The Democratic advocate., 1891-07-11
A Cloudy Morning.

Out in the far pasture the colts are run
ming races. They snuff the rain afar off,
and grow fairly wild. See how they rear
and plunge and prance, or run with heads
daintily aside, whinnying family one to
another, or giving some laggard mischiev-
GUS nip or kick. What fire, what grace,
what spirit, in these creatures, "by spur or
bride undefled," and fine as silk in their
glossy new coats Now they have swung
into a dead run. 1t is race where the
best horse is sure to win. Round and
round they 20, the rhythmic hoof-beats
falling on the turf with the sound of sum-
mer surf. Watch that black fellow far
outside. My word for it, he is winner.
He was lengths behind at the start, but
see how he runs, with head low to earth,
as though the great leaping bounds were
but play for his magnificent muscle. Mark
the ease of his stride, the lightning quick
ness of stretch and gather. In the fields
round he has locked the leader; now he
passes him and runs far ahead. See him
stop short, fling up his tapering muzzle,
and neigh defiance to those so far behind
1t is time to stop. Rain is moving in from
the woodland gray falling wall. Well
may the young racers scamper for the big
oak shelter. They had better, though,
choose that wide, low-spread mulberry
hundred yards away. The air is vibrant
with thunder; and look! that binding white
clare means that some bolt has struck less
than mile away. All there is another
and another. See that big black oak at
the fields edge, riven into long splinters
Thunder follow water The oak
stood just in this ones path to the creek.
Boom boom boom how the thunder
rolls and crashes But fainter, further,
every time.
Along the creek boys are out with hook
and line. How or why no man can tell,
but fish bite their best upon a gray, rainy
day. That barefoot lad, whose patched
shirt is soaked through, has one big trout
already, His pole is papaw from the
near thicket, his float an old cork, his line
Il length of grannys black flax thread, his
bait earthworms, grasshoppers, and seven
teen-year locL ,: but in spite ofall, he will
20 home with string of fish to make a
scientific sportsman die of envy. All !!
there is a strike indeed 1t must be the
patriarch of the pool who has risen to the
locust so deity dropped just above his
favorite sunkcn rock. See him run up
stream and down, across, athwart lashing
the water into foam, or leaping out OF it
until half his silver length is visible! The
boy will never land him Wait a bit and
see. He, too, is in the water, wading up
to his waist, slipping, stumbling, it must
be cutting his bare feet on the sharp stones
below, but too intent on his quarry to heed
it. He has no reel, but that does not mat
ter A bit of stick serves to wind the slack
of the line, as inch by inch he gathers it
from the fighting, struggling creature. If
the trout is game and wary, his captOr is
cunning. Slowly, cautiously ly, he heads for
little land-locked pool. The trout darts
into it, and dives for friendly root. The
fisherman dives too, quite out of sight,
though the water is but three feet deep.
He comes up with gurgling whoop of
triumph, and the fish clasped to his breast
Really he was worth the wading-not an
ounce under two pounds, and with half a
dozen broken hooks bedded in the big jaw.
He looks like shield of silver pearl as he
lies, flashing rainbows, on the green grOwths
of the bank A single bird-call sounds
shril and clear The fisherman glances
up apprehensively. 1t is a red-bird's note,
and means the end of rain and fishing. 1t
is answered from every side. First by the
moeking-bird, who darts out from his nest
ing thicket to perch on some high bough
and pour out food of melody. Robins
follow, bluebird, thrush, oriole. A low
wind springs and freshens. The sky rises,
and hardens to gray-white, with here and
there a fragment of rain-cloud under it..
from which comes now again fitful shower.
Grassland is green lake two inches
deep, with red earthworms revelling in its
clear shadows. Muddy rivulets run along
the corn rows, their faint trickle drowned
in the rustic of tossing blades. Tonight,
when the world is still, you can actually
hear the corn grow-a peculiar faint up
rushing murmur, like nothing else under
heaven In warm wet night corn-stalks
in good ground will lengthen fourteen to
sixteen inches. What wonder that such
growth is wellnigh audible