"Keep the main-travelled road till you come to a branch leading
off--keep to the right."
I
In the windless September dawn a voice went ringing clear and sweet, a
man's voice, singing a cheap and common air. Yet something in the sound
of it told he was young, jubilant, and a happy lover.
Above the level belt of timber to the east a vast dome of pale
undazzling gold was rising, silently and swiftly. Jays called in the
thickets where the maples flamed amid the green oaks, with irregular
splashes of red and orange. The grass was crisp with frost under the
feet, the road smooth and gray-white in color, the air was indescribably
pure, resonant, and stimulating. No wonder the man sang!
He came into view around the curve in the lane. He had a fork on his
shoulder, a graceful and polished tool. His straw hat was tilted on the
back of his head; his rough, faded coat was buttoned close to the chin,
and he wore thin buckskin gloves on his hands. He looked muscular and
intelligent, and was evidently about twenty-two years of age.
As he walked on, and the sunrise came nearer to him, he stopped his
song. The broadening heavens had a majesty and sweetness that made him
forget the physical joy of happy youth. He grew almost sad with the
vague thoughts and great emotions which rolled in his brain as the
wonder of the morning grew.
He walked more slowly, mechanically following the road, his eyes on the
ever-shifting streaming banners of rose and pale green, which made the
east too glorious for any words to tell. The air was so still it seemed
to await expectantly the coming of the sun.
Then his mind flew back to Agnes. Would she see it? She was at work,
getting breakfast, but he hoped she had time to see it. He was in that
mood, so common to him now, wherein he could not fully enjoy any sight
or sound unless sharing it with her. Far down the road he heard the
sharp clatter of a wagon. The roosters were calling near and far, in
many keys and tunes. The dogs were barking, cattle-bells were jangling
in the wooded pastures, and as the youth passed farmhouses, lights in
the kitchen windows showed that the women were astir about breakfast,
and the sound of voices and the tapping of curry-combs at the barn told
that the men were at their morning chores.
And the east bloomed broader! The dome of gold grew brighter, the faint
clouds here and there flamed with a flush of red. The frost began to
glisten with a reflected color. The youth dreamed as he walked; his
broad face and deep earnest eyes caught and retained some part of the
beauty and majesty of the sky.
But his brow darkened as he passed a farm gate and a young man of about
his own age joined him. The other man was equipped for work like
himself.
"Hello, Will!"
"Hello, Ed!"
"Going down to help Dingman thrash!"
"Yes," replied Will, shortly. It was easy to see he did not welcome
company.
"So'm I. Who's goin' to do your thrashin'--Dave McTurg?"
"Yes, I guess so. Haven't spoken to anybody yet."
They walked on side by side. Will hardly felt like being rudely broken
in on in this way. The two men were rivals, but Will, being the victor,
would have been magnanimous, only he wanted to be alone with his lover's
dream.
"When do you go back to the Sem?" Ed asked after a little.
"Term begins next week. I'll make a break about second week."
"Le's see: you graduate next year, don't yeh?"
"I expect to, if I don't slip up on it."
They walked on side by side, both handsome fellows; Ed a little more
showy in his face, which had a certain clear-cut precision of line, and
a peculiar clear pallor that never browned under the sun. He chewed
vigorously on a quid of tobacco, one of his most noticeable bad habits.
Teams could be heard clattering along on several roads now, and jovial
voices singing. One team coming along rapidly behind the two men, the
driver sung out in good-natured warning, "Get out o' the way, there."
And with a laugh and a chirp spurred his horses to pass them.
Ed, with a swift understanding of the driver's trick, flung out his left
hand and caught the end-gate, threw his fork in and leaped after it.
Will walked on, disdaining attempt to catch the wagon. On all sides now
the wagons of the ploughmen or threshers were getting out into the
fields, with a pounding, rumbling sound.
The pale-red sun was shooting light through the leaves, and warming the
boles of the great oaks that stood in the yard, and melting the frost
off the great gaudy, red and gold striped threshing machine standing
between the stacks. The interest, picturesqueness, of it all got hold of
Will Hannan, accustomed to it as he was. The horses stood about in a
circle, hitched to the ends of the six sweeps, every rod shining with
frost.
The driver was oiling the great tarry cog-wheels underneath. Laughing
fellows were wrestling about the yard. Ed Kinney had scaled the highest
stack, and stood ready to throw the first sheaf. The sun, lighting him
where he stood, made his fork-handle gleam like dull gold. Cheery words,
jests, and snatches of song rose everywhere. Dingman bustled about
giving his orders and placing his men, and the voice of big David
McTurg was heard calling to the men as they raised the long stacker into
place:
"Heave ho, there! Up she rises!"
And, best of all, Will caught a glimpse of a smiling girl-face at the
kitchen window that made the blood beat in his throat.
"Hello, Will!" was the general greeting, given with some constraint by
most of the young fellows, for Will had been going to Rock River to
school for some years, and there was a little feeling of jealousy on the
part of those who pretended to sneer at the "seminary chaps like Will
Hannan and Milton Jennings."