The Coolidge examiner., 1932-06-17

good people know how the heart
within him was a heavy thing.
Up to the very day of his depar-
ture for the East, he kept it from
them. Had not the heart to tell
them that his departure was final.
That he was shaking the desert
dust from his feet forever.
They had been good. Kind. Their
delight in his cure was scarcely less
than his own.
When he finally stepped into the
rattling tin can of a car that was
to drive him the forty miles to the
nearest station where he took his
train, 1t was with the understand
ing that he was to return to them
in the autumn. His shanty was to
be there and waiting. His friends.
Like a sneak, the doctor turned
his back on Cactus Post, knowing
he had lied to them and yet had
lied out Of the kindness of his heart.
The little group of them waving him
good-by. The fellows. Bless them.
The handful of women in their cali
co who had been so kind to him.
Mrs. Hodges, the general storekeep-
er's wife, who had nursed him
through bronchitis. Sweet-eyed Clar-
issa who had tended him so faith
fully. Bless them,
The city met him like a boom of
ocean, a surf of humanity running
and Kissing up against his feet his
first step off the train.
Bing. Boom. Bang. The heart
leapt in his bosom. The eager,
quick-footed men. There! The wom-
en- in their furs and the beautify-
ing wrappings that he had so
missed. Even their painted faces
Gaiety was here. Pulse of life. The
streets swan vitality. Rush. Eager
ness. Lights blazed. The hotel
where he stopped had the warm,
perfumed quality to it that remind
ed him Of the bare shoulders of
women and the whisper Of furs.
Life. Vitality. Sophistication.
Here were the men who made the
universe go around. The women
who made the universe matter.
The city caught him up once
more. Goaded him. Spurred him.
Within the month he was on
the old tread-mill again, straining,
yearning, aspiring. The young doc
tor was back in the race. The pro-
fession which had practically for
gotten him began to turn an eye
upon him again.
The doctor was back again. Cured.
In the race.
And after the first six months, it
was borne In upon an amazed, a
startled young doctor that the race
no longer mattered. His work, the
scientific curiosity that spurred him
on, this love of it, could not be best
pursued here in these marts Of
men.
The doctor had tasted Of the
beauty and peace and the nobility
of quiet. He missed the ring of
axes into wood. The gibberish of
birds against dawn. The clear voices
of women calling through high, thin
air. This was roar. The lights
Of the theater represented the cheap
tarnished pastimes that people
sought. People without the leisure
of the nerves for quiet reading. Peo-
pie who must forever be jamming,
pushing, seeking. In all the months
since his return, he had not had one
evening Of quiet reading. The stack
Of books beside his bed was half
a man high. Life had him once
more. BY the scroff of the neck.
The painted faces Of the women
mocked him. Pallid faces gone
fiabby from lack of the simple things
that had kept those calico-clad ones
out there firm fieshed and bright
eyed even by light of dawn.
The autumn care around. The
color of asphalt in the city. The
color of quartz and topaz and cor
nelian and ruby and lapis lazuli in
Cactus Post.
The doctor knew! Knew it with
his heart that was aching.
And so, came autumn, as he had
promised, the doctor did return to
his shanty, in Cactus Post. A sun
set the color of the blood that must
have been surging around his heart
met him as he stepped out Of the
rickety tin automobile that had
driven him the many miles from the
station.
Clarissa Of the sweet eyes met
him, too.
The doctor had come home.