Just David by Eleanor H. Porter - Full Text Free Book (Part 2/4)
Just DavidbyEleanor H. Porter
Part 2 out of 4
"He said I mustn't grieve, for that would grieve him," murmured
the boy, after a time, his eyes on the far-away hills. "And he
said if I'd play, my mountains would come to me here, and I'd
really be at home up there. He said in my violin were all those
things I'm wanting--so bad!"
With a little choking breath, David tucked the note back into his
pocket and reached for his violin.
Some time later, Mrs. Holly, dusting the chairs in the parlor,
stopped her work, tiptoed to the door, and listened breathlessly.
When she turned back, still later, to her work, her eyes were
"I wonder why, when he plays, I always get to thinking of--John,"
she sighed to herself, as she picked up her dusting-cloth.
After supper that night, Simeon Holly and his wife again sat on
the kitchen porch, resting from the labor of the day. Simeon's
eyes were closed. His wife's were on the dim outlines of the
shed, the barn, the road, or a passing horse and wagon. David,
sitting on the steps, was watching the moon climb higher and
higher above the tree-tops. After a time he slipped into the
house and came out with his violin.
At the first long-drawn note of sweetness, Simeon Holly opened
his eyes and sat up, stern-lipped. But his wife laid a timid hand
on his arm.
"Don't say anything, please," she entreated softly. "Let him
play, just for to-night. He's lonesome--poor little fellow." And
Simeon Holly, with a frowning shrug of his shoulders, sat back in
his chair.
Later, it was Mrs. Holly herself who stopped the music by saying:
"Come, David, it's bedtime for little boys. I'll go upstairs with
you." And she led the way into the house and lighted the candle
Upstairs, in the little room over the kitchen, David found
himself once more alone. As before, the little yellow-white
nightshirt lay over the chair- and as before, Mrs. Holly had
brushed away a tear as she had placed it there. As before, too,
the big four-posted bed loomed tall and formidable in the corner.
But this time the coverlet and sheet were turned back
invitingly--Mrs. Holly had been much disturbed to find that David
had slept on the floor the night before.
Once more, with his back carefully turned toward the impaled bugs
and moths on the wall, David undressed himself. Then, before
blowing out the candle, he went to the window kneeled down, and
looked up at the moon through the trees.
David was sorely puzzled. He was beginning to wonder just what
was to become of himself.
His father had said that out in the world there was a beautiful
but what was it? How was he to find it? Or
how was he to do it if he did find it? A where
was he to live? Could he stay where he was? It was not home, to
but there was the little room over the kitchen where he
might sleep, and there was the kind woman who smiled at him
sometimes with the sad, far-away look in her eyes that somehow
hurt. He would not like, now, to leave her--with daddy gone.
There were the gold-pieces, and concerning these David was
equally puzzled. What should he do with them? He did not need
them--the kind woman was giving him plenty of food, so that he
did not have to go
and there was nothing
else, apparently, that he could use them for. They were heavy,
and d yet he did not like to throw them
away, nor to let anybody know that he had them: he had been
called a thief just for one little piece, and what would they say
if they knew he had all those others?
David remembered now, suddenly, that his father had said to hide
them--to hide them until he needed them. David was relieved at
once. Why had he not thought of it before? He knew just the
place, too,--the little cupboard behind the chimney there in this
very room! And with a satisfied sigh, David got to his feet,
gathered all the little yellow disks from his pockets, and tucked
them well out of sight behind the piles of books on the cupboard
shelves. There, too, but the little miniature
of the angel-mother he slipped back into one of his pockets.
David's second morning at the farmhouse was not unlike the first,
except that this time, when Simeon Holly asked him to fill the
woodbox, David resolutely ignored every enticing bug and
butterfly, and kept rigorously to the task before him until it
He was in the kitchen when, just before dinner, Perry Larson came
into the room with a worried frown on his face.
"Mis' Holly, would ye mind just steppin' to the side door?
There's a woman an' a little boy there, an' somethin' ails 'em.
She can't talk English, an' I'm blest if I can make head nor tail
out of the lingo she DOES talk. But maybe you can."
"Why, Perry, I don't know--" began Mrs. Holly. But she turned at
once toward the door.
On the porch steps stood a very pretty, but frightened-looking
young woman with a boy perhaps ten years old at her side. Upon
catching sight of Mrs. Holly she burst into a torrent of
unintelligible words, supplemented by numerous and vehement
Mrs. Holly shrank back, and cast appealing eyes toward her
husband who at that moment had come across the yard from the
"Simeon, can you tell what she wants?"
At sight of the newcomer on the scene, the strange woman began
again, with even more volubility.
"No," said Simeon Holly, after a moment's scowling scrutiny of
the gesticulating woman. "She's talking French, I think. And she
wants--something."
"Gosh! I should say she did," muttered Perry Larson. "An'
whatever 't is, she wants it powerful bad."
"Are you hungry?" questioned Mrs. Holly timidly.
"Can't you speak English at all?" demanded Simeon Holly.
The woman looked from one to the other with the piteous, pleading
eyes of the stranger in the strange land who cannot understand or
make others understand. She had turned away with a despairing
shake of her head, when suddenly she gave a wild cry of joy and
wheeled about, her whole face alight.
