cases that Barrows and Neely have their own preferred components—after all, they developed some themselves—their model of performance management allows fbetw.indd xi fbetw.indd xi 11/10/11 11:29 AM 11/10/11 11:29 AM
- 19. xii Foreword for plugging in a variety of components. If, for example, you’re a fan of the Balanced Scorecard or of strategy maps, they can fit right into this PM4 TE framework. The authors are even-handed about the strengths and weaknesses of various components. What’s important is that you have each of the required components in place, not the subtle differences between them. To take the car analogy a bit further (and I know I’m on dan- gerous ground here), this is a car built not for perfect weather and road conditions, but rather for turbulent, tough conditions. It can go off-road when there is no good map for the future of a business. And that, of course, is the environment in which most organizations find themselves these days. The authors are pretty convincing that unless your performance management approach is built with turbulent times in mind, you won’t be successful with it in the contemporary world. I am also a big fan of Chapter 7 of this book, “Strategic Intel- ligence.” All too often, companies focus too much on the struc- tured performance information that comes out of their financial systems and operational databases. This backward-looking detail doesn’t tell you anything about whether you are looking at the right data and whether your business and markets are changing. The companies that succeed with performance management in turbu- lent times will keep one eye on the speedometer and instrument panel, and one on the road ahead. There is a lot to like about other aspects of the book that have nothing to do with automobiles. Most performance management tomes don’t even touch the subject of decision making. This is despite the fact that the primary purpose of performance man- agement information is to inform decisions. This book has a nice chapter on the subject, and decision making is a core component of the PM4 TE process. And the authors correctly point out that too often decisions are based on art and gut feel rather than science and analytics. One of the other highly desirable attributes of this book is the in-depth examples accompanying each chapter. There is little doubt that these approaches and components work in the real world, because you can read about their application in real organizations. This is hardly an abstract set of ideas. Finally, it’s all too common to read a management book and find no references to other management literature. In keeping with fbetw.indd xii fbetw.indd xii 11/10/11 11:29 AM 11/10/11 11:29 AM
- 20. Foreword xiii the open-source nature of their approach, the authors cite a wide variety of other thinking on the topic of performance management. They didn’t necessarily intend it to be a review of the performance management literature, but in a way it performs that function. If you are reading this book you are probably interested in the broad range of activities necessary to make performance manage- ment successful. You are probably not an advocate of particular and fleeting management fads, but rather you realize that many different management approaches can be useful if they are applied in the right context. You are in the market for a book that gives you the big picture, and trusts you and your organization to make your own choices about the detailed performance management tasks that you have to master. If you are this person, you have definitely come to the right place! —Thomas H. Davenport President’s Distinguished Professor of Information Technology and Management, Babson College Co-Founder and Research Director, International Institute for Analytics fbetw.indd xiii fbetw.indd xiii 11/10/11 11:29 AM 11/10/11 11:29 AM
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- 22. xv Preface This book sets out to answer a straightforward question: How should organizational performance be managed in turbulent times? When we first started looking into this issue, we were concerned with firms operating in highly turbulent environments. Some firms operate in markets where the technology moves so fast that they have to innovate constantly to survive. Other firms find they have new, low-cost competitors, which were not even players in their markets six months before. We were interested in the question of how existing ideas and technologies associated with performance measurement could be applied to these contexts. Measurement frameworks, such as the Balanced Scorecard and the performance prism, for example, are widely used to align measures to strategy. Yet experience with these frameworks shows that they can take upwards of 18 months to develop and implement. If your business exists in a market where three new generations of technology and four new competitors will emerge in that time period, you can’t wait 18 months to embed your performance management framework. Interestingly, as we explored the question of how firms that operate in highly turbulent environment manage their perfor- mance, we began to realize that the insights we developed applied more broadly. Indeed, one could argue that firms in many sectors face higher levels of turbulence than previously experienced. In the last couple of years, we have witnessed a major financial crisis, a period of massive business uncertainty when many executives com- plained that they had no way of getting market visibility. We have seen Sony suffer major setbacks with hackers accessing their secu- rity systems and the European travel industry descend into chaos because of volcanoes in Iceland. It is clear that in the twenty-first century, all organizations are operating in a turbulent environ- ment. The pace of turbulence may vary for individual organiza- tions, but turbulence exists all the same. fpref.indd xv fpref.indd xv 11/10/11 11:30 AM 11/10/11 11:30 AM
- 23. xvi Preface As we reflect on recent developments in performance measure- ment, we see great progress in some areas. Frameworks, such as the Balanced Scorecard and the performance prism, have helped exec- utives clarify their strategies and align their performance measures accordingly. Technologies, including enterprise and corporate per- formance management solutions, have been developed to allow global consolidation and reporting, aligning operational measure- ment with budgeting and resource allocation, as well as external reporting. Yet all of these developments appear to take a long time to develop and embed. Experienced practitioners talk about mea- surement frameworks taking 18 months of more to develop and embed. Some of the larger technological solutions are part of five- year rollout programs. While these initiatives have their place, we can’t wait for their full implementation in a turbulent world. So what should we do? Drawing on our research and experi- ence we have developed a new model approach to performance management for turbulent environments: PM4 TE. Drawing on the best ideas in the existing work on performance measurement—and coupling these to the reality of today’s turbulent environments— we advocate the PM4 TE as a complement to existing performance measurement initiatives. Three elements are particularly impor- tant about the PM4 TE model. First, it explicitly separates three dis- tinct cycles: the Performance Management cycle, the Execution Management cycle, and Model Enablers. These three cycles pay significant attention to the question of how we improve the prac- tice of management itself, rather than simply focusing on improv- ing the enabling technologies and organizing frameworks. Second, the PM4 TE model makes explicit the link between projects and performance. Increasingly, organizations are seeking to deliver high performance through specific projects conducted either in-house or in collaboration with outside organizations. We believe that incorporating a much stronger focus on projects is a valuable way of extending existing work on performance. Third, the PM4 TE model makes explicit the important of measurement as a learning cycle rather than simply a control cycle. When used properly, per- formance management systems should enable learning in organiza- tions. In turbulent environments, the speed of learning is central to success. Hence our desire to propose a performance manage- ment process that explicitly seeks to enhance the learning cycle in organizations. fpref.indd xvi fpref.indd xvi 11/10/11 11:30 AM 11/10/11 11:30 AM
