III
PAP SPOONER
Pap Spooner was about sixty-five years old, and the greatest miser inSan Lorenzo County. He lived on less than a dollar a day, and allowedthe rest of his income to accumulate at the rate of one per cent, amonth, compound interest.
When Ajax and I first made his acquaintance he was digging post-holes.The day, a day in September, was uncommonly hot. I said, indiscreetly:"Mr. Spooner, why do you dig post-holes?"
With a queer glint in his small, dull grey eyes he replied, curtly:"Why are you boys a-shootin' quail--hey? 'Cause ye like to, I reckon.Fer the same reason I like ter dig post-holes. It's jest recreation--to me."
When we were out of earshot Ajax laughed.
"Recreation!" said my brother. "Nothing will ever recreate him. Of allthe pinchers----"
"Shush-h-h!" said I. "It's too hot."
Our neighbours told many stories of Pap Spooner. Even that bland oldfraud, John Jacob Dumble, admitted sorrowfully that he was no matchfor Pap in a horse, cattle, or pig deal; and George Leadham, theblacksmith, swore that Pap would steal milk from a blind kitten. Thehumorists of the village were of opinion that Heaven had helped Papbecause he had helped himself so freely out of other folks' piles.
In appearance Andrew Spooner was small, thin, and wiry, with the beakof a turkey-buzzard, the complexion of an Indian, and a set of large,white, very ill-fitting false teeth, which clicked like castanetswhenever the old man was excited.
Now, in California, "Pap" is a _nom de caresse_ for father. But,so far as we knew, Pap had no children; accordingly we jumped to theconclusion that Andrew Spooner got his nickname from a community whohad rechristened the tallest man in our village "Shorty" and theugliest "Beaut." The humorists knew that Pap might have been thefather of the foothills, the George Washington of Paradise, but hewasn't.
Later we learned that Pap had buried a wife and child. And the child,it seems, had called him "Pap." We made the inevitable deduction thatsuch paternal instincts as may have bloomed long ago in the miser'sheart were laid in a small grave in the San Lorenzo Cemetery. Ourlittle school-marm, Alethea-Belle Buchanan, said (without any reason):"I reckon Mr. Spooner must have thought the world of his little one."Whereupon Ajax replied gruffly that as much could be said, doubtless,of a--vulture.
The word "vulture" happened to be pat, apart from the shape of AndrewSpooner's nose, because we were in the middle of the terrible springwhich succeeded the dry year. Even now one does not care to talk aboutthat time of drought. During the previous twelve months the relentlesssun had destroyed nearly every living thing, vegetable and animal, inour county. Then, in the late fall and early winter, we had sufficientrain to start the feed on our ranges and hope in our hearts. Butthroughout February and March not a drop of water fell! Hills andplains lay beneath bright blue skies, into which we gazed day afterday, week after week, looking for the cloud that never came. The thinblades of wheat and barley were already frizzling; the tender leavesof the orchards and vineyards turned a sickly yellow; the few cattleand horses which had survived began to fall down and die by the emptycreeks and springs. And two dry years in succession meant black ruinfor all of us.
For all of us in the foothills except Pap Spooner. By some mysteriousinstinct he had divined and made preparations for a long drought.Being rich, with land in other counties, he was able to move his stockto green pastures. We knew that he was storing up the money sucked bythe sun out of us. He was foreclosing mortgages, buying half-starvedhorses and steers for a song, selling hay and straw at fabulousprices. And we were reeling upon the ragged edge of bankruptcy! He,the beast of prey, the vulture, was gorging on our carrion.
Men--gaunt, hollow-eyed men--looked at him as if he were an obscenebird, looked at him with ever-increasing hate, with their fingersitching for the trigger of a gun. Pap had his weakness. He liked tobabble of his own cuteness; he liked to sit upon a sugar barrel in thevillage store and talk of savoury viands, so to speak, and sparklingwines in the presence of fellow-citizens who lacked bread and water,particularly water.
One day, in late March, he came into the store as the sun was setting.In such a village as ours, at such a time, the store becomes the clubof the community. Misery, who loves company, spent many hours at thestore. There was nothing to do on the range.
Upon this particular afternoon we had listened to a new tale ofdisaster. Till now, although most of us had lost stock, and many hadlost land as well, we had regarded health, the rude health of manliving the primal life, as an inalienable possession. Our cattle andhorses were dying, but we lived. We learned that diphtheria hadentered Paradise.
