ADVENTURES IN FRIENDSHIP By David Grayson I AN ADVENTURE IN FRATERNITY This, I am firmly convinced, is a strange world, as strange a one as Iwas ever in. Looking about me I perceive that the simplest things arethe most difficult, the plainest things, the darkest, the commonestthings, the rarest. I have had an amusing adventure--and made a friend. This morning when I went to town for my marketing I met a man who was aMason, an Oddfellow and an Elk, and who wore the evidences of hisvarious memberships upon his coat. He asked me what lodge I belongedto, and he slapped me on the back in the heartiest manner, as though hehad known me intimately for a long time. (I may say, in passing, that hewas trying to sell me a new kind of corn-planter. ) I could not helpfeeling complimented--both complimented and abashed. For I am not aMason, or an Oddfellow, or an Elk. When I told him so he seemed muchsurprised and disappointed. "You ought to belong to one of our lodges, " he said. "You'd be sure ofhaving loyal friends wherever you go. " He told me all about his grips and passes and benefits; he told me howmuch it would cost me to get in and how much more to stay in and howmuch for a uniform (which was not compulsory). He told me about the finefuneral the Masons would give me; he said that the Elks would care formy widow and children. "You're just the sort of a man, " he said, "that we'd like to have in ourlodge. I'd enjoy giving you the grip of fellowship. " He was a rotund, good-humoured man with a shining red nose and a huskyvoice. He grew so much interested in telling me about his lodges that Ithink (I _think_) he forgot momentarily that he was sellingcorn-planters, which was certainly to his credit. As I drove homeward this afternoon I could not help thinking of theMasons, the Oddfellows and the Elks--and curiously not without a senseof depression. I wondered if my friend of the corn-planters had foundthe pearl of great price that I have been looking for so long. For isnot friendliness the thing of all things that is most pleasant in thisworld? Sometimes it has seemed to me that the faculty of reaching outand touching one's neighbour where he really lives is the greatest ofhuman achievements. And it was with an indescribable depression that Iwondered if these Masons and Oddfellows and Elks had in reality caughtthe Elusive Secret and confined it within the insurmountable andimpenetrable walls of their mysteries, secrets, grips, passes, benefits. "It must, indeed, " I said to myself, "be a precious sort of fraternitythat they choose to protect so sedulously. " I felt as though life contained something that I was not permitted tolive. I recalled how my friend of the corn-planters had wished to giveme the grip of the fellowship--only he could not. I was not entitled toit. I knew no grips or passes. I wore no uniform. "It is a complicated matter, this fellowship, " I said to myself. So I jogged along feeling rather blue, marveling that those things whichoften seem so simple should be in reality so difficult. But on such an afternoon as this no man could possibly remain longdepressed. The moment I passed the straggling outskirts of the town andcame to the open road, the light and glow of the countryside came inupon me with a newness and sweetness impossible to describe. Looking outacross the wide fields I could see the vivid green of the young wheatupon the brown soil; in a distant high pasture the cows had been turnedout to the freshening grass; a late pool glistened in the afternoonsunshine. And the crows were calling, and the robins had begun to come:and oh, the moist, cool freshness of the air! In the highest heaven(never so high as at this time of the year) floated a few gauzy clouds:the whole world was busy with spring! I straightened up in my buggy and drew in a good breath. The mare, halfstartled, pricked up her ears and began to trot. She, too, felt thespring. "Here, " I said aloud, "is where I belong. I am native to this place; ofall these things I am a part. " But presently--how one's mind courses back, like some keen-scentedhound, for lost trails--I began to think again of my friend's lodges. And do you know, I had lost every trace of depression. The whole matterlay as clear in my mind, as little complicated, as the countryside whichmet my eye so openly. "Why!" I exclaimed to myself, "I need not envy my friend's lodges. Imyself belong to the greatest of all fraternal orders. I am a member ofthe Universal Brotherhood of Men. " It came to me so humorously as I sat there in my buggy that I could nothelp laughing aloud. And I was so deeply absorbed with the idea that Idid not at first see the whiskery old man who was coming my way in afarm wagon. He looked at me curiously. As he passed, giving me half theroad, I glanced up at him and called out cheerfully: "How are you, Brother?" You should have seen him look--and look--and look. After I had passed Iglanced back. He had stopped his team, turned half way around in hishigh seat and was watching me--for he did not understand. "Yes, my friend, " I said to myself, "I _am_ intoxicated--with the wineof spring!" I reflected upon his astonishment when I addressed him as "Brother. " Astrange word! He did not recognize it. He actually suspected that he wasnot my Brother. So I jogged onward thinking about my fraternity, and I don't know when Ihave had more joy of an idea. It seemed so explanatory! "I am glad, " I said to myself, "that I am a Member. I am sure the Masonshave no such benefits to offer in their lodges as we have in ours. Andwe do not require money of farmers (who have little to pay). We willaccept corn, or hen's eggs, or a sandwich at the door, and as for acheerful glance of the eye, it is for us the best of minted coin. " (Item: to remember. When a man asks money for any good thing, beware ofit. You can get a better for nothing. ) I cannot undertake to tell where the amusing reflections which grew outof my idea would finally have led me if I had not been interrupted. Justas I approached the Patterson farm, near the bridge which crosses thecreek, I saw a loaded wagon standing on the slope of the hill ahead. Thehorses seemed to have been unhooked, for the tongue was down, and a manwas on his knees between the front wheels. Involuntarily I said: "Another member of my society: and in distress!" I had a heart at that moment for anything. I felt like some oldneighbourly Knight travelling the earth in search of adventure. If therehad been a distressed mistress handy at that moment, I feel quitecertain I could have died for her--if absolutely necessary. As I drove alongside, the stocky, stout lad of a farmer in his brownduck coat lined with sheep's wool, came up from between the wheels. Hiscap was awry, his trousers were muddy at the knees where he had knelt inthe moist road, and his face was red and angry. A true knight, I thought to myself, looks not to the beauty of his lady, but only to her distress. "What's the matter, Brother?" I asked in the friendliest manner. "Bolt gone, " he said gruffly, "and I got to get to town beforenightfall. " "Get in, " I said, "and we'll drive back. We shall see it in the road. " So he got in. I drove the mare slowly up the hill and we both leaned outand looked. And presently there in the road the bolt lay. My farmer gotout and picked it up. "It's all right, " he said. "I was afraid it was clean busted. I'mobliged to you for the lift. " "Hold on, " I said, "get in, I'll take you back. " "Oh, I can walk. " "But I can drive you faster, " I said, "and you've got to get the loadto town before nightfall. " I could not let him go without taking tribute. No matter what the storybooks say, I am firmly of the opinion that no gentle knight (who washuman) ever parted with the fair lady whose misery he had relievedwithout exchanging the time of day, or offering her a bun from hisdinner pail, or finding out (for instance) if she were maid or married. My farmer laughed and got in. "You see, " I said, "when a member of my society is in distress I alwayslike to help him out. " He paused; I watched him gradually evolve his reply: "How did you know I was a Mason?" "Well, I wasn't _sure_. " "I only joined last winter, " he said. "I like it first-rate. When you'rea Mason you find friends everywhere. " I had some excellent remarks that I could have made at this point, butthe distance was short and bolts were irresistibly uppermost. Afterhelping him to put in the bolt, I said: "Here's the grip of fellowship. " He returned it with a will, but afterward he said doubtfully. "I didn't feel the grip. " "Didn't you?" I asked. "Well, Brother, it was all there. " "If ever I can do anything for you, " he said, "just you let me know. Name's Forbes, Spring Brook. " And so he drove away. "A real Mason, " I said to myself, "could not have had any betteradvantage of his society at this moment than I. I walked right into itwithout a grip or a pass. And benefits have also been distributed. " As I drove onward I felt as though anything might happen to me before Igot home. I know now exactly how all old knights, all voyageurs, allcrusaders, all poets in new places, must have felt! I looked out atevery turn of the road; and, finally, after I had grown almostdiscouraged of encountering further adventure I saw a man walking in theroad ahead of me. He was much bent over, and carried on his back a bag. When he heard me coming he stepped out of the road and stood silent, saving every unnecessary motion, as a weary man will. He neither lookedaround nor spoke, but waited for me to go by. He was weary pastexpectation. I stopped the mare. "Get in, Brother, " I said; "I am going your way. " He looked at me doubtfully; then, as I moved to one side, he let his bagroll off his back into his arms. I could see the swollen veins of hisneck; his face had the drawn look of the man who bears burdens. "Pretty heavy for your buggy, " he remarked. "Heavier for you, " I replied. So he put the bag in the back of my buggy and stepped in beside mediffidently. "Pull up the lap robe, " I said, "and be comfortable. " "Well, sir, I'm glad of a lift, " he remarked. "A bag of seed wheat isabout all a man wants to carry for four miles. " "Aren't you the man who has taken the old Rucker farm?" I asked. "I'm that man. " "I've been intending to drop in and see you, " I said. "Have you?" he asked eagerly. "Yes, " I said. "I live just across the hills from you, and I had anotion that we ought to be neighbourly--seeing that we belong to thesame society. " His face, which had worn a look of set discouragement (he didn't knowbeforehand what the Rucker place was like!), had brightened up, but whenI spoke of the society it clouded again. "You must be mistaken, " he said. "I'm not a Mason!" "No more am I, " I said. "Nor an Oddfellow. " "Nor I. " As I looked at the man I seemed to know all about him. Some people cometo us like that, all at once, opening out to some unsuspected key. Hisface bore not a few marks of refinement, though work and discouragementhad done their best to obliterate them; his nose was thin and high, hiseye was blue, too blue, and his chin somehow did not go with the Ruckerfarm. I knew! A man who in his time had seen many an open door, but whohad found them all closed when he attempted to enter! If any one everneeded the benefits of my fraternity, he was that man. "What Society did you think I belonged to?" he asked. "Well, " I said, "when I was in town a man who wanted to sell me acorn-planter asked me if I was a Mason----" "Did he ask you that, too?" interrupted my companion. "He did, " I said. "He did----" and I reflected not without enthusiasmthat I had come away without a corn-planter. "And when I drove out oftown I was feeling rather depressed because I wasn't a member of thelodge. " "Were you?" exclaimed my companion. "So was I. I just felt as though Ihad about reached the last ditch. I haven't any money to pay into lodgesand it don't seems if a man could get acquainted and friendly without. " "Farming is rather lonely work sometimes, isn't it?" I observed. "You bet it is, " he responded. "You've been there yourself, haven'tyou?" There may be such a thing as the friendship of prosperity; but surely itcannot be compared with the friendship of adversity. Men, stooping, come close together. "But when I got to thinking it over, " I said, "it suddenly occurred tome that I belonged to the greatest of all fraternities. And I recognizedyou instantly as a charter member. " He looked around at me expectantly, half laughing. I don't suppose hehad so far forgotten his miseries for many a day. "What's that?" he asked. "The Universal Brotherhood of Men. " Well, we both laughed--and understood. After that, what a story he told me!--the story of a misplaced man on anunproductive farm. Is it not marvellous how full people are--allpeople--of humour, tragedy, passionate human longings, hopes, fears--ifonly you can unloosen the floodgates! As to my companion, he had beengrowing bitter and sickly with the pent-up humours of discouragement;all he needed was a listener. He was so absorbed in his talk that he did not at first realize that wehad turned into his own long lane. When he discovered it he exclaimed: "I didn't mean to bring you out of your way. I can manage the bag allright now. " "Never mind, " I said, "I want to get you home, to say nothing of hearinghow you came out with your pigs. " As we approached the house, a mournful-looking woman came to the door. My companion sprang out of the buggy as much elated now as he hadpreviously been depressed (for that was the coinage of his temperament), rushed up to his wife and led her down to the gate. She was evidentlyastonished at his enthusiasm. I suppose she thought he had at lengthdiscovered his gold mine! When I finally turned the mare around, he stopped me, laid his hand onmy arm and said in a confidential voice: "I'm glad we discovered that we belong to the same society. " As I drove away I could not help chuckling when I heard his wife asksuspiciously: "What society is that?" I heard no word of his answer: only the note in his voice of eagerexplanation. And so I drove homeward in the late twilight, and as I came up thelane, the door of my home opened, the light within gleamed kindly andwarmly across the darkened yard: and Harriet was there on the step, waiting. II A DAY OF PLEASANT BREAD They have all gone now, and the house is very still. For the first timethis evening I can hear the familiar sound of the December windblustering about the house, complaining at closed doorways, askingquestions at the shutters; but here in my room, under the green readinglamp, it is warm and still. Although Harriet has closed the doors, covered the coals in the fireplace, and said good-night, the atmospherestill seems to tingle with the electricity of genial humanity. The parting voice of the Scotch Preacher still booms in my ears: "This, " said he, as he was going out of our door, wrapped like an Arctichighlander in cloaks and tippets, "has been a day of pleasant bread. " One of the very pleasantest I can remember! I sometimes think we expect too much of Christmas Day. We try to crowdinto it the long arrears of kindliness and humanity of the whole year. As for me, I like to take my Christmas a little at a time, all throughthe year. And thus I drift along into the holidays--let them overtake meunexpectedly--waking up some fine morning and suddenly saying to myself: "Why, this is Christmas Day!" How the discovery makes one bound out of his bed! What a new sense oflife and adventure it imparts! Almost anything may happen on a day likethis--one thinks. I may meet friends I have not seen before in years. Who knows? I may discover that this is a far better and kindlier worldthan I had ever dreamed it could be. [Illustration: "Merry Christmas, Harriet!"] So I sing out to Harriet as I go down: "Merry Christmas, Harriet"--and not waiting for her sleepy reply I godown and build the biggest, warmest, friendliest fire of the year. ThenI get into my thick coat and mittens and open the back door. All aroundthe sill, deep on the step, and all about the yard lies the driftedsnow: it has transformed my wood pile into a grotesque Indian mound, andit frosts the roof of my barn like a wedding cake. I go at it lustilywith my wooden shovel, clearing out a pathway to the gate. Cold, too; one of the coldest mornings we've had--but clear and verystill. The sun is just coming up over the hill near Horace's farm. FromHorace's chimney the white wood-smoke of an early fire rises straightupward, all golden with sunshine, into the measureless blue of thesky--on its way to heaven, for aught I know. When I reach the gate myblood is racing warmly in my veins. I straighten my back, thrust myshovel into the snow pile, and shout at the top of my voice, for I canno longer contain myself: "Merry Christmas, Harriet. " Harriet opens the door--just a crack. "Merry Christmas yourself, you Arctic explorer! Oo--but it's cold!" And she closes the door. Upon hearing these riotous sounds the barnyard suddenly awakens. I hearmy horse whinnying from the barn, the chickens begin to crow and cackle, and such a grunting and squealing as the pigs set up from behind thestraw stack, it would do a man's heart good to hear! "It's a friendly world, " I say to myself, "and full of business. " I plow through the snow to the stable door. I scuff and stamp the snowaway and pull it open with difficulty. A cloud of steam arises out ofthe warmth within. I step inside. My horse raises his head above thestanchion, looks around at me, and strikes his forefoot on the stablefloor--the best greeting he has at his command for a fine Christmasmorning. My cow, until now silent, begins to bawl. I lay my hand on the horse's flank and he steps over in his stall to letme go by. I slap his neck and he lays back his ears playfully. Thus I goout into the passageway and give my horse his oats, throw corn andstalks to the pigs and a handful of grain to Harriet's chickens (it'sthe only way to stop the cackling!). And thus presently the barnyard isquiet again except for the sound of contented feeding. Take my word for it, this is one of the pleasant moments of life. Istand and look long at my barnyard family. I observe with satisfactionhow plump they are and how well they are bearing the winter. Then I lookup at my mountainous straw stack with its capping of snow, and my corncrib with the yellow ears visible through the slats, and my barn withits mow full of hay--all the gatherings of the year, now being expendedin growth. I cannot at all explain it, but at such moments the circuitof that dim spiritual battery which each of us conceals within seems toclose, and the full current of contentment flows through our lives. All the morning as I went about my chores I had a peculiar sense ofexpected pleasure. It seemed certain to me that something unusual andadventurous was about to happen--and if it did not happen offhand, why Iwas there to make it happen! When I went in to breakfast (do you knowthe fragrance of broiling bacon when you have worked for an hour beforebreakfast on a morning of zero weather? If you do not, consider thatheaven still has gifts in store for you!)--when I went in to breakfast, I fancied that Harriet looked preoccupied, but I was too busy just then(hot corn muffins) to make an inquiry, and I knew by experience that thebest solvent of secrecy is patience. "David, " said Harriet, presently, "the cousins can't come!" "Can't come!" I exclaimed. "Why, you act as if you were delighted. " "No--well, yes, " I said, "I knew that some extraordinary adventure wasabout to happen!" "Adventure! It's a cruel disappointment--I was all ready for them. " "Harriet, " I said, "adventure is just what we make it. And aren't we tohave the Scotch Preacher and his wife?" "But I've got such a _good_ dinner. " "Well, " I said, "there are no two ways about it: it must be eaten! Youmay depend upon me to do my duty. " "We'll have to send out into the highways and compel them to come in, "said Harriet ruefully. I had several choice observations I should have liked to make upon thisproblem, but Harriet was plainly not listening; she sat with her eyesfixed reflectively on the coffeepot. I watched her for a moment, then Iremarked: "There aren't any. " "David, " she exclaimed, "how did you know what I was thinking about?" "I merely wanted to show you, " I said, "that my genius is not properlyappreciated in my own household. You thought of highways, didn't you?Then you thought of the poor; especially the poor on Christmas day; thenof Mrs. Heney, who isn't poor any more, having married John Daniels; andthen I said, 'There aren't any. '" Harriet laughed. "It has come to a pretty pass, " she said "when there are no poor peopleto invite to dinner on Christmas day. " "It's a tragedy, I'll admit, " I said, "but let's be logical about it. " "I am willing, " said Harriet, "to be as logical as you like. " "Then, " I said, "having no poor to invite to dinner we must necessarilytry the rich. That's logical, isn't it?" "Who?" asked Harriet, which is just like a woman. Whenever you get agood healthy argument started with her, she will suddenly short-circuitit, and want to know if you mean Mr. Smith, or Joe Perkins's boys, whichI maintain is _not_ logical. "Well, there are the Starkweathers, " I said. "David!" "They're rich, aren't they?" "Yes, but you know how they live--what dinners they have--and besides, they probably have a houseful of company. " "Weren't you telling me the other day how many people who were reallysuffering were too proud to let anyone know about it? Weren't youadvising the necessity of getting acquainted with people and findingout--tactfully, of course--you made a point of tact--what the troublewas?" "But I was talking of _poor_ people. " "Why shouldn't a rule that is good for poor people be equally as goodfor rich people? Aren't they proud?" "Oh, you can argue, " observed Harriet. "And I can act, too, " I said. "I am now going over to invite theStarkweathers. I heard a rumor that their cook has left them and Iexpect to find them starving in their parlour. Of course they'll be veryhaughty and proud, but I'll be tactful, and when I go away I'll casuallyleave a diamond tiara in the front hall. " "What _is_ the matter with you this morning?" "Christmas, " I said. I can't tell how pleased I was with the enterprise I had in mind: itsuggested all sorts of amusing and surprising developments. Moreover, Ileft Harriet, finally, in the breeziest of spirits, having quiteforgotten her disappointment over the non-arrival of the cousins. "If you _should_ get the Starkweathers----" "'In the bright lexicon of youth, '" I observed, "'there is no such wordas fail. '" So I set off up the town road. A team or two had already been that wayand had broken a track through the snow. The sun was now fully up, butthe air still tingled with the electricity of zero weather. And thefields! I have seen the fields of June and the fields of October, but Ithink I never saw our countryside, hills