The French Broad hustler. [volume] (Hendersonville, N.C.) 1896-1912, 1907-03-28

&~S1 Is sui Ozark. line UCCl6
~ village on the shore Of
Z Q the ~slow-howing stream
z lies hidden in the shadow
N~o~c of the pine forest, under
the starry spring night.
A light mist rises slowly from the
earth, which has just awakened from
its winter sleep, and it makes the
shadow of the forest sharper and
darker, and covers the surface of the
stream with q .silvery simmer. Still
ness, a b%rooding quiet, reigns over
all. Most of the inhabitants are still
sleeping. The shape of the poor little
cottages is hardly distinguishable;
only here and there is the faint glim-
mer of a light. Now and then a door
opens and one hears for a moment
the bark of a watchful dog, and then
the same peaceful stiffness. At in
tervals the figure of a wanderer
emerges from the dark rim Of the
forest, a rider, a peasants cart with
creaking wheels-they are all people
of the village fastening to the church
there to begin worthily the coming
festival.
In the midst of the village, on a
solitary hill, stands the church; the
windows are bright, and the tower.
gray with age, rises high into the
mist. The moldering stairs creak;
the old bellringer is mounting them
with feeble steps, and after a little
time a new star appears above, his
light-the lantern in the bellringers
hand.
1t is hard work for the old man to
climb those steep steps; the aged
limbs refuse their Office; his eyes are
dim; old age a one it's work on
him. It is time for the aged man to
go to rest; but death does not come.
He has seen children and grandchil-
dren go; for how many, old and
young, has he tolled the bell. Death
seems to have forgotten him and life
is hard.
Often has he rung the Easter peal;
he knows no longer how many times
he has awaited the appointed hour
up here in the tower. And now it is
to be done again, if God wills. With
heavy step the old man reaches the
railing of the tower and leans on
1T.
Around, in the shadows, he sees
dimly the graves in the cemetery;
their black crosses seeming like
watchers of their dead. Here and
there groups of birches, still 1eafiess,
wave their slender silvery branches
in the wind. The reviving odor Of
the young buds on the trees, and the
peace of the cemetery rise up like a
breath OF spring to the lonely figure
on the tower.
What will this new year bring
him? Will he salute next Easter
with the joyful music of the bells, or
will he be sleeping over there-in that
distant corner, and Will a black cross
adorn the little mound? AS God
will! He is ready. But now he must
announce the coming great day. "To
God beshonor and thanksgiving" his
lips murmur the words; he raises his
eyes to the starry heavens and crosses
himself with simple piety.
"Wassili!" an old, trembling voice
calls from below.
He looks down from his post,
strains his eyes, but can see moth
ing.
What do you want? Here I am, 4"
he cries, as he bends over Che rail.
Can you not see me?"
mo. Is it not time to ring the
bells? What do you Think"
Wassili reflects. "No, not yet; I
know when"
He knows well; he needs no clock;
Gods stars tell him when the time
has come. 81
Heaven and earth, the white cloud
that moves slowly across the face
of the sky, he-dark forest that moves
and murmurs below, the ripple of the
invisible stream-aH he knows and
loves; a whole life is bound up with
them. Things long forgotten arise
in his memory; how he anne up here
for the first time with his father
dear God! how long ago that was
and yet it seems so short-he seems
himself a little blue-eyed boy with
fair, curling hair tossed by the wind,
Far, far under him he saw the many
little people and the cottages seemed
so tiny, and the forest so far off, and
the plain so large. And the father
laughed and said: eye it is so near
as he pofnted~to the village below.
Such is life. AS long as we are