III
I named him Fido, after much deliberation and great hesitancy. Myprincipal objection to this name was that nearly every diminutive dogbore it, but then it was old fashioned, and I had a weakness forold-fashioned things, if this taste could be spoken of in such a manner.I had really intended setting him adrift after his leg was strong, butduring the days of his convalescence I became so strongly attached tohim that I completely forgot my former idea. He was great company forme, and after I had given him several baths, and all he could eat everyday, he wasn't such a bad-looking dog, after all. The hair on his backlay down now, and his pinched body rounded out till I began to fearobesity, while his tail took on a handsome curl. Altogether, I wasrather proud of him. But the result of my crude attempt at surgerybecame manifest when I finally removed the splints. The limb had growntogether, it is true, but it was dreadfully crooked, and a large knotappeared where the fracture had been. When he tried to walk, Idiscovered that this leg was a trifle shorter than its mate, and poorFido limped a little, but I believe this only added to my affection.
Winter held on till March, and then reluctantly gave way before theapproach of spring. The wind blew; the sun shone at intervals; the icebegan to melt, and muddy rivulets formed in the streets. When the grounddried up a little, I began my afternoon walks, Fido limping cheerfullyalong beside me. One day my commiseration for his affliction almostvanished. We had strolled away out past the streets, and had beenwalking along a pike, when the refreshing green of a clover meadow on myleft caused me to climb the fence and seek a closer acquaintance. Fidowriggled through a crack at the bottom, and as I sat on the top rail fora moment, the little rascal suddenly gave tongue and shot out across themeadow after a young rabbit, which was making good time through the lowclover. That lame leg didn't impede my yellow pup's running qualities,and I had to call him severely by name before he gave up the chase. Hecame panting back to me with his dripping tongue hanging out, and withas innocent a look on his face as one could imagine. I felt that heneeded a gentle chastising, but there was nothing lying around wherewithto administer it, and I did not search for the necessary switch. But Iwasted no more sympathy on that crooked right leg.
I became interested in the view before me, and forgot that time waspassing. The clover meadow stretched away to a low bluff, at the base ofwhich I could see the shining surface of a small stream. Far to my righta field was being broken up for corn. The fresh scent of the newlyturned earth came to my nostrils like perfume. On the farther side ofthe field a patient mule was plodding along, dragging his burden, aplough, behind him, and I heard the guiding cries of the driver as hespoke in no gentle voice to the animal which was wearing its life awayfor its master's gain. A meadow lark arose a little to one side. Inoticed his yellow vest, sprinkled with dark spots, as he flew withdrooping tail for a few rods, then sank down again in the clover. Fromsomewhere in the distance a Bob White's clear notes welled up throughthe silence. A flutter of wings near by, and I turned my head to see abluebird flit gently to the top of a stake in the fence-corner not faraway. They were abroad, these harbingers of spring, and I knew thatbalmy breezes and bursting buds came quickly in their wake. How sweet itwas to know that earth's winding-sheet had been rent from her breastonce more; that the shackles had been torn from her streams and thefetters loosed from her trees; to feel that where there had been barrendesolation and lifeless refuse of last year's math would soon appeargreen shoots of grass, and growing flowers; that the tender leaves ofthe trees would whisper each to each in a language which we cannotunderstand, but which we love to hear. Especially at eventide, when theheat of the day is softened by twilight shadows, and a gentle breezecomes wandering along, touching with fairy fingers the careworn face andtired hands.
The sun had sunk below the horizon. As I now directed my gaze to thewestern sky, one of those rarely beautiful phenomena which sometimesaccompany sunset in early spring, was spread before me. Spanning theclear sky, stretching from western horizon to zenith, and from zenith toeastern horizon, was a narrow, filmy band of cloud. And by some subtlereflection of which we do not know, the whole had caught the goldensheen of the hidden sun, and glowed, pale gold and pink and saffron. Thesky was clear but for this encircling cloud-band, and my fancy saw it asa ring girding the earth with celestial glory,--a fitting path forspirit feet when they tread the upward heights. I watched it pale, withupturned face, its changing tints in themselves a miracle, and thoughtof the wonders which lay beyond it, which we are taught to seek. Thoughtof what was on the other side of that steadily purpling curtainstretched above me which no human eye might pierce. Groves of peace andendless song and light which never paled; my mother's face--
A star blossomed out in the tranquil depths above me, white and pure asa thought of God; some dun-colored boats were drifting in an azure seaout in the west, and a whippoorwill's plaintive wail sounded through thedusk from adown the fence-row. Up from the still earth there floated tomy nostrils the incense of a dew-drenched landscape,--fresh, odorous,wonderfully sweet,--and a fire-fly's zigzag lantern came travellingtowards me across the darkening meadow. Everything had become verystill. It was that magic hour when the voices of the things of the dayare hushed, and the things of the night have not yet awakened. Only atintervals the whippoorwill's call arose, like a pulse of pain. The voiceof the ploughman in the adjoining field came no more to my ears; arespite from labor had come to both man and beast. The birds were still.There was no flutter of wings, no piping cry. The earth rested for aspell, and a solemn quietude stole over the scented fields.
I knew that I ought to be going--that I ought to have gone long ago, butstill I sat on the topmost rail of the fence, which stretched away likea many-horned worm on either side of me. Supper was already cold, but Ihad been a little late on several occasions before, and Mrs. Moss hadvery kindly laid something aside for me. I was one whom she called "aqueer man who saw nothing outside of his books," and while this was notaltogether true, inasmuch as I was even now missing both supper andbooks for another delight in which my soul revelled, still she bore withmy eccentricities, and I was thankful to her. "You should fall in love,Mr. Stone," she said to me one day, half jestingly, "and that would getyou out of some of your staid ways." I replied with a smile that, as shedid not take young ladies to board, there was small chance of that, andhad thought of her remark no more. But now, in the tender gloaming of anApril day, I felt that I did love, and with as ardent a passion as anyman ever owned. I loved the rich sunlight, which I had watched fadeaway, but which still lingered in my breast. I loved the greening ofNature, and the yellowing of her harvest. I loved the soul-expandinginfluence of sky and air, and the far-reaching, billowy fields. Allthings that grew, and all things that moved in this, God's kingdom, Iloved. What else was there to love? A woman? Yes; but they lived for meonly in the pages of history and romance, and it was not likely that I,a bookworm bachelor of forty-five, would ever meet the one to stir myheart. And I feared them, a little. Out here, under the sky, with no oneto hear but Fido and the dumb silence, I can make this confession. Iknew she lived, somewhere, the one to whom my heart would cry, becausethis is the plan of the Creator, but I was glad that our lines of lifehad not crossed.
So please Him, thus would I live content.
The Love Story of Abner Stone Page 3