The Hollys and Perry Larson saw then that David had come out onto
the porch and was speaking to the woman--and his words were just
as unintelligible as the woman's had been.
Mrs. Holly and Perry Larson stared. Simeon Holly interrupted
David with a sharp--
"Do you, then, understand this woman, boy?"
"Why, yes! Didn't you? She's lost her way, and--" But the woman
had hurried forward and was pouring her story into David's ears.
At its conclusion David turned to find the look of stupefaction
still on the others' faces.
"Well, what does she want?" asked Simeon Holly crisply.
"She wants to find the way to Francois Lavelle's house. He's her
husband's brother. She came in on the train this morning. Her
husband stopped off a minute somewhere, she says, and got left
behind. He could talk English, but she can't. She's
only been in this country a week. She came from France."
"Gorry! Won't ye listen ter that, now?" cried Perry Larson
admiringly. "Reads her just like a book, don't he? There's a
French family over in West Hinsdale--two of 'em, I think. What'll
ye bet 't ain't one o' them?"
"Very likely," acceded Simeon Holly, his eyes bent disapprovingly
on David's face. It was plain to be seen that Simeon Holly's
attention was occupied by David, not the woman.
"An', say, Mr. Holly," resumed Perry Larson, a little excitedly,
"you know I was goin' over ter West Hinsdale in a day or two ter
see Harlow about them steers. Why can't I go this afternoon an'
tote her an' the kid along?"
"Very well," nodded Simeon Holly curtly, his eyes still on
David's face.
Perry Larson turned to the woman, and by a flourish of his arms
and a jumble of broken English attempted to make her understand
that he was to take her where she undoubtedly wished to go. The
woman still looked uncomprehending, however, and David promptly
came to the rescue, saying a few rapid words that quickly brought
a flood of delighted understanding to the woman's face.
"Can't you ask her if she's hungry?" ventured Mrs. Holly, then.
"She says no, thank you," translated David, with a smile, when he
had received his answer. "But the boy says he is, if you please."
"Then, tell them to come into the kitchen," directed Mrs. Holly,
hurrying into the house.
"So you're French, are you?" said Simeon Holly to David.
"French? Oh, no, sir," smiled David, proudly. "I'm an American.
Father said I was. He said I was born in this country."
"But how comes it you can speak French like that?"
"Why, I learned it." Then, divining that his words were still
unconvincing, he added: "Same as I learned German and other
things with father, out of books, you know. Didn't you learn
French when you were a little boy?"
"Humph!" vouchsafed Simeon Holly, stalking away without answering
the question.
Immediately after dinner Perry Larson drove away with the woman
and the little boy. The woman's face was wreathed with smiles,
and her last adoring glance was for David, waving his hand to her
from the porch steps.
In the afternoon David took his violin and went off toward the
hill behind the house for a walk. He had asked Mrs. Holly to
accompany him, but she had refused, though she was not sweeping
or dusting at the time. She was doing nothing more important,
apparently, than making holes in a piece of white cloth, and
sewing them up again with a needle and thread.
David had then asked Mr. H but his refusal was even
more strangely impatient than his wife's had been.
"And why, pray, should I go for a useless walk now--or any time,
for that matter?" he demanded sharply.
David had shrunk back unconsciously, though he had still smiled.
"Oh, but it wouldn't be a useless walk, sir. Father said nothing
was useless that helped to keep us in tune, you know."
"In tune!"
"I mean, you looked as father used to look sometimes, when he
felt out of tune. And he always said there was nothing like a
walk to put him back again. I--I was feeling a little out of tune
myself to-day, and I thought, by the way you looked, that you
were, too.
So I asked you to go to walk."
"Humph! Well, I--That will do, boy. No impertinence, you
understand!" And he had turned away in very obvious anger.
David, with a puzzled sorrow in his heart had started alone then,
on his walk.
CHAPTER VII
"YOU'RE WANTED--YOU'RE WANTED!"
It was Saturday night, and the end of David's third day at the
farmhouse. Upstairs, in the hot little room over the kitchen, the
boy knelt at the window and tried to find a breath of cool air
from the hills. Downstairs on the porch Simeon Holly and his wife
discussed the events of the past few days, and talked of what
should be done with David.
"But what shall we do with him?" moaned Mrs. Holly at last,
breaking a long silence that had fallen between them. "What can
we do with him? Doesn't anybody want him?"
"No, of course, nobody wants him," retorted her husband
relentlessly.
And at the words a small figure in a yellow-white nightshirt
stopped short. David, violin in hand, had fled from the little
hot room, and stood now just inside the kitchen door.
"Who can want a child that has been brought up in that heathenish
fashion?" continued Simeon Holly. "According to his own story,
even his father did nothing but play the fiddle and tramp through
the woods day in and day out, with an occasional trip to the
mountain village to get food and clothing when they had
absolutely nothing to eat and wear. Of course nobody wants him!"
David, at the kitchen door, caught his breath chokingly. Then he
sped across the floor to the back hall, and on through the long
sheds to the hayloft in the barn--the place where his father
seemed always nearest.