and valleys, tree spaces andbrook bottoms more enchantingly beautiful than it was this morning. Snoweverywhere--the fences half hidden, the bridges clogged, the treesladen: where the road was hard it squeaked under my feet, and where itwas soft I strode through the drifts. And the air went to one's headlike wine! So I tramped past the Pattersons'. The old man, a grumpy old fellow, wasgoing to the barn with a pail on his arm. "Merry Christmas, " I shouted. He looked around at me wonderingly and did not reply. At the corners Imet the Newton boys so wrapped in tippets that I could see only theireyes and the red ends of their small noses. I passed the Williams'shouse, where there was a cheerful smoke in the chimney and in the windowa green wreath with a lively red bow. And I thought how happy everyonemust be on a Christmas morning like this! At the hill bridge who shouldI meet but the Scotch Preacher himself, God bless him! "Well, well, David, " he exclaimed heartily, "Merry Christmas. " I drew my face down and said solemnly: "Dr. McAlway, I am on a most serious errand. " "Why, now, what's the matter?" He was all sympathy at once. "I am out in the highways trying to compel the poor of thisneighbourhood to come to our feast. " The Scotch Preacher observed me with a twinkle in his eye. "David, " he said, putting his hand to his mouth as if to speak in myear, "there is a poor man you will na' have to compel. " "Oh, you don't count, " I said. "You're coming anyhow. " Then I told him of the errand with our millionaire friends, into thespirit of which he entered with the greatest zest. He was full of adviceand much excited lest I fail to do a thoroughly competent job. For amoment I think he wanted to take the whole thing out of my hands. "Man, man, it's a lovely thing to do, " he exclaimed, "but I ha' medoots--I ha' me doots. " At parting he hesitated a moment, and with a serious face inquired: "Is it by any chance a goose?" "It is, " I said, "a goose--a big one. " He heaved a sigh of complete satisfaction. "You have comforted my mind, "he said, "with the joys of anticipation--a goose, a big goose. " So I left him and went onward toward the Starkweathers'. Presently I sawthe great house standing among its wintry trees. There was smoke in thechimney but no other evidence of life. At the gate my spirits, which hadbeen of the best all the morning, began to fail me. Though Harriet and Iwere well enough acquainted with the Starkweathers, yet at this latemoment on Christmas morning it did seem rather a hair-brained scheme tothink of inviting them to dinner. "Never mind, " I said, "they'll not be displeased to see me anyway. " I waited in the reception-room, which was cold and felt damp. In theparlour beyond I could see the innumerable things of beauty--furniture, pictures, books, so very, very much of everything--with which the roomwas filled. I saw it now, as I had often seen it before, with a peculiarsense of weariness. How all these things, though beautiful enough inthemselves, must clutter up a man's life! Do you know, the more I look into life, the more things it seems to me Ican successfully lack--and continue to grow happier. How many kinds offood I do not need, nor cooks to cook them, how much curious clothingnor tailors to make it, how many books that I never read, and picturesthat are not worth while! The farther I run, the more I feel likecasting aside all such impedimenta--lest I fail to arrive at the fargoal of my endeavour. I like to think of an old Japanese nobleman I once read about, whoornamented his house with a single vase at a time, living with it, absorbing its message of beauty, and when he tired of it, replacing itwith another. I wonder if he had the right way, and we, with so manyobjects to hang on our walls, place on our shelves, drape on our chairs, and spread on our floors, have mistaken our course and placed our heartsupon the multiplicity rather than the quality of our possessions! Presently Mr. Starkweather appeared in the doorway. He wore a velvetsmoking-jacket and slippers; and somehow, for a bright morning likethis, he seemed old, and worn, and cold. "Well, well, friend, " he said, "I'm glad to see you. " He said it as though he meant it. "Come into the library; it's the only room in the whole house that iscomfortably warm. You've no idea what a task it is to heat a place likethis in really cold weather. No sooner do I find a man who can run myfurnace than he goes off and leaves me. " "I can sympathize with you, " I said, "we often have trouble at our housewith the man who builds the fires. " He looked around at me quizzically. "He lies too long in bed in the morning, " I said. By this time we had arrived at the library, where a bright fire wasburning in the grate. It was a fine big room, with dark oak furnishingsand books in cases along one wall, but this morning it had a dishevelledand untidy look. On a little table at one side of the fireplace were theremains of a breakfast; at the other a number of wraps were throwncarelessly upon a chair. As I came in Mrs. Starkweather rose from herplace, drawing a silk scarf around her shoulders. She is a robust, rather handsome woman, with many rings on her fingers, and a pair ofglasses hanging to a little gold hook on her ample bosom; but thismorning she, too, looked worried and old. "Oh, yes, " she said with a rueful laugh, "we're beginning a merryChristmas, as you see. Think of Christmas with no cook in the house!" I felt as if I had discovered a gold mine. Poor starving millionaires! But Mrs. Starkweather had not told the whole of her sorrowful story. "We had a company of friends invited for dinner to-day, " she said, "andour cook was ill--or said she was--and had to go. One of the maids wentwith her. The man who looks after the furnace disappeared on Friday, andthe stableman has been drinking. We can't very well leave the placewithout some one who is responsible in charge of it--and so here we are. Merry Christmas!" I couldn't help laughing. Poor people! "You might, " I said, "apply for Mrs. Heney's place. " "Who is Mrs. Heney?" asked Mrs. Starkweather. "You don't mean to say that you never heard of Mrs. Heney!" I exclaimed. "Mrs. Heney, who is now Mrs. 'Penny' Daniels? You've missed one of ourgreatest celebrities. " With that, of course, I had to tell them about Mrs. Heney, who has foryears performed a most important function in this community. Alone andunaided she has been the poor whom we are supposed to have always withus. If it had not been for the devoted faithfulness of Mrs. Heney atThanksgiving, Christmas and other times of the year, I suppose ourWoman's Aid Society and the King's Daughters would have perishedmiserably of undistributed turkeys and tufted comforters. For years Mrs. Heney filled the place most acceptably. Curbing the natural outpouringsof a rather jovial soul she could upon occasion look as deserving ofcharity as any person that ever I met. But I pitied the little Heneys:it always comes hard on the children. For weeks after every Thanksgivingand Christmas they always wore a painfully stuffed and suffocated look. I only came to appreciate fully what a self-sacrificing public servantMrs. Heney really was when I learned that she had taken the desperatealternative of marrying "Penny" Daniels. "So you think we might possibly aspire to the position?" laughed Mrs. Starkweather. Upon this I told them of the trouble in our household and asked them tocome down and help us enjoy Dr. McAlway and the goose. When I left, after much more pleasant talk, they both came with me tothe door seeming greatly improved in spirits. "You've given us something to live for, Mr. Grayson, " said Mrs. Starkweather. So I walked homeward in the highest spirits, and an hour or more laterwho should we see in the top of our upper field but Mr. Starkweather andhis wife floundering in the snow. They reached the lane literallycovered from top to toe with snow and both of them ruddy with the cold. "We walked over, " said Mrs. Starkweather breathlessly, "and I haven'thad so much fun in years. " Mr. Starkweather helped her over the fence. The Scotch Preacher stoodon the steps to receive them, and we all went in together. I can't pretend to describe Harriet's dinner: the gorgeous brown goose, and the apple sauce, and all the other things that best go with it, andthe pumpkin pie at the end--the finest, thickest, most delicious pumpkinpie I ever ate in all my life. It melted in one's mouth and broughtvisions of celestial bliss. And I wish I could have a picture of Harrietpresiding. I have never seen her happier, or more in her element. Everytime she brought in a new dish or took off a cover it was a sort ofmiracle. And her coffee--but I must not and dare not elaborate. And what great talk we had afterward! I've known the Scotch Preacher for a long time, but I never saw him inquite such a mood of hilarity. He and Mr. Starkweather told stories oftheir boyhood--and we laughed, and laughed--Mrs. Starkweather the mostof all. Seeing her so often in her carriage, or in the dignity of herhome, I didn't think she had so much jollity in her. Finally shediscovered Harriet's cabinet organ, and nothing would do but she mustsing for us. "None of the new-fangled ones, Clara, " cried her husband: "some of theold ones we used to know. " So she sat herself down at the organ and threw her head back and beganto sing: "Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so fondly to-day----, " Mr. Starkweather jumped up and ran over to the organ and joined in withhis deep voice. Harriet and I followed. The Scotch Preacher's wifenodded in time with the music, and presently I saw the tears in hereyes. As for Dr. McAlway, he sat on the edge of his chair with his handson his knees and wagged his shaggy head, and before we got through he, too, joined in with his big sonorous voice: "Thou wouldst still be adored as this moment thou art----, " Oh, I can't tell here--it grows late and there's work to-morrow--all thethings we did and said. They stayed until it was dark, and when Mrs. Starkweather was ready to go, she took both of Harriet's hands in hersand said with great earnestness: "I haven't had such a good time at Christmas since I was a little girl. I shall never forget it. " And the dear old Scotch Preacher, when Harriet and I had wrapped him up, went out, saying: "This has been a day of pleasant bread. " It has; it has. I shall not soon forget it. What a lot of kindness andcommon human nature--childlike simplicity, if you will--there is inpeople once you get them down together and persuade them that the thingsthey think serious are not serious at all. III THE OPEN ROAD "To make space for wandering is it that the world was made so wide. " --GOETHE, _Wilhelm Meister_. I love sometimes to have a day alone--a riotous day. Sometimes I do notcare to see even my best friends: but I give myself up to the fullenjoyment of the world around me. I go out of my door in themorning--preferably a sunny morning, though any morning will do wellenough--and walk straight out into the world. I take with me the burdenof no duty or responsibility. I draw in the fresh air, odour-laden fromorchard and wood. I look about me as if everything were new--and beholdeverything _is_ new. My barn, my oaks, my fences--I declare I never sawthem before. I have no preconceived impressions, or beliefs, oropinions. My lane fence is the end of the known earth. I am a discovererof new fields among old ones. I see, feel, hear, smell, taste all thesewonderful things for the first time. I have no idea what discoveries Ishall make! So I go down the lane, looking up and about me. I cross the town roadand climb the fence on the other side. I brush one shoulder among thebushes as I pass: I feel the solid yet easy pressure of the sod. Thelong blades of the timothy-grass clasp at my legs and let go withreluctance. I break off a twig here and there and taste the tart orbitter sap. I take off my hat and let the warm sun shine on my head. Iam an adventurer upon a new earth. Is it not marvellous how far afield some of us are willing to travel inpursuit of that beauty which we leave behind us at home? We mistakeunfamiliarity for beauty; we darken our perceptions with idleforeignness. For want of that ardent inner curiosity which is the onlytrue foundation for the appreciation of beauty--for beauty is inward, not outward--we find ourselves hastening from land to land, gatheringmere curious resemblances which, like unassimilated property, possess nopower of fecundation. With what pathetic diligence we collect peaks andpasses in Switzerland; how we come laden from England with vaincathedrals! Beauty? What is it but a new way of approach? For wilderness, forforeignness, I have no need to go a mile: I have only to come up throughmy thicket or cross my field from my own roadside--and behold, a newheaven and a new earth! Things grow old and stale, not because they are old, but because wecease to see them. Whole vibrant significant worlds around us disappearwithin the sombre mists of familiarity. Whichever way we look the roadsare dull and barren. There is a tree at our gate we have not seen inyears: a flower blooms in our door-yard more wonderful than the shiningheights of the Alps! It has seemed to me sometimes as though I could see men hardening beforemy eyes, drawing in a feeler here, walling up an opening there. Namingthings! Objects fall into categories for them and wear little surechannels in the brain. A mountain is a mountain, a tree a tree to them, a field forever a field. Life solidifies itself in words. And finallyhow everything wearies them and that is old age! Is it not the prime struggle of life to keep the mind plastic? To seeand feel and hear things newly? To accept nothing as settled; to defendthe eternal right of the questioner? To reject every conclusion ofyesterday before the surer observations of to-day?--is not that the bestlife we know? And so to the Open Road! Not many miles from my farm there is a tamarackswamp. The soft dark green of it fills the round bowl of a valley. Around it spread rising forests and fields; fences divide it from theknown land. Coming across my fields one day, I saw it there. I felt thehabit of avoidance. It is a custom, well enough in a practical land, toshun such a spot of perplexity; but on that day I was following the OpenRoad, and it led me straight to the moist dark stillness of thetamaracks. I cannot here tell all the marvels I found in that place. Itrod where human foot had never trod before. Cobwebs barred my passage(the bars to most passages when we came to them are only cobwebs), theearth was soft with the thick swamp mosses, and with many an autumn offallen dead, brown leaves. I crossed the track of a muskrat, I saw thenest of a hawk--and how, how many other things of the wilderness I mustnot here relate. And I came out of it renewed and refreshed; I know nowthe feeling of the pioneer and the discoverer. Peary has no more than I;Stanley tells me nothing I have not experienced! What more than that is the accomplishment of the great inventor, poet, painter? Such cannot abide habit-hedged wildernesses. They follow theOpen Road, they see for themselves, and will not accept the paths or thenames of the world. And Sight, kept clear, becomes, curiously, Insight. A thousand had seen apples fall before Newton. But Newton was doweredwith the spirit of the Open Road! Sometimes as I walk, seeking to see, hear, feel, everything newly, Idevise secret words for the things I see: words that convey to me alonethe thought, or impression, or emotion of a peculiar spot. All this, Iknow, to some will seem the acme of foolish illusion. Indeed, I am nottelling of it because it is practical; there is no cash at the end ofit. I am reporting it as an experience in life; those who understandwill understand. And thus out of my journeys I have words which bringback to me with indescribable poignancy the particular impression of atime or a place. I prize them more highly than almost any other of mypossessions, for they come to me seemingly out of the air, and theremembrance of them enables me to recall or live over a past experiencewith scarcely diminished emotion. And one of these words--how it brings to me the very mood of a grayOctober day! A sleepy west wind blowing. The fields are bare, the cornshocks brown, and the long road looks flat and dull. Away in the marsh Ihear a single melancholy crow. A heavy day, namelessly sad! Old sorrowsflock to one's memory and old regrets. The creeper is red in the swampand the grass is brown on the hill. It comes to me that I was a boyonce---- So to the flat road and away! And turn at the turning and rise with thehill. Will the mood change: will the day? I see a lone man in the top ofa pasture crying "Coo-ee, coo-ee. " I do not see at first why he criesand then over the hill come the ewes, a dense gray flock of them, huddling toward me. The yokel behind has a stick in each hand. "Coo-ee, coo-ee, " he also cries. And the two men, gathering in, threatening, sidling, advancing slowly, the sheep turning uncertainly this way andthat, come at last to the boarded pen. "That's the idee, " says the helper. "A poor lot, " remarks the leader: "such is the farmer's life. " From the roadway they back their frame-decked wagon to the fence andunhook their team. The leader throws off his coat and stands thick andmuscular in his blue jeans--a roistering fellow with a red face, thickneck and chapped hands. "I'll pass 'em up, " he says; "that's a man's work. You stand in thewagon and put 'em in. " So he springs into the yard and the sheep huddle close into the corner, here and there raising a timid head, here and there darting aside in apanic. "Hi there, it's for you, " shouts the leader, and thrusts his hands deepin the wool of one of the ewes. "Come up here, you Southdown with the bare belly, " says the man in thewagon. "That's my old game--wrastling, " the leader remarks, struggling with thenext ewe. "Stiddy, stiddy, now I got you, up with you dang you!" "That's the idee, " says the man in the wagon. So I watch and they pass up the sheep one by one and as I go down theroad I hear the leader's thick voice, "Stiddy, stiddy, " and the responseof the other, "That's the idee. " And so on into the gray day! My Open Road leads not only to beauty, not only to fresh adventures inouter observation. I believe in the Open Road in religion, in education, in politics: there is nothing really settled, fenced in, nor finallydecided upon this earth, Nothing that is not questionable. I do notmean that I would immediately tear down well-built fences or do awaywith established and beaten roads. By no means. The wisdom of past agesis likely to be wiser than any hasty conclusions of mine. I would notinvite any other person to follow my road until I had well proven it abetter way toward truth than that which time had established. And yet Iwould have every man tread the Open Road; I would have him upon occasionquestion the smuggest institution and look askance upon the most ancienthabit. I would have him throw a doubt upon Newton and defy Darwin! Iwould have him look straight at men and nature with his own eyes. Heshould acknowledge no common gods unless he proved them gods forhimself. The "equality of men" which we worship: is there not a higherinequality? The material progress which we deify: is it real progress?Democracy--is it after all better than monarchy? I would have himquestion the canons of art, literature, music, morals: so will hecontinue young and useful! And yet sometimes I ask myself. What do I travel for? Why all thisexcitement and eagerness of inquiry? What is it that I go forth tofind? Am I better for keeping my roads open than my neighbour is whotravels with contentment the paths of ancient habit? I am gnawed by thetooth of unrest--to what end? Often as I travel I ask myself thatquestion and I have never had a convincing answer. I am looking forsomething I cannot find. My Open Road is open, too, at the end! What isit that drives a man onward, that scourges him with unansweredquestions! We only know that we are driven; we do not know who drives. We travel, we inquire, we look, we work--only knowing that theseactivities satisfy a certain deep and secret demand within us. We haveFaith that there is a Reason: and is there not a present Joy infollowing the Open Road? "And O the joy that is never won, But follows and follows the journeying sun. " And at the end of the day the Open Road, if we follow it with wisdom aswell as fervour, will bring us safely home again. For after all the OpenRoad must return to the Beaten Path. The Open Road is for adventure;and adventure is not the food of life, but the spice. Thus I came back this evening from rioting in my fields. As I walkeddown the lane I heard the soft tinkle of a cowbell, a certain earthyexhalation, as of work, came out of the bare fields, the duties of mydaily life crowded upon me bringing a pleasant calmness of spirit, and Isaid to myself: "Lord be praised for that which is common. " And after I had done my chores I came in, hungry, to my supper. IV ON BEING WHERE YOU BELONG Sunday Morning, May 20th. On Friday I began planting my corn. For many days previously I went outevery morning at sun-up, in the clear, sharp air, and thrust my handdeep down in the soil of the field. I do not know that I followed anylearned agricultural rule, but somehow I liked to do it. It has seemedreasonable to me, instead of watching for a phase of the moon (for I donot cultivate the moon), to inquire of the earth itself. For many days Ihad no response; the soil was of an icy, moist coldness, as of death. "I am not ready yet, " it said; "I have not rested my time. " Early in the week we had a day or two of soft sunshine, of fecundwarmth, to which the earth lay open, willing, passive. On Thursdaymorning, though a white frost silvered the harrow ridges, when I thrustmy hand into the soil I felt, or seemed to feel, a curious response: astrange answering of life to life. The stone had been rolled from thesepulchre! And I knew then that the destined time had arrived for my planting. Thatafternoon I marked out my corn-field, driving the mare to my home-madewooden marker, carefully observant of the straightness of the rows; fora crooked corn-row is a sort of immorality. I brought down my seed cornfrom the attic, where it had hung waiting all winter, each ear suspendedseparately by the white, up-turned husks. They were the selected ears oflast year's crop, even of size throughout, smooth of kernel, with tipswell-covered--the perfect ones chosen among many to perpetuate thehighest excellencies of the crop. I carried them to the shed next mybarn, and shelled them out in my hand machine: as fine a basket ofyellow dent seed as a man ever saw. I have listened to endlessdiscussions as to the relative merits of flint and dent corn. I herecast my vote emphatically for yellow dent: it is the best Nature can do! I found my seed-bag hanging, dusty, over a rafter in the shed, andHarriet