The Friendly Road [71]
Washington, and I told her of the curious antics of Martha Washington and of the number of eggs she laid, and of the sweet new milk we had to drink, and the honey right out of our own hives, and of the things growing in the garden.
Once she smiled a little, and once she looked around at me with a curious, timid, half-wistful expression in her eyes.
"Maggie," I said, "I wish you could go to the country."
"I wish to God I could," she replied.
We walked for a moment in silence. My head was whirling with thoughts: again I had that feeling of helplessness, of inadequacy, which I had felt so sharply on the previous evening. What could I do?
When we reached the corner, I said:
"Maggie, I will see you safely home."
She laughed--a hard, bitter laugh.
"Oh, I don't need any one to show me around these streets!"
"I will see you home," I said.
So we walked quickly along the street together.
"Here it is," she said finally, pointing to a dark, mean-looking, one-story house, set in a dingy, barren areaway.
"Well, good night, Maggie," I said, "and good luck to you."
"Good night," she said faintly.
When I had walked to the corner, I stopped and looked back. She was standing stock-still just where I had left her--a figure I shall never forget.
I have hesitated about telling of a further strange thing that happened to me that night--but have decided at last to put it in. I did not accept Mr. Vedder's invitation: I could not; but I returned to the room in the tenement where I had spent the previous night with Bill Hahn the Socialist. It was a small, dark, noisy room, but I was so weary that I fell almost immediately into a heavy sleep. An hour or more later I don't know how long indeed--I was suddenly awakened and found myself sitting bolt upright in bed. It was close and dark and warm there in the room, and from without came the muffled sounds of the city. For an instant I waited, rigid with expectancy. And then I heard as clearly and plainly as ever I heard anything:
"David! David!" in my sister Harriet's voice.
It was exactly the voice in which she has called me a thousand times. Without an instant's hesitation, I stepped out of bed and called out:
"I'm coming, Harriet! I'm coming!"
"What's the matter?" inquired Bill Hahn sleepily.
"Nothing," I replied, and crept back into bed.
It may have been the result of the strain and excitement of the previous two days. I don't explain it--I can only tell what happened.
Before I went to sleep again I determined to start straight for home in the morning: and having decided, I turned over, drew a long, comfortable breath and did not stir again, I think, until long after the morning sun shone in at the window.
CHAPTER XII. THE RETURN
"Everything divine runs with light feet."
Surely the chief delight of going away from home is the joy of getting back again. I shall never forget that spring morning when I walked from the city of Kilburn into the open country, my bag on my back, a song in my throat, and the gray road stretching straight before me. I remember how eagerly, I looked out across the fields and meadows and rested my eyes upon the distant hills. How roomy it all was! I looked up into the clear blue of the sky. There was space here to breathe, and distances in which the spirit might spread its wings. As the old prophet says, it was a place where a man might be placed alone in the midst of the earth.
I was strangely glad that morning of every little stream that ran under the bridges, I was glad of the trees I passed, glad of every bird and squirrel in the branches, glad of the cattle grazing in the fields, glad of the jolly boys I saw on their way to school with their dinner pails, glad of the bluff, red-faced teamster I met, and of the snug farmer who waved his hand at me and wished me a friendly good morning. It seemed to me that I liked every one I saw, and that every one liked me.
So I walked onward that morning, nor ever have had such a sense of relief and escape, nor ever such a feeling of gayety.
"Here
Once she smiled a little, and once she looked around at me with a curious, timid, half-wistful expression in her eyes.
"Maggie," I said, "I wish you could go to the country."
"I wish to God I could," she replied.
We walked for a moment in silence. My head was whirling with thoughts: again I had that feeling of helplessness, of inadequacy, which I had felt so sharply on the previous evening. What could I do?
When we reached the corner, I said:
"Maggie, I will see you safely home."
She laughed--a hard, bitter laugh.
"Oh, I don't need any one to show me around these streets!"
"I will see you home," I said.
So we walked quickly along the street together.
"Here it is," she said finally, pointing to a dark, mean-looking, one-story house, set in a dingy, barren areaway.
"Well, good night, Maggie," I said, "and good luck to you."
"Good night," she said faintly.
When I had walked to the corner, I stopped and looked back. She was standing stock-still just where I had left her--a figure I shall never forget.
I have hesitated about telling of a further strange thing that happened to me that night--but have decided at last to put it in. I did not accept Mr. Vedder's invitation: I could not; but I returned to the room in the tenement where I had spent the previous night with Bill Hahn the Socialist. It was a small, dark, noisy room, but I was so weary that I fell almost immediately into a heavy sleep. An hour or more later I don't know how long indeed--I was suddenly awakened and found myself sitting bolt upright in bed. It was close and dark and warm there in the room, and from without came the muffled sounds of the city. For an instant I waited, rigid with expectancy. And then I heard as clearly and plainly as ever I heard anything:
"David! David!" in my sister Harriet's voice.
It was exactly the voice in which she has called me a thousand times. Without an instant's hesitation, I stepped out of bed and called out:
"I'm coming, Harriet! I'm coming!"
"What's the matter?" inquired Bill Hahn sleepily.
"Nothing," I replied, and crept back into bed.
It may have been the result of the strain and excitement of the previous two days. I don't explain it--I can only tell what happened.
Before I went to sleep again I determined to start straight for home in the morning: and having decided, I turned over, drew a long, comfortable breath and did not stir again, I think, until long after the morning sun shone in at the window.
CHAPTER XII. THE RETURN
"Everything divine runs with light feet."
Surely the chief delight of going away from home is the joy of getting back again. I shall never forget that spring morning when I walked from the city of Kilburn into the open country, my bag on my back, a song in my throat, and the gray road stretching straight before me. I remember how eagerly, I looked out across the fields and meadows and rested my eyes upon the distant hills. How roomy it all was! I looked up into the clear blue of the sky. There was space here to breathe, and distances in which the spirit might spread its wings. As the old prophet says, it was a place where a man might be placed alone in the midst of the earth.
I was strangely glad that morning of every little stream that ran under the bridges, I was glad of the trees I passed, glad of every bird and squirrel in the branches, glad of the cattle grazing in the fields, glad of the jolly boys I saw on their way to school with their dinner pails, glad of the bluff, red-faced teamster I met, and of the snug farmer who waved his hand at me and wished me a friendly good morning. It seemed to me that I liked every one I saw, and that every one liked me.
So I walked onward that morning, nor ever have had such a sense of relief and escape, nor ever such a feeling of gayety.
"Here