In those early days, before the antitoxin treatment of the disease,diphtheria in Southern California was the deadliest of plagues. Itattacked children for the most part, and swept them away inbattalions. I have seen whole families exterminated.
And nothing, then as now, prevails against this scourge save promptand sustained medical treatment. In Paradise we had neither doctor,nor nurse, nor drugs. San Lorenzo, the nearest town, lay twenty-sixmiles away.
Pap shambled in, clicking his teeth and grinning.
"Nice evenin'," he observed, taking his seat on his sugar barrel.
"Puffec'ly lovely," replied the man who had brought the evil news."Everything," he stretched out his lean hand,--"everything smilin' an'gay--an' merry as a marriage bell."
Pap rubbed his talon-like hands together.
"Boys," said he, "I done first-rate this afternoon--I done first-rate. I've made money, a wad of it--and don't you forget it."
"You never allow us to forget it," said Ajax. "We all wish you would,"he added pointedly.
"Eh?"
He stared at my brother. The other men in the store showed their teethin a sort of pitiful, snarling grin. Each was sensible of a secretpleasure that somebody else had dared to bell the cat.
My brother continued, curtly: "This is not the time nor the place foryou to buck about what you've done and whom you've done. Under thepresent circumstances--you're an old man--what you've left undoneought to be engrossing your attention."
"Meanin'?"
Pap had glanced furtively from face to face, reading in each roughcountenance derision and contempt. The masks which the poor wear inthe presence of the rich were off.
"I mean," Ajax replied, savagely--so savagely that the old manrecoiled and nearly fell off the barrel--"I mean, Mr. Spooner, thatthe diphtheria has come to Paradise, and is likely to stay here solong as there is flesh for it to feed on."
"The diptheery?" exclaimed Pap.
Into his eyes--those dull grey eyes--flitted terror and horror. ButAjax saw nothing but what had festered so long in his own mind.
"Aye--the diphtheria! You are rich, Mr. Spooner; you can follow yourcattle into a healthier country than this. My advice to you is--Get!"
The old man stared; then he slid off the barrel and shambled out ofthe store as little Sissy Leadham entered it. The child lookedcuriously at Andrew Spooner.
"What's the matter with Pap?" she asked, shrilly.
She was a pretty, tow-headed, rosy-cheeked creature, the daughter ofGeorge Leadham, a widower, who adored her. He was looking at her nowwith a strange light in his eyes. Not a man in the store butinterpreted aright the father's glance.
"What's the matter with pore old Pap?" she demanded.
The blacksmith caught her up, kissing her face, smoothing her curls.
"Just that, my pet," said he. "He's old, and he's poor--the poorestman, ain't he, boys?--the very poorest man in Paradise."
The child looked puzzled. It would have taken a wiser head than hersto understand the minds of the men about her.
"I thought old Pap was rich," she faltered.
"He ain't," said the blacksmith, hugging her tight. "He's poorer thanall of us poor folks put together."
"Oh, my!" said Sissy, opening her blue eyes. "No wonder he looks as ifsomeone'd hit him with a fence rail. Pore old Pap!" Then she whisperedsome message, and father and child went out of
the store.
We looked at each other. The storekeeper, who had children, blew hisnose with unnecessary violence. Ajax said, abruptly: "Boys, I've beena fool. I've driven away the one man who might help us."
"That's all right," the storekeeper growled. "You done first-rate,young man. You tole the ole cuss in plain words what we've bin a-thinkin' fer a coon's age. Help us? Not he!"
Outside, our saddle-horses were hitched to the rail. We had managed tosave our horses. Ajax and I rode down the valley, golden with theglory of the setting sun. Beyond, the bleak, brown hills were clothedin an imperial livery of purple. The sky was amber and rose. But Ajax,like Gallio, cared for none of these things. He was cursing his unrulytongue. As we neared the big, empty barn, he turned in his saddle.
"Look here," said he, "we'll nip up to Pap's after supper. I shall askhim to help us. I shall ask for a cheque."
"You expect me to go with you on this tomfool's errand?"
"Certainly. We must use a little tact. I'll beg his pardon--the doingof it will make me sick--you shall ask for the cheque. Yes, we'refools; otherwise we shouldn't be here in this forsaken wilderness."