- 24. Preface xvii To explain how the PM4 TE model works, we have organized the book into four main parts. Each part is designed to build upon the previous one in a way that develops the reader’s understand- ing of what turbulence is and why it is important, why traditional performance management falls short in today’s rapidly changing environment, what exactly are the elements of a performance man- agement system specifically designed for turbulent times, and how to use this system in an organization to good effect. Part One builds the case for a new approach to managing per- formance in turbulent times. In Chapter 1, we present informa- tion and findings that support our claim that the world is indeed becoming more turbulent. The effects of turbulence are readily observable and many organizations today are feeling them—often painfully—regardless of whether the source of turbulence is consid- ered. We also develop a working definition of turbulence that we use throughout the book and describe the effects turbulence has on organizations today. Chapter 2 is a performance management primer that discusses the characteristics of existing approaches to performance management. We share our viewpoints regarding shortcomings in commonly used approaches today and offer an explanation for why they don’t work in turbulent environments. We then lay the foundation for a performance management approach that does work in turbulent settings by identifying key principles for effectiveness born from our earlier description of turbulence in Chapter 1. We also introduce the key elements of our performance management approach. By the end of Part One, we believe we will have effectively built the case for the system we are proposing. Part Two is an in-depth discussion of the four key elements of a performance management system for turbulent environments. Chapter 3 highlights the process for modeling an organization’s strategy and its performance drivers. Without a shared model, which depicts what an organization’s objectives are and what drives its accomplishment, an organization will be hard pressed to sustain superior performance. Chapter 4 discusses how to organize and align key projects in an organization as a means to drive perfor- mance improvement. Without alignment of critical projects to the strategy, massive amounts of time and energy will be expended with little result. In Chapter 5, we draw upon our experience and show how to identify the right set of performance measures in an orga- nization. Evidence shows that more and more measurement data is fpref.indd xvii fpref.indd xvii 11/10/11 11:30 AM 11/10/11 11:30 AM
- 25. xviii Preface collected today, yet few organizations really manage to extract meaningful insights from the data. Chapter 6 investigates manage- ment problem solving and decision making. Here, we describe what is, perhaps, the key element of the model, vital to gaining insights regarding performance: a decision process driven by leading-edge analytics practices. Part Three presents what we call Model Enablers. Enablers are not specific steps in the performance management process but rather key foundational components that must be present to ensure success. In Chapter 7, we discuss strategic intelligence—how to cap- ture it, make sense of it, and use it to better maneuver in turbulent environments. Understanding where an organization is situated, specifically in its external environment, is a requisite to manag- ing through it effectively. Chapter 8 highlights a new approach to organizational communication—what we refer to as continuous con- versation. In a turbulent environment, information has to flow freely, in an almost constant stream throughout the organization, and this chapter describes how leaders facilitate this practice. Chapter 9 describes how organizations can cope with turbulence and improve performance by improving the speed at which learning occurs in the organization. We call this accelerated learning. Chapter 10 explains how to create organizational alignment using tools and techniques that align the major business and support units with the critical objectives, vital projects, and key measures described in Part One. Chapter 11 elaborates on what can be the most important enabler: engaged leadership. In most organizations, very little change happens without leadership of a major initiative such as this one. In Part Four, we conclude with Chapter 12, “Making It Work.” This part of the book is dedicated specifically to constructing the model in three separated stages within an organization. At the book’s end, we refer readers to our companion web site, www.pm4te.com, which provides many of the tools we present in the book—along with thoughts regarding how to use them effectively—for free. We believe any organization can benefit from the principles and practices dis- cussed here if managers take the time to learn how they work and organize their most important activities around them. As with any writing of this kind, it is impossible to say where every idea expressed in this book comes from and to thank every person who has shaped our thinking and ideas over the years. Clearly our friends and colleagues at the U.K.’s Advanced Institute fpref.indd xviii fpref.indd xviii 11/10/11 11:30 AM 11/10/11 11:30 AM
- 26. Other documents randomly have different content
- 27. “Come on, I’m goin’ out!” says Hen. “You’d better, too. Your lips are blue as the dickens.” “So are yours,” you retort. “Ain’t they, kids! Ain’t Hen’s lips bluer’n mine?” A farewell wallow, and out you wade reluctantly. One by one out wade all. Your hands are shriveled with long soaking. You are water- logged. There is sand in your hair. Languidly you dress. With Snoopie and Hen and Fat and Skinny and the others—a company now chastened and subdued—back you stroll across the pasture, the setting sun in your face, the robins piping their even- song, the locusts done and quiescent, katydids tentatively tuning up as their successors. The sky is golden in the west, pink overhead, blue in the east. Upon the clover the dew is collecting, annoying o’erzealous bees. Skinny and Nix drop off to the left, Snoopie to the right, each lining his straightest course for home. “Good-night, kids!” they call back. Now in the village, the little group rapidly dwindles. Presently only you and Hen and Billy remain. Billy turns in. At his gate Hen stops. The next gate is yours. You are glad. You are tired—so tired—so very limp and tired—and so hungry!
