Indian summer lay drowsily over the land. It had come late that season,
but its rare beauty compensated for its tardiness. Its golden mellowness
permeating the hazy air, had also, it seems, crept into the heart of
Dorian Trent. The light coating of frost which each morning lay on the
grass, had by noon vanished, and now the earth was warm and dry.
Dorian was plowing, and he was in no great haste with his work. He did
not urge his horses, for they also seemed imbued with the languidness of
the season. He let them rest frequently, especially at the end of the
furrow where there was a grassy bank on which the plowman could lie
prone on his back and look into the dreamy distances of the hills or up
into the veiling clouds.
Dorian could afford to take it a little easy that afternoon, so he
thought. The summer's work was practically over: the wheat had been
thrashed; the hay was in the stacks; the potatoes were in the pit;
the corn stood in Indian wigwam bunches in the yard; the fruit and
vegetables, mostly of the mother's raising, had been sufficient for
their simple needs. They were well provided for the winter; and so
Dorian was happy and contented as everyone in like condition should be
on such an Indian summer afternoon.
Mildred Brown's visit to the farm had ended some weeks ago; but only
yesterday his mother had received a note from Mrs. Brown, asking if her
daughter might not come again. Her former visit had done her so much
good, and now the beautiful weather was calling her out into the
country. It was a shame, Mildred had said, that Indian summer should
"waste its sweetness on the desert air of the city."
"What do you say?" Mrs. Trent had asked Dorian.
"Why--why--of course, mother, if she doesn't make too much work for
you."
And so Mildred had received the invitation that she was very welcome to
come to Greenstreet and stay as long as she desired. Very likely, she
would be with them in a day or two, thought Dorian. She would draw and
paint, and then in the soft evening dusk she would play some of those
exquisite melodies on her violin. Mildred did not like people to speak
of her beloved instrument as a fiddle, and he remembered how she had
chastised him on one occasion for so doing. Yes, she would again enter
into their daily life. Her ladylike ways, her sweet smile, her golden
beauty would again glorify their humble home. Why, if she came often
enough and remained long enough, she might yet learn how to milk a cow,
as she had threatened to do. At the thought, the boy on the grass by the
nodding horses, laughed up into the sky. Dorian was happy; but whether
he preferred the somewhat nervous happiness of Mildred's presence or the
quiet longing happiness of her absence, he could not tell.
The plain truth of the matter was, that Dorian had fallen deeply in love
with Mildred. This statement may be scoffed at by some people whose eyes
have been dimmed by age so that they cannot see back into that time of
youth when they also were "trailing clouds of glory" from their heavenly
home. There is nothing more wholesomely sweet than this first boy and
girl affection. It is clean and pure and undefiled by the many worldly
elements which often enter into the more mature lovemaking.
Perhaps Mildred Brown's entrance into Dorian's life did not differ from
like incidents in many lives, but to him it was something holy. Dorian
at this time never admitted to himself that he was in love with the
girl. He sensed very well that she was far above him in every way. The
thought that she might ever become his wife never obtained foothold in
him more than for a fleeting moment: that was impossible, then why think
of it. But there could be no harm in loving her as he loved his mother,
or as he loved the flowers, the clear-flowing water, the warm sun and
the blue sky. He could at least cast adoring eyes up to her as he did to
the stars at night. He could also strive to rise to her level, if that
were possible. He was going to the High school the coming winter, then
perhaps to the University. He could get to know as much of school
learning as she, anyway. He never would become a painter of pictures
or a musician, but surely there were other things which he could learn
which would be worth while.
There came to Dorian that afternoon as he still lay on the grass, his
one-time effort to ask a girl to a dance. He recalled what care he
had taken in washing and combing and dressing, how he had finally cut
cross-lots to the girl's home for fear of being seen, for surely he had
thought, everybody must know what he was up to!--how he had lingered
about the back door, and had at last, when the door opened, scudded back
home as fast as his legs could carry him! And now, the finest girl he
had ever seen was chumming with him, and he was not afraid, that is, not
very much afraid.
When Mildred had packed up to go home on the occasion of her former
visit she had invited Mrs. Trent to take her pick of her drawings for
her own.
"All but this," Mildred had said. "This which I call 'Sunset in the
Marshland' I am going to give to Dorian."
The mother had looked over the pile of sketches. There was a panel in
crayon which the artist said was the big cottonwood down by the Corners.
Mrs. Trent remarked that she never would have known it, but then, she
added apologetically, she never had an eye for art. There was a winter
scene where the houses were so sunk into the earth that only the roofs
were visible. (Mrs. Trent had often wondered why the big slanting roofs
were the only artistic thing about a house). Another picture showed a
high, camel-backed bridge, impossible to cross by anything more real
than the artist's fancy. Mrs. Trent had chosen the bridge because of its
pretty colors.
"Where shall we hang Dorian's picture?" Mildred had asked.
They had gone into his room. Mildred had looked about.
"The only good light is on that wall." She had pointed to the space
occupied by Dorian's "best girl."