* * * * *
Pap lived just outside the village in an _adobe_ built upon asmall hill to the north-west of our ranch. No garden surrounded it, nopleasant live oaks spread their shade between the porch and the bigbarns. Pap could sit on his porch and survey his domain stretching forleagues in front of him, but he never did sit down in the daytime--except on a saddle--and at night he went to bed early to save theexpense of oil. Knowing his habits, we rode up to the _adobe_about eight. All was dark, and we could see, just below us, thetwinkling lights of Paradise. After thundering at the door twice, Papappeared, carrying a lantern. In answer to his first question, we toldhim that we had business to discuss. Muttering to himself, he led usinto the house and lighted two candles in the parlour. We had neverentered the parlour before, and accordingly looked about with interestand curiosity. The furniture, which had belonged to Pap's father-in-law, a Spanish-Californian, was of mahogany and horsehair, very goodand substantial. In a bookcase were some ancient tomes bound in mustyleather. A strange-looking piano, with a high back, covered with fadedrose-coloured silk, stood in a corner. Some half a dozendaguerreotypes, a case of stuffed humming-birds, and a wreath offlowers embellished the walls. Upon everything lay the fine white dustof the dry year, which lay also thick upon many hearts.
"Sit ye down," said Pap. "I reckon ye've come up to ask for a loan?"
"Yes," said Ajax. "But first I wish to beg your pardon. I had no rightto speak as I did in the store this evening. I'm sorry."
Pap nodded indifferently.
"'Twas good advice," he muttered. "I ain't skeered o' much, butdiptheery gives me cold feet. I calc'late to skin out o' this and intothe mountains to-morrer. How about this yere loan?"
"It's not for us," said I.
"I don't lend no good dollars on squatters' claims," said Pap. "Let'sgit to business."
We explained what we wanted. Upon the top of Pap's head the sparsegrey hairs bristled ominously. His teeth clicked; his eyes snapped. Hewas furiously angry--as I had expected him to be.
"You've a nerve," he jerked out. "You boys come up here askin' me fera thousand dollars. What air you goin' to do?"
"We've no money," said Ajax, "but we've leisure. I dare say we may diggraves."
"You're two crazy fools."
"We know that, Mr. Spooner."
"I'm a-goin' to tell ye something. Diptheery in this yere country isworse'n small-pox--and I've seen both." The look of horror came againinto his face. "My wife an' my child died o' diptheery nearly thirty-five year ago." He shuddered. Then he pointed a trembling finger atone of the daguerreotypes. "There she is--a beauty! And before shedied--oh, Heaven!" I thought I saw something in his eyes, somethinghuman. Ajax burst out----
"Mr. Spooner, because of that, won't you help these poor people?"
"No! When she died, when the child died, something died in me. D'yethink I don't know what ye all think? Don't I know that I'm theornariest, meanest old skinflint atween Point Sal and San Diego?That's me, and I'm proud of it. I aim to let the hull world stew inits own juice. The folks in these yere foothills need thinnin' anyway.Halloa! What in thunder's this?" Through the door, which we had leftajar, very timidly, all blushes and dimples, and sucking one smallthumb, came Sissy Leadham. She stood staring at us, standing on oneleg and scratching herself nervously with the other.
"Why, Sissy?" said Ajax.
She removed her thumb, reluctantly.
"Yas--it's me," she confessed. "Popsy don't know as I've comed uphere." Then, suddenly remembering the conventions, she said, politely,"Good-evening, Mr. Spooner."
"Good-evening," said the astonished Pap.
"You wasn't expectin' me?"
"I didn't think it was very likely as you'd call in," said Pap,"seein', Missy, as you'd never called in afore."
"My name's Sissy, not Missy. Well, I'll call again, Mr. Spooner, whenyou've no comp'ny."
"Jee-roosalem! Call again--will ye? An' s'pose I ain't to home--hey?No, Missy--wal, Sissy, then--no, Sissy, you speak out an' tell me whatbrought you a-visitin'--me?"
She shuffled very uneasily.
"I felt so awful sorry for you, Mr. Spooner. I jest hed to come, butI'll call again, early to-morrer."
"No, ye won't. Because I aim ter leave this yere ranch afore sun-up.Jest you speak up an' out. If yer folks has sent you here"--his eyeshardened and flashed--"to borrer money, why, you kin tell 'em I ain'tgot none to loan."
Sissy laughed gaily.
"Why, I know that, Mr. Spooner. It's jest because, be-cause yer sopore--so very, very pore, that I comed up."
"Is that so? Because I'm so very poor?"