sewed a buckle on the strip that goes around the waist. Icleaned and sharpened my hoe. "Now, " I said to myself, "give me a good day and I am ready to plant. " The sun was just coming up on Friday, looking over the trees into aworld of misty and odorous freshness. When I climbed the fence I droppeddown in the grass at the far corner of the field. I had looked forwardthis year with pleasure to the planting of a small field by hand--theadventure of it--after a number of years of horse planting (withHorace's machine) of far larger fields. There is an indescribablesatisfaction in answering, "Present!" to the roll-call of Nature; toplant when the earth is ready, to cultivate when the soil begins to bakeand harden, to harvest when the grain is fully ripe. It is the chiefjoy of him who lives close to the soil that he comes, in time, to beatin consonance with the pulse of the earth; its seasons become hisseasons; its life his life. Behold me, then, with a full seed-bag suspended before me, buckled bothover the shoulders and around the waist, a shiny hoe in my hand (thescepter of my dominion), a comfortable, rested feeling in every muscleof my body, standing at the end of the first long furrow there in myfield on Friday morning--a whole spring day open before me! At thatmoment I would not have changed my place for the place of any king, prince, or president. At first I was awkward enough, for it has been a long time since I havedone much hand planting; but I soon fell into the rhythmic swing of thesower, the sure, even, accurate step; the turn of the body and theflexing of the wrists as the hoe strikes downward; the deftly hollowedhole; the swing of the hand to the seed-bag; the sure fall of thekernels; the return of the hoe; the final determining pressure of thesoil upon the seed. One falls into it and follows it as he would followthe rhythm of a march. Even the choice of seed becomes automatic, instinctive. At first thereis a conscious counting by the fingers--five seeds: One for the blackbird, One for the crow, One for the cutworm, Two to grow. But after a time one ceases to count five, and _feels_ five, instinctively rejecting a monstrous six, or returning to complete aninferior four. I wonder if you know the feel of the fresh, soft soil, as it answers toyour steps, giving a little, responding a little (as life alwaysdoes)--and is there not something endlessly good and pleasant about it?And the movement of the arms and shoulders, falling easily into thataction and reaction which yields the most service to the least energy!Scientists tell us that the awkward young eagle has a wider wing-stretchthan the old, skilled eagle. So the corn planter, at noon, will do hiswork with half the expended energy of the early morning: he attains theartistry of motion. And quite beyond and above this physicalaccomplishment is the ever-present, scarcely conscious sense of reward, repayment, which one experiences as he covers each planting of seeds. As the sun rose higher the mists stole secretly away, first toward thelower brook-hollows, finally disappearing entirely; the morning coolnesspassed, the tops of the furrows dried out to a lighter brown, and stillI followed the long planting. At each return I refilled my seed-bag, andsometimes I drank from the jug of water which I had hidden in the grass. Often I stood a moment by the fence to look up and around me. Throughthe clear morning air I could hear the roosters crowing vaingloriouslyfrom the barnyard, and the robins were singing, and occasionally fromthe distant road I heard the rumble of a wagon. I noted the slow kitchensmoke from Horace's chimney, the tip of which I could just see over thehill from the margin of my field--and my own pleasant home among itstrees--and my barn--all most satisfying to look upon. Then I returned tothe sweat and heat of the open field, and to the steady swing of thesowing. [Illustration: "OFTEN I STOOD A MOMENT BY THE FENCE"] Joy of life seems to me to arise from a sense of being where onebelongs, as I feel right here; of being foursquare with the life we havechosen. All the discontented people I know are trying sedulously to besomething they are not, to do something they cannot do. In theadvertisements of the country paper I find men angling for money bypromising to make women beautiful and men learned or rich--overnight--byinspiring good farmers and carpenters to be poor doctors and lawyers. Itis curious, is it not, with what skill we will adapt our sandy land topotatoes and grow our beans in clay, and with how little wisdom we farmthe soils of our own natures. We try to grow poetry where plumbing wouldthrive grandly!--not knowing that plumbing is as important andhonourable and necessary to this earth as poetry. I understand it perfectly; I too, followed long after false gods. Ithought I must rush forth to see the world, I must forthwith becomegreat, rich, famous; and I hurried hither and thither, seeking I knewnot what. Consuming my days with the infinite distractions of travel, Imissed, as one who attempts two occupations at once, the suresatisfaction of either. Beholding the exteriors of cities and of men, Iwas deceived with shadows; my life took no hold upon that which is deepand true. Colour I got, and form, and a superficial aptitude in judgingby symbols. It was like the study of a science: a hasty review gives onethe general rules, but it requires a far profounder insight to know thefertile exceptions. But as I grow older I remain here on my farm, and wait quietly for theworld to pass this way. My oak and I, we wait, and we are satisfied. Here we stand among our clods; our feet are rooted deep within the soil. The wind blows upon us and delights us, the rain falls and refreshes us, the sun dries and sweetens us. We are become calm, slow, strong; so wemeasure rectitudes and regard essentials, my oak and I. I would be a hard person to dislodge or uproot from this spot of earth. I belong here; I grow here. I like to think of the old fable of thewrestler of Irassa. For I am veritably that Anteus who was the wrestlerof Irassa and drew his strength from the ground. So long as I tread thelong furrows of my planting, with my feet upon the earth, I aminvincible and unconquerable. Hercules himself, though he comes upon mein the guise of Riches, or Fame, or Power, cannot overthrow me--save ashe takes me away from this soil. For at each step my strength isrenewed. I forget weariness, old age has no dread for me. Some there may be who think I talk dreams; they do not know reality. Myfriend, did it ever occur to you that you are unhappy because you havelost connection with life? Because your feet are not somewhere firmplanted upon the soil of reality? Contentment, and indeed usefulness, comes as the infallible result of great acceptances, greathumilities--of not trying to make ourselves this or that (to conform tosome dramatized version of ourselves), but of surrendering ourselves tothe fullness of life--of letting life flow through us. To be used!--thatis the sublimest thing we know. It is a distinguishing mark of greatness that it has a tremendous holdupon real things. I have seen men who seemed to have behind them, orrather within them, whole societies, states, institutions: how theycome at us, like Atlas bearing the world! For they act not with theirown feebleness, but with a strength as of the Whole of Life. They speak, and the words are theirs, but the voice is the Voice of Mankind. I don't know what to call it: being right with God or right with life. It is strangely the same thing; and God is not particular as to the namewe know him by, so long as we know Him. Musing upon these secret things, I seem to understand what the theologians in their darkness have made soobscure. Is it not just this at-one-moment with life which sweetens andsaves us all? In all these writings I have glorified the life of the soil until I amashamed. I have loved it because it saved me. The farm for me, I decidedlong ago, is the only place where I can flow strongly and surely. But toyou, my friend, life may present a wholly different aspect, variantnecessities. Knowing what I have experienced in the city, I havesometimes wondered at the happy (even serene) faces I have seen incrowded streets. There must be, I admit, those who can flow and be atone with that life, too. And let them handle their money, and makeshoes, and sew garments, and write in ledgers--if that completes andcontents them. I have no quarrel with any one of them. It is, after all, a big and various world, where men can be happy in many ways. For every man is a magnet, highly and singularly sensitized. Some drawto them fields and woods and hills, and are drawn in return; and somedraw swift streets and the riches which are known to cities. It is notof importance what we draw, but that we really draw. And the greatesttragedy in life, as I see it, is that thousands of men and women neverhave the opportunity to draw with freedom; but they exist in wearinessand labour, and are drawn upon like inanimate objects by those who livein unhappy idleness. They do not farm: they are farmed. But that is aquestion foreign to present considerations. We may be assured, if wedraw freely, like the magnet of steel which gathers its iron filingsabout it in beautiful and symmetrical forms, that the things which weattract will also become symmetrical and harmonious with our lives. Thus flowing with life, self-surrendering to life a man becomesindispensable to life, he is absolutely necessary to the conduct ofthis universe. And it is the feeling of being necessary, of beingdesired, flowing into a man that produces the satisfaction ofcontentment. Often and often I think to myself: These fields have need of me; my horse whinnies when he hears my step;my dog barks a welcome. These, my neighbours, are glad of me. The corncomes up fresh and green to my planting; my buckwheat bears richly. I amindispensable in this place. What is more satisfactory to the humanheart than to be needed and to know we are needed? One line in the Bookof Chronicles, when I read it, flies up at me out of the printed page asthough it were alive, conveying newly the age-old agony of a misplacedman. After relating the short and evil history of Jehoram, King ofJudah, the account ends--with the appalling terseness which often crownsthe dramatic climaxes of that matchless writing: "And (he) departed without being desired. " Without being desired! I have wondered if any man was ever cursed with amore terrible epitaph! And so I planted my corn; and in the evening I felt the dumb wearinessof physical toil. Many times in older days I have known the wakefulnerve-weariness of cities. This was not it. It was the weariness which, after supper, seizes upon one's limbs with half-aching numbness. I satdown on my porch with a nameless content. I looked off across thecountryside. I saw the evening shadows fall, and the moon come up. And Iwanted nothing I had not. And finally sleep swept in resistless wavesupon me and I stumbled up to bed--and sank into dreamless slumber. V THE STORY OF ANNA It is the prime secret of the Open Road (but I may here tell it aloud)that you are to pass nothing, reject nothing, despise nothing upon thisearth. As you travel, many things both great and small will come to yourattention; you are to regard all with open eyes and a heart ofsimplicity. Believe that everything belongs somewhere; each thing hasits fitting and luminous place within this mosaic of human life. TheTrue Road is not open to those who withdraw the skirts of intolerance orlift the chin of pride. Rejecting the least of those who are calledcommon or unclean, it is (curiously) you yourself that you reject. Ifyou despise that which is ugly you do not know that which is beautiful. For what is beauty but completeness? The roadside beggar belongs here, too; and the idiot boy who wanders idly in the open fields; and the girlwho withholds (secretly) the name of the father of her child. * * * * * I remember as distinctly as though it happened yesterday the particularevening three years ago when I saw the Scotch Preacher come hurrying upthe road toward my house. It was June. I had come out after supper tosit on my porch and look out upon the quiet fields. I remember thegrateful cool of the evening air, and the scents rising all about mefrom garden and roadway and orchard. I was tired after the work of theday and sat with a sort of complete comfort and contentment which comesonly to those who work long in the quiet of outdoor places. I rememberthe thought came to me, as it has come in various forms so many times, that in such a big and beautiful world there should be no room for thefever of unhappiness or discontent. And then I saw McAlway coming up the road. I knew instantly thatsomething was wrong. His step, usually so deliberate, was rapid; therewas agitation in every line of his countenance. I walked down throughthe garden to the gate and met him there. Being somewhat out of breathhe did not speak at once. So I said: "It is not, after all, as bad as you anticipate. " "David, " he said, and I think I never heard him speak more seriously, "it is bad enough. " He laid his hand on my arm. "Can you hitch up your horse and come with me--right away?" McAlway helped with the buckles and said not a word. In ten minutes, certainly not more, we were driving together down the lane. "Do you know a family named Williams living on the north road beyond thethree corners?" asked the Scotch Preacher. Instantly a vision of a somewhat dilapidated house, standing notunpicturesquely among ill-kept fields, leaped to my mind. "Yes, " I said; "but I can't remember any of the family except a ginghamgirl with yellow hair. I used to see her on her way to school, '' "A girl!" he said, with a curious note in his voice; "but a woman now. " He paused a moment; then he continued sadly: "As I grow older it seems a shorter and shorter step between child andchild. David, she has a child of her own, '' "But I didn't know--she isn't--" "A woods child, " said the Scotch Preacher. I could not find a word to say. I remember the hush of the evening therein the country road, the soft light fading in the fields. I heard awhippoorwill calling from the distant woods. "They made it hard for her, " said the Scotch Preacher, "especially herolder brother. About four o'clock this afternoon she ran away, takingher baby with her. They found a note saying they would never again seeher alive. Her mother says she went toward the river. " I touched up the mare. For a few minutes the Scotch Preacher sat silent, thinking. Then he said, with a peculiar tone of kindness in his voice. "She was a child, just a child. When I talked with her yesterday shewas perfectly docile and apparently contented. I cannot imagine herdriven to such a deed of desperation. I asked her: 'Why did you do it, Anna?' She answered, 'I don't know: I--I don't know!' Her reply was notdefiant or remorseful: it was merely explanatory. " He remained silent again for a long time. "David, " he said finally, "I sometimes think we don't know half as muchabout human nature as we--we preach. If we did, I think we'd be morecareful in our judgments. " He said it slowly, tentatively: I knew it came straight from his heart. It was this spirit, more than the title he bore, far more than thesermons he preached, that made him in reality the minister of ourcommunity. He went about thinking that, after all, he didn't know much, and that therefore he must be kind. As I drove up to the bridge, the Scotch Preacher put one hand on thereins. I stopped the horse on the embankment and we both stepped out. "She would undoubtedly have come down this road to the river, " McAlwaysaid in a low voice. It was growing dark. When I walked out on the bridge my legs werestrangely unsteady; a weight seemed pressing on my breast so that mybreath came hard. We looked down into the shallow, placid water: thecalm of the evening was upon it; the middle of the stream was like arumpled glassy ribbon, but the edges, deep-shaded by overhanging trees, were of a mysterious darkness. In all my life I think I neverexperienced such a degree of silence--of breathless, oppressive silence. It seemed as if, at any instant, it must burst into some fearful excessof sound. Suddenly we heard a voice--in half-articulate exclamation. I turned, every nerve strained to the uttermost. A figure, seemingly materializedout of darkness and silence, was moving on the bridge. "Oh!--McAlway, " a voice said. Then I heard the Scotch Preacher in low tones. "Have you seen Anna Williams?" "She is at the house, " answered the voice. "Get your horse, " said the Scotch Preacher. I ran back and led the mare across the bridge (how I remember, in thatsilence, the thunder of her hoofs on the loose boards!) Just at the topof the little hill leading up from the bridge the two men turned in at agate. I followed quickly and the three of us entered the house together. I remember the musty, warm, shut-in odour of the front room. I heard thefaint cry of a child. The room was dim, with a single kerosene lamp, butI saw three women huddled by the stove, in which a new fire was blazing. Two looked up as we entered, with feminine instinct moving aside to hidethe form of the third. "She's all right, as soon as she gets dry, " one of them said. The other woman turned to us half complainingly: "She ain't said a single word since we got her in here, and she won'tlet go of the baby for a minute. " "She don't cry, " said the other, "but just sits there like a statue. " McAlway stepped forward and said: "Well--Anna?" The girl looked up for the first time. The light shone full in her face:a look I shall never forget. Yes, it was the girl I had seen so often, and yet not the girl. It was the same childish face, but all marked uponwith inexplicable wan lines of a certain mysterious womanhood. It waschildish, but bearing upon it an inexpressible look of half-sad dignity, that stirred a man's heart to its profoundest depths. And there was init, too, as I have thought since, a something I have seen in the facesof old, wise men: a light (how shall I explain it?) as of experience--ofboundless experience. Her hair hung in wavy dishevelment about her headand shoulders, and she clung passionately to the child in her arms. The Scotch Preacher had said, "Well--Anna?" She looked up and replied: "They were going to take my baby away. " "Were they!" exclaimed McAlway in his hearty voice. "Well, we'll neverpermit _that_. Who's got a better right to the baby than you, I'd liketo know?" Without turning her head, the tears came to her eyes and rolledunheeded down her face. * * * * * "Yes, sir, Dr. McAlway, " the man said, "I was coming across the bridgewith the cows when I see her standing there in the water, her skirts allfloating around her. She was hugging the baby up to her face and sayingover and over, just like this: 'I don't dare! Oh, I don't dare! But Imust. I must, ' She was sort of singin' the words: 'I don't dare, I don'tdare, but I must. ' I jumped the railing and run down to the bank of theriver. And I says, 'Come right out o' there'; and she turned and comeout just as gentle as a child, and I brought her up here to the house. " * * * * * It seemed perfectly natural at this time that I should take the girl andher child home to Harriet. She would not go back to her own home, thoughwe tried to persuade her, and the Scotch Preacher's wife was visiting inthe city, so she could not go there. But after I found myself drivinghomeward with the girl--while McAlway went over the hill to tell herfamily--the mood of action passed. It struck me suddenly, "What willHarriet say?" Upon which my heart sank curiously, and refused to resumeits natural position. In the past I had brought her tramps and peddlers and itinerantpreachers, all of whom she had taken in with patience--but this, I knew, was different. For a few minutes I wished devoutly I were in Timbuctu orsome other far place. And then the absurdity of the situation struck meall at once, and I couldn't help laughing aloud. "It's a tremendous old world, " I said to myself. "Why, anything mayhappen anywhere!" The girl stirred, but did not speak. I was afraid I had frightened her. "Are you cold?" I asked. "No, sir, " she answered faintly. I could think of nothing whatever to say, so I said it: "Are you fond of hot corn-meal mush?" "Yes, sir, " very faintly. "With cream on it--rich yellow cream--and plenty of sugar?" "Yes, sir. " "Well, I'll bet a nickel that's what we're going to get!" "Yes, sir. " We drove up the lane and stopped at the yard gate. Harriet opened thedoor. I led the small dark figure into the warmth and light of thekitchen. She stood helplessly holding the baby tight in her arms--asforlorn and dishevelled a figure as one could well imagine. "Harriet, " I said, "this is Anna Williams. " Harriet gave me her most tremendous look. It seemed to me at that momentthat it wasn't my sister Harriet at all that I was facing, but somestranger and much greater person than I had ever known. Every man has, upon occasion, beheld his wife, his sister, his mother even, becomesuddenly unknown, suddenly commanding, suddenly greater than himself orany other man. For a woman possesses the occult power of becominginstantly, miraculously, the Accumulated and Personified Customs, Moralsand Institutions of the Ages. At this moment, then, I felt myself slowlybut surely shrinking and shriveling up. It is a most uncomfortablesensation to find one's self face to face with Society-at-Large. Undersuch circumstances I always know what to do. I run. So I clapped my haton my head, declared that the mare must be unharnessed immediately, andstarted for the door. Harriet followed. Once outside she closed the doorbehind her. "David, _David_, DAVID, " she said. It occurred to me now for the first time (which shows how stupid I am)that Harriet had already heard the story of Anna Williams. And it hadgained so much bulk and robustity in travelling, as such stories do inthe country, that I have no doubt the poor child seemed a sort ofdevastating monster of iniquity. How the country scourges those who donot walk the beaten path! In the, careless city such a one may escape tounfamiliar streets and consort with unfamiliar people, and still find away of life, but here in the country the eye of Society never sleeps! For a moment I was appalled by what I had done. Then I thought of theHarriet I knew so well: the inexhaustible heart of her. With a suddeninspiration I opened the kitchen door and we both looked in. The girlstood motionless just where I left her: an infinitely pathetic figure. "Harriet, " I said, "that girl is hungry--and cold. " Well, it worked. Instantly Harriet ceased to be Society-at-Large andbecame the Harriet I know, the Harriet of infinite compassion for allweak creatures. When she had gone in I pulled my hat down and wentstraight for the barn. I guess I know when it's wise to be absent fromplaces. I unharnessed the mare, and watered and fed her; I climbed up into