LOVE

Again it was that time of the year when every corner of the world is a

lovers' corner.

On bough and branch, in orchard and wood; on bush and vine, in garden

and yard; in meadow grass and pasture sod; on the silvery lichens that

cling to the rocks; among the ferns and mosses that dwell in cool

retreats; amid the reeds and rushes by the old mill pond; in the

fragrant mints and fluted blades on the banks of the little creek; the

children of Nature sought their mates or by their mates were sought.

Every flower cup was a loving cup, lifted to drink a pledge to Life;

every tint of color was a blush of love, called forth by the wooing of

Life; every perfumed breath was a breath of love, a blessing and

prayer of Life; every rustling movement was a whisper of love, a

promised word of Life; every touch of the breeze was a caress of love,

a passionate kiss of Life; every sunbeam was a smile of love, warm

with the tender triumph of Life.

The bees, that, in their labor for hive and swarm, carry the golden

pollen from flower to flower, preach thus the word of God. The gauze

winged insects, that, in the evening, dance their aerial mating dance,

declare thus the Creator's will. The fireflies, that, in the night

time, light their tiny lamps of love, signal thus a message from the

throne on high.

The fowls of the air, singing their mating songs; the wild stallion on

the hills, trumpeting aloud his fiery strength; the bull on the

plains, thundering his bellowing challenge; the panther that in the

mountains screams to his mate; the wolf that in the timber howls to

his mistress; declare thus the supreme law of Life--make known the

unchanging purpose of God--and evidence an authority and power divine.

In all this wooing and mating; in all this seeking and being sought;

in all this giving and receiving; in all this loving and being loved;

in all natural and holy desire; Life is exalted--the divine is

worshiped--acceptable offerings to God are made.

To preserve Life--to perpetuate Life--to produce Life--to perfect

Life--to exalt Life--this is the purpose of Life. In all the activity

of Life there is no other meaning manifest. This, indeed, _is_

Life. How foolish then to think only of eternal Life as though it

began at the grave. This Life that _is_, is the eternal Life.

_Eternity is to-day_. The man and woman who mate in love fulfill

thus the eternal law of Life, and, in their children, conceived and

born in Love, do they know and do the will of God, even as do all

things that are alive.

Life and Love are one.

The man had been at his boyhood home but three days when the neighbor,

who lived next door, told him that his childhood playmate was coming,

with her aunt, to visit their old home for a few weeks.

"Needs a rest and quiet" the neighbor said; and smiled at nothing at

all as neighbors will sometimes do.

Perhaps, though, the neighbor smiled at the look of surprise and

bewilderment that swept over the man's face as he heard the news, or

it might have been at the mingling of pleasure and regret that was in

his voice as he answered: "Indeed." Or, perhaps, the neighbor was

wondering what the woman would say and how she would look if she knew

that the man was to be next door. Whatever the reason the neighbor

smiled.

They did not know that the woman was, in reality, seeking to escape

from the thought of Failure that so haunted her. Since that day when

her good friend had talked to her of her career and had gravely

asked--"for _you_ do you think it would be success?"--her work

had become more and more unbearable. In desperation, at last, she had

arranged to go, for a few weeks, back to the scenes of her girlhood;

hoping to find there, as she had found before, the peace and strength

she needed.

The cherry tree, in the corner of the garden near the hedge, showered

the delicate petals of its blossoms down with every touch of the

gentle breeze. In the nearby bower of green, a pair of brown birds had

just put the finishing touch to a new nest. But, in the years that had

passed since that boy and girl play wedding, the tree had grown large,

and scarred, and old. Many pairs of brown birds had nested and reared

their broods in the hedge since that day when the lad had kissed his

childhood mate with a kiss that was different. And the little opening

through which the boy and girl had so often gone at each other's call

was closed by a growth of branches that time had woven as if to shut,

forever, that gateway of their Yesterdays. On his former visit, the

man had looked for that gateway of his childhood but could not find

it. And now, when he heard that she was coming, he went again,

curiously, to see if he could find any sign to show where the opening

had been. But the branches that the years had woven hid from the man's

eyes every trace of the old way that, in his Yesterdays, had been so

plain.