David was frightened and heartsick. NOBODY WANTED HIM. He had
heard it with his own ears, so there was no mistake. What now
about all those long days and nights ahead before he might go,
violin in hand, to meet his father in that far-away country? How
was he to live those days and nights if nobody wanted him? How
was his violin to speak in a voice that was true and pure and
full, and tell of the beautiful world, as his father had said
that it must do? David quite cried aloud at the thought. Then he
thought of something else that his father had said: "Remember
this, my boy,--in your violin lie all the things you long for.
You have only to play, and the broad skies of your mountain home
will be over you, and the dear friends and comrades of your
mountain forests will be all about you."
With a quick cry David
raised his violin and drew the bow across the strings.
Back on the porch at that moment Mrs. Holly was saying:--
"Of course there's the orphan asylum, or maybe the poorhouse--if
they' but--Simeon," she broke off sharply, "where's
that child playing now?"
Simeon listened with intent ears.
"In the barn, I should say."
"But he'd gone to bed!"
"And he'll go to bed again," asserted Simeon Holly grimly, as he
rose to his feet and stalked across the moonlit yard to the barn.
As before, Mrs. Holly followed him, and as before, both
involuntarily paused just inside the barn door to listen. No runs
and trills and rollicking bits of melody floated down the
stairway to-night. The notes were long-drawn, and plaintively
and they rose and swelled and died almost into silence
while the man and the woman by the door stood listening.
They were back in the long ago--Simeon Holly and his wife--back
with a boy of their own who had made those same rafters ring with
shouts of laughter, and who, also, had played the violin--though
and the same thought had come to each: "What if,
after all, it were John playing all alone in the moonlight!"
It had not been the violin, in the end, that had driven John
Holly from home. It had been the possibilities in a piece of
crayon. All through childhood the boy had drawn his beloved
"pictures" on every inviting space that offered,--whether it were
the "best-room" wall-paper, or the fly leaf of the big plush
album,--and at eighteen he had announced his determination to be
an artist. For a year after that Simeon Holly fought with all the
strength of a stubborn will, banished chalk and crayon from the
house, and set the boy to homely tasks that left no time for
anything but food and sleep--then John ran away.
That was fifteen years ago, and they ha
though two unanswered letters in Simeon Holly's desk testified
that perhaps this, at least, was not the boy's fault.
It was not of the grown-up John, the willful boy and runaway son,
however, that Simeon Holly and his wife were thinking, as they
stood just
it was of Baby John, the little
curly-headed fellow that had played at their knees, frolicked in
this very barn, and nestled in their arms when the day was done.
Mrs. Holly spoke first--and it was not as she had spoken on the
"Simeon," she began tremulously, "that dear child must go to
bed!" And she hurried across the floor and up the stairs,
followed by her husband. "Come, David," she said, as she reached
"it's time little boys were asleep! Come!"
Her voice was low, and not quite steady. To David her voice
sounded as her eyes looked when there was in them the far-away
something that hurt. Very slowly he came forward into the
moonlight, his gaze searching the woman's face long and
earnestly.
"And do you--want me?" he faltered.
The woman drew in her breath with a little sob. Before her stood
the slender figure in the yellow-white gown--John's gown. Into
her eyes looked those other eyes, dark and wistful,--like John's
eyes. And her arms ached with emptiness.
"Yes, yes, for my very own--and for always!" she cried with
sudden passion, clasping the little form close. "For always!"
And David sighed his content.
Simeon Holly's lips parted, but they closed again with no words
said. The man turned then, with a curiously baffled look, and
stalked down the stairs.
On the porch long minutes later, when once more David had gone to
bed, Simeon Holly said coldly to his wife:--
"I suppose you realize, Ellen, just what you've pledged yourself
to, by that absurd outburst of yours in the barn to-night--and
all because that ungodly music and the moonshine had gone to your
"But I want the boy, Simeon. He--he makes me think of--John."
Harsh lines came to the man's mouth, but there was a perceptible
shake in his voice as he answered:--
"We're not talking of John, Ellen. We're talking of this
irresponsible, hardly sane boy upstairs. He can work, I suppose,
if he's taught, and in that way he won't perhaps be a dead loss.
Still, he's another mouth to feed, and that counts now. There's
the note, you know,--it's due in August."
"But you say there's money--almost enough for it--in the bank."
Mrs. Holly's voice was anxiously apologetic.
"Yes, I know" vouchsafed the man. "But almost enough is not quite
"But there's time--more than two months. It isn't due till the
last of August, Simeon."
"I know, I know. Meanwhile, there's the boy. What are you going
to do with him?"
"Why, can't you use him--on the farm--a little?"
"Perhaps. I doubt it, though," gloomed the man. "One can't hoe
corn nor pull weeds with a fiddle-bow--and that's all he seems to
know how to handle."
"But he can learn--and he does play beautifully," murmured the
whenever before had Ellen Holly ventured to use words of
argument with her husband, and in extenuation, too, of an act of
There was no reply except a muttered "Humph!" under the breath.
Then Simeon Holly rose and stalked into the house.
The next day was Sunday, and Sunday at the farmhouse was a thing
of stern repression and solemn silence. In Simeon Holly's veins
ran the blood of the Puritans, and he was more than strict as to
what he considered right and wrong. When half-trained for the
ministry, ill-health had forced him to resort to a less confining
life, though never had it taken from him the uncompromising rigor
of his views. It was a distinct shock to him, therefore, on this
Sunday morning to be awakened by a peal of music such as the
little house had never known before. All the while that he was
thrusting his indignant self into his clothing, the runs and
turns and crashing chords whirled about him until it seemed that
a whole orchestra must be imprisoned in the little room over the
kitchen, so skillful was the boy's double stopping. Simeon Holly
was white with anger when he finally hurried down the hall and
threw open David's bedroom door.