"I heard that in the store this evenin'. I was a-comin' in as you wasa-comin' out. I heard Popsy say you was the porest man in the county,porer than all of us pore folks put together."
She had lost her nervousness. She stood squarely before the old man,lifting her tender blue eyes to his.
"Wal--an' what are you a-goin' to do about it?"
"I can't do overly much, Mr. Spooner, but fer a little girl I'm rich.The dry year ain't hurt me any--yet. I've three dollars and sixtycents of my own."
One hand had remained tightly clenched. Sissy opened it. In the moistpink palm lay three dollars, a fifty-cent piece, and a dime. Never hadPap's voice sounded so harsh in my ears as when he said: "Do Iunderstan' that ye offer this to--me?"
His tone frightened her.
"Yas, sir. Won't you p-p-please t-take it?"
"Did yer folks tell ye to give me this money?"
"Why, no. I'd oughter hev asked 'em, I s'pose, but I never thought o'that. Honest Injun, Mr. Spooner, I didn't--and--and it's my ownmoney," she concluded, half defiantly, "an' Popsy said as how I coulddo what I liked with it. Please take it."
"No," said Pap.
He stared at us, clicking his teeth and frowning. Then he said,curtly, "Wal, I'll take the dime, Sissy--I kin make a dime go fartherthan a dollar, can't I, boys?"
"You bet," said Ajax.
"And now, Sissy, you run along home," said Pap.
"We'll take her," I said, for Sissy was a sworn friend of ours. Atonce she put her left hand into mine. We bade the old man good-night,and took leave of him. On the threshold Ajax turned and asked aquestion----
"Won't you reconsider your decision, Mr. Spooner?"
"No," he snapped, "I won't. I dunno as all this ain't a reg'lar plant.Looks like it. And, as I say, the scallywags in these yere foothillsneed thinnin'--they need thinnin'."
Ajax said something in a low voice which Sissy and I could not hear.Later I asked him what it was, because Pap had clicked his teeth.
"I told him," said my brother, "that he needn't think his call wascoming, because I was quite certain that they did not want him eitherin Heaven--or in the other place."
"Oh," said I, "I thought that you were going to use a little t
act withPap Spooner."
* * * * *
Next morning, early, we had a meeting in the store. A young doctor, acapital fellow, had come out from San Lorenzo with the intention ofcamping with us till the disease was wiped out; but he shook his headvery solemnly when someone suggested that the first case, carefullyisolated, might prove the last.
There were two fresh cases that night!
I shall not attempt to describe the horrors that filled the next threeweeks. But, not for the first time, I was struck by the heroism andself-sacrifice of these rude foothill folk, whose great qualitiesshine brightest in the dark hours of adversity. My brother and I hadpassed through the big boom, when our part of California had become ofa sudden a Tom Tiddler's ground, where the youngest and simplest couldpick up gold and silver. We had seen our county drunk with prosperity--drunk and disorderly. And we had seen also these same revellerschastened by low prices, dry seasons, and commercial stagnation. Butwe had yet to witness the crowning sobering effect of a ragingpestilence.
The little schoolmarm, Alethea-Belle Buchanan, organised the womeninto a staff of nurses. Mrs. Dumble enrolled herself amongst the band.Did she take comfort in the thought that she was wiping out John JacobDumble's innumerable rogueries? Let us hope so.
Within a week yellow bunting waved from half a score of cottages inand about Paradise. And then, one heavenly morning, as we were ridinginto the village, we saw the hideous warning fluttering outside GeorgeLeadham's door.
Sissy was down with it!
Poor George, his brown, weather-beaten face seamed with misery, met usat the garden gate.
"She's awful bad," he muttered, "an' the doc. says she'll be worseafore she's better."
Next door a man was digging two graves in his garden.
Meantime, Pap Spooner had disappeared. We heard that he had gone to amountain ranch of his about fifteen miles away. Nobody missed him;nobody cared whether he went or stayed. In the village store it wasconceded that Pap's room, rain or shine, was better than his company.His name was never mentioned till it began to fall from SissyLeadham's delirious lips.
The schoolmarm first told me that the child was asking for AndrewSpooner, moaning, wailing, shrieking for "pore old Pap." GeorgeLeadham was distracted.
"What in thunder she wants that ole cuss fer I can't find out. She'sdrivin' me plum crazy." I explained.
