I named him Fido, after much deliberation and great hesitancy. My
principal objection to this name was that nearly every diminutive dog
bore it, but then it was old fashioned, and I had a weakness for
old-fashioned things, if this taste could be spoken of in such a manner.
I had really intended setting him adrift after his leg was strong, but
during the days of his convalescence I became so strongly attached to
him that I completely forgot my former idea. He was great company for
me, and after I had given him several baths, and all he could eat every
day, he wasn't such a bad-looking dog, after all. The hair on his back
lay down now, and his pinched body rounded out till I began to fear
obesity, while his tail took on a handsome curl. Altogether, I was
rather proud of him. But the result of my crude attempt at surgery
became manifest when I finally removed the splints. The limb had grown
together, it is true, but it was dreadfully crooked, and a large knot
appeared where the fracture had been. When he tried to walk, I
discovered that this leg was a trifle shorter than its mate, and poor
Fido limped a little, but I believe this only added to my affection.
Winter held on till March, and then reluctantly gave way before the
approach of spring. The wind blew; the sun shone at intervals; the ice
began to melt, and muddy rivulets formed in the streets. When the ground
dried up a little, I began my afternoon walks, Fido limping cheerfully
along beside me. One day my commiseration for his affliction almost
vanished. We had strolled away out past the streets, and had been
walking along a pike, when the refreshing green of a clover meadow on my
left caused me to climb the fence and seek a closer acquaintance. Fido
wriggled through a crack at the bottom, and as I sat on the top rail for
a moment, the little rascal suddenly gave tongue and shot out across the
meadow after a young rabbit, which was making good time through the low
clover. That lame leg didn't impede my yellow pup's running qualities,
and I had to call him severely by name before he gave up the chase. He
came panting back to me with his dripping tongue hanging out, and with
as innocent a look on his face as one could imagine. I felt that he
needed a gentle chastising, but there was nothing lying around wherewith
to administer it, and I did not search for the necessary switch. But I
wasted no more sympathy on that crooked right leg.
I became interested in the view before me, and forgot that time was
passing. The clover meadow stretched away to a low bluff, at the base of
which I could see the shining surface of a small stream. Far to my right
a field was being broken up for corn. The fresh scent of the newly
turned earth came to my nostrils like perfume. On the farther side of
the field a patient mule was plodding along, dragging his burden, a
plough, behind him, and I heard the guiding cries of the driver as he
spoke in no gentle voice to the animal which was wearing its life away
for its master's gain. A meadow lark arose a little to one side. I
noticed his yellow vest, sprinkled with dark spots, as he flew with
drooping tail for a few rods, then sank down again in the clover. From
somewhere in the distance a Bob White's clear notes welled up through
the silence. A flutter of wings near by, and I turned my head to see a
bluebird flit gently to the top of a stake in the fence-corner not far
away. They were abroad, these harbingers of spring, and I knew that
balmy breezes and bursting buds came quickly in their wake. How sweet it
was to know that earth's winding-sheet had been rent from her breast
once more; that the shackles had been torn from her streams and the
fetters loosed from her trees; to feel that where there had been barren
desolation and lifeless refuse of last year's math would soon appear
green shoots of grass, and growing flowers; that the tender leaves of
the trees would whisper each to each in a language which we cannot
understand, but which we love to hear. Especially at eventide, when the
heat of the day is softened by twilight shadows, and a gentle breeze
comes wandering along, touching with fairy fingers the careworn face and
tired hands.
The sun had sunk below the horizon. As I now directed my gaze to the
western sky, one of those rarely beautiful phenomena which sometimes
accompany sunset in early spring, was spread before me. Spanning the
clear sky, stretching from western horizon to zenith, and from zenith to
eastern horizon, was a narrow, filmy band of cloud. And by some subtle
reflection of which we do not know, the whole had caught the golden
sheen of the hidden sun, and glowed, pale gold and pink and saffron. The
sky was clear but for this encircling cloud-band, and my fancy saw it as
a ring girding the earth with celestial glory,--a fitting path for
spirit feet when they tread the upward heights. I watched it pale, with
upturned face, its changing tints in themselves a miracle, and thought
of the wonders which lay beyond it, which we are taught to seek. Thought
of what was on the other side of that steadily purpling curtain
stretched above me which no human eye might pierce. Groves of peace and
endless song and light which never paled; my mother's face--
A star blossomed out in the tranquil depths above me, white and pure as
a thought of God; some dun-colored boats were drifting in an azure sea
out in the west, and a whippoorwill's plaintive wail sounded through the
dusk from adown the fence-row. Up from the still earth there floated to
my nostrils the incense of a dew-drenched landscape,--fresh, odorous,
wonderfully sweet,--and a fire-fly's zigzag lantern came travelling
towards me across the darkening meadow. Everything had become very
still. It was that magic hour when the voices of the things of the day
are hushed, and the things of the night have not yet awakened. Only at
intervals the whippoorwill's call arose, like a pulse of pain. The voice
of the ploughman in the adjoining field came no more to my ears; a
respite from labor had come to both man and beast. The birds were still.
There was no flutter of wings, no piping cry. The earth rested for a
spell, and a solemn quietude stole over the scented fields.
I knew that I ought to be going--that I ought to have gone long ago, but
still I sat on the topmost rail of the fence, which stretched away like
a many-horned worm on either side of me. Supper was already cold, but I
had been a little late on several occasions before, and Mrs. Moss had
very kindly laid something aside for me. I was one whom she called "a
queer man who saw nothing outside of his books," and while this was not
altogether true, inasmuch as I was even now missing both supper and
books for another delight in which my soul revelled, still she bore with
my eccentricities, and I was thankful to her. "You should fall in love,
Mr. Stone," she said to me one day, half jestingly, "and that would get
you out of some of your staid ways." I replied with a smile that, as she
did not take young ladies to board, there was small chance of that, and
had thought of her remark no more. But now, in the tender gloaming of an
April day, I felt that I did love, and with as ardent a passion as any
man ever owned. I loved the rich sunlight, which I had watched fade
away, but which still lingered in my breast. I loved the greening of
Nature, and the yellowing of her harvest. I loved the soul-expanding
influence of sky and air, and the far-reaching, billowy fields. All
things that grew, and all things that moved in this, God's kingdom, I
loved. What else was there to love? A woman? Yes; but they lived for me
only in the pages of history and romance, and it was not likely that I,
a bookworm bachelor of forty-five, would ever meet the one to stir my
heart. And I feared them, a little. Out here, under the sky, with no one
to hear but Fido and the dumb silence, I can make this confession. I
knew she lived, somewhere, the one to whom my heart would cry, because
this is the plan of the Creator, but I was glad that our lines of life
had not crossed.
So please Him, thus would I live content.