- 30. ’T THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL PICNIC WAS the day of the picnic—the Baptist picnic. You yourself were not, by family persuasion, a member of that denomination, but the Schmidts, next door, were, and by the grace of Hen, your crony, you were enabled to gain admittance, upon occasion, into the Baptist ’bus. The ’bus was not scandalized. You had been in it before, as Methodist, Congregationalist, Unitarian—what not. So had Hen. Only a few little girls were shocked, and gazed at you disdainfully. “You ain’t a Baptist!” they accused. “Neither’s Blanche Davis!” you retorted, carrying the debate into the enemy’s country. “I guess I’ve got as much right here as she has!” “I came with Lucy Barrett,” informed Blanche, primly. “An’ I come with Hen Schmidt. His father’s a deacon, too!” you asserted. “Oh, he ain’t—is he, Mr. Jones? He ain’t—is he?” appealed the little girls, shrilly. Mr. Jones, beaming with long-suffering, Sunday-school- superintendent good humor, obligingly halted. “Henry Schmidt’s father ain’t a deacon, is he?” “Yes, I believe so,” affirmed Mr. Jones, pleasantly. Thus you valiantly maintained your position—and Hen’s.
- 31. When you and Hen had pantingly arrived at the rendezvous you had found yourselves in the midst of baskets and bustle. The baskets gave forth fascinating, mysterious clinks. In your individual capacity of guest you had brought no basket of your own, but you had helped Hen carry down the Schmidt contribution, and you knew of what it spake and smelled, and you had peeked in under the cover. Besides, Hen had told you, in detail. Clad in necessarily stout shoes, but quite superfluously clean waists, you and he, with the basket between, had hastened to the place of assembly. Other boys appeared. Poor indeed was that wight who could not rake up a Baptist friend—particularly if his own church gave picnics. Therefore, behold, as at the millennium, the creeds of your world united to-day under one flag—which happened to be the Baptist. Snoopie Mitchell, of course, was there. Snoopie usually went fishing or skating on Sunday; but at picnic-time and Christmas even he did not deny the comforts of the church. “Hello!” you said. “Hello!” said Snoopie nonchalantly. “Aw, you kids are too late!” Snoopie never was too late. He had the instincts of the ranging shark, and, moreover, perfect freedom to obey them. “Why?” demanded you and Hen breathlessly. “They took it away. Gee! Two freezers bigger’n me!” “More’n the Methodists had?” you inquired eagerly. “You bet!” affirmed Snoopie. You sighed—a happy, satisfied sigh. The passenger ’buses arrived, two of them. They were greeted with a cheer, and scarcely had the gaunt, rusty, white horses of the foremost one swung about to back ere into it you all scrambled.
- 32. You and Hen promptly plumped down at the end—end seats and the seat with the driver being the choice ones. “Children! Children! Be careful!” appealed the superintendent, mechanically. Poor man, already he had done a hard day’s work! As well might he have cautioned a river running down-hill. Jostled past you girls and boys, elbows in ribs, shoulder thrusting shoulder, in a competition that recognized no sex. Like lightning the hack is occupied to overflowing; packed with two lines, facing each other, of flushed, excited children, with here and there a flustered matron; you and Hen, as stated, holding the end seats, Billy Lunt (he wasn’t a Baptist, either) up with the driver, but Snoopie, crafty, ragged Snoopie, hanging on at the steps! The ’bus rolls off. You all shout back derisively at your outstripped associates. Father had darkly hinted that you should take an umbrella and rubber boots, and spoken of “total immersion,” whatever that might be; but, lo, the sky is cloudless, the morn is of sparkling summer, the air is fresh, everything is lovely, the town is behind and the picnic before, and you don’t care, any more than you know, what he meant! You are in the ’bus; and the only person you envy is Snoopie, perilously clinging to its rear. With the horses at a trot he springs on and off, drags his feet or sprints behind, and is continually saying “Lookee!” while he performs some new, adroit, impish deed. The women gasp and exclaim “Oh!” “I wish he wouldn’t!” and “Mrs. Miller, can’t you stop him!” Then somebody’s hat blows off and creates a diversion. Half a block in your wake is the other ’bus, and occasionally jogs apace a carriage, with suggestive rattle of dishes and bulge of hamper. Your vehicle rumbles over a creek bridge and slowly rounds a curve. “I see it! I see it!” announces Billy, wriggling on his elevation.