Late that afternoon, when the neighbor, coming from the depot with his

guests, drove slowly up the hill, the man stood at the gate where,

years before, the little boy had sat on the post, and, swinging his

bare legs, had watched the big wagons, loaded with household goods,

turning into the yard of the place next door.

There was no reason why the man should get up when the first touches

of gray light showed in the eastern sky the next morning, but the day

seemed to call him and he arose and went out. From the little hill

where he had sat that day when first he knew that he was a man and

where his manhood life began with his dreams, he watched the sun rise

and saw the sleeping world awake. Then back through the orchard that

was all dew drenched and ringing with the morning hymn of the birds,

he went, until he stood in the garden.

The man did not know why he went into the garden. Something seemed to

lead him there. And he went very softly as one goes into places that

are holy with the memories of dead years. Very still, he stood,

watching the two birds that had builded their nest in the hedge near

the cherry tree that, now, lifted its branches so high. The two birds

were very, very, busy that morning; but, busy as they were, the father

bird could not resist pouring forth the joy of his life in a flood of

melody while his mate, swinging and fluttering and chirping on a

nearby twig, seemed to enter as fully and heartily into his sentiments

as though the song were her own. Breathlessly, with bare head and

upturned, eager, face, the man watched and listened.

When the song was ended he drew a long breath--then started and,

without moving from his place, looked carefully around. A low call had

reached his ears--a familiar call that seemed to come out of the long

ago. Surely his fancy was playing him strange tricks that morning.

He was turning toward the house when, again, that call came--low and

clear. It was a call of his Yesterdays. And this time it was followed

by a low, full throated laugh that was as full of music as the song of

the bird to which the man had been listening.

With amazement and wonder upon his face, he turned quickly toward the

hedge, as a voice that was like an echo of the laugh said: "Good

morning! Pardon me for startling you--you looked so much like the

little boy that I couldn't resist."

[Illustration: When they told me that you were here I wanted to go

away again]

"But where are you?" asked the man, bewildered still.

Again came that low, full throated laugh. Then: "I believe you think I

am a ghost. I'm here at the hedge--at the old place. Have you

forgotten?"

Slowly, as she spoke, he went toward the hedge, guided by her voice.

"So _you_ found it then," he said slowly, gazing at the beautiful

woman face that was framed in the green of the leaves and branches.

And at his words, the woman's heart beat quicker--so he had

_tried_ to find it--but aloud she only said: "Of course."

To which he returned smilingly: "But it is quite grown over now, isn't

it? You could scarcely come through there now as you used to do--could

you?"

The woman laughed again. "I could if I were a man"--she challenged.

A moment later he stood beside her; a little breathless, with his

clothing disarranged, and a scratch or two on his face and hands.

"Do you know"--she said when they had shaken hands quite properly as

grown up people must do--"do you know that I was dreadfully afraid to

meet you? When they told me that you were here I wanted to go away

again. I was afraid that you would be so different. Do you

understand?"

"Yes," he said, gravely, "I understand." But he did not tell her,

then, how fully he understood.

She went on: "But when I looked through the hedge and saw you with

your hat off, watching the birds, I knew you were the same little

boy--and--well--I could not resist giving the old call."

And, all at once, the man knew why he had risen early that morning and

why he had gone into the garden.

After that, they spent many days together in the scenes of their

childhood; living over again, so far as man and woman may, their

Yesterdays. And so cane, at last, the day that was forever after, to

them, _the_ day of all their days.

It was in the afternoon and they were together down by the little

brook, in the shade of the willows, where the stream, running lazily

under the patches of light and shade, murmured drowsily--seeming more

than half asleep. She was weaving an old time daisy chain from a great

armful that he had helped her gather on their way to the cool retreat.