theloft and put down a rackful of hay; I let the cows out into the pastureand set up the bars. And then I stood by the gate and looked up into theclear June sky. No man, I think, can remain long silent under the stars, with the brooding, mysterious night around about him, without feeling, poignantly, how little he understands anything, how inconsequential hisactions are, how feeble his judgments. And I thought as I stood there how many a man, deep down in his heart, knows to a certainty that he has escaped being an outcast, not becauseof any real moral strength or resolution of his own, but because Societyhas bolstered him up, hedged him about with customs and restrictionsuntil he never has had a really good opportunity to transgress. And somedo not sin for very lack of courage and originality: they are helplesslygood. How many men in their vanity take to themselves credit for thebuilt-up virtues of men who are dead! There is no cause for surprisewhen we hear of a "foremost citizen, " the "leader in all good works, "suddenly gone wrong; not the least cause for surprise. For it was not hethat was moral, but Society. Individually he had never been tested, andwhen the test came he fell. It will give us a large measure of truewisdom if we stop sometimes when we have resisted a temptation and askourselves why, at that moment, we did right and not wrong. Was it thedeep virtue, the high ideals in our souls, or was it the compulsion ofthe Society around us? And I think most of us will be astonished todiscover what fragile persons we really are--in ourselves. I stopped for several minutes at the kitchen door before I dared to goin. Then I stamped vigorously on the boards, as if I had come rushing upto the house without a doubt in my mind--I even whistled--and opened thedoor jauntily. And had my pains for nothing! The kitchen was empty, but full of comforting and homelike odours. Therewas undoubtedly hot mush in the kettle. A few minutes later Harriet camedown the stairs. She held up one finger warningly. Her face wastransfigured. "David, " she whispered, "the baby's asleep. " So I tiptoed across the room. She tiptoed after me. Then I faced about, and we both stood there on our tiptoes, holding our breath--at least Iheld mine. "David, " Harriet whispered, "did you see the baby?" "No, " I whispered. "I think it's the finest baby I ever saw in my life. " When I was a boy, and my great-aunt, who lived for many years in alittle room with dormer windows at the top of my father's house, usedto tell me stories (the best I ever heard), I was never content with theendings of them. "What happened next?" I remember asking a hundredtimes; and if I did not ask the question aloud it arose at least in myown mind. If I were writing fiction I might go on almost indefinitely with thestory of Anna; but in real life stories have a curious way of coming toquick fruition, and withering away after having cast the seeds of theirimmortality. "Did you see the baby?" Harriet had asked. She said no word about Anna:a BABY had come into the world. Already the present was beginning todraw the charitable curtains of its forgetfulness across this simpledrama; already Harriet and Anna and all the rest of us were beginning tolook to the "finest baby we ever saw in all our lives. " I might, indeed, go into the character of Anna and the whys andwherefores of her story; but there is curiously little that is strangeor unusual about it. It was just Life. A few days with us workedmiraculous changes in the girl; like some stray kitten brought incrying from the cold, she curled herself up comfortably there in ourhome, purring her contentment. She was not in the least a tragic figure:though down deep under the curves and dimples of youth there wassomething finally resistant, or obstinate, or defiant--which kept itscounsel regarding the past. It is curious how acquaintanceship mitigates our judgments. We classifystrangers into whose careers the newspapers or our friends give usglimpses as "bad" or "good"; we separate humanity into inevitablegoathood and sheephood. But upon closer acquaintance a man comes to benot bad, but Ebenezer Smith or J. Henry Jones; and a woman is not good, but Nellie Morgan or Mrs. Arthur Cadwalader. Take it in our own cases. Some people, knowing just a little about us, might call us pretty goodpeople; but we know that down in our hearts lurk the possibilities (ifnot the actual accomplishment) of all sorts of things not at all good. We are exceedingly charitable persons--toward ourselves. And thus we letother people live! The other day, at Harriet's suggestion, I drove to town by the upperroad, passing the Williams place. The old lady has a passion forhollyhocks. A ragged row of them borders the dilapidated picket fencebehind which, crowding up to the sociable road, stands the house. As Idrive that way it always seems to look out at me like some half-earnestworker, inviting a chat about the weather or the county fair; hence, probably, its good-natured dilapidation. At the gate I heard a voice, and a boy about three years old, in a soiled gingham apron, a sturdy, blue-eyed little chap, whose face was still eloquent of his recentbreakfast, came running to meet me. I stopped the mare. A moment later awoman was at the gate between the rows of hollyhocks; when she saw meshe began hastily to roll down her sleeves. "Why, Mr. Grayson!" "How's the boy, Anna?" And it was the cheerful talk we had there by the roadside, and the sightof the sturdy boy playing in the sunshine--and the hollyhocks, and thedilapidated house--that brought to memory the old story of Anna which Ihere set down, not because it carries any moral, but because it is acommon little piece out of real life in which Harriet and I have beeninterested. VI THE DRUNKARD It is a strange thing: Adventure. I looked for her high and I looked forher low, and she passed my door in a tattered garment--unheeded. For Ihad neither the eye of simplicity nor the heart of humility. One day Ilooked for her anew and I saw her beckoning from the Open Road; andunderneath the tags and tatters I caught the gleam of her celestialgarment; and I went with her into a new world. I have had a singular adventure, in which I have made a friend. And Ihave seen new things which are also true. My friend is a drunkard--at least so I call him, following the custom ofthe country. On his way from town he used often to come by my farm. Icould hear him singing afar off. Beginning at the bridge, where on stilldays one can hear the rattle of a wagon on the loose boards, he sang ina peculiar clear high voice. I make no further comment upon the singing, nor the cause of it; but in the cool of the evening when the air wasstill--and he usually came in the evening--I often heard the cadences ofhis song with a thrill of pleasure. Then I saw him come driving by myfarm, sitting on the spring seat of his one-horse wagon, and if hechanced to see me in my field, he would take off his hat and make me agrandiloquent bow, but never for a moment stop his singing. And so hepassed by the house and I, with a smile, saw him moving up the hill inthe north road, until finally his voice, still singing, died away in thedistance. Once I happened to reach the house just as the singer was passing, andHarriet said: "There goes that drunkard. " It gave me an indescribable shock. Of course I had known as much, andyet I had not directly applied the term. I had not thought of my singeras _that_, for I had often been conscious in spite of myself, alone inmy fields, of something human and cheerful which had touched me, inpassing. After Harriet applied her name to my singer, I was of two mindsconcerning him. I struggled with myself: I tried instinctively todiscipline my pulses when I heard the sound of his singing. For was henot a drunkard? Lord! how we get our moralities mixed up with ourrealities! And then one evening when I saw him coming--I had been a long day alonein my fields--I experienced a sudden revulsion of feeling. With anindescribable joyousness of adventure I stepped out toward the fence andpretended to be hard at work. "After all, " I said to myself, "this is a large world, with room in itfor many curious people. " I waited in excitement. When he came near me I straightened up just asthough I had seen him for the first time. When he lifted his hat to meI lifted my hat as grandiloquently as he. "How are you, neighbour?" I asked. He paused for a single instant and gave me a smile; then he replaced hishat as though he had far more important business to attend to, and wenton up the road. My next glimpse of him was a complete surprise to me. I saw him on thestreet in town. Harriet pointed him out, else I should never haverecognized him: a quiet, shy, modest man, as different as one couldimagine from the singer I had seen so often passing my farm. He woreneat, worn clothes; and his horse stood tied in front of the store. Hehad brought his honey to town to sell. He was a bee-man. I stopped and asked him about his honey, and whether the fall flowershad been plenty; I ran my eye over his horse, and said that it seemed tobe a good animal. But I could get very little from him, and that littlein a rather low voice. I came away with my interest whetted to a stillkeener edge. How a man has come to be what he is--is there any discoverybetter worth making? [Illustration: "HE USUALLY CAME IN THE EVENING"] After that day in town I watched for the bee-man, and I saw him often onhis way to town, silent, somewhat bent forward in his seat, driving hishorse with circumspection, a Dr. Jekyll of propriety; and a few hourslater he would come homeward a wholly different person, straight ofback, joyous of mien, singing his songs in his high clear voice, a veryHyde of recklessness. Even the old horse seemed changed: he held hishead higher and stepped with a quicker pace. When the bee-man wenttoward town he never paused, nor once looked around to see me in myfield; but when he came back he watched for me, and when I responded tohis bow he would sometimes stop and reply to my greeting. One day he came from town on foot and when he saw me, even though I wassome distance away, he approached the fence and took off his hat, andheld out his hand. I walked over toward him. I saw his full face for thefirst time: a rather handsome face. The hair was thin and curly, theforehead generous and smooth; but the chin was small. His face wasslightly flushed and his eyes--his eyes _burned_! I shook his hand. "I had hoped, " I said, "that you would stop sometime as you went by. " "Well, I've wanted to stop--but I'm a busy man. I have important mattersin hand almost all the time. " "You usually drive. " "Yes, ordinarily I drive. I do not use a team, but I have in view a finespan of roadsters. One of these days you will see me going by your farmin style. My wife and I both enjoy driving. " I wish I could here convey the tone of buoyancy with which he said thesewords. There was a largeness and confidence in them that carried meaway. He told me that he was now "working with the experts"--those werehis words--and that he would soon begin building a house that wouldastonish the country. Upon this he turned abruptly away, but came backand with fine courtesy shook my hand. "You see, " he said, "I am a busy man, Mr. Grayson--and a happy man. " So he set off down the road, and as he passed my house he began singingagain in his high voice. I walked away with a feeling of wonder, notunmixed with sorrow. It was a strange case! Gradually I became really acquainted with the bee-man, at first with theexuberant, confident, imaginative, home-going bee-man; far more slowlywith the shy, reserved, townward-bound bee-man. It was quite anadventure, my first talk with the shy bee-man. I was driving home; I methim near the lower bridge. I cudgeled my brain to think of some way toget at him. As he passed, I leaned out and said: "Friend, will you do me a favour? I neglected to stop at thepost-office. Would you call and see whether anything has been left forme in the box since the carrier started?'" "Certainly, " he said, glancing up at me, but turning his head swiftlyaside again. On his way back he stopped and left me a paper. He told me volubly aboutthe way he would run the post-office if he were "in a place of suitableauthority. " "Great things are possible, " he said, "to the man of ideas. " At this point began one of the by-plays of my acquaintance with thebee-man. The exuberant bee-man referred disparagingly to the shybee-man. "I must have looked pretty seedy and stupid this morning on my way in. Iwas up half the night; but I feel all right now. " The next time I met the shy bee-man he on his part apologised for theexuberant bee-man--hesitatingly, falteringly, winding up with the words, "I think you will understand. " I grasped his hand, and left him with awan smile on his face. Instinctively I came to treat the two men in awholly different manner. With the one I was blustering, hail-fellow-well-met, listening with eagerness to his expansive talk;but to the other I said little, feeling my way slowly to his friendship, for I could not help looking upon him as a pathetic figure. He needed afriend! The exuberant bee-man was sufficient unto himself, glorious inhis visions, and I had from him no little entertainment. I told Harriet about my adventures: they did not meet with her approval. She said I was encouraging a vice. "Harriet, " I said, "go over and see his wife. I wonder what she thinksabout it. " "Thinks!" exclaimed Harriet. "What should the wife of a drunkardthink?" But she went over. As soon as she returned I saw that something waswrong, but I asked no questions. During supper she was extraordinarilypreoccupied, and it was not until an hour or more afterward that shecame into my room. "David, " she said, "I can't understand some things. " "Isn't human nature doing what it ought to?" I asked. But she was not to be joked with. "David, that man's wife doesn't seem to be sorry because he comes homedrunken every week or two! I talked with her about it and what do youthink she said? She said she knew it was wrong, but she intimated thatwhen he was in that state she loved--liked--him all the better. Is itbelievable? She said: 'Perhaps you won't understand--it's wrong, I know, but when he comes home that way he seems so full of--life. He--he seemsto understand me better then!' She was heartbroken, one could see that, but she would not admit it. I leave it to you, David, what can anyone dowith a woman like that? How is the man ever to overcome his habits?" It is a strange thing, when we ask questions directly of life, how oftenthe answers are unexpected and confusing. Our logic becomes illogical!Our stories won't turn out. She told much more about her interview: the neat home, the bees in theorchard, the well-kept garden. "When he's sober, " she said, "he seems tobe a steady, hard worker. " After that I desired more than ever to see deep into the life of thestrange bee-man. Why was he what he was? And at last the time came, as things come to him who desires themfaithfully enough. One afternoon not long ago, a fine autumn afternoon, when the trees were glorious on the hills, the Indian summer sun neversofter, I was tramping along a wood lane far back of my farm. And at theroadside, near the trunk of an oak tree, sat my friend, the bee-man. Hewas a picture of despondency, one long hand hanging limp between hisknees, his head bowed down. When he saw me he straightened up, looked atme, and settled back again. My heart went out to him, and I sat downbeside him. "Have you ever seen a finer afternoon?" I asked. He glanced up at the sky. "Fine?" he answered vaguely, as if it had never occurred to him. I saw instantly what the matter was; the exuberant bee-man was inprocess of transformation into the shy bee-man. I don't know exactly howit came about, for such things are difficult to explain, but I led himto talk of himself. "After it is all over, " he said, "of course I am ashamed of myself. Youdon't know, Mr. Grayson, what it all means. I am ashamed of myself now, and yet I know I shall do it again. " "No, " I said, "you will not do it again. " "Yes, I shall. Something inside of me argues: Why should you be sorry?Were you not free for a whole afternoon?" "Free?" I asked. "Yes--free. You will not understand. But every day I work, work, work. Ihave friends, but somehow I can't get to them; I can't even get to mywife. It seems as if a wall hemmed me in, as if I were bound to a rockwhich I couldn't get away from, I am also afraid. When I am sober I knowhow to do great things, but I can't do them. After a few glasses--Inever take more--I not only know I can do great things, but I feel asthough I were really doing them. " "But you never do?" "No, I never do, but I _feel_ that I can. All the bonds break and thewall falls down and I am free. I can really touch people. I feelfriendly and neighbourly. " He was talking eagerly now, trying to explain, for the first time in hislife, he said, how it was that he did what he did. He told me howbeautiful it made the world, where before it was miserable andfriendless, how he thought of great things and made great plans, how hishome seemed finer and better to him, and his work more noble. The manhad a real gift of imagination and spoke with an eagerness and eloquencethat stirred me deeply. I was almost on the point of asking him wherehis magic liquor was to be found! When he finally gave me an opening, Isaid: "I think I understand. Many men I know are in some respects drunkards. They all want some way to escape themselves--to be free of their ownlimitations. " "That's it! That's it!" he exclaimed eagerly. We sat for a time side by side, saying nothing. I could not helpthinking of that line of Virgil referring to quite another sort ofintoxication: "With Voluntary dreams they cheat their minds. " Instead of that beautiful unity of thought and action which marks thefinest character, here was this poor tragedy of the divided life. WhenFate would destroy a man it first separates his forces! It drives him tothink one way and act another; it encourages him to seek through outwardstimulation--whether drink, or riches, or fame--a deceptive and unworthysatisfaction in place of that true contentment which comes only fromunity within. No man can be two men successfully. So we sat and said nothing. What indeed can any man _say_ to anotherunder such circumstances? As Bobbie Burns remarks out of the depths ofhis own experience: "What's done we partly may computeBut know not what's resisted. " I've always felt that the best thing one man can give another is thewarm hand of understanding. And yet when I thought of the pathetic, shybee-man, hemmed in by his sunless walls, I felt that I should also saysomething. Seeing two men struggling shall I not assist the better?Shall I let the sober one be despoiled by him who is riotous? There arerealities, but there are also moralities--if we can keep them properlyseparated. "Most of us, " I said finally, "are in some respects drunkards. We don'tgive it so harsh a name, but we are just that. Drunkenness is not a merematter of intoxicating liquors; it goes deeper--far deeper. Drunkennessis the failure of a man to control his thoughts. " The bee-man sat silent, gazing out before him. I noted the blue veins inthe hand that lay on his knee. It came over me with sudden amusementand I said: "I often get drunk myself. " "You?" "Yes--dreadfully drunk. " He looked at me and laughed--for the first time! And I laughed, too. Doyou know, there's a lot of human nature in people! And when you thinkyou are deep in tragedy, behold, humour lurks just around the corner! "I used to laugh at it a good deal more than I do now, " he said. "I'vebeen through it all. Sometimes when I go to town I say to myself, 'Iwill not turn at that corner, ' but when I come to the corner, I do turn. Then I say 'I will not go into that bar, ' but I do go in. 'I will notorder anything to drink, ' I say to myself, and then I hear myselftalking aloud to the barkeeper just as though I were some other person. 