- 33. You all stretch necks to “see it,” too. Yes, there, just before, in the woods to the right, are the forms of the earlier invaders—the good men and women constituting the volunteer band of provision- arrangers. The ’bus turns to the roadside. Issues from the driver a long and relieved “Whoa-oa!” But, even as he says it, you and the other boys are out, over the sides. Under the fence you scoot, to race, madly whooping, up the wooded slope, fearful lest you are missing something. After you scamper, more timidly, the little girls, and last of all, ungallantly consigned to bring the picnic odds and ends, toil your elders. The ’bus rolls back to town, carrying a man or so delegated to get inevitably forgotten articles. Now all the wood is riotous with scream and shout. It is a wood filled with possibilities. Early somebody discovers a garter-snake, and at the rallying-cry destruction violently descends upon the harmless thing. Immediately, dangling from the end of a stick, it spreads confusion wherever feminine humanity may be encountered. At its approach the little girls squeal and run, the larger girls shriek and expostulate, and the various mothers shrink and glare indignantly. The superintendent it is who boldly interferes, takes the limp reptile, and throws it away. “There!” sigh glad onlookers. But Snoopie marks its fall, and presently recovers it; thereafter to carry it around in his pocket, intent upon sticking it down unsuspecting comrades’ backs. In the ravine is the shallow creek. As a means of entertainment the creek is about as good as the dead snake. ’Tis jump it and rejump it; ’tis wade it with shoes on and ’tis wade it with shoes off; and ’tis splash far and wide, to see which boy shall get the wetter. Milder spirits may elect to search for “pretty flowers,” or “help mamma,” or play “Pussy Wants a Corner,” and “Ring Around a Rosie,” where solicitous eyes might fondly oversee; where busily labor and
- 34. perspire the superintendent and assistants, hanging swings and hammocks, lifting, opening, and unpacking; where benignly moves the minister, diffusing unspoken blessings. But you and yours must have more strenuous recreation. So already, when word is transmitted that “they’re makin’ the lemonade,” your knickerbockers are torn from shinning up trees, your waist is limp from romping through the creek, and your face is red, and scratched, and streaming, and dirty. You are having fun. Lemonade! Two tubs of it, in the middle of each a lump of ice, about the ice floating disks of lemon, and a thirsty crowd encircling all. “Be careful, children. Let the little girls drink first, boys. My, my! That’s not the way!” cautioned Mr. Jones, as, the supply of tin cups proving insufficient, some of you evinced a disposition to “get in all over.” The little girls politely tripped off, wiping their mouths with their best handkerchiefs. You and Hen et al. lingered. Eventually the tubs were left unguarded. The moment seemed propitious for new diversion. “Let’s see who can drink the most!” proposed Hen. The idea was brilliant. To hear was to act. It was plunge in your cup and gulp; and plunge it in and gulp; and fail not to throw the residue in your neighbor’s face. Fast and furious waxed the play, with Snoopie appearing to be sure winner. “Aw, you ain’t drinkin’ it all! That ain’t fair!” you accused, and the other boys joined in. “Shut up! I am, too!” replied Snoopie, angrily; and proceeded with his count: “Fourteen.” Distanced, his competitors paused, and jealously, but half admiringly, watched.
- 35. “Bo-oys! Bo-oys!” The gentle soprano voice with the reproachful, shocked inflection made you drop tin cups, the batch of you, and hastily look. ’Twas the minister’s wife. In power she stood above the superintendent, even, and only slightly below the minister himself. “Why, why! You mustn’t do that!” she objected, bearing down. Mustn’t you? Well, all right; there was lots else to do, and, soaked without and within, reeking of lemonade, you withdrew to do it. “Gee—I drunk fifteen!” boasted Snoopie, patting his stomach. He proved to be high man. Yourself had to your score only the modest aggregate of ten. Behind, at the scene of the late contest, arose sounds of lamentation and dismay over the state of the tubs. Stately, mute, impenetrable, with baffling rag-carpet covering their tops, in the shade stand the two ice-cream freezers, and on all sides of them the feet of you and your cronies, and of the little girls as well, have well-nigh worn bare the woodland sod. But now, torn away by less exalted emotions, you and Hen revolve around Mrs. Schmidt’s tablecloth spread on the ground and weighted down with dishes. Here is to be your station at dinner. Other cloths there are, spread about, but Hen recommends his mother’s. There will be a family feeling, and less chance of neglect. Drag slower and slower the minutes. Hen goes foraging, and returns gleefully with a cooky apiece. The delicious smell of sliced tongue and ham and boiling coffee permeates the air. “Henry, if you and John don’t keep out from under foot, I’ll take you right straight home!” threatens Mrs. Schmidt, exasperated. Other women, too, lower at you.