"Boy, what do you mean by this?" he demanded.
David laughed gleefully.
"And didn't you know?" he asked. "Why, I thought my music would
tell you. I was so happy, so glad! The birds in the trees woke me
up singing, 'You're wanted--you'' and the sun came
over the hill there and said, 'You're wanted--you'' and
the little tree-branch tapped on my window pane and said "You're
wanted--you're wanted!' And I just had to take up my violin and
tell you about it!"
"But it's Sunday--the Lord's Day," remonstrated the man sternly.
David stood motionless, his eyes questioning.
"Are you quite a heathen, then?" catechised the man sharply.
"Have they never told you anything about God, boy?"
"Oh, 'God'?--of course," smiled David, in open relief. "God wraps
up the buds in their little brown blankets, and covers the roots
"I am not talking about brown blankets nor roots," interrupted
the man severely. "This is God's day, and as such should be kept
" 'Holy'?"
"Yes. You should not fiddle nor laugh nor sing."
"But those are good things, and beautiful things," defended
David, his eyes wide and puzzled.
"In their place, perhaps," conceded the man, stiffly. "but not on
God's day."
"You mean--He wouldn't like them?"
"Oh!"--and David's face cleared. "That's all right, then. Your
God isn't the same one, sir, for mine loves all beautiful things
every day in the year."
There was a moment's silence. For the first time in his life
Simeon Holly found himself without words.
"We won't talk of this any more, David," "but
we'll put it another way--I don't wish you to play your fiddle on
Sunday. Now, put it up till to-morrow." And he turned and went
down the hall.
Breakfast was a very quiet meal that morning. Meals were never
things of hilarious joy at the Holly farmhouse, as David had
but he had not seen one before quite so somber
as this. It was followed immediately by a half-hour of
Scripture-reading and prayer, with Mrs. Holly and Perry Larson
sitting very stiff and solemn in their chairs, while Mr. Holly
read. David tried to sit very stiff and solemn in his chair,
but the roses at the window were nodding their heads and
and the birds in the bushes beyond were sending to him
coaxing little chirps of "Come out, come out!" And how could one
expect to sit stiff and solemn in the face of all that,
particularly when one's fingers were tingling to take up the
interrupted song of the morning and tell the whole world how
beautiful it was to be wanted!
Yet David sat very still,--or as still as he could sit,--and only
the tapping of his foot, and the roving of his wistful eyes told
that his mind was not with Farmer Holly and the Children of
Israel in their wanderings in the wilderness.
After the devotions came an hour of subdued haste and confusion
while the family prepared for church. David had never been to
church. He asked Perry Lar but Perry only
shrugged his shoulders and said, to nobody, apparently:--"
Sugar! Won't ye hear that, now?"--which to David was certainly no
answer at all.
That one must be spick and span to go to church, David soon found
out--never before had he been so scrubbed and brushed and combed.
There was, too, brought out for him to wear a little clean white
blouse and a red tie, over which Mrs. Holly cried a little as she
had over the nightshirt that first evening.
The church was in the village only a qu and
in due time David, open-eyed and interested, was following Mr.
and Mrs. Holly down its long center aisle. The Hollys were early
as usual, and service had not begun. Even the organist had not
taken his seat beneath the great pipes of blue and gold that
towered to the ceiling.
It was the pride of the town--that organ. It had been given by a
great man (out in the world) whose birthplace the town was. More
than that, a yearly donation from this same great man paid for
the skilled organist who came every Sunday from the city to play
it. To-day, as the organist took his seat, he noticed a new face
in the Holly pew, and he almost gave a friendly smile as he met
the wondering gaze of then he lost himself,
as usual, in the music before him.
Down in the Holly pew the small boy held his breath. A score of
violins were and a score of other
instruments that he could not name, crashed over his head, and
brought him to his feet in ecstasy. Before a detaining hand
could stop him, he was out in the aisle, his eyes on the
blue-and-gold pipes from which seemed to come those wondrous
sounds. Then his gaze fell on the man and
and with soft steps he crept along the aisle and up the stairs to
the organ-loft.
For long minutes he stood motionless, then the music
died into silence and the minister rose for the invocation. It
was a boy's voice, and not a man's, however, that broke the
"Oh, sir, please," it said, "would you--could you teach ME to do
The organist choked over a cough, and the soprano reached out and
drew David to her side, whispering something in his ear. The
minister, after a dazed silence, while down in
the Holly pew an angry man and a sorely mortified woman vowed
that, before David came to church again, he should have learned
some things.
CHAPTER VIII
THE PUZZLING "DOS" AND "DON'TS"
With the coming of Monday arrived a new life for David--a curious
life full of "don'ts" and "dos." David wondered sometimes why all
the pleasant things were "don'ts" and all the unpleasant ones
"dos." Corn to be hoed, weeds to be pulled, woodboxes to be
with all these it was "do this, do this, do this." But
when it came to lying under the apple trees, exploring the brook
that ran by the field, or even watching the bugs and worms that
one found in the earth--all these were "don'ts."