And so Lorna Doone had come down and Mildred's study of the marshlands
glowed with its warmer colors in its place.
The plowboy arose from the grass. "Get up there," he said to his horses.
"We must be going, or there'll be very little plowing today."
Carlia Duke was the first person to greet Mildred as she alighted at the
Trent gate. Carlia knew of her coming and was waiting. Mildred put her
arm about her friend and kissed her, somewhat to the younger girl's
confused pleasure. The two girls went up the path to the house where
Mrs. Trent met them.
"Where's your baggage?" asked the mother of the arrival, seeing she
carried only a small bag and her violin case.
"This is all. I'm not going to paint this time--just going to rest,
mother said, so I do not need a lot of baggage."
"Well, come in Honey; and you too, Carlia. Dinner is about ready, an'
you'll stay."
By a little urging Carlia remained, and pretty soon, Dorian came
stamping in to be surprised.
"Yes; we're all here," announced Carlia, as she tossed her black curls
and laughed at his confusion.
"I see you are," he replied, as he shook hands with Mildred. After which
ceremony, it did not just look right to slight the other girl, so he
shook hands with her also, much to her amusement.
"How do you do, Mr. Trent" she said.
"Carlia is such a tease," explained the mother.
"For which I like her," added Mildred.
"We all do. Even Dorian here, who is usually afraid of girls, makes
quite a chum of her."
"Well, we're neighbors," justified the girl.
After dinner Carlia took Mildred home with her. It was not far, just
around the low ridge which hid the house from view. There Mildred met
Pa Duke, Ma Duke and Will Duke, Carlia's older brother. Pa Duke was a
hard-working farmer, Ma Duke was likewise a hard-working farmer's wife,
and Will Duke should have been a hard-working farmer's boy, but he was
somewhat a failure, especially regarding the hard work part. Carlia,
though so young, was already a hardworking farmer girl, with no chance
of escape, as far as she could see, from the hard-working part. The Duke
house, though clean and roomy, lacked the dainty home touches which
mean so much. There were no porch, no lawn, no trees. The home was bare
inside and out.
In deference to the "company" Carlia was permitted to "visit" with her
friend that afternoon. Apparently, these two girls had very little in
common, but when left to themselves they found many mutual interests.
Toward the close of the afternoon, Dorian appeared. He found the girls
out in the yard, Carlia seated on the topmost pole of the corral fence,
and Mildred standing beside her.
"Hello girls," Dorian greeted. "I've come to give you an invitation."
"What, a party!" exclaimed Carlia, jumping down from her perch.
"Not a dancing party, you little goose--just a surprise party."
"On who?"
"On Uncle Zed."
"Uncle Zed. O, shucks!"
"Well, of course, you do not have to go," said Dorian.
"I think you're mean. I do want to go if Mildred is going."
"I don't know Uncle Zed," said Mildred, "but if Mrs. Trent and Dorian
wish me to go, I shall be pleased; and of course, you will go with us."
"She's invited," repeated Dorian. "It's Uncle Zed's seventy-fifth
birthday. Mother keeps track of them, the only one who does, I guess,
for he doesn't do it himself. We're just going down to visit with him
this evening. He's a very fine old man, is Uncle Zed," this last to
Mildred.
"Is he your uncle?"
"Oh, no; he's just uncle to everybody and no one in particular. He's all
by himself, and has no folks?"
Just before the dusk of the evening, the little party set out for the
home of Zedekiah Manning, generally and lovingly known as Uncle Zed. He
lived about half a mile down the road in a two-roomed log house which
had a big adobe chimney on one side. His front yard was abloom with the
autumn flowers. The path leading to his door was neatly edged by small
cobble stones. Autumn tinted ivy embowered his front door and climbed
over the wall nearly to the low roof.
Uncle Zed met the visitors at the door. "Well, well," he exclaimed,
"come right in. I'll light the lamp." Then he assisted them to find
seats.
Mildred looked keenly at Uncle Zed, whom she found to be a little frail
old man with clean white hair and beard, and kindly, smiling face. He
sat down with his company and rubbed his hands in a way which implied:
"And what does all this mean?" Mildred noted that the wall, back of his
own chair, was nearly covered with books, and a number of volumes lay
on the table. The room was furnished for the simple needs of the lone
occupant. A fire smouldered in the open grate.
"Now, Uncle Zed, have you forgotten again?" inquired Mrs. Trent.
"Forgotten what? I suppose I have, for my memory is not so good as it
used to be."
"Your memory never was good regarding the day of the year you were
born."
"Day when I was born? What, has my birthday come around again? Well,
sure; but I had quite forgotten. How these birthdays do pile up on one."
"How old are you today?" asked Dorian.
"How old? Let me see. I declare, I must be seventy-five."
"Isn't he a funny man," whispered Carlia to Mildred, who appeared not to
hear the comment, so interested was she in the old man.
"And so you've come to celebrate," went on Uncle Zed, "come to
congratulate me that I am one year nearer the grave."