- 36. “Yes, boys,” chimes in the superintendent; “run away and play, and don’t bother the people getting dinner. When we’re ready we’ll call you.” But, oh, dear, supposing something should be all eaten up before you got there! At last, at the very last—as the French emphatically express it, à la fin des fins—your rebuffs are over. You are actually bidden to advance. ’Tis barely the wink of an eyelash, but ’tis enough; and before a word is spoken you are there, the two of you, sitting elbow to elbow, on your calves, against the cloth: greedy-eyed, watery- mouthed, faint-stomached. From right and left come trooping young and old, none of them, save one or two couples from the Bible-class, trooping from very far. They settle like pigeons fluttering down to corn. About each cloth a circle is formed. Nobody is homeless. And isn’t it time to start in? Alas! not yet. From his place (“Mr. Jones, do sit down! You look tired to death. Sit right here!” has been the imploration, and he has yielded) the superintendent bobs up and loudly claps his hands, and says: “Sh!” “Sh!” assist sundry whispers, as warning to you and your mates. It is the blessing, for, as Mr. Jones subsides, the minister rises. He prays long and fervently. Out of the corners of your eyes you continue to scan sandwich, and cake, and jelly, and pickles, while your nose wriggles like the nose of an inquiring rabbit. You wonder why the minister cannot quit; but, ignoring every good stopping- point, he proceeds on and on. You hear Hen groan with pent-up disgust. You slyly groan back. “Amen.” It has come! Mrs. Schmidt’s glance flashes rebuke in your direction, but neither you nor Hen cares. High swells an instant chorus of talk and rattling staccato of dishes. Hither and thither flit
- 37. busy servers; and, behind the backs of the circle, down your way is progressing in solemn state a huge tray of sandwiches. You watch it eagerly. It brushes your shoulder. You and Hen grab together. They are bun sandwiches, with cold boiled ham between. Your mouth opens against yours, and your teeth meet through it. “Yum, yum!” you mumble ecstatically to Hen. “Yum, yum!” agrees Hen. Come other sandwiches—tongue and beef and potted ham; come cold fried chicken and pressed veal loaf; come jelly—several kinds— and pickles, sweet and sour. Sometimes you hesitate. “I will if you will,” dares Hen; therefore you generally do. Comes coffee, and more lemonade; comes pie—apple, lemon, blueberry, custard; comes cake—chocolate, lemon-layer, jelly-layer, plain, frosted, cocoanut, spice, angel-food. “Um! Um!” revels Hen at intervals. “Um! Um!” you respond, in perfect sympathy. Comes ice cream in “heaping” saucers! Come cookies and sweet crackers, ginger-bread, cream-puffs, kisses and oranges. You both have been obliged to kneel—expanding, as it were, from your sitting posture. And now the feast is done. Vainly you view the débris; you have accomplished marvels, but you can do no more. You sigh, and, sucking an orange, reluctantly you stand. You waddle off, feeling fat and stuffy, to convene with the other boys, and compare notes. “Aw, you ought to been at our table!” claims Billy Lunt. “We had chocolate cake with chocolate an inch thick—didn’t we, Buck?” “Buck” promptly assents. “So’d we! So’d we!” retorts Hen. “An’ we had jelly-cake, an’—”
- 38. “So’d we!” inform rivals, bound to uphold the honors of their boards. “An’ lemon pie—” “An’ custard, an’—” “An’ pickled peaches—” “Golly! I’m ’bout busted!” chuckles Billy, complacently. Standing companionably by, Snoopie harkens and grins, but says little. Only from a bulging pocket he extracts another orange and drills into it. One may be certain that he, at least, has missed nothing. Prudence might dictate a period of quiescence as a tribute to digestion. But the day is short, and a half a bun skimming into your midst—that is, into the midst of the group, not into your own midst, where it would have hard work to find lodgment—arouses you to retaliation. Back and forth and across fly the remnants from the various tablecloths, and applause greets every hit. Snoopie introduces a popular feature by plastering against a tree-trunk a fragment of a custard pie. Forthwith custard and lemon pie are at a premium, these being the kinds that stick. Then, interrupting the pleasant pastime, charge upon your ranks horrified witnesses, suddenly awakening to the crisis. “Boys! Stop it! Stop it at once! The idea!” Expostulating, they drive you all, shame-faced but sniggering, from the premises. You leave the plot looking as though a caisson laden with cartridges of lunch had exploded there! The principal event of the day being over, your elders relax into a state more or less lethargic. The women sit and crochet and chat. The minister goes to sleep with a handkerchief on his face, and even some of your juniors follow suit—members of the infant class seeking the pillow of their mothers’ laps. The Bible-class wanders off in couples. The superintendent, only, is kept active by demands of “Swing me, Mr. Jones; please swing me!” from the little girls.
- 39. Naturally the inspiration for you and yours is to follow the Bible- class couples and spy upon them; when they think themselves nicely secluded and comfortably ensconced, to steal upon them; and in the midst of their innocent confidences to hoot upon them (with such delicate insinuations as “Aw, Mr. Johnson’s Miss Saxby’s beau!”—or “Say, Miss Lossing, Mr. Pugsley wants to kiss you!”)—and then to flee, riotously giggling. It is four o’clock. Prolonged shouts from the throats of the superintendent and assistants echo through the woods, calling together the stragglers. The ’buses have arrived. Home-going must be accomplished early, on account of the “little ones.” All right. If the day is done, another day is coming. You rush down, and you and Hen again secure the end seats. The ’bus fills, its load, on the whole, not so sprightly, nor so enthusiastic, nor so clean as in the morning. Snoopie hangs on at the rear. The driver says “Gid-dap!” Somebody replies with “Whoa!” “Whoa- oa!” supplement a score of voices. To frantic encouragement descends the hill, scurrying as if from Indians or bears, a belated, last Bible-class couple. “Gid-dap!” once more urges the driver. The ’bus moves. You yawn. Hen yawns. You are tired and sticky. Hen, also, is tired and sticky. “Lookee!” bids Snoopie. He throws away his dead snake; his pockets are empty again. Yet in the depth of the aftermath you brighten. Your thoughts travel ahead. The Presbyterians are to have their picnic next week! “You goin’?” asks Hen. “You bet!” you reply confidently.