As to Farmer Holly--Farmer Holly himself awoke to some new
experiences that Monday morning. One of them was the difficulty
in successfully combating the cheerfully expressed opinion that
weeds were so pretty growing that it was a pity to pull them up
and let them all wither and die. Another was the equally great
difficulty of keeping a small boy at useful labor of any sort in
the face of the attractions displayed by a passing cloud, a
blossoming shrub, or a bird singing on a tree-branch.
In spite of all this, however, David so evidently did his best to
carry out the "dos" and avoid the "don'ts," that at four o'clock
that first Monday he won from the stern but would-be-just Farmer
Holly his freedom for and very gayly he set
off for a walk. He went without his violin, as there was the
smel but his face and his step and the very
swing of his arms were singing (to David) the joyous song of the
morning before. Even yet, in spite of the vicissitudes of the
day's work, the whole world, to David's homesick, lonely little
heart, was still caroling that blessed "You're wanted, you're
wanted, you're wanted!"
And then he saw the crow.
David knew crows. In his home on the mountain he had had several
of them for friends. He had learned to know and answer their
calls. He had learned to admire their wisdom and to respect their
moods and tempers. He loved to watch them. Especially he loved to
see the great birds cut through the air with a wide sweep of
wings, so alive, so gloriously free!
But this crow--
This crow was not cutting through the air with a wide sweep of
wing. It was in the middle of a cornfield, and it was rising and
falling and flopping about in a most extraordinary fashion. Very
soon David, running toward it, saw why. By a long leather strip
it was fastened securely to a stake in the ground.
"Oh, oh, oh!" exclaimed David, in sympathetic consternation.
"Here, you just wait a minute. I'll fix it."
With confident celerity David whipped out his jackknife to cut
but he found then that to "fix it" and to say he would
"fix it" were two different matters.
The crow did not seem to recognize in David a friend. He saw in
him, apparently, but another of the stone-throwing, gun-shooting,
torturing humans who were responsible for his present hateful
captivity. With beak and claw and wing, therefore, he fought this
new evil that had come p and not until David
had hit upon the expedient of taking off his blouse, and throwing
it over the angry bird, could the boy get near enough to
accomplish his purpose. Even then David had to leave upon the
slender leg a twist of leather.
A moment later, with a whir of wings and a frightened squawk that
quickly turned into a surprised caw of triumphant rejoicing, the
crow soared into the air and made straight for a distant
tree-top. David, after a minute's glad surveying of his work,
donned his blouse again and resumed his walk.
It was almost six o'clock when David got back to the Holly
farmhouse. In the barn doorway sat Perry Larson.
"Well, sonny," the man greeted him cheerily, "did ye get yer
weedin' done?"
"Y--yes," hesitated David. "I but I didn't like
" 'T is kinder hot work."
"Oh, I didn't mind that part," returned David. "What I didn't
like was pulling up all those pretty little plants and letting
them die."
"Weeds--'pretty little plants'!" ejaculated the man. "Well, I'll
be jiggered!"
"But they WERE pretty," defended David, reading aright the scorn
in Perry Larson's voice. "The very prettiest and biggest there
were, always. Mr. Holly showed me, you know,--and I had to pull
"Well, I'll be jiggered!" muttered Perry Larson again.
"But I've been to walk since. I feel better now."
"Oh, ye do!"
"Oh, yes. I had a splendid walk. I went 'way up in the woods on
the hill there. I was singing all the time--inside, you know. I
was so glad Mrs. Holly--wanted me. You know what it is, when you
sing inside."
Perry Larson scratched his head.
"Well, no, sonny, I can't really say I do," he retorted. "I ain't
much on singin'."
"Oh, but I don't mean aloud. I mean inside. When you're happy,
you know."
"When I'm--oh!" The man stopped and stared, his mouth falling
open. Suddenly his face changed, and he grinned appreciatively.
"Well, if you ain't the beat 'em, boy! 'T is kinder like
singin'--the way ye feel inside, when yer 'specially happy, ain't
it? But I never thought of it before."
"Oh, yes. Why, that's where I get my songs--inside of me, you
know--that I play on my violin. And I made a crow sing, too. Only
HE sang outside."
"SING--A CROW!" scoffed the man." Shucks! It'll take more 'n you
ter make me think a crow can sing, my lad."
"But they do, when they're happy," maintained the boy. "Anyhow,
it doesn't sound the same as it does when they're cross, or
plagued over something. You ought to have heard this one to-day.
He sang. He was so glad to get away. I let him loose, you see."
"You mean, you CAUGHT a crow up there in them woods?" The man's
voice was skeptical.
"Oh, no, I didn't catch it. But somebody had, and tied him up.
And he was so unhappy!"
"A crow tied up in the woods!"
"Oh, I didn't find THAT in the woods. It was before I went up
the hill at all."
"A crow tied up--Look a-here, boy, what are you talkin' about?
Where was that crow?" Perry Larson's whole self had become
suddenly alert.
"In the field 'Way over there. And somebody--"
"The cornfield! Jingo! Boy, you don't mean you touched THAT
"Well, he wouldn't let me TOUCH him," half-apologized David. "He
was so afraid, you see. Why, I had to put my blouse over his head
before he'd let me cut him loose at all."
