THE END OF JUNE
It was June. On the farm the young corn shimmered in long, green rows.
In the corners of fences and along the edges of the woods, wild roses
were blooming.
Abe Lincoln and Ann had sent messages back and forth but he had seen
her only once since the May party, until the month of June was drawing
to a close, when he took time to go out to the farm for an all-night
visit.
He found her apparently well and happy, though she was taking cough
syrup.
"Ann caught cold at the May party," Mrs. Rutledge said. "It's nothing
much, only we don't want her throat to get sore so she cannot sing."
After the early supper Ann and Abraham went out for a walk. "Don't let
her stay out too long," Mrs. Rutledge counseled. "Night air and cough
syrup don't get on well together."
To them both it was a strangely pleasant walk, for they were both
working to the same end; and this night they talked about what the
future had in store for them when they should live their lives together.
"By another June we will have our own home," he said. "I have never had
a home. I had a mother with the sort of love without which there can
never be a home. But it was not in her power to make our dwellin'-place
much better than the homes mother animals provide. Our home will never
be grand but there will be no other home like it in all the world."
"Then I can help you study, and you can help me. I will have to pry you
away from your books, perhaps, and poke food into your mouth."
And so they laughed and planned and kept close to each other until he
said, "Ann, you're not going your usual gait to-night. Are you tired?"
"Yes--and I don't know why. I haven't done anything much to-day. Let's
take hold of hands as we did at the May party and play we're children,
only I'll walk if you don't mind. How big and strong and comfortable
your hand is Abraham. I could shut my eyes and almost believe it was
God leading me on."
He held her hand a little tighter. She stopped a moment to cough.
"Hadn't we better go in, Ann?"
"No. It's such a lovely evening--like the night at the mill, and I do
not see you often--not half enough. I could not endure it, only I know
that we are both working hard so that just a little later we can be
together all the time. Let me stay out a long while with you. I love to
be near you."
"As you say," he answered, "but I'm not so forgetful this time," and
he took off his coat and wrapped it about her. They went on a little
farther until they came to the steps over the stile and here they sat
down and he drew her close to him.
Somewhere down in the shadows a whippoor-will called. Then from far
across the meadow the drowsy tinkle of a cow-bell reached their ears.
"Listen, Ann," Abe said. "It makes me think of the night I heard you
singin' on the bluff--the night I fell in love with the soul of you
before I knew what your body looked like. The tinkle of a cow-bell will
make me think of you and your song as long as I live."
"Just as the smell of wild-plum blossoms will make me hear the mellow
music of a horn floating over river and trees and make me think of you
as long as I live."
"Can't you sing for me, Ann--your pilgrim song? How I would like to
hear your clear voice ring out here just now."
"How strong I was then," Ann said reflectively. "It seems a long time
ago. Just now I am not so much of a pilgrim as when I herded home the
cows. Pilgrims are on the way somewhere you know, and I'm not traveling
much these days--just to my school and back and helping mother. Will
you wait until next time you come? I'll be myself again by then."
"Look--the evenin' star is coming up," he said pointing. "Twilight and
evenin' star and here we two sit together. Isn't it wonderful? The
world is new to me, Ann. The same fields are here, the same woods, the
same river flowin' between its wooded banks, the same sun, the same
people, and yet all is changed--and all because of you. I hold that man
to be most pitied of all men who does not know the meanin' of love. I
used to wonder just what was meant by the words 'God is love' until
I met you. Now I know that _love_ is _life_. God is the life of the
world. This is love and so with the end of June old things have passed
away. All has become new. My cup runneth over."
"Do you know it, Abraham--the rest of it? Let us say it together. 'The
Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in
green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my
soul.' ... We will teach it to our children," said she.
"Our children," he repeated in a strangely changed, new voice. He
arose, stepped down the stile and stood looking up at Ann. The pale
light fell on her shining hair. Her face was radiant.
"Our children," he again said. "There is one way too sacred for
man's understanding. It is the sacred way of woman's crowning
glory--Motherhood. I have thought of it--of the mothers of men. The
mother of Jesus, what a great mother, yet poor beyond compare. Her
baby born in a stable. His life lived close to the hearts of the poor
people, His own and His mother's kind. It may be true that the mother
would not have been known to the world save through the Son. But
without such a mother the world would not have heard of the Son.
"And I think of another mother whose kind face was lit with a holy
light of love for her children. She, too, had a son. He was born in a
hut. He learned to learn the sufferin' of his mother's kind--the poor.
If God shall let him do some little part in makin' the world a better,
happier place for the poor and helpless, his mother's name will not be
forgotten, for whatever he may do he would not have done without that
mother."
While speaking these words the homely man had turned majestic. His
long, bent figure seemed in the twilight to rise to a tremendous
height. "And in the days to come," he continued, "though I may never
reach the shinin' goal of great achievement the son of Ann Rutledge
will, for never yet has any man been blessed with such a mother as she
will be."
Ann looked at him in wonderment. For the passing moment she seemed to
be near a divinity.
"Abraham," she whispered, "you make me feel like taking off my shoes.
This place seems holy and you are its prophet."
They walked slowly toward the house. The shades of night were falling.
The far bells sounded at intervals. The evening star looked down on
them.
How could the man know as he held the woman that he loved close to him
under the violet vale of the calm June night that it was the little
pilgrim's last earthly walk with him?