- 42. T THE OLD MUZZLE-LOADER HE old muzzle-loader was so much the taller that when you stood opposed to it, only by a series of hitches, a few inches at a time, could you extract the ramrod from the slot. In your aiming exercises you leaned so far backward that you formed almost a half circle. The stock was scarred, the hammer was loose, the barrel was rusted and the sight awry, but it was a fine gun; yes, a fine gun, fit for a boy to worship. And when, with father coaching you, its barrel firmly supported in the crotch of the apple tree and its butt pressed against your throbbing chest, you shut your eyes and jerked the trigger, as you picked yourself up while invidious spectators gamboled and cheered, with what gusto did you assert that “it didn’t hurt a bit,” and avowed that you wanted to do it again. How it happened that here you were, headed for the open country with the old muzzle-loader hoisted athwart your shoulder, probably no one alive remembers, but you—and Hen Schmidt, your aider and abettor as accessory after the fact. Dangling against your right knee was the powder flask, dangling against your left knee was the shot flask, and the two banged and rattled as you walked. In one trousers pocket were wads, in the other caps. “Lemme carry it?” pleaded Hen. You refused. “Naw, sir!” you rebuked. “You don’t know how.” “Just to that big tree,” persisted Hen.
- 43. You relented; and under your watchful eye Hen proudly bore the ennobling piece to the tree adown the dusty roadside. Exactly at the tree you claimed possession again. To-day, looking back, can you not see yourself, a sturdy little figure trudging valorously onward, with the two flasks swaying and jiggling and the old gun cutting like sin into your uncomplaining flesh, and with heart so buoyed by the glorious present that it refused to think on the dubious future; and Hen, scarcely less elate, solicitous to relieve you of your burden, keeping pace, step for step? The birds, flitting over or hopping upon either hand along your route, witnessed and gaily laughed. Well might they laugh, because with impunity. Your death-dealing weapon was not loaded; not yet. But presently you halt and in an angle of the rail fence you load, do the two of you, yourself operating, while Hen, keenly critical, at each movement declaims and suggests. “Aw, gee! That ain’t enough powder!” scoffs Hen. “What you ’fraid of? If it was mine, you bet I’d put in twice as much!” “I guess I know,” you retort. “Guess I’ve seen my father load more times ’n you ever have! What you want to do, bust it?” The powder is dumped into the muzzle, the gun being propped slantwise so that you may work conveniently. The invincible grains fall in a tinkling shower through the black cylinder. You stuff in a wad. “Here—” says Hen. “Lemme do it.” You ram it down, and Hen rams it down. In goes the shot, No. 4, nice and large. You insert the final wad. You ram, and Hen rams. “Look out!” you warn Hen, who edges so close as to joggle you; and with breathless care you press upon the nipple a cap, the way you have seen your father do, and you lower the protecting hammer over it, also the way you have seen your father do. Assisted by Hen you restore the ramrod to its groove. You straighten up. You are ready. You shoulder arms.
- 44. You and Hen climb the fence and scale the hill, upon whose slope begins your favorite patch of timber. Making sport of your backs, along the fence that you have just quitted scampers a chipmunk, but you do not know. Your thoughts are ahead. The consciousness that your gun is charged imbues you with a strange thrill of importance. You are deadly. Come what may, lion, bear, wildcat, squirrel, rabbit, eagle, owl, partridge, you are prepared, so let them one and all beware. You and Hen talk in guarded tones, whilst your four eyes rove hither and thither, greedy to sight prey. But under-foot, stealthy though you fancy your advance, rustle the dried leaves, spreading afar the news of your passage; and hushed though you consider your voices, they penetrate into sharp ears attuned to catch the slightest alien sound. Eyes, sharper than yours, widen and wait. You would give the world to see a rabbit or a squirrel. You have just as much chance of seeing a rabbit or a squirrel as you have of seeing a hippopotamus. However, it doesn’t matter. Hist! On before something twitters. “There’s a bird!” “Sh, can’t you! I hear him!” Cautiously you and Hen steal forward, tip-toeing over crackling leaf and twig, your gaze riveted on the distance. “I see him!” announces Hen, excitedly. “Where?” you whisper. “There—in that tree! Now he’s runnin’ ’round the trunk! He’s a woodpecker.” (Naturalists might cavil and term him a “warbler,” but just the same he acts like a woodpecker!) “Can’t you see him?” Alas, you can’t—at least, you don’t. Hen cannot abide such stupidity. Besides, the thing is liable to make off. “Ain’t you got any eyes? Gee whizz! Gimme the gun. I can pop him from here.”
