I went to Hebron to-day to mail my letter, and to lay in a supply of
garden seed.
It was still early morning when I reached Lizard Point, and came upon
the road leading to my destination. The sun had not yet topped the high
knob range; the air was cool, balmy, moist with dew, and clear. I stood
for a moment after I had crossed the bridge, and looked intently up to
where Lessie lived. Had I seen her I would have sent her a hail, and
told her where I was going. Light blue wood smoke was coming from the
kitchen chimney, and spiraling straight up to a great height before it
dissipated--a sure sign of fair weather, I have been informed. Soon I
descried Granf'er's stooped form plodding across the back yard. He still
wore his coffee-sack apron, and was carrying a dishpan of water. This he
emptied into a chicken trough, and trudged back to the house. But Lessie
did not appear, so I faced about and went on.
The road paralleled this branch of the creek for nearly a mile, running
along the base of a steadily curving knob. It was not a bad road,
either, considering its location, and I found some pleasure in tramping
through the yellow dust between the ruts which the wheels of passing
vehicles had made. On the creek side was a rod-wide strip of verdure;
flowering weeds choked with long, tough grass, bushes of many kinds, and
an occasional tree. On the knob side the rise began at the very edge of
the highway. Here was moss, dead leaves, many varieties of creepers,
sumac, wild grapevine, and now and again eglantine, its flat, pink-white
blossoms brightening the heavy shade. It was on this side the road my
eyes dwelt oftener, for in my pocket was the jar of fresh water, and in
my heart the hope of ultimate reward. It is true I had found nothing
which resembled the life-plant in the least, and already I had traveled
far. But I was prepared for disappointment, and schooled for patience.
The prize was too valuable to be come at easily. I had already learned
that great truth--the things worth while are the things you give your
heart's blood in getting. Nothing you can grasp by merely stretching out
your hand is worth even that slight effort. It is a law of nature and a
law of life that hard work is the price of true success; that attainment
means sacrifice; that the natural inclinations and desires of the flesh
must be fettered and chained before we can reach any eminence
whatsoever, or achieve any noble task. That unalterable decree of life
applied to this case as well, and I bowed to it. I would wait and
search; I would go on until the last day of my twelve months' exile had
sped, believing that sooner or later my reward would come.
Now my mountain road debouched upon a county highway, made of gravel,
well packed and smooth. For a moment I was surprised, wondering where
all this gravel came from. Then I remembered that a river ran near, and
the mystery was plain.
The sun came out as I started on again, pouring its quickening light in
a wondrous cascade of shimmering beauty over the dark green sea of
foliage. The leaves rustled a welcome, and a breeze which was like a
sigh of gratitude from the Earth's big heart, arose. This greeting of
nature unto nature that still morning stirred me deeply in some way; I
could feel the answering thrill in my breast, and I stopped in my
tracks, took my cap from my head, and faced the great golden ball with
what I imagine was almost the ardor of a sun-worshiper. I was alone with
my ancient mother; the mother from whence I came and unto whom I would
return, and clearer than ever in my life before I felt the kinship of
the sturdy trees, and knew that the sap and fiber of every growing thing
about me was part and parcel of my being. Tiny waves of emotion began to
tingle along my nerves as I stood bareheaded, at one with the universe,
and then slowly the waves grew in magnitude until every vein and artery
was inundated with a mighty surge of joy.
A puff of wind blew a spray of blackberry bush across my cheek,
scratching it with a thorn. I started and looked, to find that I had
unknowingly come to the edge of the road.
At a turn a quarter of a mile further on I saw the hamlet. Five or six
houses, a railway station, the superstructure of an iron bridge, and to
one side a formidable building of brick, which I correctly surmised to
be the distillery. Between me and the hamlet lay a stretch of cleared
bottom land, fenced off into fields. I saw an expanse of wheat, green
and full eared; another of oats, not so tall, and having a peculiar
bluish shade. Other fields were simply bare, brown reaches of freshly
turned earth, prepared for corn or tobacco.
Now to my ears came a sound which has been heard since the world was
young; the musical ring of iron against iron; the song of the forge.
Across the lowland it drifted to me, losing all harshness in its coming,
and falling in pleasing cadences upon the air. I knew it was no
uncertain hand which held the hammer, for the strokes were vigorous and
in time, interrupted now and again by the drum-like roll as the hammer
danced upon the anvil. I went forward leisurely, crossed a stream on a
suspension foot-bridge of native manufacture, then up a slight rise till
I stood in the broad doorway of the smithy. The worker, intent upon his
task, had neither seen nor heard my approach. I stood and looked at him
silently.
He was a young man, near my own age. He was quite as tall as myself, and
maybe a trifle heavier. He wore a short brown beard. His flannel shirt
was open at the neck for two or three buttons, revealing his thick
throat and corded chest. His sleeves were rolled above his elbows, and
his fore-arms were knotted and ridged with muscles. His face was rather
heavy, and not intelligent. He was welding an iron tire, and I watched
his deft manipulations admiringly. Certainly he was no bungler. After a
while he thrust the cooling irons back into the fire, and as he grasped
the handle of his bellows with one grimy hand, I spoke.
"Good morning, Buck Steele."
He wheeled with the quick movement you have seen a cat display when
surprised, his brown eyes widening perceptibly. He knew me. I saw his
mouth set, and the outer corners of his eyes contract. In that first
long look which he gave me he did not say a word, neither did he move. I
could not help thinking what a splendid looking fellow he was, his
posture one of natural grace and dignity, at the same time feeling and
recognizing the antagonism which radiated from his entire person. I met
his gaze unflinchingly, and with a straightforward look. I could see his
eyes traveling from my head to my feet, and knew that he was taking
stock of me. Then his uncompromising stare settled on my face, and
instantly a bitterly hostile expression gathered on his own. For a few
moments we stood thus, then his big chest rose over a deep long breath,
his mouth went tighter still, his smutty fingers closed on the handle of
the bellows and began a downward pull, then he calmly turned his back
upon me and resumed his work. My greeting had remained unanswered.
I turned away. I was sorry, but there was nothing I could do. To have
forced myself upon his notice would have resulted in violence, I was
sure, with probable disaster to myself. I went on past a house or two
until I reached the store, a low, narrow building beside a railroad
track. A man, bareheaded and in his shirt sleeves, sat on a cracker-box
on the small porch, his back against the wall, his hands folded
peacefully in his lap.
"Got any garden seed?" I asked, stopping in front of him.
He lazily raised his bleary, red-rimmed eyes, and regarded me stolidly.
Absolute vacancy sat upon his countenance. He batted his lids, and
stared at me, his lower lip slightly pendulous. His silence became so
protracted that I smiled, and repeated my query. A sort of grunt came
from him, presently followed by--
"Whut kind o' gyard'n seed?"