The Friendly Road [46]
The old man looked for a moment as though he were going to strike me with his stick, but he neither stirred nor spoke. It was evidently a wholly new experience for him.
"Yes," I said, "you are not popular in this community, but what do you suppose I care about that? I'm interested in your hedge. What I'm curious to know--and I might as well tell you frankly--is how such a man as you are reputed to be could grow such an extraordinary hedge. You must have been at it a very long time."
I was surprised at the effect of my words. The old man turned partly aside and looked for a moment along the proud and flaunting embattlements of the green marvel before us. Then he said in a moderate voice:
"It's a putty good hedge, a putty good hedge."
"I've got him," I thought exultantly, "I've got him!"
"How long ago did you start it?" I pursued my advantage eagerly.
"Thirty-two years come spring," said he.
"Thirty-two years!" I repeated; "you've been at it a long time."
With that I plied him with questions in the liveliest manner, and in five minutes I had the gruff old fellow stumping along at my side and pointing out the various notable-features of his wonderful creation. His suppressed excitement was quite wonderful to see. He would point his hickory stick with a poking motion, and, when he looked up, instead of throwing back his big, rough head, he bent at the hips, thus imparting an impression of astonishing solidity.
"It took me all o' ten years to get that bell right," he said, and, "Take a look at that arch: now what is your opinion o' that?"
Once, in the midst of our conversation, he checked himself abruptly and looked around at me with a sudden dark expression of suspicion. I saw exactly what lay in his mind, but I continued my questioning as though I perceived no change in him. It was only momentary, however, and he was soon as much interested as before. He talked as though he had not had such an opportunity before in years--and I doubt whether he had. It was plain to see that if any one ever loved anything in this world, Old Toombs loved that hedge of his. Think of it, indeed! He had lived with it, nurtured it, clipped it, groomed it--for thirty-two years.
So we walked down the sloping field within the hedge, and it seemed as though one of the deep mysteries of human nature was opening there before me. What strange things men set their hearts upon!
Thus, presently, we came nearly to the farther end of the hedge. Here the old man stopped and turned around, facing me.
"Do you see that valley?" he asked. "Do you see that slopin' valley up through the meadow?"
His voice rose suddenly to a sort of high-pitched violence.
"That' passel o' hounds up there," he said, "want to build a road down my valley."
He drew his breath fiercely.
"They want to build a road through my land. They want to ruin my farm--they want to cut down my hedge. I'll fight 'em. I'll fight 'em. I'll show 'em yet!"
It was appalling. His face grew purple, his eyes narrowed to pin points and grew red and angry--like the eyes of an infuriated boar. His hands shook. Suddenly he turned upon me, poising his stick in his hand, and said violently.
"And who are you? Who are you? Are you one of these surveyor fellows?"
"My name," I answered as quietly as I could, "is Grayson. I live on the old Mather farm. I am not in the least interested in any of your road troubles."
He looked at me a moment more, and then seemed to shake himself or shudder, his eyes dropped away and he began walking toward his house. He had taken only a few steps, however, before he turned, and, without looking at me, asked if I would like to see the tools he used for trimming his hedge. When I hesitated, for I was decidedly uncomfortable, he came up to me and laid his hand awkwardly on my arm.
"You'll see something, I warrant, you never see before."
It was so evident that he regretted his outbreak that I followed him, and he showed me an odd double ladder set on low wheels which he said he used in trimming the higher parts of his hedge.
"Yes," I said, "you are not popular in this community, but what do you suppose I care about that? I'm interested in your hedge. What I'm curious to know--and I might as well tell you frankly--is how such a man as you are reputed to be could grow such an extraordinary hedge. You must have been at it a very long time."
I was surprised at the effect of my words. The old man turned partly aside and looked for a moment along the proud and flaunting embattlements of the green marvel before us. Then he said in a moderate voice:
"It's a putty good hedge, a putty good hedge."
"I've got him," I thought exultantly, "I've got him!"
"How long ago did you start it?" I pursued my advantage eagerly.
"Thirty-two years come spring," said he.
"Thirty-two years!" I repeated; "you've been at it a long time."
With that I plied him with questions in the liveliest manner, and in five minutes I had the gruff old fellow stumping along at my side and pointing out the various notable-features of his wonderful creation. His suppressed excitement was quite wonderful to see. He would point his hickory stick with a poking motion, and, when he looked up, instead of throwing back his big, rough head, he bent at the hips, thus imparting an impression of astonishing solidity.
"It took me all o' ten years to get that bell right," he said, and, "Take a look at that arch: now what is your opinion o' that?"
Once, in the midst of our conversation, he checked himself abruptly and looked around at me with a sudden dark expression of suspicion. I saw exactly what lay in his mind, but I continued my questioning as though I perceived no change in him. It was only momentary, however, and he was soon as much interested as before. He talked as though he had not had such an opportunity before in years--and I doubt whether he had. It was plain to see that if any one ever loved anything in this world, Old Toombs loved that hedge of his. Think of it, indeed! He had lived with it, nurtured it, clipped it, groomed it--for thirty-two years.
So we walked down the sloping field within the hedge, and it seemed as though one of the deep mysteries of human nature was opening there before me. What strange things men set their hearts upon!
Thus, presently, we came nearly to the farther end of the hedge. Here the old man stopped and turned around, facing me.
"Do you see that valley?" he asked. "Do you see that slopin' valley up through the meadow?"
His voice rose suddenly to a sort of high-pitched violence.
"That' passel o' hounds up there," he said, "want to build a road down my valley."
He drew his breath fiercely.
"They want to build a road through my land. They want to ruin my farm--they want to cut down my hedge. I'll fight 'em. I'll fight 'em. I'll show 'em yet!"
It was appalling. His face grew purple, his eyes narrowed to pin points and grew red and angry--like the eyes of an infuriated boar. His hands shook. Suddenly he turned upon me, poising his stick in his hand, and said violently.
"And who are you? Who are you? Are you one of these surveyor fellows?"
"My name," I answered as quietly as I could, "is Grayson. I live on the old Mather farm. I am not in the least interested in any of your road troubles."
He looked at me a moment more, and then seemed to shake himself or shudder, his eyes dropped away and he began walking toward his house. He had taken only a few steps, however, before he turned, and, without looking at me, asked if I would like to see the tools he used for trimming his hedge. When I hesitated, for I was decidedly uncomfortable, he came up to me and laid his hand awkwardly on my arm.
"You'll see something, I warrant, you never see before."
It was so evident that he regretted his outbreak that I followed him, and he showed me an odd double ladder set on low wheels which he said he used in trimming the higher parts of his hedge.