"That's it," said George. "It's bin Pap an' her money night an' dayfer forty-eight hours. She wanted ter give him--him, by Jing!--hermoney."
The doctor heard the story half an hour later. He had not the honourof Andrew Spooner's acquaintance, and he had reason to believe thatall men in the foothills were devoid of fear.
"Fetch Pap," said he, in the same tone as he might have said, "Fetchmilk and water!" We made no remark.
"I think," said the doctor, gravely, "that if this man comes at oncethe child may pull through."
"By Heaven! he shall come," said George Leadham to me. The doctor hadhurried away.
"He won't come," said Ajax.
"If he don't," said the father, fiercely, "the turkey-buzzards'll heva meal, for I'll shoot him in his tracks."
Ajax looked at me reflectively.
"George," said he, "shooting Pap wouldn't help little Sissy, would it?You and I can't handle this job. My brother will go. But--but, my poorold George, don't make ropes out of sand."
So I went.
When I started, the south-east wind, the rain-wind, had begun to blow,and it sounds incredible, but I was not aware of it. The pestilencehad paralysed one's normal faculties. But riding due south-east Ibecame, sooner or later, sensible of the change in the atmosphere. Andthen I remembered a chance remark of the doctor's. "We shall have thisdiphtheria with us till the rain washes it away," and one of thesquatters had replied, bitterly, "Paradise'll be a cemetery an'nothin' else before the rain comes."
Passing through some pine woods I heard the soughing of the tree-tops.They were entreating the rain to come--to come quickly. How well Iknew that soft, sibilant invocation! Higher up the few tufts of bunchgrass that remained rustled in anticipation. On the top of themountain, in ordinary years a sure sign of a coming storm, floated aveil of opaline sea mist ...
I found Pap and a greaser skinning a dead heifer. Pap nodded sulkily,thinking of his hay and his beans and bacon.
"What's up?" he growled.
"It's going to rain," said I.
"Ye ain't ridden from Paradise to tell me that. An' rain's not a-comin', either. 'Twould be a miracle if it did. How's folks? I heardas things couldn't be worse."
"They are bad," said I. "Eubank's sister-in-law and two children aredead. Judge Spragg has lost four. In all about sixteen children havegone and five adults. That's Paradise alone; in the foothills----"
"What brings you here?"
It seemed hopeless to soften this hardened old man. I had thought of adozen phrases wherewith to soap the ways, so to speak, down whichmight be launched my petition. I forgot them all, confronted by thosemalicious, sneering eyes, by the derisive, snarling grin.
"Little Sissy Leadham is dying."
"What d'you say?"
"Little Sissy Leadham is dying."
For my life I could not determine whether the news moved him or not.
"Wal?"
"And she's asking for you."
"Askin'--fer me?"
At last I had gripped his attention and interest.
"Why?"
"She wants to give you her money."
"Then it wa'n't a plant? 'Twa'n't fixed up atween you boys an' her?"
"It was her own idea--an idea so strong that it has taken possessionof her poor wandering wits altogether."
"Is that so?" He moistened his lips. "And you--ye've come up here toask me to go down there, into that p'isonous Paradise, because alittle girl who ain't nothin' to me wants to give me three dollars anda half?"
"If you get there in time it may save her life."
"An' s'pose I lose mine--hey?"
I shrugged my shoulders. He stared at me as if I were a strangeanimal, clicking his teeth and twisting his fingers.
"Look ye here," he burst out, angrily, with a curious note of surpriseand petulance in his voice, "you an' that brother o' yours know me,old Pap Spooner, purty doggoned well. Hev ye heard anyone ever speak agood word fer me?"
"No one except--the schoolmarm."
"An' what did she say?"
"She reckoned you must have thought the world of your own littlegirl."
He paid no attention. Suddenly he said, irrelevantly--
"That dime little Sissy give me is the first gift I've had made me inthirty-five year. Wal, young man, ye must ha' known--didn't ye now?--that you was takin' big chances in comin' after ole Pap Spooner. I'llbet the hull crowd down in Paradise laughed at the idee o' fetchin'me--hey?"
"Nobody laughs in Paradise now, and nobody except my brother, thedoctor, and Sissy's father knows that I've come after you."
"Ye'll ride back and say the old man was skeered--hey?"
"Well, you are, aren't you?"
"Yes; I've enough sense to know when I am skeered. I'm skeered plum todeath, but all the same I'm a-goin' back with you, because Sissy giveme that dime. There's a sack o' crushed barley behind that shed. Giveyer plug a half feed, an' by then I'll be ready."
