Part 12 (1/2)
”For which truth I am devoutly thankful. I imagine that instead of a week, as Mr. Yocomb said, it would require a lifetime to get acquainted with some women. I wish my mother had lived. I'm sure that she would have been a continuous revelation to me. I know that she had a great deal of sorrow, and yet my most distinct recollection of her is her laugh. No earthly sound ever had for me so much meaning as her laugh. I think she laughed when other people would have cried. There's a tone in your laugh that has recalled to me my mother again and again this afternoon.”
”I hope it is not a source of pain,” she said gently.
”Far from it,” I replied. ”Memories of my mother give me pleasure, but I rarely meet with one to whom I would even think of mentioning her name.”
”I do not remember my mother,” she said sadly.
”Come,” I resumed hastily, ”you admit that you have been dull and lonely to-day. Look at that magnificent glow in the west. So a.s.suredly ended in brightness the lives of those we loved, however clouded their day may have been at times. This June evening, so full of glad sounds, is not the time for sad thoughts. Listen to the robins, to that saucy oriole yonder on the swaying elm-branch. Beyond all, hear that thrush.
Can you imagine a more delicious refinement of sound? Let us give way to sadness when we must, and escape from it when we can. I would prefer to continue up this shady lane, but it may prove too shadowy, and so color our thoughts. Suppose we return to the farmyard, where Mr. Yocomb is feeding the chickens, and then look through the old garden together.
You are a country woman, for you have been here a week; and so I shall expect you to name and explain everything. At any rate you shall not be blue any more to-day if I can prevent it. You see I am trying to reward your self-sacrifice in letting me stay till to-morrow.”
”You are so considerate that I may let you remain a little longer.”
”What is that fable about the camel? If he once gets his head in--”
”He next puts his foot in it, is the sequel, perhaps,” she replied, with the laugh that was becoming to me like a refrain of music that I could not hear too often.
CHAPTER IX
”OLD PLOD”
”Emily Warren, why does thee bring Richard Morton back so soon?” asked Mr. Yocomb, suspending for a moment the sweep of his hand that was scattering grain.
”You are mistaken, sir,” I said; ”I brought Miss Warren back. I thought she would enjoy seeing you feed the poultry, the horses, and especially the cows.”
”Thee's more self-denying than I'd a been,” he resumed, With his humorous twinkle. ”Don't tell mother, but I wouldn't mind taking a walk with Emily Warren myself on a June evening like this.”
”I will take a walk with you whenever you wish,” laughed Miss Warren; ”but I'll surely tell Mrs. Yocomb.”
”Oh! I know I'd get found out,” said the old man, shaking his head ruefully; ”I always do.”
”I'm sure you would if Miss Warren were here,” I added. ”I'm at a loss to know how early in the day she found me out.”
”Well, I guess thee's a pretty square sort of a man. If thee'd been stealing sheep Emily Warren wouldn't laugh at thee so approvingly. I'm finding out that she rather likes the people she laughs at. At least, I take that view, for she laughs at me a great deal. I knew from Emily Warren's laugh that thee hadn't anything very bad to tell mother.”
”I admit that, at the time, I enjoyed being laughed at--a rather rare experience.”
”You needn't, either of you, plume yourselves that you are irresistibly funny. I laugh easily. Mr. Yocomb, why do you feed the chickens so slowly? I have noticed it before. Now Reuben and Hiram, the man, throw the corn all down at once.”
”They are in more of a hurry than I am. I don't like to do anything in a hurry, least of all to eat my dinner. Now, why should these chickens, turkeys and ducks gobble everything right down? The corn seems to taste good to them; so, after a handful, I wait till they have had a chance to think how good the last kernel was before they get another. You see I greatly prolong their pleasure.”
”And in these intervals you meditate on Thanksgiving Day, I suppose,”
she said.
”Emily Warren, thee's a good Yankee. I admit that that young gobbler there did suggest a day on which I'm always very thankful, and with good reason. I had about concluded before thee came that, if we were both spared--i.e., that gobbler and I--till next November, I would probably survive him.”
”How can you have the heart to plan against that poor creature's life so coolly? See how he turns his round, innocent eyes toward you, as if in grat.i.tude. If he could know that the hand that feeds him would chop off his head, what a moral shock he would sustain! That upturned beak should be to you like a reproachful face.”