'Give me a glass of rye, ' I say, and I stand off looking at myself, veryangry and sorrowful. But gradually I seem to grow weaker and weaker--orrather stronger and stronger--for my brain begins to become clear, and Isee things and feel things I never saw or felt before. I want to sing. " "And you do sing, " I said. "I do, indeed, " he responded, laughing, "and it seems to me the mostbeautiful music in the world. " "Sometimes, " I said, "when I'm on _my_ kind of spree, I try not so muchto empty my mind of the thoughts which bother me, but rather to fill mymind with other, stronger thoughts----" Before I could finish he had interrupted: "Haven't I tried that, too? Don't I think of other things? I think ofbees--and that leads me to honey, doesn't it? And that makes me think ofputting the honey in the wagon and taking it to town. Then, of course, Ithink how it will sell. Instantly, stronger than you can imagine, I seea dime in my hand. Then it appears on the wet bar. I _smell_ the _smell_of the liquor. And there you are!" We did not talk much more that day. We got up and shook hands and lookedeach other in the eye. The bee-man turned away, but came backhesitatingly. "I am glad of this talk, Mr. Grayson. It makes me feel like taking holdagain. I have been in hell for years----" "Of course, " I said. "You needed a friend. You and I will come uptogether. " As I walked toward home that evening I felt a curious warmth ofsatisfaction in my soul--and I marvelled at the many strange things thatare to be found upon this miraculous earth. * * * * * I suppose, if I were writing a story, I should stop at this point; but Iam dealing in life. And life does not always respond to our impatiencewith satisfactory moral conclusions. Life is inconclusive: quite open atthe end. I had a vision of a new life for my neighbour, the bee-man--andhave it yet, for I have not done with him--but---- Last evening, and that is why I have been prompted to write the wholestory, my bee-man came again along the road by my farm; my exuberantbee-man. I heard him singing afar off. He did not see me as he went by, but as I stood looking out at him, itcame over me with a sudden sense of largeness and quietude that the sunshone on him as genially as it did on me, and that the leaves did notturn aside from him, nor the birds stop singing when he passed. "He also belongs here, " I said. And I watched him as he mounted the distant hill, until I could nolonger hear the high clear cadences of his song. And it seemed to methat something human, in passing, had touched me. VII AN OLD MAID One of my neighbours whom I never have chanced to mention before inthese writings is a certain Old Maid. She lives about two miles from myfarm in a small white house set in the midst of a modest, neat gardenwith well-kept apple trees in the orchard behind it. She lives all alonesave for a good-humoured, stupid nephew who does most of the work on thefarm--and does it a little unwillingly. Harriet and I had not been hereabove a week when we first made the acquaintance of Miss Aiken, orrather she made our acquaintance. For she fills the place, mostimportant in a country community, of a sensitive socialtentacle--reaching out to touch with sympathy the stranger. Harriet wasamused at first by what she considered an almost unwarrantablecuriosity, but we soon formed a genuine liking for the little old lady, and since then we have often seen her in her home, and often she hascome to ours. She was here only last night. I considered her as she sat rocking infront of our fire; a picture of wholesome comfort. I have had much tosay of contentment. She seems really to live it, although I have foundthat contentment is easier to discover in the lives of our neighboursthan in our own. All her life long she has lived here in this community, a world of small things, one is tempted to say, with a sort of expectedand predictable life. I thought last night, as I observed her gentlystirring her rocking-chair, how her life must be made up of small, often-repeated events: pancakes, puddings, patchings, who knows whatother orderly, habitual, minute affairs? Who knows? Who knows when helooks at you or at me that there is anything in us beyond thehumdrummery of this day? In front of her house are two long, boarded beds of old-fashionedflowers, mignonette and petunias chiefly, and over the small, very whitedoor with its shiny knob, creeps a white clematis vine. Just inside thehall-door you will discover a bright, clean, oval rag rug, whichprepares you, as small things lead to greater, for the larger, brighter, cleaner rug of the sitting-room. There on the centre-table you willdiscover "Snow Bound, " by John Greenleaf Whittier; Tupper's Poems; alarge embossed Bible; the family plush album; and a book, with a giltladder on the cover which leads upward to gilt stars, called the "Pathof Life. " On the wall are two companion pictures of a rosy fat child, infaded gilt frames, one called "Wide Awake" the other "Fast Asleep. " Notfar away, in a corner, on the top of the walnut whatnot, is a curiousvase filled with pampas plumes; there are sea-shells and a piece ofcoral on the shelf below. And right in the midst of the room are threevery large black rocking-chairs with cushions in every conceivable andavailable place--including cushions on the arms. Two of them are foryou and me, if we should come in to call; the other is for the cat. When you sit down you can look out between the starchiest of starchycurtains into the yard, where there is an innumerable busy flock ofchickens. She keeps chickens, and all the important ones are named. Shehas one called Martin Luther, another is Josiah Gilbert Holland. Onceshe came over to our house with a basket, from one end of which werethrust the sturdy red legs of a pullet. She informed us that she hadbrought us one of Evangeline's daughters. But I am getting out of the house before I am fairly well into it. Thesitting-room expresses Miss Aiken; but not so well, somehow, as theimmaculate bedroom beyond, into which, upon one occasion, I waspermitted to steal a modest glimpse. It was of an incomparable neatnessand order, all hung about--or so it seemed to me--with white starchythings, and ornamented with bright (but inexpensive) nothings. In thiswonderful bedroom there is a secret and sacred drawer into which, oncein her life, Harriet had a glimpse. It contains the clothes, all gentlyfolded, exhaling an odour of lavender, in which our friend will appearwhen she has closed her eyes to open them no more upon this earth. Insuch calm readiness she awaits her time. Upon the bureau in this sacred apartment stands a small rosewood box, which is locked, into which no one in our neighbourhood has had so muchas a single peep. I should not dare, of course, to speculate upon itscontents; perhaps an old letter or two, "a ring and a rose, " a ribbonthat is more than a ribbon, a picture that is more than art. Who cantell? As I passed that way I fancied I could distinguish a faint, mysterious odour which I associated with the rosewood box: anold-fashioned odour composed of many simples. On the stand near the head of the bed and close to the candlestick is aBible--a little, familiar, daily Bible, very different indeed from theportentous and imposing family Bible which reposes on the centre-tablein the front room, which is never opened except to record a death. Ithas been well worn, this small nightly Bible, by much handling. Isthere a care or a trouble in this world, here is the sure talisman. Sheseeks (and finds) the inspired text. Wherever she opens the book sheseizes the first words her eyes fall upon as a prophetic message to her. Then she goes forth like some David with his sling, so panoplied withcourage that she is daunted by no Goliath of the Philistines. Also shehas a worshipfulness of all ministers. Sometimes when the ScotchPreacher comes to tea and remarks that her pudding is good, I firmlybelieve that she interprets the words into a spiritual message for her. Besides the drawer, the rosewood box, and the worn Bible, there is acertain Black Cape. Far be it from me to attempt a description, but Ican say with some assurance that it also occupies a shrine. It may notbe in the inner sanctuary, but it certainly occupies a goodly part ofthe outer porch of the temple. All this, of course, is figurative, forthe cape hangs just inside the closet door on a hanger, with a whitecloth over the shoulders to keep off the dust. For the vanities of theworld enter even such a sanctuary as this. I wish, indeed, that youcould see Miss Aiken wearing her cape on a Sunday in the late fall whenshe comes to church, her sweet old face shining under her black hat, herold-fashioned silk skirt giving out an audible, not unimpressive soundas she moves down the aisle. With what dignity she steps into her pew!With what care she sits down so that she may not crush the cookies inher ample pocket; with what meek pride--if there is such a thing as meekpride--she looks up at the Scotch Preacher as he stands sturdily in hispulpit announcing the first hymn! And many an eye turning that way tolook turns with affection. Several times Harriet and I have been with her to tea. Like many anothergenius, she has no conception of her own art in such matters as applepuddings. She herself prefers graham gems, in which she believes thereinheres a certain mysterious efficacy. She bakes gems on Monday and hasthem steamed during the remainder of the week--with tea. And as a sort of dessert she tells us about the Danas, the Aikens andthe Carnahans, who are, in various relationships, her progenitors. Wegravitate into the other room, and presently she shows us, in the plushalbum, the portraits of various cousins, aunts and uncles. And by-and-byHarriet warms up and begins to tell about the Scribners, theMacIntoshes, and the Strayers, who are _our_ progenitors. "The Aikens, " says Miss Aiken, "were always like that--downright andoutspoken. It is an Aiken trait. No Aiken could ever help blurting outthe truth if he knew he were to die for it the next minute. " "That was like the Macintoshes, " Harriet puts in. "Old GrandfatherMacintosh----" By this time I am settled comfortably in the cushioned rocking-chair towatch the fray. Miss Aiken advances a Dana, Harriet counters with aStrayer. Miss Aiken deploys the Carnahans in open order, upon whichHarriet entrenches herself with the heroic Scribners and lets fly aMacintosh who was a general in the colonial army. Surprised, but notdefeated, Miss Aiken withdraws in good order, covering her retreat withtwo _Mayflower_ ancestors, the existence of whom she establishes with ablue cup and an ancient silver spoon. No one knows the joy of fightingrelatives until he has watched such a battle, following the completecomfort of a good supper. If any one is sick in the community Miss Aiken hears instantly of it bya sort of wireless telegraphy, or telepathy which would astonish amystery-loving East Indian. She appears with her little basket, whichhas two brown flaps for covers opening from the middle and with a springin them somewhere so that they fly shut with a snap. Out of this shetakes a bowl of chicken broth, a jar of ambrosial jelly, a cake ofdelectable honey and a bottle of celestial raspberry shrub. If thepatient will only eat, he will immediately rise up and walk. Or if hedies, it is a pleasant sort of death. I have myself thought on severaloccasions of being taken with a brief fit of sickness. In telling all these things about Miss Aiken, which seem to describeher, I have told only the commonplace, the expected or predictabledetails. Often and often I pause when I see an interesting man or womanand ask myself: "How, after all, does this person live?" For we allknow it is not chiefly by the clothes we wear or the house we occupy orthe friends we touch. There is something deeper, more secret, whichfurnishes the real motive and character of our lives. What a triumph, then, is every fine old man! To have come out of a long life with aspirit still sunny, is not that an heroic accomplishment? Of the real life of our friend I know only one thing; but that thing isprecious to me, for it gives me a glimpse of the far dim Alps that riseout of the Plains of Contentment. It is nothing very definite--suchthings never are; and yet I like to think of it when I see her treadingthe useful round of her simple life. As I said, she has lived here inthis neighbourhood--oh, sixty years. The country knew her father beforeher. Out of that past, through the dimming eyes of some of the oldinhabitants, I have had glimpses of the sprightly girlhood which ourfriend must have enjoyed. There is even a confused story of a wooer (howpeople try to account for every old maid!)--a long time ago--who cameand went away again. No one remembers much about him--such things arenot important, of course, after so many years---- But I must get to _the_ thing I treasure. One day Harriet called at thelittle house. It was in summer and the door stood open; she presumed onthe privilege of friendship and walked straight in. There she saw, sitting at the table, her head on her arm in a curious girlish abandonunlike the prim Miss Aiken we knew so well, our Old Maid. When she heardHarriet's step she started up with breath quickly indrawn. There weretears in her eyes. Something in her hand she concealed in the folds ofher skirt then impulsively--unlike her, too--she threw an arm aroundHarriet and buried her face on Harriet's shoulder. In response toHarriet's question she said: "Oh, an old, old trouble. No _new_ trouble. " That was all there was to it. All the new troubles were the troubles ofother people. You may say this isn't much of a clue; well it isn't, andyet I like to have it in mind. It gives me somehow the _other_ woman whois not expected or predictable or commonplace. I seem to understand ourOld Maid the better; and when I think of her bustling, inquisitive, helpful, gentle ways and the shine of her white soul, I'm sure I don'tknow what we should do without her in this community. VIII A ROADSIDE PROPHET From my upper field, when I look across the countryside, I can see inthe distance a short stretch of the gray town road. It winds out of alittle wood, crosses a knoll, and loses itself again beyond the trees ofan old orchard. I love that spot in my upper field, and the view of theroad beyond. When I am at work there I have only to look up to see theworld go by--part of it going down to the town, and part of it coming upagain. And I never see a traveller on the hill, especially if he beafoot, without feeling that if I met him I should like him, and thatwhatever he had to say I should like to hear. * * * * * At first I could not make out what the man was doing. Most of thetravellers I see from my field are like the people I commonly meet--sointent upon their destination that they take no joy of the road theytravel. They do not even see me here in the fields; and if they did, they would probably think me a slow and unprofitable person. I havenothing that they can carry away and store up in barns, or reduce topercentages, or calculate as profit and loss; they do not perceive whata wonderful place this is; they do not know that here, too, we gather acrop of contentment. But apparently this man was the pattern of a loiterer. I saw him stop onthe knoll and look widely about him. Then he stooped down as thoughsearching for something, then moved slowly forward for a few steps. Justat that point in the road lies a great smooth boulder which road-makerslong since dead had rolled out upon the wayside. Here to myastonishment I saw him kneel upon the ground. He had something in onehand with which he seemed intently occupied. After a time he stood up, and retreating a few steps down the road, he scanned the bouldernarrowly. "This, " I said to myself, "may be something for me. " So I crossed the fence and walked down the neighbouring field. It was anIndian summer day with hazy hillsides, and still sunshine, andslumbering brown fields--the sort of a day I love. I leaped the littlebrook in the valley and strode hastily up the opposite slope. I cannotdescribe what a sense I had of new worlds to be found here in oldfields. So I came to the fence on the other side and looked over. My manwas kneeling again at the rock. I was scarcely twenty paces from him, but so earnestly was he engaged that he never once saw me. I had a goodlook at him. He was a small, thin man with straight gray hair; above hiscollar I could see the weather-brown wrinkles of his neck. His coat wasof black, of a noticeably neat appearance, and I observed, as a furtherevidence of fastidiousness rare upon the Road, that he was saving histrousers by kneeling on a bit of carpet. What he could be doing there sointently by the roadside I could not imagine. So I climbed the fence, making some little intentional noise as I did so. He arose immediately. Then I saw at his side on the ground two small tin cans, and in hishands a pair of paint brushes. As he stepped aside I saw the words hehad been painting on the boulder: GOD IS LOVE A meek figure, indeed, he looked, and when he saw me advancing he said, with a deference that was almost timidity: "Good morning, sir. " "Good morning, brother, " I returned heartily. His face brightened perceptibly. "Don't stop on my account, " I said; "finish off your work. " He knelt again on his bit of carpet and proceeded busily with hisbrushes. I stood and watched him. The lettering was somewhat crude, buthe had the swift deftness of long practice. "How long, " I inquired, "have you been at this sort of work?" "Ten years, " he replied, looking up at me with a pale smile. "Off and onfor ten years. Winters I work at my trade--I am a journeymanpainter--but when spring comes, and again in the fall, I follow theroad. " He paused a moment and then said, dropping his voice, in words of theutmost seriousness: "I live by the Word. " "By the Word?" I asked. "Yes, by the Word, " and putting down his brushes he took from an innerpocket a small package of papers, one of which he handed to me. It boreat the top this sentence in large type: "Is not my word like fire, saith the Lord: and like a hammer thatbreaketh the rock in pieces?" I stood and looked at him a moment. I suppose no one man is strangerthan any other, but at that moment it seemed to me I had never met amore curious person. And I was consumed with a desire to know why he waswhat he was. "Do you always paint the same sign?" I asked. "Oh, no, " he answered. "I have a feeling about what I should paint. WhenI came up the road here this morning I stopped a minute, and it allseemed so calm and nice"--he swept his arm in the direction of thefields--"that I says to myself, 'I will paint "God is Love. "'" "An appropriate text, " I said, "for this very spot. " He seemed much gratified. "Oh, you can follow your feelings!" he exclaimed. "Sometimes near townsI can't paint anything but 'Hell yawns, ' and 'Prepare to meet thy God. 'I don't like 'em as well as 'God is Love, ' but it seems like I had topaint 'em. Now, when I was in Arizona----" He paused a moment, wiping his brushes. "When I was in Arizona, " he was saying, "mostly I painted 'Repent ye. 'It seemed like I couldn't paint anything else, and in some places I feltmoved to put 'Repent ye' twice on the same rock. " I began to ask him questions about Arizona, but I soon found how littlehe, too, had taken toll of the road he travelled: for he seemed to havebrought back memories only of the texts he painted and the fact that insome places good stones were scarce, and that he had to carry extraturpentine to thin his paint, the weather being dry. I don't know thathe is a lone representative of this trait. I have known farmers who, intravelling, saw only plows and butter-tubs and corn-cribs, and preacherswho, looking across such autumn fields as these would carry away only amusty text or two. I pity some of those who expect to go to heaven: theywill find so little to surprise them in the golden streets. But I persevered with my painter, and it was not long before we weretalking with the greatest friendliness. Having now finished his work, heshook out his bit of carpet, screwed the tops on his paint cans, wrappedup his brushes, and disposed of them all with the deftness of longexperience in his small black bag. Then he stood up and lookedcritically at his work. "It's all right, " I said; "a great many people coming this way in thenext hundred years will see it. " "That's what I want, " he said eagerly; "that's what I want. Most peoplenever hear the Word at all. " He paused a moment and then continued: "It's a curious thing, Mister--perhaps you've noticed it yourself--thatthe best things of all in the world people won't have as a gift. " "I've noticed it, " I said. "It's strange, isn't it?" he again remarked. "Very strange, " I said. "I don't know's I can blame them, " he continued. "I was that way myselffor a good many years: all around me gold and diamonds and preciousjewels, and me never once seeing them. All I had to do was to stoop andtake them--but I didn't do it. " I saw that I had met a philosopher, and I decided that I would stop andwrestle with him and not let him go without his story--something likeJacob, wasn't it, with the angel? "Do you do all this without payment?" He looked at me in an injured way. "Who'd pay me?" he asked. "Mostly people think me a sort of fool. Oh, Iknow, but I don't mind. I live by the Word. No, nobody pays me: I ampaying myself. " By this time he was ready to start. So I said, "Friend, I'm going yourway, and I'll walk with you. " So we set off together down the hill. "You see, sir, " he said, "when a man has got the best thing in theworld, and finds it's free, he naturally wants to let other people knowabout it. " He walked with the unmistakable step of those who knew the long road--aneasy, swinging, steady step--carrying his small black bag. So Igradually drew him out, and when I had his whole story it was as simpleand common, but as wonderful, as daylight: as fundamental as a tree or arock. "You see, Mister, " he said, "I was a wild sort when I was young. Thedrink, and worse. I hear folks say sometimes that if they'd known whatwas right they'd have done it. But I think that conscience never stopsringing little bells in the back of a man's head; and that if he doesn'tdo what is right, it's because he _wants_ to do what is wrong. He thinksit's more amusing and interesting. I went through all that, Mister, andplenty more besides. I got pretty nearly as low as a man ever gets. Oh, I was down and out: no home, no family, not a friend that wanted to seeme. If you never got down that low, Mister, you don't know what it is. You are just as much dead as if you were in your grave. I'm telling you. "I thought there was no help for me, and I don't know's I wanted to behelped. I said to myself, 'You're just naturally born weak and it isn'tyour fault, ' It makes a lot of men easier in their minds to lay up theirtroubles to the way they are born. I made all sorts of excuses formyself, but all the time I knew I was wrong; a man can't fool himself. "So it went along for years. I got married and we had a little girl. " He paused for a long moment. "I thought _that_ was going to help me. I thought the world and all ofthat little girl----" He paused again. "Well, _she_ died. Then I broke my wife's heart and went on down tohell. When a man lets go that way he kills everything he loves andeverything that loves him. He's on the road to loneliness and despair, that man. I'm telling you. "One day, ten years ago this fall, I was going along the main street inQuinceyville. I was near the end of my rope. Not even money enough tobuy drink with, and yet I was then more'n half drunk, I happened to lookup on the end of that stone wall near the bridge--were you ever there, Mister?--and I saw the words 'God is Love' painted there. It somehow hitme hard. I couldn't anyways get it out of my mind. 