Part 9 (1/2)
And I whispered back to him and sez - ”Hush they don't have bra.s.s bands in Beulah land.”
And he sez, ”How do you know what they have in Beuler?”
”Wall,” sez I, ”'taint likely they do.”
But I don't know as I felt like blamin' him, for it did seem to me to be the most beautiful place that I ever sot my eyes on. And it did seem fairly as if them long glitterin' chains and links of colored lights, a stretchin' fur back into the distance sort a begoned for us to enter into a land of perfect beauty and Pure Delight.
And then them glitterin' chains of light would jine onto other golden, and crimson, and orange, and pink, and blue, and amber links of glory and hang there all drippin' with radiance, and way back as fur as we could see. And away down under the s.h.i.+nin'
lanes the white statues stood, beautiful snow-white females, a lookin' as if they enjoyed it all. And the lake mirrowed back all of the beauty.
Right out onto the lake stood a fairy-like structure all glowin'
with big drops of light and every glitterin' drop reflected down in the water and the fountain a sprayin' up on each side. Why it sprayed up floods of diamonds, and rubys, and sapphires, and topazzes, and turkeys, and pearls, and opals, and sparklin' 'em right back into the water agin.
And right while we stood there, neerly rooted to the spot and gazin' through extacy and 2 pickets, the band gin a loud burst of melody and then stopped, and after a minute of silence, we hearn a voice angel-sweet a risin' up, up, like a lark, a tender-hearted, golden-throated lark.
High, high above all the throngs of human folks who wuz cheerin'
her down below - up above the sea of glitterin' light - up above the bendin' trees that clasped their hands together in silent applaudin' above her, up, up, into the clear heavens, rose that glorious voice a singin' some song about love, love that wuz deathless, eternal.
Why it seemed as if the very clouds wuz full of shadowy faces a bendin' down to hear it, and the new moon, shaped just like a boat, had glided down, down the sky to listen.
If the man of the moon was there he wuz a layin' in the bottom of the boat, he wuzn't in sight. But if he heard that music I'll bet he would say he wuzn't in the practice of hearin' any better. And Josiah stood stun still till she had got done, and then he sort a sithed out:
”Oh, it seems as if it must be Beuler land! Do you s'pose, Samantha, Beuler land is any more beautiful?”
And I sez, ”I haint a thinkin' about Beulah.” I sez it pretty middlin' tart, partly to hide my own feelin's, which wuz perfectly rousted up, and partly from principle, and sez I, ”Don't for mercy's sake call it Beuler.”
Josiah always will call it so. I've got a 4th cousin, Beulah Smith (my own age and unmarried up to date), and he always did and would call her Beuler. Truly in some things a pardner's influence and encouragement fails to accomplish the ends aimed at.
Wall, it wuz after some words that I drew Josiah away from that seen of enchantment - or he me, I don't exactly know which way it wuz - and we wended onwards in our walk.
The hull broad streets wuz full of folks, full as they could be, all on 'em perfect strangers to us and who knew what motives or weapons they wuz a carryin' with 'em; but we knew we wuz safe, Josiah and me did, for way up over all our heads, stood a big straight soldier, a volunteer volunteerin, to see to the hull crew on 'em below, a seein' that they behaved themselves. His age wuz seventy-seven as near as I could make out but he didn't look more'n half that. He had kep' his age remarkable.
Wall, it wuz, if I remember right, jest about now that we see a glitterin' high up over our heads some writen in flame. I never see such brilliant writin, before nor don't know as I ever shall ag'in.
And Josiah stopped stun still, and stood a lookin' perfectly dumfoundered at it. And finally he sez, ”I'd give a dollar bill if I could write like that.”
I see he wuz deeply rousted up for 2 cents is as high as he usually goes in betted. I see he felt deep and I didn't blame him. Why,” sez he, ”jest imagine, Samantha, a hull letter wrote like that! how I'd love to send one back to Uncle Nate Gowdey.
”How Uncle Nate's eyes would open, and he wouldn't want no spectacles nor nothin' to read it with, would he? I wonder if I could do it,” sez he, a beginnin' to be all rousted up.
But I sez, ”Be calm,” for so deep is my mind that I grasped the difficuties of the undertaken' at once. ”How could yon send it, Josiah Allen? Where would you get a envelop? How could you get it into the mail bag?” Sez I, ”When anybody would send a letter wrote like that, they would want to write it on sheets of lightnin', and fold it up in the envelopin' clouds of the skies, and it should be received by a kneelin' and reverent soul. Who is Uncle Nate that he should get it? He has not a reverent Soul and he has also rheumatiz in his legs.”
And then I thought, so quick and active is my mind when it gets to startin' off on a tower, I thought of what I had hearn a few days before, of how the secret had been learnt by somebody who lived right there in the village, of floatin' letters up at sea from one s.h.i.+p to another, sigualin' out in letters of flame -
”Help! I'm a sinkin'!” or ”Danger ahead! Look out!”
And I thought what it must be to stand on a dusky night on a lone deck and see up on the broad, dark; lonesome sky above, a sudden message, a flash of vivid lightnin', takin' to itself the form of language. And I wondered to myself if in the future we should use the great pages of the night-sky to write messages from one city to another, or from sea to land, of danger and warnin'; and then I thought to myself, if souls clog-bound to earth are able to accomplish so much, who knows but the freed soul goin' outward and onward from height to height of wisdom may yet be able to signal down from the Safe Land messages of help and warnin' to the souls it loved below.
The souls a sailin' and a driftin' through the dark night of despair - a das.h.i.+n' along through fog and mist and darkness aginst rocks. What it would be to one kneelin' in the lonesome night watches by a grave, if the dark sky could grow luminous and he could read, - ”Do not despair! I am alive! I love you!”