The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1900-08-26


What a pity it is that the farmer who is
short in this worlds goods cannot be con-
tent to exc out his share of happiness from
Natures ~storehouse. He is the very man
before whom she spreads her wealth most
temptingly; he is the man nearest to her
heart. But we do not long for the things
near at hand: homespun treasures slip
away at will from our open palms. Per-
haps. too, it is because he cannot look on
Natures charms with disinterested eyes
that the son of the soil misses half the
joy of other lives. The farmers intimacy
with her is such that he regards her some
what as his cook, with a calculating eye
not as we who woo her as a goddess. 1t
is natural that his casual glance should
say. what have you got in your pocket
for me?" but it is nevertheless a pity.
My desire TO live In the country had al
ways one central object-to stroll silently
along some quiet lane and watch the world
go to sleep, then lean over a farm gate and
see the stars come out. That would be a
very small part Of a farmers day. 1t is
always at that witching time that country
outings come to an end; we gather up our
belongings and go home just as earth falls
into her most lovely mood. We are only
visitors. carrying discord through the twi-
light and setting dogs a-bark to echo our
alien voices.
But the time came when i, too, belonged;
when 1 finished my supper and strolled
along the quiet lane. There was not a
soul in sight and only the sound of bird
voices and a far-away tinkle of cowbells.
This untraveled lane was deeply grass
--1- ..-- -
n there a pool Of raindrops reflected in
still beauty the blue of the sky and the
green of iourishing weeds. In the fence
corners and along the roadside daisies
trooped in company with goldenrod, and
over the log fence the riotous blackberry
reached clinging branches. now brilliant
with glossy red fruit. Within the fence,
farther than the eye could travel, stretched
long avenues of peach trees, whose boughs
met over mingled deeps of green blades and
upturned daisy faces. On the other side
of the lane a thrifty vegetable garden
stretched away beside the sassafras hedge
to a log cabin beneath the hill. Behind the
cabin an apple orchard struggled up the
smooth, grassy slope which ended in the
dark green of a closely wooded knoll. 1t
was through this bit of wood that the sun
always cast its last rays.
The sun had gone down, and there was
now a colorless hush over the little valley,
while even the daisies looked expectant.
Birds flew hither and thither as if all
featherdom had been caught far away
| from home by unexpected twilight and was
fastening TO bed. l thrust my stick into a
sassafras sapling and a brilliantly coated
bird flew hastily by me, muttering as he
went. IL was the summer tanager. While
L fingered, looking at the fringy lace plant
beneath the peach boughs, a tiny field
sparrow rustled away. Her mate followed
close, and, perching at a little distance,
trilled out his most wooing minor melody.
AS if this snapped the thread which held
a curtain, dusk suddenly melted away and
a rosy glory crept slowly from behind the
wooded hilltop and spread gently. first east,
then north, then SOUTH, till a flush of color
pervaded half the sky. Overhead a broad
pathway strewn with flaming plumes mar
rowed back TO the wooded knoll. AT the
end of the grassy lane a dark green hill
lay beneath a lake of liquid, marine blue.
The slim silhouettes of the trees on the
wooded hilltop appeared to screen a won
derful golden gateway.
MY DllSS was not solitary. lndig0-ec-
static little soul-launched high into the
rose-veiled dome and sang ardently; then
suddenly precipitated himself in a direct
line TOWARD a certain patch of verdure.
There, doubtless. his dove-colored lady
waited and listened adoringly. Twice more
he luttered high and sang ecstatically, as
if determined TO be a skylark and match
with song that tender sky. / forgave him
all his faults. Even Bob White found IL
impossible to keep silent under such an
influence, and, doing his utmost, thrust
his family name into the poem as a ringing
punctuation. Then a lonely little bat fit
ted out from some mysterious dusky cav
ern. as If glad OF his release. and the glory
overhead slowly faded into a dim charcoal
sketch. WhipporwilIs vibrating voice is
sued from the gloom OF the lite valley,
and, feeling as IL somebody stared or
touched me on the shoulder. I turned
quickly and saw the new NOON, yelled like
a bride In a transparent fragment of filmy
cloud. towering near the golden gate now
closed. ELIZABETH NUNEMACHER.
New Albany. Ind.