The Calhoun chronicle. [volume] (Grantsville, W. Va.) 1883-1984, 1908-05-05

NilldSe on the SnOre OF
TX the slow-flowing stream
lS lies hidden in the shadow
5000 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 1t makes tho
shadow of the forest sharper and
darker. and covers the surface of the
stream with a silvery simmer. Still
ness, a brooding quiet, reigns over
all. Most OF the inhabitants are still
sleeping. The shape of the poor little
cottages is hardly distinguishabIe:
only here and there is the faint glim-
mer of light. Now and then q door
opens and one hears for moment
the bark of watchful dog, and then
the same peaceful stiffness. At in
tervals the figure of a wanderer
energies 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 bellringer's
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 has done it's work on
him. 1t 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
it.
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 leahess,
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? VIII 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
VIII! He is ready. But now he must
announce the coming great day. ITO
God be honor 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 1 am"
he cries. as he bends over the rail.
Can you not see me?"
mo. Is 1t not time to ring the
bells? What do you Think"
Wassili reflects. mo, not yet; I
know when"
He knows well; he needs no clock:
Gods stars tell him when the time
has come.
Heaven and earth, the white cloud
that moves slowly across the face
of the sky, the dark forest that moves
and murmurs below, the ripple of the
Invisible stream-all he knows and
loves; a whole life is bound up with
them. Things long forgotten arise
In his memory; how he came 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 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; yet It is so near ."
as he pointed TO the village below.
Such is life. AS long as we arc