"Cut him loose!" Perry Larson sprang to his feet. "You did
n't--you DIDn't let that crow go!"
David shrank back.
"Why, he WANTED to go. He--" But the man before him had
fallen back despairingly to his old position.
"Well, sir, you've done it now. What the boss'll say, I don't
but I know what I'd like ter say to ye. I was a whole week,
off an' on, gettin' hold of that crow, an' I wouldn't have got
him at all if I hadn't hid half the night an' all the mornin' in
that clump o' bushes, watchin' a chance ter wing him, jest enough
an' not too much. An' even then the job wa'n't done. Let me tell
yer, 't wa'n't no small thing ter get him hitched. I'm wearin'
the marks of the rascal's beak yet. An' now you've gone an' let
him go--just like that," he finished, snapping his fingers
In David's face there was no contrition. There was only
incredulous horror.
"You mean, YOU tied him there, on purpose?"
"Sure I did!"
"But he didn't like it. Couldn't you see he didn't like it?"
cried David.
"Like it! What if he didn't? I didn't like ter have my corn
pulled up, either. See here, sonny, you no need ter look at me in
that tone o' voice. I didn't hurt the varmint none ter speak
of--ye see he could fly, didn't ye?--an' he wa'n't starvin'. I
saw to it that he had enough ter eat an' a dish o' water handy.
An' if he didn't flop an' pull an' try ter get away he needn't
'a' hurt hisself never. I ain't ter blame for what pullin' he
"But wouldn't you pull if you had two big wings that could carry
you to the top of that big tree there, and away up, up in the
sky, where you could talk to the stars?--wouldn't you pull if
somebody a hundred times bigger'n you came along and tied your
leg to that post there?"
The man, Perry, flushed an angry red.
"See here, sonny, I wa'n't askin' you ter do no preachin'. What I
did ain't no more'n any man 'round here does--if he's smart
enough ter catch one. Rigged-up broomsticks ain't in it with a
live bird when it comes ter drivin' away them pesky, thievin'
crows. There ain't a farmer 'round here that hain't been green
with envy, ever since I caught the critter. An' now ter have you
come along an' with one flip o'yer knife spile it all, I--Well,
it jest makes me mad, clean through! That's all."
"You mean, you tied him there to frighten away the other crows?"
"Sure! There ain't nothin' like it."
"Oh, I'm so sorry!"
"Well, you'd better be. But that won't bring back my crow!"
David's face brightened.
"No, that's so, isn't it? I'm glad of that. I was thinking of
the crows, you see. I'm so sorry for them! Only think how we'd
hate to be tied like that--" But Perry Larson, with a stare and
an indignant snort, had got to his feet, and was rapidly walking
toward the house.
Very plainly, that evening, David was in disgrace, and it took
all of Mrs. Holly's tact and patience, and some private pleading,
to keep a general explosion from wrecking all chances of his
staying longer at the farmhouse. Even as it was, David was
sorrowfully aware that he was proving to be a great
disappointment so soon, and his violin playing that evening
carried a moaning plaintiveness that would have been very
significant to one who knew David well.
Very faithfully, the next day, the boy tried to carry out all the
"dos," and though he did not always succeed, yet his efforts were
so obvious, that even the indignant owner of the liberated crow
wa and again Simeon Holly released David
from work at four o'clock.
Alas, for David's peace of mind, for on his walk to-day,
though he found no captive crow to demand his sympathy, he found
something else quite as heartrending, and as incomprehensible.
It was on the edge of the woods that he came upon two boys, each
carrying a rifle, a dead squirrel, and a dead rabbit. The
threatened rain of the day before had not materialized, and David
had his violin. He had been playing softly when he came upon the
boys where the path entered the woods.
"Oh!" At sight of the boys and their burden David gave an
involuntary cry, and stopped playing.
The boys, scarcely less surprised at sight of David and his
violin, paused and stared frankly.
"It's the tramp kid with his fiddle," whispered one to the other
David, his grieved eyes on the motionless little bodies in the
boys' hands, shuddered.
"Are they--dead, too?"
The bigger boy nodded self-importantly.
"Sure. We just shot 'em--the squirrels. Ben here trapped the
rabbits." He paused, manifestly waiting for the proper awed
admiration to come into David's face.
But in David's startled eyes there was no awed admiration, there
was only disbelieving horror.
"You mean, you SENT them to the far country?"
"We--what?"
"Sent them. Made them go yourselves--to the far country?"
The younger boy still stared. The older one grinned disagreeably.
"Sure," he answered with laconic indifference. "We sent 'em to
the far country, all right."
"But--how did you know they WANTED to go?"
"Wanted--Eh?" exploded the big boy. Then he grinned again, still
more disagreeably. "Well, you see, my dear, we didn't ask 'em,"
Real distress came into David's face.
"Then you don't know at all. And maybe they DIDn't want to go.
And if they didn't, how COULD they go singing, as father said?
Father wasn't sent. He WENT. And he went singing. He said he
did. But these--How would YOU like to have somebody come along
and send YOU to the far country, without even knowing if you
wanted to go?"
