Evening public ledger. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1914-1942, 1915-10-26

stretch thy graceful Arab neck, bear me
| gaiantly. today, Wings. for never shalt
thou and I see It's like again"
Swift we few, with the wind before
and the dust behind past wayside inns
where besmocked figures paused In their
| grave discussions to turn and watch us
| by past smiling field and darkling copse;
past lonely cottage and village green;
through Sevenoaks and Tonbridge with
never n stop; up Pembry hill, and down,
galloping so lightly, so easily, over that
hard, familiar road, which l had lately
tramped with so much toll and pain;
and So as evening fell, to Sissinghufst.
A dreamy, sleepy place is sissinghurst
at all times. for its few cottages, like
its Inn, are very old, and great age be-
gets dreams. But, when the sun is low,
and the shadows creep out when the old
inn blinks drowsy eyes at the cottaCes,
and they blink back drowsily at the inn,
like the old friends they are; when dis
tant cows low at gates and fences; when
sheep-bells tinkle family; when the weary
toiler, seated sideways on his weary
horse, fares homeward. nodding sleepily
with every plodding football, but rousing
TO give one n drowsy good night" then
who can resist the somnolent charm of
the place, save only the Bull" himself,
snorting down in lofty contemplate roll
ing OF eye, as curly of horn as stln as
to tail as any indignant bull ever was,
or shall be.
But as / rode, watching the evening
deepen about me, soft and clear rose the
merry chime Of hammer and anvil, and.
turning aside to the smithy, / paused
there, and. STOPPING my head, looked in
at the door.
George" said I. He started erect,
and, dropping hammer and tongs, came
out running, then stopped suddenly, as
one abashed.
"oh. friend" said I. don't you know
me?'
"why-Peter-" he stammered. and
broke off.
Have you no greeting for me, George7"
"Ay, ay-I heerd you was free, Peter.
and was glad-glad. because you was
the man as I loved, an I waited-ay, I've
been waltin' for zee to come back. But
now-you be so changed-so fine an
grand-an' be all black wi SCOT from the
fire-oh, man! ye beant my Peter no
more"
''Never say that. George-never say
that " cried, and. leaping from the sad
die, I would have caught his hand in
mine, but he drew back
"You be so fine an grand, Peter, an
1 be all sooty from the flrer' he repeated.
"I'd like to just wash my 'ands first"
"Oh, Black George" said I, dear
George"
"Be you rich now. Peter?"
Eyes, I suppose So"
"a gentleman WI 'orses an 'ouses an
servants?"
''Weli-what Of it?"
'Id-like to-wash my 'ands first, II
so be you don't mind, Peter"
George" said I, don't be a fool!'
Now, as we stood thus, fronting each
other in the doorway, 1 heard a light
step upon the road behind me, and, turn
ing. beheld Prudence.
"Oh, Prue, George is afraid of my
clothes, and won't you shake hands with
mel" For a moment she hesitated, look
ing from one to the other of us-then.
all at once, laughing little and blushing
a little. she leaned forward and kissed
me.
why, George" said she, still blushing,
"how fulish you be. Mr. Peter were as
much a gentleman in his leather apron
as ever he Is in his fine coat-how fulish
you be, George" SO proud George gave
me his hand, all grimy as 1t was, rejoic-
ing over me because of my good fortune
and mourning over me because my smith
ing days were over.
"Ye see, Peter, when men as worked
together-and screwed together-an' fou't
together-an' knocked each other down
like you an melt bean't so easy to say
--'goodby'-so, If you must leave us-why
don't let's say it."