A bit of fancy work that she had brought from the house lay neglected

near his hat, which the man, boy like, had cast aside. He was

industriously fishing for minnows, with a slender twig of willow for a

rod, a line of thread from her sewing, and a pin, that she had found

for him, fashioned into a hook. With a pointed stick he had dug among

the roots of the old tree for bait--securing one, tiny, thin, worm and

rejoicing gleefully at his success. For a long time neither had said a

word; but the woman, her white fingers busy with the daisies in her

lap, had several times looked up from her pretty task to smile at the

man who was so intensely and seriously interested in his childish

sport.

"Gee! I nearly got one that time!" He exclaimed with boyish triumph

and disappointment in his voice.

The woman laughed merrily. "One would think," she said, "that your

fame in life depended upon your catching one of those poor little

fish. What do you suppose your dear, devoted, public would say if they

could see you now?"

The man grunted his disapproval. "I came out here to get away from

said public," he retorted. "Why do you drag 'em into our paradise?"

At his words, a warm color crept into the woman's face, and, bending

low over the daisies in her lap, she did not answer.

Lifting the improvised fishing tackle of his childhood and looking at

it critically the man said: "I suppose, now, that if this rod were a

split bamboo, and this thread were braided silk, and this pin with its

wiggly piece of worm were a "Silver Doctor" or a "Queen of the Waters"

or a "Dusty Miller" or a "Brown Hackle"; and if this stream were an

educated stream, with educated trout; and the house up there were a

club house; and your dear old aunt, who is watching to see that I

don't eat you, were a lot of whist playing old men; I suppose you

would think it all right and a proper sport for a man. But for me--I

can't see much difference--except that, just now--" he carefully

lowered his hook into the water--"just now, I prefer this. In fact,"

he added meditatively, "I would rather do this than anything else in

the world."

The color in the woman's face deepened.

After a little, he looked cautiously around to see her bending over

the daisy chain. A moment later, under pretense of examining his bait,

he stole another look. Then, in spite of his declaration, he abandoned

his sport to stretch himself full length on the ground at her side.

She did not look at him but bent her head low over the wealth of white

and gold blossoms in her lap; and the man noticed, with an odd feeling

of pleasure, the beautiful curve of her white neck from the soft brown

hair to the edge of her dress low on the shoulder. Then, with a sly

smile, as the boy of their Yesterdays might have done, he stealthily

raised the slender willow twig and with the tip cautiously attempted

to lift the thin golden chain that she always wore loosely about her

throat with the locket or pendant concealed by her dress.

She clutched the chain with a frightened gesture and a little

exclamation. "You must not--you must not do that."

The man laughed aloud as the mischievous boy would have laughed.

But the woman, with flaming cheeks, caught the twig from his hand and

threw it into the creek. "If you are not good, I shall call auntie,"

she threatened.

At which he looked ruefully toward the porch and became very serious.

"Do you know that I am going away to-morrow?" he asked.

"And leave your paradise for your dear public?" she said mockingly.

"The public will be glad."

"And you, will you care?"

"I'm going back to my work, too, next week," she replied.

"But will you care to-morrow?" he persisted.

The woman's fingers, busy with the daisy chain, trembled.

The man, when she still did not answer his question, arose and,

picking up his hat and her sewing, held out his hand.

She looked up into his face questioningly.

"Come"--he said with a grave smile--"come."

Still without speaking, she gave him her hand and he helped her to her

feet; and, at her touch, the man again felt that thrill of pleasure.

The aunt, from her place on the porch, saw them coming up the grassy

slope, through the daisies, toward the house. She saw them coming and

smiled--as the neighbor had smiled, so she smiled, apparently, at

nothing at all.

But the man and the woman did not go to the porch where the old lady

sat. With a wave of their hands, they passed from her sight around the

house, and, a few minutes later, stood face to face in that quiet,

secluded, corner of the garden, under the old cherry tree, close by

the hedge.

"Now," said the man gently, "now tell me--will you be sorry to have me

go away to-morrow?"

She made no pretense that she did not understand, Nor did she hesitate

as one in doubt. Lifting her head, proudly, humbly, graciously, she

looked at him and, in that look, surrendered to him, without reserve,

all the treasures of her womanhood that, with such care, she had kept

against that hour. And her face was shining with the light that only a

woman's mate can kindle.