- 45. Give Hen the gun? Well, hardly! You clutch it the tighter, and strain and peer. Now you glimpse him—a tiny chap in a pepper-and-salt suit, busily engaged in pecking at the bark beneath his toes. “I see him!” you mutter exultantly. You stoop; Hen stoops. You glide up, making service of covert afforded by tree and bush, and your flasks catch, and sometimes you step on them. Hen, too, glides, just behind, imitating your every movement. The hour is portentous, but the dare-devil bird braves it and maintains his post at table. Possibly, deceived by your woodcraft (as you fondly suppose), he is oblivious to the fact that yard by yard two boys are drawing closer and closer. You are breathing hard, and to your rear pants Hen, for the advance has been onerous. “G’wan and shoot! He’ll fly away,” urges Hen, hoarsely. Yes, you are near enough. No. 4 shot at fifteen yards ought to do the business for that chap. You slowly settle upon your knees, behind the tree trunk which is your shelter, and cock your piece. At the click the “woodpecker” for an instant ceases operations, and flirts his tail inquisitively. “Darn it—you’ve scared him!” you accuse Hen, who shifts and squirms at your back, in attempts to secure a better view. Hen holds himself in suspense, apparently well-nigh suffocating with the effort. You bring your piece to bear, but it is so long and awkward that you are being worsted in the struggle, when Hen eagerly proposes: “Lay it on my shoulder!” You recede a little, and Hen wriggles forward, the transfer being accomplished with mingled fear and haste. Hen’s shoulder is rather low for an ideal rest, but you may not complain. You sink as far as possible, and aim. The muzzle projects beyond the tree trunk, and wavers in space. Beyond the space is your suspicious woodpecker, a creature of the most unexpected and eccentric movements imaginable. He never stays “put.” Just as the
- 46. sight approaches him, he changes position; and just as he approaches the sight, it changes. A conjunction of the two seems hopeless. “Why don’t you shoot? What’s the matter with you?” gasps Hen. You shut both eyes. Boom! Backward you keel, head down, heels up, and the gun, jumping from Hen’s shoulder, rasps along the tree to the ground. “Did I hit him? Where’d he go?” you cry frantically, staggering to your feet. Hen is bounding toward the tree whereon the impudent bird had been foraging. You wonder that the tree yet remains, but there it is, to all appearances as hale as ever. “Did I hit him?” you repeat, seizing the gun and following. “I dunno. But he flew off kind of funny,” reports Hen. “Find any blood? I bet I wounded him like everything, anyhow!” you assert. The woodpecker must have bled internally, for, search as you two might, no tell-tale splashes of gore could be discovered. There were even no feathers. You scanned the tree, but upon close inspection it still persisted in acknowledging no damage, despite the frightful leaden deluge to which you had subjected it. “Aw, you missed him! Aw, gee!” suddenly bemoans Hen, overcome by disappointment. “Didn’t neither. He flew just when I shot, and I couldn’t stop!” you reply, defensively—unmindful of the discrepancy evident between your denial and your excuse. “If you’d let me shoot I’d have got him,” declares Hen, unplacated. You proceed to load. Hen moodily holds aloof from helping you ram, and you regain in some measure your lost caste only when you offer him the privilege of the ammunition flasks. These he dons, and by this little touch of diplomacy you smooth over his ill humor.
- 47. Together you and he scout along the crispy ridge, ever on the qui vive for another mark, beast or bird. Crows scold. Ah, if you could but bag a crow! But they always flap off too soon. Bluejays jeer. You would stop that mighty quick if they would give you a chance. But they don’t. Even woodpeckers fight shy of that inimical, albeit not unerring, gun. The gun aforesaid is now growing so heavy that the fact cannot be ignored. You balance it on one portion of your anatomy, and on another; yet the more it weighs and the sharper wax its angles, and you can secure no lasting ease. “I’ll carry it,” volunteers Hen, prompt to take advantage of your significant maneuvers. “Uh-uh,” you decline stanchly. You compromise by suggesting, in a moment, with off-hand bluffness: “Say, let’s sit down a while. There’s nothin’ up here to shoot.” “Naw,” responds Hen, “I’ll tell you—let’s shoot woodchucks!” The idea appeals. After “shooting” woodpeckers, “shooting” woodchucks ought to prove a pleasing diversion. With the gun as angular as ever, but with your hunting instincts piqued anew, you followed while Hen led to the nearest woodchuck hole: that burrow under the stump on the side of the hill, across from Squire Lucas’s pasture; a matchless lair for an old ’chuck such as was the occupant, whence he could sally forth and wallow in the squire’s clover to his heart’s and stomach’s content. Many a covetous glance had the boys of town and country cast toward this burrow; many a fruitless attack had silly dogs made upon its unresponsive portals; from time to time fresh earth about the entrance popularly indicated that the ’chuck was enlarging and remodeling his apartments, and it was commonly believed that he had tunneled clear through the hill: laughing to scorn the foes that vainly compassed him about, he lived and fattened, and spoiled as much clover as he could.