'God is Love. ' Well, says I to myself if God is Love, he's the only one that _is_ Love for achap like me. And there's no one else big enough to save me--I says. SoI stopped right there in the street, and you may believe it or explainit anyhow you like, Mister, but it seemed to me a kind of light came allaround me, and I said, solemn-like, 'I will try God. '" He stopped a moment. We were walking down the hill: all about us oneither side spread the quiet fields. In the high air above a few lacyclouds were drifting eastward. Upon this story of tragic human lifecrept in pleasantly the calm of the countryside. "And I did try Him, " my companion was saying, "and I found that thewords on the wall were true. They were true back there and they've beentrue ever since. When I began to be decent again and got back my healthand my job, I figured that I owed a lot to God. I wa'n't no orator, andno writer and I had no money to give, 'but, ' says I to myself, I'm apainter. I'll help God with paint. ' So here I am a-travelling up anddown the roads and mostly painting 'God is Love, ' but sometimes 'Repentye' and 'Hell yawns. ' I don't know much about religion--but I do knowthat His Word is like a fire, and that a man can live by it, and if oncea man has it he has everything else he wants. " He paused: I looked around at him again. His face was set steadilyahead--a plain face showing the marks of his hard earlier life, and yetmarked with a sort of high beauty. "The trouble with people who are unhappy, Mister, " he said, "is thatthey won't try God. " I could not answer my companion. There seemed, indeed, nothing more tobe said. All my own speculative incomings and outgoings--how futilethey seemed compared with this! Near the foot of the hill there is a little-bridge. It is a pleasant, quiet spot. My companion stopped and put down his bag. "What do you think, " said he, "I should paint here?" "Well, " I said, "you know better than I do. What would _you_ paint?" He looked around at me and then smiled as though he had a quiet littlejoke with himself. "When in doubt, " he said, "I always paint 'God is Love, ' I'm sure ofthat. Of course 'Hell yawns' and 'Repent ye' have to be painted--neartowns--but I much rather paint 'God is Love. '" I left him kneeling there on the bridge, the bit of carpet under hisknees, his two little cans at his side. Half way up the hill I turned tolook back. He lifted his hand with the paint brush in it, and I wavedmine in return. I have never seen him since, though it will be a long, long time before the sign of him disappears from our roadsides. At the top of the hill, near the painted boulder, I climbed the fence, pausing a moment on the top rail to look off across the hazycountryside, warm with the still sweetness of autumn. In the distance, above the crown of a little hill, I could see the roof of my ownhome--and the barn near it--and the cows feeding quietly in thepastures. IX THE GUNSMITH Harriet and I had the first intimation of what we have since called the"gunsmith problem" about ten days ago. It came to us, as was to beexpected, from that accomplished spreader of burdens, the ScotchPreacher. When he came in to call on us that evening after supper Icould see that he had something important on his mind; but I let him getto it in his own way. "David, " he said finally, "Carlstrom, the gunsmith, is going home toSweden. " "At last!" I exclaimed. Dr. McAlway paused a moment and then said hesitatingly: "He _says_ he is going. " Harriet laughed. "Then it's all decided, " she said; "he isn't going. " "No, " said the Scotch Preacher, "it's not decided--yet. " "Dr. McAlway hasn't made up his mind, " I said, "whether Carlstrom is togo or not. " But the Scotch Preacher was in no mood for joking. "David, " he said, "did you ever know anything about the homesickness ofthe foreigner?" He paused a moment and then continued, nodding his great shaggy head: "Man, man, how my old mither greeted for Scotland! I mind how a sprig ofheather would bring the tears to her eyes; and for twenty years I darednot whistle "Bonnie Doon" or "Charlie Is My Darling" lest it break herheart. 'Tis a pain you've not had, I'm thinking, Davy. " "We all know the longing for old places and old times, " I said. "No, no, David, it's more than that. It's the wanting and the longingto see the hills of your own land, and the town where you were born, andthe street where you played, and the house----" He paused, "Ah, well, it's hard for those who have it. " "But I haven't heard Carlstrom refer to Sweden for years, " I said. "Isit homesickness, or just old age?" "There ye have it, Davy; the nail right on the head!" exclaimed theScotch Preacher. "Is it homesickness, or is he just old and tired?" With that we fell to talking about Carlstrom, the gunsmith. I have knownhim pretty nearly ever since I came here, now more than ten yearsago--and liked him well, too--but it seemed, as Dr. McAlway talked thatevening, as though we were making the acquaintance of quite a new andwonderful person. How dull we all are! How we need such an artist as theScotch Preacher to mould heroes out of the common human clay around us!It takes a sort of greatness to recognize greatness. In an hour's time the Scotch Preacher had both Harriet and me muchexcited, and the upshot of the whole matter was that I promised to callon Carlstrom the next day when I went to town. I scarcely needed the prompting of the Scotch Preacher, for Carlstrom'sgunshop has for years been one of the most interesting places in townfor me. I went to it now with a new understanding. Afar off I began to listen for Carlstrom's hammer, and presently I heardthe familiar sounds. There were two or three mellow strokes, and I knewthat Carlstrom was making the sparks fly from the red iron. Then thehammer rang, and I knew he was striking down on the cold steel of theanvil. It is a pleasant sound to hear. Carlstrom's shop is just around the corner from the main street. You mayknow it by a great weather-beaten wooden gun fastened over the doorway, pointing in the daytime at the sky, and in the night at the stars. Astranger passing that way might wonder at the great gun and possibly sayto himself: "A gunshop! How can a man make a living mending guns in such a peacefulcommunity!" Such a remark merely shows that he doesn't know Carlstrom, nor the shop, nor _us_. I tied my horse at the corner and went down to the shop with a peculiarnew interest. I saw as if for the first time the old wheels which havestood weathering so long at one end of the building. I saw under theshed at the other end the wonderful assortment of old iron pipes, kettles, tires, a pump or two, many parts of farm machinery, a brokenwater wheel, and I don't know what other flotsam of thirty years ofdiligent mending of the iron works of an entire community. All this, youmay say--the disorder of old iron, the cinders which cover part of theyard but do not keep out the tangle of goldenrod and catnip and bonesetwhich at this time of the year grows thick along the neighbouringfences--all this, you say, makes no inviting picture. You are wrong. Where honest work is, there is always that which invites the eye. I know of few things more inviting than to step up to the wide-opendoors and look into the shop. The floor, half of hard worn boards halfof cinders, the smoky rafters of the roof, the confusion of implementson the benches, the guns in the corners--how all of these things formthe subdued background for the flaming forge and the square chimneyabove it. At one side of the forge you will see the great dusty bellows and youwill hear its stertorous breathing. In front stands the old brown anvilset upon a gnarly maple block. A long sweep made of peeled hickory woodcontrols the bellows, and as you look in upon this lively and pleasantscene you will see that the grimy hand of Carlstrom himself is upon thehickory sweep. As he draws it down and lets it up again with thepeculiar rhythmic swing of long experience--heaping up his fire with alittle iron paddle held in the other hand--he hums to himself in a highcurious old voice, no words at all, just a tune of contented employmentin consonance with the breathing of the bellows and the mounting flamesof the forge. As I stood for a moment in the doorway the other day before Carlstromsaw me, I wished I could picture my friend as the typical blacksmithwith the brawny arms, the big chest, the deep voice and all that. But asI looked at him newly, the Scotch Preacher's words still in my ears, heseemed, with his stooping shoulders, his gray beard not very well kept, and his thin gray hair, more than ordinarily small and old. I remember as distinctly as though it were yesterday the first timeCarlstrom really impressed himself upon me. It was in my early blinddays at the farm. I had gone to him with a part of a horse-rake which Ihad broken on one of my stony hills'. "Can you mend it?" I asked. If I had known him better I should never have asked such a question. Isaw, indeed, at the time that I had not said the right thing; but howcould I know then that Carlstrom never let any broken thing escape him?A watch, or a gun, or a locomotive--they are all alike to him, if theyare broken. I believe he would agree to patch the wrecked chariot ofPhaëthon! A week later I came back to the shop. "Come in, come in, " he said when he saw me. He turned from his forge, set his hands on his hips and looked at me amoment with feigned seriousness. "So!" he said. "You have come for your job?" He softened the "j" in job; his whole speech, indeed, had the engaginginflection of the Scandinavian tongue overlaid upon the English words. "So, " he said, and went to his bench with a quick step and an air ofalmost childish eagerness. He handed me the parts of my hay-rake withouta word. I looked them over carefully. "I can't see where you mended them, " I said. You should have seen his face brighten with pleasure! He allowed me toadmire the work in silence for a moment and then he had it out of myhand, as if I couldn't be trusted with anything so important, and heexplained how he had done it. A special tool for his lathe had beenfound necessary in order to do my work properly. This he had made at hisforge, and I suppose it had taken him twice as long to make the specialtool as it had to mend the parts of my rake; but when I would have paidhim for it he would take nothing save for the mending itself. Nor wasthis a mere rebuke to a doubter. It had delighted him to do a difficultthing, to show the really great skill he had. Indeed, I think ourfriendship began right there and was based upon the favour I did inbringing him a job that I thought he couldn't do! When he saw me the other day in the door of his shop he seemed greatlypleased. "Come in, come in, " he said. "What is this I hear, " I said, "about your going back to Sweden?" "For forty years, " he said, "I've been homesick for Sweden. Now I'm anold man and I'm going home. " "But, Carlstrom, " I said, "we can't get along without you. Who's goingto keep us mended up?" "You have Charles Baxter, " he said, smiling. For years there had been a quiet sort of rivalry between Carlstrom andBaxter, though Baxter is in the country and works chiefly in wood. "But Baxter can't mend a gun or a hay-rake, or a pump, to save hislife, " I said. "You know that. " The old man seemed greatly pleased: he had the simple vanity which isthe right of the true workman. But for answer he merely shook his head. "I have been here forty years, " he said. "and all the time I have beenhomesick for Sweden. " I found that several men of the town had been in to see Carlstrom andtalked with him of his plans, and even while I was there two otherfriends came in. The old man was delighted with the interest shown. After I left him I went down the street. It seemed as though everybodyhad heard of Carlstrom's plans, and here and there I felt that thesecret hand of the Scotch Preacher had been at work. At the store whereI usually trade the merchant talked about it, and the postmaster when Iwent in for my mail, and the clerk at the drug store, and theharness-maker. I had known a good deal about Carlstrom in the past, forone learns much of his neighbours in ten years, but it seemed to me thatday as though his history stood out as something separate and new andimpressive. When he first came here forty years ago I suppose Carlstrom was notunlike most of the foreigners who immigrate to our shores, fired withfaith in a free country. He was poor--as poor as a man could possiblybe. For several years he worked on a farm--hard work, for which, owing tohis frail physique, he was not well fitted. But he saved moneyconstantly, and after a time he was able to come to town and open alittle shop. He made nearly all of his tools with his own hands, hebuilt his own chimney and forge, he even whittled out the wooden gunwhich stands for a sign over the door of his shop. He had learned histrade in the careful old-country way. Not only could he mend a gun, buthe could make one outright, even to the barrel and the wooden stock. Inall the years I have known him he has always had on hand some suchwork--once I remember, a pistol--which he was turning out at odd timesfor the very satisfaction it gave him. He could not sell one of hishand-made guns for half as much as it cost him, nor does he seem to wantto sell them, preferring rather to have them stand in the corner of hisshop where he can look at them. His is the incorruptible spirit of theartist! What a tremendous power there is in work. Carlstrom worked. He was upearly in the morning to work, and he worked in the evening as long asdaylight lasted, and once I found him in his shop in the evening, bending low over his bench with a kerosene lamp in front of him. He washumming his inevitable tune and smoothing off with a fine file the nicecurves of a rifle trigger. When he had trouble--and what a lot of it hehas had in his time!--he worked; and when he was happy he worked all theharder. All the leisurely ones of the town drifted by, all the childrenand the fools, and often rested in the doorway of his shop. He made themall welcome: he talked with them, but he never stopped working. Clang, clang, would go his anvil, whish, whish, would respond his bellows, creak, creak, would go the hickory sweep--he was helping the world goround! All this time, though he had sickness in his family, though his wifedied, and then his children one after another until only one nowremains, he worked and he saved. He bought a lot and built a house torent; then he built another house; then he bought the land where hisshop stands and rebuilt the shop itself. It was an epic of homely work. He took part in the work of the church and on election days he changedhis coat, and went to the town hall to vote. [Illustration: "THE CHILDREN . .. OFTEN RESTED IN THE DOORWAY OF HISSHOP"] In the years since I have known the old gunsmith and something of thetown where he works, I have seen young men, born Americans, with everyopportunity and encouragement of a free country, growing up there andgoing to waste. One day I heard one of them, sitting in front of astore, grumbling about the foreigners who were coming in and taking upthe land. The young man thought it should be prevented by law. I saidnothing; but I listened and heard from the distance the steady clang, clang, of Carlstrom's hammer upon the anvil. Ketchell, the store-keeper, told me how Carlstrom had longed and plannedand saved to be able to go back once more to the old home he had left. Again and again he had got almost enough money ahead to start, and thenthere would be an interest payment due, or a death in the family, andthe money would all go to the banker, the doctor, or the undertaker. "Of recent years, " said Ketchell, "we thought he'd given up the idea. His friends are all here now, and if he went back, he certainly wouldbe disappointed. " A sort of serenity seemed, indeed, to come upon him: his family lie onthe quiet hill, old things and old times have grown distant, and uponthat anvil of his before the glowing forge he has beaten out for himselfa real place in this community. He has beaten out the respect of a wholetown; and from the crude human nature with which he started he hasfashioned himself wisdom, and peace of mind, and the ripe humour whichsees that God is in his world. There are men I know who read many books, hoping to learn how to be happy; let me commend them to Carlstrom, thegunsmith. I have often reflected upon the incalculable influence of one man upon acommunity. The town is better for having stood often looking into thefire of Carlstrom's forge, and seeing his hammer strike. I don't knowhow many times I have heard men repeat observations gathered inCarlstrom's shop. Only the other day I heard the village school teachersay, when I asked him why he always seemed so merry and had so littlefault to find with the world. "Why, " he replied, "as Carlstrom, the smith says, 'when I feel likefinding fault I always begin with myself and then I never get anyfarther, '" Another of Carlstrom's sayings is current in the country. "It's a good thing, " he says, "when a man knows what he pretends toknow. " The more I circulated among my friends, the more I heard of Carlstrom. It is odd that I should have gone all these years knowing Carlstrom, andyet never consciously until last week setting him in his rightful placeamong the men I know. It makes me wonder what other great souls about meare thus concealing themselves in the guise of familiarity. (Thisstooped gray neighbour of mine whom I have seen so often working in hisfield that he has almost become a part of the landscape--who can tellwhat heroisms may be locked away from my vision under his old brownhat?) On Wednesday night Carlstrom was at Dr. McAlway's house--with CharlesBaxter, my neighbour Horace, and several others. And I had still anotherview of him. I think there is always something that surprises one in finding afamiliar figure in a wholly new environment. I was so accustomed to theCarlstrom of the gunshop that I could not at once reconcile myself tothe Carlstrom of Dr. McAlway's sitting room. And, indeed, there was astriking change in his appearance. He came dressed in the quaint blackcoat which he wears at funerals. His hair was brushed straight back fromhis broad, smooth forehead and his mild blue eyes were bright behind anespecially shiny pair of steel-bowed spectacles. He looked more likesome old-fashioned college professor than he did like a smith. The old gunsmith had that pride of humility which is about the bestpride in this world. He was perfectly at home at the Scotch Preacher'shearth. Indeed, he radiated a sort of beaming good will; he had a nativedesire to make everything pleasant. I did not realize before what a fundof humour the old man had. The Scotch Preacher rallied him on the numberof houses he now owns, and suggested that he ought to get a wife to keepat least one of them for him. Carlstrom looked around with a twinkle inhis eye. "When I was a poor man, " he said, "and carried boxes from Ketchell'sstore to help build my first shop, I used to wish I had a wheelbarrow. Now I have four. When I had no house to keep my family in, I used towish that I had one. Now I have four. I have thought sometimes I wouldlike a wife--but I have not dared to wish for one. " The old gunsmith laughed noiselessly, and then from habit, I suppose, began to hum as he does in his shop--stopping instantly, however, whenhe realized what he was doing. During the evening the Scotch Preacher got me to one side and said: "David, we can't let the old man go. " "No, sir, " I said, "we can't. " "All he needs, Davy, is cheering up. It's a cold world sometimes to theold. " I suppose the Scotch Preacher was saying the same thing to all the othermen of the company. When we were preparing to go, Dr. McAlway turned to Carlstrom and said: "How is it, Carlstrom, that you have come to hold such a place in thiscommunity? How is it that you have got ahead so rapidly?" The old man leaned forward, beaming through his spectacles, and saideagerly: "It ist America; it ist America. " "No, Carlstrom, no--it is not all America. It is Carlstrom, too. Youwork, Carlstrom, and you save. " Every day since Wednesday there has been a steady pressure on Carlstrom;not so much said in words, but people stopping in at the shop andpassing a good word. But up to Monday morning the gunsmith went forwardsteadily with his preparations to leave. On Sunday I saw the ScotchPreacher and found him perplexed as to what to do. I don't know yetpositively, that he had a hand in it, though I suspect it, but on Mondayafternoon Charles Baxter went by my house on his way to town with abroken saw in his buggy. Such is the perversity of rival artists that Idon't think Charles Baxter had ever been to Carlstrom with any work. Butthis morning when I went to town and stopped at Carlstrom's shop I foundthe gunsmith humming louder than ever. "Well, Carlstrom, when are we to say good-by?" I asked. "I'm not going, " he said, and taking me by the sleeve he led me over tohis bench and showed me a saw he had mended. Now, a broken saw is one ofthe high tests of the genius of the mender. To put the pieces togetherso that the blade will be perfectly smooth, so that the teeth matchaccurately, is an art which few workmen of to-day would even attempt. "Charles Baxter brought it in, " answered the old gunsmith, unable toconceal his delight. "He thought I couldn't mend it!" To the true artist there is nothing to equal the approbation of a rival. It was Charles Baxter, I am convinced, who was the deciding factor. Carlstrom couldn't leave with one of Baxter's saws unmended! But back ofit all, I know, is the hand and the heart of the Scotch Preacher. The more I think of it the more I think that our gunsmith possesses manyof the qualities of true greatness. He has the serenity, and the humour, and the humility of greatness. He has a real faith in God. He works, heaccepts what comes. He thinks there is no more honourable calling thanthat of gunsmith, and that the town he lives in is the best of alltowns, and the people he knows the best people. Yes, it _is_ greatness. X THE MOWING "Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons, It is to grow in the open air and to eat and sleep withthe earth. " This is a well earned Sunday morning. My chores were all done long ago, and I am sitting down here after a late and leisurely breakfast withthat luxurious feeling of irresponsible restfulness and comfort whichcomes only upon a clean, still Sunday morning like this--after a week ofhard work--a clean Sunday morning, with clean clothes, and a clean chin, and clean thoughts, and the June airs stirring the clean white curtainsat my windows. From across the hills I can hear very faintly the drowsysounds of early church bells, never indeed to be heard here except on amorning of surpassing tranquillity. And in the barnyard back of thehouse Harriet's hens are cackling triumphantly: they are impiouslyunobservant of the Sabbath day. I turned out my mare for a run in the pasture. She has rolled herselfagain and again in the warm earth and shaken herself after each rollwith an equine delight most pleasant to see. Now, from time to time, Ican hear her gossipy whickerings as she calls across the fields to myneighbour Horace's young bay colts. When I first woke up this morning I said to myself: "Well, nothing happened yesterday. " Then I lay quiet for some time--it being Sunday morning--and I turnedover in my mind all that I had heard or seen or felt or thought about inthat one day. And presently I said aloud to myself: "Why, nearly everything happened yesterday. " And the more I thought of it the more interesting, the more wonderful, the more explanatory of high things, appeared the common doings of thatJune Saturday. I had walked among unusual events--and had not known thewonder of them! I had eyes, but I did not see--and ears, but I heardnot. It may be, it _may_ be, that the Future Life of which we have hadsuch confusing but wistful prophecies is only the reliving with a fullunderstanding, of this marvellous Life that we now know. To a fullunderstanding this day, this moment even--here in this quiet room--wouldcontain enough to crowd an eternity. Oh, we are children yet--playingwith things much too large for us--much too full of meaning. * * * * * Yesterday I cut my field of early clover. I should have been at it afull week earlier if it had not been for the frequent and sousing springshowers. Already half the blossoms of the clover had turned brown andwere shriveling away into inconspicuous seediness. The leaves underneathon the lower parts of the stems were curling up and fading; many ofthem had already dropped away. There is a tide also in the affairs ofclover and if a farmer would profit by his crop, it must be taken at itsflood. I began to watch the skies with some anxiety, and on Thursday I wasdelighted to see the weather become clearer, and a warm dry wind springup from the southwest. On Friday there was