We rode into Paradise as night was closing in. The south-east wind wasstill blowing, and the thin veil of mist upon the mountain had growninto a cloud. In front of George Leadham's house were a couple ofeucalyptus trees. Their long, lanceolate leaves were shaking as Papand I passed through the gate. A man's shadow darkened the smallporch. To the right was the room where Sissy lay. A light still shonein the window. The shadow moved; it was the doctor. He hurriedforward.
"Glad to make your acquaintance," said he to Pap, whom he had neverseen before.
"Air ye? You wa'n't expectin' me, surely?"
"Certainly," replied the doctor, impatiently. "What man wouldn't comeunder such circumst
ances?"
"Is there much danger?" said Pap, anxiously.
"The child is as ill as she can be."
"I meant fer--me."
"Great Scot! If you feel like that you'd better not go in." His tonewas dully contemptuous.
"Wal--I do feel like that, on'y more so; an' I'm goin' in all thesame. Reckon I'm braver'n you, 'cause you ain't skeered."
We entered the room. George Leadham was sitting by the bed. When hesaw us he bent over the flushed face on the pillow, and said, slowlyand distinctly: "Here's Mr. Spooner, my pretty; he's come. Do youhear?"
She heard perfectly. In a thick, choked voice she said: "Is that you,Pap?"
"It's me," he replied; "it's me, sure enough."
"Why, so'tis. Popsy, where's my money?"
"Here, Sissy, right here."
She extended a thin, wasted hand.
"I want you to have it, Pap," she said, speaking very slowly, but in aclearer tone. "You see, it's like this. I've got the diptheery, an'I'm a-goin' to die. I don't need the money--see! And you do, you poreold Pap, so you must take it."
Pap took the money in silence. George Leadham had turned aside, unableto speak. I stood behind the door, out of sight. Sissy staredanxiously at Pap.
"Popsy said you wouldn't come, but I knew you would," she sighed."Good-bye, you pore old Pap." She closed her eyes, but she held Pap'shand. The young doctor came forward with his finger upon his lips.Quietly, he signed to Pap to leave the room; the old man shook hishead. The doctor beckoned the father and me out on to the porch.
"Miracles sometimes happen," said he, gravely. "The child has falleninto a natural sleep."
But not for three hours did her grip relax of Pap's hand, and he satbeside her patiently, refusing to budge. Who shall say what waspassing in his mind, so long absorbed in itself, and now, if one couldjudge by his face, absorbed at last in this child?
When he came out of the room he spoke to the doctor in a new voice.
"If she wants anything--anything, you understan'--you get it--see?"
"Certainly."
"And look ye here; I shall be stayin' at my old _adobe_, but ifthe others want fer anything, you understan', get it--see?"
"Certainly, Mr. Spooner. I shall not fail to call on you, sir, becausewe want many things."
"That's all right; but," his tone grew hard and sharp, "if--if she--dies, this contrack is broke. The rest kin die too; the sooner thebetter."
"But she won't die, Mr. Spooner," said the young doctor, cheerfully."I feel in my bones, sir, that Sissy Leadham won't die."
And it may be added here that she didn't.
* * * * *
At the ranch-house that night Ajax and I sat up, watching, waiting,praying for the rain that would wash the diphtheria from Paradise anddespair from our hearts. The south-east wind sang louder and louder inthe cotton woods by the creek; the parched live oaks crackled withfear that the gathering clouds should roll by, the willows shiveredand bowed themselves low in supplication. From the parched earth andevery living thing thereon went up the passionate cry for water.
One by one we saw the stars fade out of the sky. The Dipperdisappeared; then the Pole Star was extinguished. Orion veiled histriple splendours. The Milky Way ceased to be....
"It's coming," whispered Ajax.
Suddenly the wind died down; the trees became mute; only the frogscroaked a final Hallelujah Chorus, because they alone knew. And then,out of the heaven which had seemed to have forsaken us, coming slowlyat first, as if with the timid, halting step of a stranger; comingquickly and gladly afterwards, as an old friend comes back to theplace where he is sure of a welcome; and lastly, with a sound of tenthousand pattering feet, with a whirring of innumerable wings, with aroar of triumph and ecstasy, Prosperity poured down upon Paradise.
Bunch Grass: A Chronicle of Life on a Cattle Ranch Page 5