"Now, Uncle Zed, you know--"
"Yes; I know; forgive me for teasing; I know why you come to wish me
well. It is that I have kept the faith one year more, and that I am
twelve months nearer my heavenly reward. That's it, isn't it?"
Uncle Zed pushed his glasses up on his forehead to better see his
company, especially Mildred. Mrs. Trent made the proper introduction,
then lifted the picnic basket from the table to a corner.
"We're just going to spend an hour or so with you," explained Mrs.
Trent. "We want you to talk, Mildred to play, and then we'll have a bite
to eat. We'll just sit about your grate, and look into the glow of the
fire while you talk." However, Dorian and Mildred were scanning the
books.
"What's this set?" the young girl asked.
Dorian bent down to read the dim titles. "The Millennial Star" he said.
"And here's another set."
"The Journal of Discourses" he replied.
"My, all sermons? they must be dry reading."
Uncle Zed heard their conversation, and stepped over to them. "Are
you also interested in books?" he asked. "Dorian and I are regular
book-worms, you know."
Oh, yes, she was interested in books.
"But there are books and books, you know," went on Uncle Zed. "You like
story books, no doubt. So do I. There's nothing better than a rattling
good love story, eh, young lady?"
Mildred hardly knew just how to take this remark, so she did not reply.
"Here's the most wonderful love story ever written." He took from
the shelf a very ordinary looking volume, called the "Doctrine and
Covenants." Carlia and Mrs. Trent now joined the other three. They also
were interested.
"You wouldn't be looking in the 'Doctrine and Covenants' for love
stories, would you; but here in the revelation on the eternity of
the marriage covenant we find that men and women, under the proper
conditions and by the proper authority, may be united as husbands and
wives, not only for time, but for eternity. Most love stories end when
the lovers are married; but think of the endlessness of life and love
under this new and everlasting covenant of marriage--but I mustn't
preach so early in the evening."
"But we like to hear it, Uncle Zed," said Dorian.
"Indeed, we do," added Mildred. "Tell us more about your books."
"Here is one of my precious volumes--Orson Pratt's works. When I get
hungry for the solid, soul-satisfying doctrines of the kingdom, I read
Orson Pratt. Parley Pratt also is good. Here is a book which is nearly
forgotten, but which contains beautiful presentations of the gospel,
'Spencer's Letters'. Dorian, look here." He handed the young man a
small, ancient-looking, leather bound book. "I found it in a second-hand
store and paid fifteen cents for it. Yes, it's a second edition of
the 'Doctrine and Covenants,' printed by John Taylor in Nauvoo in 1844.
The rest of my collection is familiar to you, I am sure. Here is a
complete set of the 'Contributor' and this is my 'Era' shelf, and here
are most of the more modern church works. Let us now go back to the
fire."
After they were again seated, Mildred asked him if he had known Brigham
Young. She always liked to hear the pioneers talk of their experiences.
"No" replied Uncle Zed, "I never met President Young, but I believe I
know him as well as many who had that pleasure. I have read everything
that I could get in print which Brigham Young ever said. I have read
all his discourses in those volumes. He was not a polished speaker, I
understand, and he did not often follow a theme; but mixed with the more
commonplace subjects of irrigation, Indian troubles, etc., which, in his
particular day had to be spoken of, are some of the most profound gospel
truths in any language. Gems of thought shine from every page of his
discourses."
Carlia was nodding in a warm corner. Uncle Zed rambled on reminiscently
until Mrs. Trent suddenly arose, spoke sharply to Carlia, and lifted the
basket of picnic on to the table.
"We'll have our refreshments now," she said, "and then we must be going.
Uncle Zed goes early to bed, and so should we."
The table was spread: roast chicken, brought by Carlia; dainty
sandwiches, made by Mildred; apple pie from Mrs. Trent's cupboard; a jar
of apricot preserves, suggested by Dorian. Uncle Zed asked a blessing
not only on the food, but on the kind hands which had provided it. Then
they ate heartily, and yet leaving a generous part to be left in Uncle
Zed's own cupboard.
Then Dorian had a presentation to make. He took from the basket a small
package, unwrapped it, and handed a book to the man who was seventy-five
years old.
"I couldn't do much by way of the eats," said Dorian, "so my present is
this."
"'Drummond's Natural Law in the Spiritual World'" read Uncle Zed. "Why,
Dorian, this is fine of you. How could you guess my wishes so nicely.
For a long time, this is just the book I have wanted."
"I'm glad. I thought you'd like it."
"Fine, fine," said the old man, fondling the volume as he would some
dear object, as indeed, every good book was to him.
Then Mildred got out her violin, and after the proper tuning of the
strings, she placed it under her shapely chin. She played without music
some of the simple heart melodies, and then some of the Sunday School
songs which the company softly accompanied by words.
Carlia poked the log in the grate into a blaze, then slyly turned the
lamp wick down. When detected and asked why she did that she replied:
"I wanted to make it appear more like a picnic party around a camp fire
in the hills."