not so much as a cloud of thesize of a man's hand to be seen anywhere in the sky, not one, and thesun with lively diligence had begun to make up for the listlessness ofthe past week. It was hot and dry enough to suit the most exactinghay-maker. Encouraged by these favourable symptoms I sent word to Dick Sheridan (byone of Horace's men) to come over bright and early on Saturday morning. My field is only a small one and so rough and uneven that I hadconcluded with Dick's help to cut it by hand. I thought that on a pinchit could all be done in one day. "Harriet, " I said, "we'll cut the clover to-morrow. " "That's fortunate, " said Harriet, "I'd already arranged to have AnnSpencer in to help me. " Yesterday morning, then, I got out earlier than usual. It was a perfectJune morning, one of the brightest and clearest I think I ever saw. Themists had not yet risen from the hollows of my lower fields, and all theearth was fresh with dew and sweet with the mingled odours of growingthings. No hour of the whole day is more perfect than this. I walked out along the edge of the orchard and climbed the fence of thefield beyond. As I stooped over I could smell the heavy sweet odour ofthe clover blossoms. I could see the billowy green sweep of theglistening leaves. I lifted up a mass of the tangled stems and laid thepalm of my hand on the earth underneath. It was neither too wet nor toodry. "We shall have good cutting to-day, " I said to myself. So I stood up and looked with a satisfaction impossible to describeacross the acres of my small domain, marking where in the low spots thecrop seemed heaviest, where it was lodged and tangled by the wind andthe rain, and where in the higher spaces it grew scarce thick enough tocover the sad baldness of the knolls. How much more we get out of lifethan we deserve! So I walked along the edge of the field to the orchard gate, which Iopened wide. "Here, " I said, "is where we will begin. " So I turned back to the barn. I had not reached the other side of theorchard when who should I see but Dick Sheridan himself, coming in atthe lane gate. He had an old, coarse-woven straw hat stuck resplendentlyon the back of his head. He was carrying his scythe jauntily over hisshoulder and whistling "Good-bye, Susan" at the top of his capacity. Dick Sheridan is a cheerful young fellow with a thin brown face and(milky) blue eyes. He has an enormous Adam's apple which has an odd wayof moving up and down when he talks--and one large tooth out in front. His body is like a bundle of wires, as thin and muscular and enduring asthat of a broncho pony. He can work all day long and then go down to thelodge-hall at the Crossing and dance half the night. You should reallysee him when he dances! He can jump straight up and click his heelstwice together before he comes down again! On such occasions he ismarvellously clad, as befits the gallant that he really is, but thismorning he wore a faded shirt and one of his suspender cords behind wasfastened with a nail instead of a button. His socks are sometimes paleblue and sometimes lavender and commonly, therefore, he turns up histrouser legs so that these vanities may not be wholly lost upon a dullworld. His full name is Richard Tecumseh Sheridan, but every one callshim Dick. A good, cheerful fellow, Dick, and a hard worker. I like him. "Hello, Dick, " I shouted. "Hello yourself, Mr. Grayson, " he replied. He hung his scythe in the branches of a pear tree and we both turnedinto the barnyard to get the chores out of the way. I wanted to delaycutting as long as I could--until the dew on the clover should begin--atleast--to disappear. By half-past-seven we were ready for work. We rolled back our sleeves, stood our scythes on end and gave them a final lively stoning. You couldhear the brisk sound of the ringing metal pealing through the stillmorning air. "It's a great day for haying, " I said. "A dang good one, " responded the laconic Dick, wetting his thumb to feelthe edge of his scythe. I cannot convey with any mere pen upon any mere paper the feeling ofjauntiness I had at that moment, as of conquest and fresh adventure, asof great things to be done in a great world! You may say if you likethat this exhilaration was due to good health and the exuberance ofyouth. But it was more than that--far more. I cannot well express it, but it seemed as though at that moment Dick and I were stepping out intosome vast current of human activity: as though we had the universeitself behind us, and the warm regard and approval of all men. I stuck my whetstone in my hip-pocket, bent forward and cut the firstshort sharp swath in the clover. I swept the mass of tangled green stemsinto the open space just outside the gate. Three or four more strokesand Dick stopped whistling suddenly, spat on his hands and with a lively"Here she goes!" came swinging in behind me. The clover-cutting hadbegun. At first I thought the heat would be utterly unendurable, and, then, with dripping face and wet shoulders, I forgot all about it. Oh, thereis something incomparable about such work--the long steady pull ofwilling and healthy muscles, the mind undisturbed by any disquietingthought, the feeling of attainment through vigorous effort! It was asteady swing and swish, swish and swing! When Dick led I have a pictureof him in my mind's eye--his wiry thin legs, one heel lifted at eachstep and held rigid for a single instant, a glimpse of pale blue socksabove his rusty shoes and three inches of whetstone sticking from histight hip-pocket. It was good to have him there whether he led orfollowed. At each return to the orchard end of the field we looked for and found agray stone jug in the grass. I had brought it up with me filled withcool water from the pump. Dick had a way of swinging it up with onehand, resting it in his shoulder, turning his head just so and lettingthe water gurgle into his throat. I have never been able myself to reachthis refinement in the art of drinking from a jug. And oh! the good feel of a straightened back after two long swathes inthe broiling sun! We would stand a moment in the shade, whetting ourscythes, not saying much, but glad to be there together. Then we wouldgo at it again with renewed energy. It is a great thing to have aworking companion. Many times that day Dick and I looked aside at eachother with a curious sense of friendliness--that sense of friendlinesswhich grows out of common rivalries, common difficulties and a commonweariness. We did not talk much: and that little of trivial matters. "Jim Brewster's mare had a colt on Wednesday. " "This'll go three tons to the acre, or I'll eat my shirt. " Dick was always about to eat his shirt if some particular prophecy ofhis did not materialize. "Dang it all, " says Dick, "the moon's drawin' water. " "Something is undoubtedly drawing it, " said I, wiping my dripping face. A meadow lark sprang up with a song in the adjoining field, a few heavyold bumblebees droned in the clover as we cut it, and once a frightenedrabbit ran out, darting swiftly under the orchard fence. So the long forenoon slipped away. At times it seemed endless, and yetwe were surprised when we heard the bell from the house (what a sound itwas!) and we left our cutting in the middle of the field, nor waited foranother stroke. "Hungry, Dick?" I asked. "Hungry!" exclaimed Dick with all the eloquence of a lengthy orationcrowded into one word. So we drifted through the orchard, and it was good to see the house withsmoke in the kitchen chimney, and the shade of the big maple where itrested upon the porch. And not far from the maple we could see ourfriendly pump with the moist boards of the well-cover in front of it. Icannot tell you how good it looked as we came in from the hot, dryfields. "After you, " says Dick. I gave my sleeves another roll upward and unbuttoned and turned in themoist collar of my shirt. Then I stooped over and put my head under thepump spout. "Pump, Dick, " said I. And Dick pumped. "Harder, Dick, " said I in a strangled voice. And Dick pumped still harder, and presently I came up gasping with myhead and hair dripping with the cool water. Then I pumped for Dick. "Gee, but that's good, " says Dick. Harriet came out with clean towels, and we dried ourselves, and talkedtogether in low voices. And feeling a delicious sense of coolness we satdown for a moment in the shade of the maple and rested our arms on ourknees. From the kitchen, as we sat there, we could hear the engagingsounds of preparation, and busy voices, and the tinkling of dishes, andagreeable odours! Ah, friend and brother, there may not be bettermoments in life than this! So we sat resting, thinking of nothing; and presently we heard thescreen door click and Ann Spencer's motherly voice: "Come in now, Mr. Grayson, and get your dinner. " Harriet had set the table on the east porch, where it was cool andshady. Dick and I sat down opposite each other and between us there wasa great brown bowl of moist brown beans with crispy strips of pork ontop, and a good steam rising from its depths; and a small mountain ofbaked potatoes, each a little broken to show the snowy white interior;and two towers of such new bread as no one on this earth (or in anyother planet so far as I know) but Harriet can make. And before we hadeven begun our dinner in came the ample Ann Spencer, quaking withhospitality, and bearing a platter--let me here speak of it with thebated breath of a proper respect, for I cannot even now think of itwithout a sort of inner thrill--bearing a platter of her most famousfried chicken. Harriet had sacrificed the promising careers of two youngroosters upon the altar of this important occasion. I may say in passingthat Ann Spencer is more celebrated in our neighbourhood by virtue ofher genius at frying chicken, than Aristotle or Solomon or Socrates, orindeed all the big-wigs of the past rolled into one. So we fell to with a silent but none the less fervid enthusiasm. Harriethovered about us, in and out of the kitchen, and poured the tea and thebuttermilk, and Ann Spencer upon every possible occasion passed thechicken. "More chicken, Mr. Grayson?" she would inquire in a tone of voice thatmade your mouth water. "More chicken, Dick?" I'd ask. "More chicken, Mr. Grayson, " he would respond--and thus we kept up atenuous, but pleasant little joke between us. Just outside the porch in a thicket of lilacs a catbird sang to us whilewe ate, and my dog lay in the shade with his nose on his paws and oneeye open just enough to show any stray flies that he was not to betrifled with--and far away to the North and East one could catchglimpses--if he had eyes for such things--of the wide-stretchingpleasantness of our countryside. I soon saw that something mysterious was going on in the kitchen. Harriet would look significantly at Ann Spencer and Ann Spencer, whocould scarcely contain her overflowing smiles, would look significantlyat Harriet. As for me, I sat there with perfect confidence in myself--inmy ultimate capacity, as it were. Whatever happened, I was ready for it! And the great surprise came at last: a SHORT-CAKE: a great, big, red, juicy, buttery, sugary short-cake, with raspberries heaped up all overit. When It came in--and I am speaking of it in that personal waybecause it radiated such an effulgence that I cannot now rememberwhether it was Harriet or Ann Spencer who brought it in--when It camein, Dick, who pretends to be abashed upon such occasions, gave one swiftglance upward and then emitted a long, low, expressive whistle. WhenBeethoven found himself throbbing with undescribable emotions hecomposed a sonata; when Keats felt odd things stirring within him hewrote an ode to an urn, but my friend Dick, quite as evidently on firewith his emotions, merely whistled--and then looked around evidentlyembarrassed lest he should have infringed upon the proprieties of thatoccasion. "Harriet, " I said, "you and Ann Spencer are benefactors of the humanrace. " "Go 'way now, " said Ann Spencer, shaking all over with pleasure, "andeat your shortcake. " And after dinner how pleasant it was to stretch at full length for afew minutes on the grass in the shade of the maple tree and look upthrough the dusky thick shadows of the leaves. If ever a man feels theblissfulness of complete content it is at such a moment--every muscle inthe body deliciously resting, and a peculiar exhilaration animating themind to quiet thoughts. I have heard talk of the hard work of thehay-fields, but I never yet knew a healthy man who did not recall manymoments of exquisite pleasure connected with the hardest and the hottestwork. I think sometimes that the nearer a man can place himself in the fullcurrent of natural things the happier he is. If he can become a part ofthe Universal Process and know that he is a part, that is happiness. Allday yesterday I had that deep quiet feeling that I was somehow notworking for myself, not because I was covetous for money, nor driven byfear, not surely for fame, but somehow that I was a necessary element inthe processes of the earth. I was a primal force! I was theindispensable Harvester. Without me the earth could not revolve! Oh, friend, there are spiritual values here, too. For how can a manknow God without yielding himself fully to the processes of God? I _lived_ yesterday. I played my part. I took my place. And all hardthings grew simple, and all crooked things seemed straight, and allroads were open and clear before me. Many times that day I paused andlooked up from my work knowing that I had something to be happy for. At one o'clock Dick and I lagged our way unwillingly out to workagain--rusty of muscles, with a feeling that the heat would now surelybe unendurable and the work impossibly hard. The scythes were oddlyheavy and hot to the touch, and the stones seemed hardly to make a soundin the heavy noon air. The cows had sought the shady pasture edges, thebirds were still, all the air shook with heat. Only man must toil! "It's danged hot, " said Dick conclusively. How reluctantly we began the work and how difficult it seemed comparedwith the task of the morning! In half an hour, however, the reluctancepassed away and we were swinging as steadily as we did at any time inthe forenoon. But we said less--if that were possible--and made everyounce of energy count. I shall not here attempt to chronicle all theevents of the afternoon, how we finished the mowing of the field and howwe went over it swiftly and raked the long windrows into cocks, or how, as the evening began to fall, we turned at last wearily toward thehouse. The day's work was done. Dick had stopped whistling long before the middle of the afternoon, butnow as he shouldered his scythe he struck up "My Fairy Fay" with somemarks of his earlier enthusiasm. "Well, Dick, " said I, "we've had a good day's work together. " "You bet, " said Dick. And I watched him as he went down the lane with a pleasant friendlyfeeling of companionship. We had done great things together. I wonder if you ever felt the joy of utter physical weariness: notexhaustion, but weariness. I wonder if you have ever sat down, as I didlast night, and felt as though you would like to remain just therealways--without stirring a single muscle, without speaking, withoutthinking even! Such a moment is not painful, but quite the reverse--it is supremelypleasant. So I sat for a time last evening on my porch. The cool, stillnight had fallen sweetly after the burning heat of the day. I heard allthe familiar sounds of the night. A whippoorwill began to whistle in thedistant thicket. Harriet came out quietly--I could see the white of hergown--and sat near me. I heard the occasional sleepy tinkle of acowbell, and the crickets were calling. A star or two came out in theperfect dark blue of the sky. The deep, sweet, restful night was on. Idon't know that I said it aloud--such things need not be said aloud--butas I turned almost numbly into the house, stumbling on my way to bed, mywhole being seemed to cry out: "Thank God, thank God!" XI AN OLD MAN Today I saw Uncle Richard Summers walking in the town road: and cannotget him out of my mind. I think I never knew any one who wears soplainly the garment of Detached Old Age as he. One would not now thinkof calling him a farmer, any more than one would think of calling him adoctor, or a lawyer, or a justice of the peace. No one would think nowof calling him "Squire Summers, " though he bore that name with no smallcredit many years ago. He is no longer known as hardworking, or able, orgrasping, or rich, or wicked: he is just Old. Everything seems to havebeen stripped away from Uncle Richard except age. How well I remember the first time Uncle Richard Summers impressedhimself upon my mind. It was after the funeral of his old wife, nowseveral years ago. I saw him standing at the open grave with hisbroad-brimmed felt hat held at his breast. His head was bowed and histhin, soft, white hair stirred in the warm breeze. I wondered at hisquietude. After fifty years or more together his nearest companion andfriend had gone, and he did not weep aloud. Afterward I was againimpressed with the same fortitude or quietude. I saw him walking downthe long drive to the main road with all the friends of ourneighbourhood about him--and the trees rising full and calm on one side, and the still greenery of the cemetery stretching away on the other. Half way down the drive he turned aside to the fence and all unconsciousof the halted procession, he picked a handful of the large leaves of thewild grape. It was a hot day; he took off his hat, and put the coolleaves in the crown of it and rejoined the procession. It did not seemto me to be the mere forgetfulness of old age, nor yet callousness tohis own great sorrow. It was rather an instinctive return to theimmeasurable continuity of the trivial things of life--the trivialnecessary things which so often carry us over the greatest tragedies. I talked with the Scotch Preacher afterward about the incident. He saidthat he, too, marveling at the old man's calmness, had referred to it inhis presence. Uncle Richard turned to him and said slowly: "I am an old man, and I have learned one thing. I have learned to acceptlife. " Since that day I have seen Uncle Richard Summers many times walking onthe country roads with his cane. He always looks around at me and slowlynods his head, but rarely says anything. At his age what is there to saythat has not already been said? His trousers appear a size too large for him, his hat sets too far down, his hands are long and thin upon the head of his cane. But his face istranquil. He has come a long way; there have been times of tempest andkeen winds, there have been wild hills in his road, and rocky places, and threatening voices in the air. All that is past now: and his face istranquil. I think we younger people do not often realize how keenly dependent weare upon our contemporaries in age. We get little understanding andsympathy either above or below them. Much of the world is a little mistyto us, a little out of focus. Uncle Richard Summer's contemporaries havenearly all gone--mostly long ago: one of the last, his old wife. At hishome--I have been there often to see his son--he sits in a large rockingchair with a cushion in it, and a comfortable high back to lean upon. Noone else ventures to sit in his chair, even when he is not there. It isnot far from the window; and when he sits down he can lean his caneagainst the wall where he can easily reach it again. There is a turmoil of youth and life always about him; of feveredincomings and excited outgoings, of work and laughter and tears and joyand anger. He watches it all, for his mind is still clear, but he doesnot take sides. He accepts everything, refuses nothing; or, if you like, he refuses everything, accepts nothing. He once owned the house where he now lives, with the great barns behindit and the fertile acres spreading far on every hand. From his chair hecan look out through a small window, and see the sun on the quietfields. He once went out swiftly and strongly, he worked hotly, he camein wearied to sleep. Now he lives in a small room--and that is more than is reallynecessary--and when he walks out he does not inquire who owns the landwhere he treads. He lets the hot world go by, and waits with patiencethe logic of events. Often as I have passed him in the road, I have wondered, as I have beenwondering to-day, how he must look out upon us all, upon our excitedcomings and goings, our immense concern over the immeasurably trivial. Ihave wondered, not without a pang, and a resolution, whether I shallever reach the point where I can let this eager and fascinating world goby without taking toll of it! XII THE CELEBRITY Not for many weeks have I had a more interesting, more illuminating, andwhen all is told, a more amusing experience, than I had this afternoon. Since this afternoon the world has seemed a more satisfactory place tolive in, and my own home here, the most satisfactory, the most centralplace in all the world. I have come to the conclusion that anything mayhappen here! We have had a celebrity in our small midst, and the hills, as thePsalmist might say, have lifted up their heads, and the trees haveclapped their hands together. He came here last Tuesday evening andspoke at the School House. I was not there myself; if I had been, Ishould not, perhaps, have had the adventure which has made this day solivable, nor met the Celebrity face to face. Let me here set down a close secret regarding celebrities: _They cannot survive without common people like you and me_. It follows that if we do not pursue a celebrity, sooner or later he willpursue us. He must; it is the law of his being. So I wait here verycomfortably on my farm, and as I work in my fields I glance up casuallyfrom time to time to see if any celebrities are by chance coming up thetown road to seek me out. Oh, we are crusty people, we farmers! Sooneror later they all come this way, all the warriors and the poets, all thephilosophers and the prophets and the politicians. If they do not, indeed, get time to come before they are dead, we have full assurancethat they will straggle along afterward clad neatly in sheepskin, ormore gorgeously in green buckram with gilt lettering. Whatever the airsof pompous importance they may assume as they come, back of it all wefarmers can see the look of wistful eagerness in their eyes. They knowwell enough that they must give us something which we in our commonnessregard as valuable enough to exchange for a bushel of our potatoes, or asack of our white onions. No poem that we can enjoy, no speech thattickles us, no prophecy that thrills us--neither dinner nor immortalityfor them! And we are hard-headed Yankees at our bargainings; many apuffed-up celebrity loses his puffiness at our doors! This afternoon, as I came out on my porch after dinner, feeling contentwith myself and all the world, I saw a man driving our way in aone-horse top-buggy. In the country it is our custom first to identifythe horse, and that gives us a sure clue to