There was no answer. The boys, with a growing fear in their eyes,
as at sight of something inexplicable and uncanny, were sidling
and in a moment they were hurrying down the hill, not,
however, without a backward glance or two, of something very like
David, left alone, went on his way with troubled eyes and a
thoughtful frown.
David often wore, during those first few days at the Holly
farmhouse, a thoughtful face and a troubled frown. There were so
many, many things that were different from his mountain home.
Over and over, as those first long days passed, he read his
letter until he knew it by heart--and he had need to. Was he not
already surrounded by things and people that were strange to him?
And they were so very strange--these people! There were the boys
and men who rose at dawn--yet never paused to watch the sun flood
who stayed in the fields all day--yet never
raised their eyes to the big fl who knew
birds only as thieves after fruit and grain, and squirrels and
rabbits only as creatures to be trapped or shot. The women--they
were even more incomprehensible. They spent the long hours behind
screened doors and windows, washing the same dishes and sweeping
the same floors day after day. They, too, never raised their eyes
to the blue sky outside, nor even to the crimson roses that
peeped in at the window. They seemed rather to be looking always
for dirt, yet not pleased when they found it--especially if it
had been tracked in on the heel of a small boy's shoe!
More extraordinary than all this to David, however, was the fact
that these people regarded HIM, not themselves, as being strange.
As if it were not the most natural thing in the world to live
with one's father in one's home on the mountain-top, and spend
one's days trailing through the forest paths, or lying with a
book beside some babbling little stream! As if it were not
equally natural to take one's violin with one at times, and learn
to catch upon the quivering strings the whisper of the winds
through the trees! Even in winter, when the clouds themselves
came down from the sky and covered the earth with their soft
whiteness,--even then the
and the song of
the brook under its icy coat carried a charm and mystery that
were quite wanting in the chattering freedom of summer. Surely
there was nothing strange in all this, and yet these people
seemed to think there was!
CHAPTER IX
Day by day, however, as time passed, David diligently tried to
perform the "dos" and avoid the "don'ts"; and day by day he came
to realize how important weeds and woodboxes were, if he were to
conform to what was evidently Farmer Holly's idea of "playing in,
tune" in this strange new Orchestra of Life in which he found
But, try as he would, there was yet an unreality about it all, a
persistent feeling of uselessness and waste, that would not be
set aside. So that, after all, the only part of this strange new
life of his that seemed real to him was the time that came after
four o'clock each day, when he was released from work.
And how full he filled those hours! There was so much to see, so
much to do. For sunny days there were field and stream and
pasture land and the whole wide town to explore. For rainy days,
if he did not care to go to walk, there was his room with the
books in the chimney cupboard. Some of them David had read
before, but many of them he had not. One or
but not so "Dare Devil Dick," and "The Pirates of Pigeon Cove"
(which he found hidden in an obscure corner behind a loose
board). Side by side stood "The Lady of the Lake," "Treasure
Island," and "David Copperfield"; and coverless and dogeared lay
"Robinson Crusoe," "The Arabian Nights," and "Grimm's Fairy
Tales." There were more, many more, and David devoured them all
with eager eyes. The good in them he absorbed as he absorbed the
the evil he cast aside unconsciously--it rolled off,
indeed, like the proverbial water from the duck's back.
David hardly knew sometimes which he liked the better, his
imaginative adventures between the covers of his books or his
real adventures in his daily strolls. True, it was not his
mountain home--this place in wh neither was
there anywhere his Silver Lake with its far, far-reaching sky
above. More deplorable yet, nowhere was there the dear father he
loved so well. But the sun still set in rose and gold, and the
sky, though small, still carried the snowy sails of its
cloud- while as to his father--his father had told him not
to grieve, and David was trying very hard to obey.
With his violin for company David started out each day, unless he
elected to stay indoors with his books. Sometimes it was toward
the village that sometimes it was toward the
hills back of the town. Whichever way it was, there was always
sure to be something waiting at the end for him and his violin to
discover, if it was nothing more than a big white rose in bloom,
or a squirrel sitting by the roadside.
Very soon, however, David discovered that there was something to
be found in his wanderings besides and that
was--people. In spite of the strangeness of these people, they
were wonderfully interesting, David thought. And after that he
turned his steps more and more frequently toward the village when
four o'clock released him from the day's work.
At first David did not talk much to these people. He shrank
sensitively from their bold stares and unpleasantly audible
comments. He watched them with round eyes of wonder and interest,
however,--when he did not think they were watching him. And in
time he came to know not a little about them and about the
strange ways in which they passed their time.
There was the greenhouse man. It would be pleasant to spend one's
day growing plants and flowers--but not under that hot, stifling
glass roof, decided David. Besides, he would not want always to
pick and send away the very prettiest ones to the city every
morning, as the greenhouse man did.
There was the doctor who rode all day long behind the gray mare,
making sick folks well. David liked him, and mentally vowed that
he himself would be a doctor sometime. Still, there was the
stage-driver--David was not sure but he would prefer to follow
this man's profession for a life- for in his, one could
still have the freedom of long days in the open, and yet not be
saddened by the sight of the sick before they had been made
well--which was where the stage-driver had the better of the
doctor, in David's opinion. There were the blacksmith and the
storekeepers, too, but to these David gave little thought or
attention.
