A DAY OF REST.
Early the next morning Henry and Richmond were on a train, speeding
away from the roar, the clang, the turmoil, the smoke, the atmospheric
streams of stench, the trouble of the city. They saw a funeral
procession, and Richmond remarked: "They have killed a drone and are
dragging him out of the hive, and as they have set out so early they
must be going to pay him the compliment of a long haul." They passed
stations where men who had spent a quiet night at home paced up and
down impatiently waiting for a train to whirl them back to their daily
strife. "They play cards going in and coming out," said Richmond, "but
at noon they are eager to cut one another's throats."
They ran through a forest, dense and wild-looking, but in the wildness
there was a touch of man's deceiving art. They crossed a small river
and caught sight of a barefooted boy trying to steal a boat. They sped
over the prairie and flew past an old Dutch windmill. It was an odd
sight, an un-American glimpse--a wink at a strange land. They
commented on everything that whirled within sight--a bend in the road,
a crooked Line, a tumble-down fence. They were boys. They talked about
names that they held a prejudice against, and occasionally one of them
would say, "No, I don't like a man of that name."
"There," Richmond spoke up, "I never knew a man of that name that
wasn't a wolf. But sometimes one good fellow offsets a whole
generation of bad names. I never liked the name Witherspoon until I
met you."
"How do you like DeGolyer?" Henry asked.
"That's not so had, but it isn't free from political scandal. I rather
like it--strikes me that there might be a pretty good fellow of that
name. Let me see. We'll get off about three miles this side of Lake
Villa and go over to Fourth Lake. The woods over there are beautiful."
"We should have insisted on McGlenn's coming," said Henry.
"No," Richmond replied, "the country is a bore to John. Once he came
out with me and found fault with what he termed the loose methods of
nature. I pointed out a hill, and he said that it wasn't so graceful
as a mound in the park. I waved my hand toward a pastoral stretch of
valley, and he said, 'Yes, but it isn't Drexel Boulevard.' Art is the
mistress of John's mind. His emotions are never stirred by a simple
tune, but the climax of an opera tumbles him over and over in ecstasy.
He is one of the truest of friends, and he is as game as a brook
trout. He has associated with drunkards, but was never drunk; and
during his early days in Chicago he lived with gamblers, but he came
out an honorable man."
"I have been reading his novels," said Henry, "and in places he is as
sharp as broken glass."
"Yes, but he is too much given to didacticism. Out of mischief I tell
him that he sets up a theory, calls it a character, and talks through
it. But he is strong, and his technique is fine."
"In Paris he would have been a great man," Henry replied.
They got off at a milk station and strolled along a road. A piece of
newspaper fluttered on the ground in front of them.
"There is just enough of a breeze to stir a scandal," said Richmond,
treading upon the paper.
"When I find a newspaper in an out-of-the-way place," Henry replied,
"I fancy that the world has lost one of its visiting-cards."
They stopped at a farm-house, engaged a boat, and then went down to
the lake. Nature wore a thoughtful, contemplative smile, and the lake
was a dimple. A flawless day; an Indian summer day, gauzed with a
glowing haze. And the smaller trees, in recognition of this
grape-juice time of year, had adorned themselves in red. October, the
sweetest and mellowest stanza in God Almighty's poem--the dreamy,
lulling lines between hot Summer's passion and Winter's cold severity.
On the train they had been boys, but now they were men, looking at the
tranquil, listening to the immortal.
"Did you speak?" Henry asked.
"No," said Richmond, "it was October."
They floated out on the lake. Mud-hens, in their midsummer fluttering,
had woven the rushes into a Gobelin tapestry. The deep notes of the
old frog were hushed, but in an out-of-the-way nook the youngster was
trying his voice on the water-dog. A dragon-fly lighted on a stake and
flashed a sunbeam from his bedazzled wing; and a bright bug, like a
streak of blue flame, zigzagged his way across the smooth water.
An hour passed. "They won't bite," said Richmond. "In this pervading
dreaminess they have forgotten their materialism."
"Probably they are tired of minnows," Henry replied. "Suppose we try
frogs."
"No, I have sworn never to bait with another frog. It's too much like
patting a human being on a hook. The last frog I used reached up, took
hold of the hook and tried to take it out. No, I can't fish with a
frog."
"But you would catch a bass, and you know that it must hurt him--in
fact, you know that it's generally fatal."
"Yes, but it's his rapacity that gets him into trouble. I don't
believe they're going to bite. Suppose we go over yonder and wallow
under that tree."
"All right. I don't care to catch a fish now anyway. It would be a
disturbance to pull him out. Our trip has already paid us a large
profit. With one exception it has been more than a year since I have
seen anything outside of that monstrous town. As long as the spirit of
the child remains with the man, he loves the country. All children are
fond of the woods--the deep shade holds a mystery."
They lay on the thick grass under an oak. On one side of the tree was
an old scar, made with an axe, and Henry, pointing to the scar, said:
"To cut down this tree was once the task assigned some lusty young
fellow, but just as he had begun his work, a neighbor came along and
told him that his strong arm was needed by his country; and he put
down his axe and took up a gun."
"That may be," Richmond replied, "Many a hero has sprung from this
land; these meadows have many times been mowed by men who went away
to reap and who were reaped at Gettysburg."
After a time they went out in the boat again, and were on the water
when the sun lost its splendor and, hanging low, fired the distant
wood-top. And now there was a hush as if all the universe waited for
the dozing day to sink into sounder sleep. The sun went down, a bird
screamed, and nature began her evening hum.
In the darkness they lost the path that led through the woods. They
made an adventure of this, and pretended that they might not find
their way out until morning. They wandered about in a laughing
aimlessness, and there was a tone of disappointment in Richmond's
voice when he halted and said, "Here's the road."
They went to bed in the farmer's spare room, where the subscription
book, flashing without and dull within, lay on the center table. A
plaster-of-paris kitten, once the idol of a child whose son now
doubtless lay in a national burial-ground, looked down from the
mantel-piece. There was the frail rocking-chair that was never
intended to be sat in, and on the wall, in an acorn-studded frame, was
a faded picture entitled "The Return of the Prodigal."
Richmond was sinking to sleep when Henry called him.
"What is it?"
"I didn't know you were asleep."
"I wasn't. What were you going to say?"
"Oh, nothing in particular--was just going to ask what you think of a
man who lives a lie?"
"I should think," Richmond answered, "that he must be a pretty natural
sort of a fellow."