the identification of thedriver. This horse plainly did not belong in our neighbourhood andplainly as it drew nearer, it bore the unmistakable marks of the townlivery. Therefore, the driver, in all probability, was a stranger inthese parts. What strangers were in town who would wish to drive thisway? The man who occupied the buggy was large and slow-looking; he worea black, broad-brimmed felt hat and a black coat, a man evidently ofsome presence. And he drove slowly and awkwardly; not an agent plainly. Thus the logic of the country bore fruitage. "Harriet, " I said, calling through the open doorway, "I think theHonourable Arthur Caldwell is coming here. " "Mercy me!" exclaimed Harriet, appearing in the doorway, and as quicklydisappearing. I did not see her, of course, but I knew instinctivelythat she was slipping off her apron, moving our most celebratedrocking-chair two inches nearer the door, and whisking a few invisibleparticles of dust from the centre table. Every time any one ofimportance comes our way, or is distantly likely to come our way. Harriet resolves herself into an amiable whirlwind of good order, subsiding into placidity at the first sound of a step on the porch. As for me I remain in my shirt sleeves, sitting on my porch resting amoment after my dinner. No sir, I will positively not go in and get mycoat. I am an American citizen, at home in my house with the sceptre ofmy dominion--my favourite daily newspaper--in my hand. Let all kings, queens, and other potentates approach! And besides, though I am really much afraid that the Honourable ArthurCaldwell will not stop at my gate but will pass on towards Horace's, Iam nursing a somewhat light opinion of Mr. Caldwell. When he spoke atthe School House on Tuesday, I did not go to hear him, nor was myopinion greatly changed by what I learned afterward of the meeting. Itake both of our weekly county papers. This is necessary. I add the newsof both together, divide by two to strike a fair average, and then askHorace, or Charles Baxter, or the Scotch Preacher what really happened. The Republican county paper said of the meeting: "The Honourable Arthur Caldwell, member of Congress, who is seeking areelection, was accorded a most enthusiastic reception by a large andsympathetic audience of the citizens of Blandford township on Tuesdayevening. " Strangely enough the Democratic paper, observing exactly the samehistoric events, took this jaundiced view of the matter: "Arty Caldwell, Republican boss of the Sixth District, who is outmending his political fences, spellbound a handful of his henchmen atthe School House near Blandford Crossing on Tuesday evening. " And here was Mr. Caldwell himself, Member of Congress, Leader of theSixth District, Favourably Mentioned for Governor, drawing up at mygate, deliberately descending from his buggy, with dignity stopping totake the tie-rein from under the seat, carefully tying his horse to myhitching-post. I confess I could not help feeling a thrill of excitement. Here was averitable Celebrity come to my house to explain himself! I would nothave it known, of course, outside of our select circle of friends, but Iconfess that although I am a pretty independent person (when I talk) inreality there are few things in this world I would rather see than a newperson coming up the walk to my door. We cannot, of course, let thecelebrities know it, lest they grow intolerable in their top-loftiness, but if they must have us, we cannot well get along without them--withoutthe colour and variety which they lend to a gray world. I have spentmany a precious moment alone in my fields looking up the road (with whatwistful casualness!) for some new Socrates or Mark Twain, and I have notbeen wholly disappointed when I have had to content myself with theTravelling Evangelist or the Syrian Woman who comes this way monthlybearing her pack of cheap suspenders and blue bandana handkerchiefs. "Good afternoon, Mr. Grayson, " said the Honourable Mr. Caldwell, takingoff his large hat and pausing with one foot on my step. "Good afternoon, sir, " I responded, "won't you come up?" He sat down in the chair opposite me with a certain measured andaltogether impressive dignity. I cannot say that he was exactlycondescending in his manners, yet he made me feel that it was no smallhonour to have so considerable a person sitting there on the porch withme. At the same time he was outwardly not without a sort of patientdeference which was evidently calculated to put me at my ease. Oh, hehad all the arts of the schooled politician! He knew to the lastshading just the attitude that he as a great man, a leader in Congress, a dominant force in his party, a possible candidate for Governor (andyet always a seeker for the votes of the people!) must observe inapproaching a free farmer--like me--sitting at ease in his shirt-sleeveson his own porch, taking a moment's rest after dinner. It was a perfectthing to see! He had evidently heard, what was not altogether true, that I was aquestioner of authority, a disturber of the political peace, and that(concretely) I was opposing him for reëlection. And it was as plain as apikestaff that he was here to lay down the political law to me. He woulddo it smilingly and patiently, but firmly. He would use all the leverageof his place, his power, his personal appearance, to crush thepresumptuous uprising against his authority. I confess my spirits rose at the thought. What in this world is moreenthralling than the meeting of an unknown adversary upon the openfield, and jousting him a tourney. I felt like some modern Robin Hoodfacing the panoplied authority of the King's man. And what a place and time it was for a combat--in the quietude of thesummer afternoon, no sound anywhere breaking the still warmth andsweetness except the buzzing of bees in the clematis at the end of theporch--and all about the green countryside, woods and fields and oldfences--and the brown road leading its venturesome way across a distanthill toward the town. After explaining who he was--I told him I had recognized him onsight--we opened with a volley of small shot. We peppered one anotherwith harmless comments on the weather and the state of the crops. Headvanced cabbages and I countered with sugar-beets. I am quite awarethat there are good tacticians who deprecate the use of skirmish linesand the desultory fire of the musketry of small talk. They would advancein grim silence and open at once with the crushing fire of their biggestguns. But such fighting is not for me. I should lose half the joy of thebattle, and kill off my adversary before I had begun to like him! Itwouldn't do, it wouldn't do at all. "It's a warm day, " observes my opponent, and I take a sure measure ofhis fighting form. I rather like the look of his eye. "I never saw the corn ripening better, " I observe, and let him feel alittle of the cunning of the arrangement of my forces. There is much in the tone of the voice, the cut of the words, the turnof a phrase. I can be your servant with a "Yes sir, " or your master witha "No sir. " Thus we warm up to one another--a little at a time--we mass our forces, each sees the white of his adversary's eyes. I can even see myopponent--with some joy--trotting up his reserves, having found theopposition stronger than he at first supposed. "I hear, " said Mr. Caldwell, finally, with a smile intended to bedisarming, "that you are opposing my reëlection. " Boom! the cannon's opening roar! "Well, " I replied, also smiling, and not to be outdone in the directnessof my thrust, "I have told a few of my friends that I thought Mr. Gaylord would represent us better in Congress than you have done. " Boom! the fight is on! "You are a Republican, aren't you, Mr. Grayson?" It was the inevitable next stroke. When he found that I was a doubtfulfollower of him personally, he marshalled the Authority of theInstitution which he represented. "I have voted the Republican ticket, " I said, "but I confess thatrecently I have not been able to distinguish Republicans fromDemocrats--and I've had my doubts, " said I, "whether there is any realRepublican party left to vote with. " I cannot well describe the expression on his face, nor indeed, now thatthe battle was on, horsemen, footmen, and big guns, shall I attempt tochronicle every stroke and counter-stroke of that great conflict. This much is certain: there was something universal and primal about thebattle waged this quiet afternoon on my porch between Mr. Caldwell andme; it was the primal struggle between the leader and the follower;between the representative and the represented. And it is a never-endingconflict. When the leader gains a small advantage the pendulum ofcivilization swings toward aristocracy; and when the follower, beginningto think, beginning to struggle, gains a small advantage, then thependulum inclines toward democracy. And always, and always, the leaders tend to forget that they are onlyservants, and would be masters. "The unending audacity of electedpersons!" And always, and always, there must be a following bold enoughto prick the pretensions of the leaders and keep them in their places! Thus, through the long still afternoon, the battle waged upon my porch. Harriet came out and met the Honourable Mr. Caldwell, and sat andlistened, and presently went in again, without having got half a dozenwords into the conversation. And the bees buzzed, and in the meadows thecows began to come out of the shade to feed in the open land. Gradually, Mr. Caldwell put off his air of condescension; he put off hisappeal to party authority; he even stopped arguing the tariff and therailroad question. Gradually, he ceased to be the great man, FavourablyMentioned for Governor, and came down on the ground with me. He movedhis chair up closer to mine; he put his hand on my knee. For the firsttime I began to see what manner of man he was: to find out how much realfight he had in him. [Illustration: "HE MOVED HIS CHAIR CLOSER TO MINE"] "You don't understand, " he said, "what it means to be down there atWashington in a time like this. Things clear to you are not clear whenyou have to meet men in the committees and on the floor of the house whohave a contrary view from yours and hold to it just as tenaciously asyou do to your views. " Well, sir, he gave me quite a new impression of what a Congressman's jobwas like, of what difficulties and dissensions he had to meet at home, and what compromises he had to accept when he reached Washington. "Do you know, " I said to him, with some enthusiasm, "I am more than everconvinced that farming is good enough for me. " He threw back his head and laughed uproariously, and then moved up stillcloser. "The trouble with you, Mr. Grayson, " he said, "is that you are lookingfor a giant intellect to represent you at Washington. " "Yes, " I said, "I'm afraid I am. " "Well, " he returned, "they don't happen along every day. I'd like to seethe House of Representatives full of Washingtons and Jeffersons andWebsters and Roosevelts. But there's a Lincoln only once in a century. " He paused and then added with a sort of wry smile: "And any quantity of Caldwells!" That took me! I liked him for it. It was so explanatory. The armour ofpolitical artifice, the symbols of political power, had now all droppedaway from him, and we sat there together, two plain and friendly humanbeings, arriving through stress and struggle at a common understanding. He was not a great leader, not a statesman at all, but plainly a man ofdetermination, with a fair measure of intelligence and sincerity. He hada human desire to stay in Congress, for the life evidently pleased him, and while he would never be crucified as a prophet, I felt--what I hadnot felt before in regard to him--that he was sincerely anxious to servethe best interests of his constituents. Added to these qualities he wasa man who was loyal to his friends; and not ungenerous to his enemies. Up to this time he had done most of the talking; but now, having reacheda common basis, I leaned forward with some eagerness. "You won't mind, " I said, "if I give you my view--my common country viewof the political situation. I am sure I don't understand, and I don'tthink my neighbours here understand, much about the tariff or thetrusts or the railroad question--in detail. We get generalimpressions--and stick to them like grim death--for we know somehow thatwe are right. Generally speaking, we here in the country work for whatwe get----" "And sometimes put the big apples at the top of the barrel, " nodded Mr. Caldwell. "And sometimes put too much salt on top of the butter, " I added--"allthat, but on the whole we get only what we earn by the hard daily workof ploughing and planting and reaping: You admit that. " "I admit it, " said Mr. Caldwell. "And we've got the impression that a good many of the men down in NewYork and Boston, and elsewhere, through the advantages which the tarifflaws, and other laws, are giving them, are getting more than theyearn--a lot more. And we feel that laws must be passed which willprevent all that. " "Now, I believe that, too, " said Mr. Caldwell very earnestly. "Then we belong to the same party, " I said. "I don't know what the nameof it is yet, but we both belong to it. " Mr. Caldwell laughed. "And I'll appoint you, " I said, "my agent in Washington to work out thechanges in the laws. " "Well, I'll accept the appointment, " said Mr. Caldwell--continuing veryearnestly, "if you'll trust to my honesty and not expect too much of meall at once. " With that we both sat back in our chairs and looked at each other andlaughed with the greatest good humour and common understanding. "And now, " said I, rising quickly, "let's go and get a drink ofbuttermilk. " So we walked around the house arm in arm and stopped in the shade of theoak tree which stands near the spring-house. Harriet came out in thewhitest of white dresses, carrying a tray with the glasses, and I openedthe door of the spring-house, and felt the cool air on my face and smeltthe good smell of butter and milk and cottage cheese, and I passed thecool pitcher to Harriet. And so we drank together there in the shade andtalked and laughed. I walked down with Mr. Caldwell to the gate. He took my arm and said tome: "I'm glad I came out here and had this talk. I feel as though Iunderstood my job better for it. " "Let's organize a new party, " I said, "let's begin with two members, youand I, and have only one plank in the platform. " He smiled. "You'd have to crowd a good deal into that one plank, " he said. "Not at all, " I responded. "What would you have it?" "I'd have it in one sentence, " I said, "and something like this: Webelieve in the passage of legislation which shall prevent any man takingfrom the common store any more than he actually earns. " Mr. Caldwell threw up his arms. "Mr. Grayson, " he said, "you're an outrageous idealist. " "Mr. Caldwell, " I said, "you'll say one of these days that I'm apractical politician. " * * * * * "Well, Harriet, " I said, "he's got my vote. " "Well, David, " said Harriet, "that's what he came for. " "It's an interesting world, Harriet, " I said. "It is, indeed, " said Harriet. As we stood on the porch we could see at the top of the hill, where thetown road crosses it, the slow moving buggy, and through the opencurtain at the back the heavy form of our Congressman with his slouchhat set firmly on his big head. "We may be fooled, Harriet, " I observed, "on dogmas and doctrines andplatforms--but if we cannot trust human nature in the long run, whathope is there? It's men we must work with, Harriet. " "And women. " said Harriet. "And women, of course, " said I. XIII ON FRIENDSHIP I come now to the last of these Adventures in Friendship. As I go out--Ihope not for long--I wish you might follow me to the door, and then aswe continue to talk quietly, I may beguile you, all unconsciously, tothe top of the steps, or even find you at my side when we reach the gateat the end of the lane. I wish you might hate to let me go, as I myselfhate to go!--And when I reach the top of the hill (if you wait longenough) you will see me turn and wave my hand; and you will know that Iam still relishing the joy of our meeting, and that I part unwillingly. Not long ago, a friend of mine wrote a letter asking me an absurdlydifficult question--difficult because so direct and simple. "What is friendship, anyway?" queried this philosophical correspondent. The truth is, the question came to me with a shock, as something quitenew. For I have spent so much time thinking of my friends that I havescarcely ever stopped to reflect upon the abstract quality offriendship. My attention being thus called to the subject, I fell tothinking of it the other night as I sat by the fire, Harriet not faraway rocking and sewing, and my dog sleeping on the rug near me (histail stirring whenever I made a motion to leave my place). And whether Iwould or no my friends came trooping into my mind. I thought of ourneighbour Horace, the dryly practical and sufficient farmer, and of ourmuch loved Scotch Preacher; I thought of the Shy Bee-man and of hisboisterous double, the Bold Bee-man; I thought of the Old Maid, and howshe talks, for all the world like a rabbit running in a furrow (all onthe same line until you startle her out, when she slips quickly into thenext furrow and goes on running as ardently as before). And I thought ofJohn Starkweather, our rich man; and of the life of the girl Anna. Andit was good to think of them all living around me, not far away, connected with me through darkness and space by a certain mysterioushuman cord. (Oh, there are mysteries still left upon this scientificearth!) As I sat there by the fire I told them over one by one, remembering with warmth or amusement or concern this or thatcharacteristic thing about each of them. It was the next best thing tohearing the tramp of feet on my porch, to seeing the door fly open(letting in a gust of the fresh cool air!), to crying a hearty greeting, to drawing up an easy chair to the open fire, to watching with eagernesswhile my friend unwraps (exclaiming all the while of the state of theweather: "Cold, Grayson, mighty cold!") and finally sits down beside me, not too far away. The truth is, --my philosophical correspondent--I cannot formulate anytheory of friendship which will cover all the conditions. I know a fewthings that friendship is not, and a few things that it is, but when Icome to generalize upon the abstract quality I am quite at a loss foradequate language. Friendship, it seems to me, is like happiness. She flies pursuit, she isshy, and wild, and timid, and will be best wooed by indirection. Quiteunexpectedly, sometimes, as we pass in the open road, she puts her handin ours, like a child. Friendship is neither a formality nor a mode: itis rather a life. Many and many a time I have seen Charles Baxter atwork in his carpentry-shop--just working, or talking in his quiet voice, or looking around occasionally through his steel-bowed spectacles, and Ihave had the feeling that I should like to go over and sit on the benchnear him. He literally talks me over! I even want to touch him! It is not the substance of what we say to one another that makes usfriends, nor yet the manner of saying it, nor is it what you do or I do, nor is it what I give you, or you give me, nor is it because we chanceto belong to the same church, or society or party that makes usfriendly. Nor is it because we entertain the same views or respond tothe same emotions. All these things may serve to bring us nearertogether but no one of them can of itself kindle the divine fire offriendship. A friend is one with whom we are fond of being when nobusiness is afoot nor any entertainment contemplated. A man may well besilent with a friend. "I do not need to ask the wounded person how hefeels, " says the poet, "I myself became the wounded person. " Not all people come to friendship in the same way. Some possess averitable genius for intimacy and will be making a dozen friends where Imake one. Our Scotch Preacher is such a person. I never knew any manwith a gift of intimacy so persuasive as his. He is so simple and directthat he cuts through the stoniest reserve and strikes at once upon thosepersonal things which with all of us are so far more real than anyoutward interest. "Good-morning, friend, " I have heard him say to atotal stranger, and within half an hour they had their heads togetherand were talking of things which make men cry. It is an extraordinarygift. As for me, I confess it to be a selfish interest or curiosity whichcauses me to stop almost any man by the way, and to take something ofwhat he has--because it pleases me to do so. I try to pay in coin asgood as I get, but I recognize it as a lawless procedure, For the coin Igive (being such as I myself secretly make) is for them sometimes onlyspurious metal, while what I get is for me the very treasure of theIndies. For a lift in my wagon, a drink at the door, a flying wordacross my fences, I have taken argosies of minted wealth! Especially do I enjoy all travelling people. I wait for them (howeagerly) here on my farm. I watch the world drift by in daily tides uponthe road, flowing outward in the morning toward the town, and as surelyat evening drifting back again. I look out with a pleasure impossible toconvey upon those who come this way from the town: the Syrian womangoing by in the gray town road, with her bright-coloured head-dress, andher oil-cloth pack; and the Old-ironman with his dusty wagon, janglinghis little bells, and the cheerful weazened Herb-doctor in his fadedhat, and the Signman with his mouth full of nails--how they are allmarked upon by the town, all dusted with the rosy bloom of humanexperience. How often in fancy I have pursued them down the valley andwatched them until they drifted out of sight beyond the hill! Or howoften I have stopped them or they (too willingly) have stopped me--andwe have fenced and parried with fine bold words. If you should ever come by my farm--you, whoever you are--take care lestI board you, hoist my pirate flag, and sail you away to the EnchantedIsle where I make my rendezvous. It is not short of miraculous how, with cultivation, one's capacity forfriendship increases. Once I myself had scarcely room in my heart for asingle friend, who am now so wealthy in friendships. It is a phenomenonworthy of consideration by all hardened disbelievers in that which ismiraculous upon this earth that when a man's heart really opens to afriend he finds there room for two, And when he takes in the second, behold the skies lift, and the earth grows wider, and he finds thereroom for two more! In a curious passage (which I understand no longer darkly) old mysticalSwedenborg tells of his wonderment that the world of spirits (which hesays he visited so familiarly) should not soon become too small for allthe swelling hosts of its ethereal inhabitants, and was confronted withthe discovery that the more angels there were, the more heaven to holdthem! So let it be with our friendships! THE END