- 48. With bated breath and gingerly tread, you and Hen sneaked to ambush under cover of the zigzag rail fence that diagonally skirted the foot of the hill, before the woodchuck’s dwelling. Ah, how many other boys had lurked there, for hope springs eternal. You trained your grim weapon upon the region of the hole. You allowed Hen to have a squint adown the trusty, and rusty, barrel. “Gee! I bet that’ll pepper him!” commended Hen; and laying aside his flasks he equipped himself with a rock in each hand, for aiding in the proposed job. Very peaceful and cozy was it there, against the fence, with Indian Summer (in retrospect, those falls were all Indian Summer) around you, the warm sun shining upon you, and the warm grass and pungent weeds an elastic cushion underneath. It was an agreeable change, to surrender your gun to the fence, and relax. “Sh!” whispered Hen, angrily, when you sought to straighten a leg. “I don’t believe he’s comin’ out,” you whispered back. “Yes, he will,” averred Hen. “Maybe he doesn’t stay there any more,” you hazarded anxiously. “Course he does!” “Maybe he’s gone to sleep for the winter, though.” “Sh! Shut up! He won’t come out as long as you’re talkin’!” You subsided, and with cheekbone glued to the gunstock, and eyes ferociously glaring along the barrel, at the hole beyond, you expectantly bided the first rash movement on the part of Mr. ’Chuck. In the meantime, what of that woodchuck? Lured afield by the pleasant weather, from his predatory tour he was leisurely returning —halting now to nuzzle amidst the stubble, now to scratch—for a mid-day nap within his subterrene retreat. He waddled into a dried ditch and out again, slipped through his private wicket in a boundary hedge, and gradually working up the slope was approaching his home, on the side opposite to your rail fence, when Hen, suddenly
- 49. espying him, was astounded into the yelp: “There he is! Shoot! Shoot!” Startled into immobility, the woodchuck stared about with quivering whiskers and bulging eyes. Boys! As in a dream, you vaguely saw a squat, furry shape, a cleft, vibrant nose and two broad, yellow teeth; and with the remembrance that your gun was pointing in the general direction of this combination, you desperately tugged at the trigger. Your sole thought was to “shoot, shoot,” the quicker the better. The report was the thing. But no report came. The trigger would not budge. “Darn it! You old fool, you! You ain’t got it cocked!” shrieked Hen, grabbing at your weapon. With a whistle of decision the woodchuck bolted for sanctuary. He clawed, he slid, he sprawled, all at once. Hen frenziedly delivered both rocks. The ’chuck, at the mouth of his burrow, in a second more would have swung on the pivot of his four short, stout little legs and have whisked in like a brindled streak, when, having succeeded in cocking your piece, you blindly let go—bang! The butt slammed you under the chin, knocking your teeth together upon your lower lip. You noted it not. “We got him! We got him!” Thus Hen, tumbling over the rail fence, was wildly bellowing—with a pardonable extension of the subject pronoun. “Hurrah!” You were on your feet in a twinkling, and were dashing in the wake of Hen, up the incline, midway of which, just below the stump, on his side lay the woodchuck, limp and still. Hen circumspectly reached and stirred him with the tip of a toe; then, emboldened into the attitude of Victor, recklessly kicked him. “He’s dead!”
- 50. “Je-rusalem! I should say he was!” you agreed, poking the inert mass. “Wasn’t that a dandy shot, though?” “You bet!” praised Hen. And so it was—considering the attendant circumstances. Gloatingly you and Hen examined your prize, inch by inch, investigating him from his two front teeth to his scraggly tail. Most of all did you gloat upon the blood, striking proof of your valor, and ere you had finished you well-nigh could have drawn a diagram of the shot holes. ’Twas established that the aim had been perfect (yourself demonstrating to Hen precisely what had been your course of action), that the gun had shot tremendously, and that the woodchuck was a very prodigy of size and strength. Poor ’chuck! He had made his last foray, long enough had he dared to live, and now, despite his cunning, he had fallen to a boy who shut both eyes before firing. Homeward, is it? Certainly! Nothing is left to be gained on the trail. With the stride of conquerors, you and Hen march through the village—you with gun and ammunition flasks, Hen with the woodchuck, which he has appropriated, dangling by the tail. “Well, well! Where did you get that fellow?” query the men. “Oh, John and me shot him,” explains Hen. “Crickety, but ain’t he a big one! How’d you get him?” query the boys. “We shot him! And he was runnin’, too!” boasts Hen. “Aw, you found him!” “Didn’t neither—did we, John? You come here and I’ll show you the shot holes in him!” So, side by side, you and Hen gallantly stepped, with the visible tokens of your calling, homeward bound. At the entrance to your
- 51. alley, however, Hen inclined to lag; and as the back yard was being traversed he fell further behind. Your own pace was slower and less confident, now. Hen flung you the woodchuck. “I’ve got to go,” he maintained. “You can take him.” The back door opened, and mother stood and gazed upon you, even as Hen was discreetly retiring. “John!” she said. “What have you been doing?” Beneath its powder grime your face paled. At once you began to realize how your lip was puffing, and how your shoulder was aching. “We were huntin’ woodchucks,” you quavered. “The idea!” said mother. “We got one, too,” you offered, in piteous defense. “Mercy!” exclaimed mother, at the sight. “Leave it right there, and come straight into the house!” “Ya-a-a!” bantered Hen, gleefully, from the other side of the fence. “You’re goin’ to ketch it!” Here the door closed behind you, shutting you in with your shame.
- 52. A BOY’S LOVES
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