'Crombie had said with chilling frankness that I hadn't the money for a
sea voyage, or for extended travel. The statement was distressingly
true. Just at the time he and I finished our college careers, my father
died. Contrary to general belief, and my own as well, he was almost a
bankrupt. It was the old story of the frenzy for gain, great risks, and
total loss. 'Crombie took up medicine, while I, lured by the promises of
a fickle Fate, embraced literature. 'Crombie was wise; I was foolish.
When people are sick they always want a doctor, but when they are idle
they do not always read. If there is one road to the poorhouse which is
freer from obstructions than all others, it is the road of the unknown
author. I had a natural bent toward letters, had been editor-in-chief of
the college magazine, and had sold two or three stories to middle-class
periodicals. So, with the roseate illusions of youth at their flood, I
pictured myself soon among the front rank of American writers, and
equipped myself for a speedy conquest.
In six months I had sold a half dozen stories, for something approaching
one hundred dollars, and had received enough rejection slips to paper
one room. To this use I applied them, taking a doleful sort of pleasure
in reading the punctilious printed messages with their eternal refrain
of "We regret, etc." I wondered if the editors were as sorry as they
pretended to be. And I thought, too, of the enormousness of their
stationery bills.
But I persevered. The ten years which followed my embarkation upon this
treacherous sea were not entirely barren of results. I managed to live
frugally, which was something, and established gratifying relations with
two or three magazines which bought my manuscripts with encouraging
regularity. At last I placed a book with a reputable publishing house.
The story fell flat from the press. The firm lost, and I did not receive
a penny. The experience was bitter. I had spent a solid year writing
that book, and I felt that if I could get a hearing my period of
probation would be over. I got the hearing, and I was still in
obscurity. That is the typical literary beginning, and he who finally
succeeds deserves all he gets, for he has a heart of oak. My inherent
optimism and stubborn will bore me safely through the mists and shallows
of defeat, and with the sunlight of hope once more flooding my soul, I
went on. Then 'Crombie handed me my commuted death sentence.
It is wonderful how news of this sort gets abroad. But it spreads like
uncorked ether. I had proof of this two days later when my minister, an
aged and good man, called on a mission of condolence.
"God did it, my boy," he said, as he left, "and you must bear it."
I didn't believe him. I believed that the devil did it, and that God
would help me get rid of it.
Since I had to go up into the wilderness, the sooner I went the sooner I
would return, and I found my anxiety to be off increasing day by day.
Spring was unusually early this year. March was a miracle month of plum
blooms, and swelling buds, and flower-sprinkled grass. Little spears of
bright green were beginning to show on the lilac bushes, and elusive
bird notes came fitfully from orchard and fence-row--blown bubbles of
sound bursting ere they were scarcely heard.
When I began to make my preparations, I realized how helpless I was.
What should I take with me in the way of food, clothing, bedding,
utensils, medicine? I had never camped out a night in my life. 'Crombie
would have to tell me. He knew, for every year he hiked off to Canada
and the Adirondacks for thirty days, and lived like a caveman every hour
he was gone. I went to his office. He was engaged, with six people in
the waiting-room. I went out and got him on the telephone. He promised
to see me that night at nine in his apartments. It was then three
o'clock in the afternoon, so I took a walk. I could do nothing more
until I had talked to him.
Lexington is really nothing more than a great big country town, but we
love it. I reached the suburbs in half an hour, then took the pike, and
walked briskly. The day had been like one huge bloom of some tropical
orchid. Contrasted with the biting winter only a few weeks back, it was
something to exult the heart and uplift the soul. Rain had fallen the
night before. Day came with a world-wide flare of yellow sunshine; her
dress a tempered breeze. By noon a coat was uncomfortable, and the air
was full of music; the droning, charming, ceaseless litany of the bees.
At three in the afternoon, when some strange freak drove me to the open
road, the miracle had not passed. Surely God's hands were spread over
the face of the earth, and His eyes looked down between. A few cumulus
clouds were piled in fantastic groups toward the west, as I stopped
about two miles out, and gazed slowly around me. Overhead was infinity,
and the presence of the Creator. Encompassing me were unnumbered acres
of that soil of which every child of the bluegrass is proud. On the
breast of the world the annual mystery was spread. Death had changed to
life. Where the snow's warm blanket had lately lain uprose millions and
millions of tiny spears; wheat which had been folded safely by nature's
cover against the blighting cold. Billowing fields of richest brown,
where the ploughshare had made ready a bed for the seed corn and the
hemp. Near me were two trees. Their roots were intertwined, for their
trunks were not over a foot apart, and their branches had overlapped and
interwoven. Almost as one growth they seemed. They were the dogwood and
the redbud, and each was in full bloom. At first the sight dazzled me.
The pure white flowers, yellow-hearted, gleaming against the mass of
crimson blooms which clung closely to twig and limb, produced a
remarkable effect. The hardier trees remained bleak, barren, apparently
lifeless. They required more embracing from the sun, more kissing from
the rain, more sighs of entreaty from the wind before the transmutation
of sap to leaf would be accomplished.
It chanced that I had halted at a spot where no homestead was visible,
and I was absolutely alone. None passed, and no cattle or stock of any
kind stood in the adjoining fields. It was a faint foretaste of the
immediate future, and a peculiar peace came over me as I stood on the
hard, oiled road, and felt myself becoming at one with the universal
light and life of the earth and sky. My breast thrilled, and I drew in
my breath quickly. Was it a message? An assurance from the mother-heart
of Nature that she would care for me tenderly in exile?
I turned and went slowly, thoughtfully, back to town, reaching it just
as the dusk began to be starred by the rayed arc lights.
"'Crombie," I said, lighting one of his choicest cigars and sitting
facing him; "you've steered me into an awful mess."
You know I could fuss at 'Crombie. He was too big to take offense.
"How so, my son?" he replied, easily, his large face gently humorous.
"Well, I started to pack for this--er--trip, or outing, and I had no
more idea how to go about it than a pig. What will I need, and what must
I take? You've got me into this, and you've got to see me through it."
"The first thing you'll need will be a roof with good, stout, tight
walls under it. Remember, you're not going there to bask in sunshine
alone, but you're going to spend next winter there!"
I looked at him, and I imagine my expression was something like that of
a dog when a youth badgers it, for 'Crombie laughed.
"I don't want to make it worse than it is," he apologized; "neither do I
want you to be deceived in any way regarding conditions. But by the time
winter comes, take my word for it, you can sleep in a snow-drift without
hurt."