Though he might not know what he did want to do, he knew very
well what he did not. All of which merely goes to prove that
David was still on the lookout for that great work which his
father had said was waiting for him out in the world.
Meanwhile David played his violin. If he found a crimson rambler
in bloom in a door-yard, he put it into a little melody of pure
delight--that a woman in the house behind the rambler heard the
music and was cheered at her task, David did not know. If he
found a kitten at play in the sunshine, he put it into a riotous
abandonment of tumbling turns and trills--that a fretful baby
heard and stopped its wailing, David also did not know. And once,
just because the sky was blue and the air was sweet, and it was
so good to be alive, David lifted his bow and put it all into a
rapturous paean of ringing exultation--that a sick man in a
darkened chamber above the street lifted his head, drew in his
breath, and took suddenly a new lease of life, David still again
did not know. All of which merely goes to prove that David had
perhaps found his work and was doing it--although yet still again
David did not know.
It was in the cemetery one afternoon that David came upon the
Lady in Black. She was on her knees putting flowers on a little
mound before her. She looked up as David approached. For a moment
she ga then as if impelled by a hidden
force, she spoke.
"Little boy, who are you?"
"I'm David."
"David! David who? Do you live here? I've seen you here before."
"Oh, yes, I've been here quite a lot of times." Purposely the boy
evaded the questions. David was getting tired of
questions--especially these questions.
"And have you--lost one dear to you, little boy?"
"Lost some one?"
"I mean--is your father or mother--here?"
"Here? Oh, no, they aren't here. My mother is an angel-mother,
and my father has gone to the far country. He is waiting for me
there, you know."
"But, that's the same--that is--" She stopped helplessly,
bewildered eyes on David's serene face. Then suddenly a great
light came to her own. "Oh, little boy, I wish I could understand
that--just that," she breathed. "It would make it so much
easier--if I could just remember that they aren't here--that
they're WAITING--over there!"
But David apparently did not hear. He had turned and was playing
softly as he walked away. Silently the Lady in Black knelt,
listening, looking after him. When she rose some time later and
left the cemetery, the light on her face was still there, deeper,
more glorified.
Toward boys and girls--especially boys--of his own age, David
frequently turned wistful eyes. David wanted a friend, a friend
who would a friend who would see things as
he saw them, who would understand what he was saying when he
played. It seemed to David that in some boy of his own age he
ought to find such a friend. He had seen many boys--but he had
not yet found the friend. David had begun to think, indeed, that
of all these strange beings in this new life of his, boys were
the strangest.
They stared and nudged each other unpleasantly when they came
upon him playing. They jeered when he tried to tell them what he
had been playing. They had never heard of the great Orchestra of
Life, and they fell into most disconcerting fits of laughter, or
else backed away as if afraid, when he told them that they
themselves were instruments in it, and that if they did not keep
themselves in tune, there was sure to be a discord somewhere.
Then there were their games and frolics. Such as were played with
balls, bats, and bags of beans, David thought he would like very
much. But the boys only scoffed when he asked them to teach him
how to play. They laughed when a dog chased a cat, and they
thought it very, very funny when Tony, the old black man, tripped
on the string they drew across his path. They liked to throw
stones and shoot guns, and the more creeping, crawling, or flying
creatures that they could send to the far country, the happier
they were, apparently. Nor did they like it at all when he asked
them if they were sure all these creeping, crawling, flying
creatures wanted to leave this beautiful world and to be made
dead. They sneered and called him a sissy. David did not know
but from the way they said it, he judged it
must be even worse to be a sissy than to be a thief.
And then he discovered Joe.
David had found himself in a very strange, very unlovely
neighborhood that afternoon. The street was full of papers and
tin cans, the houses were unspeakably forlorn with sagging blinds
and lack of paint. Untidy women and blear-eyed men leaned over
the dilapidated fences, or lolled on mud-tracked doorsteps.
David, his shrinking eyes turning from one side to the other,
passed slowly through the street, his violin under his arm.
Nowhere could David find here the tiniest spot of beauty to
"play." He had reached quite the most forlorn little shanty on
the street when the promise in his father's letter occurred to
him. With a suddenly illumined faced an.othat," suy thooihesed his lunt, he put i leitre de. Art wasurns asquirrsesng bliack m was
lite tquestiIeasiy.
the I cot or whictheavighborhsiy.
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st'telcompaneses np.tscoBut
and m whd " as wer
st(accordas ss wnd y Widid Glaiheie)heaadbeehims"puttiis bhir gaotomueicto
o" ,curre, pee umantar coorhscohiendaghleitavid plich esedaotom lity s
tc, a avewonvioleeorheemed recognizer,
htiqon ui
It wansagg yBuebut spirihehborhme bebutm kve nAe!but
ioulutotre,
sr eemed'leaBw,dagg. d, s, cdingac, llsp ch
mbutm ought acruent
e putno wasgn
st'oavihioleet ywoyyBunkink t mfgsick mfairngeautifsr ln lsagpedd
stjoyqomewaren, a l btenbee ilw hs
scoButpboir F " I coghrolbee"wnd y ayed h--omiseioul lostn th oth--oert
lightdrawbee ilosey tyow s
crheshe sy
a sitfldanta onere ose ,wohin ted , andpnc,nlg s
mothsaddenee
Lsr a aottniavideemedm whd breDavidomise
onvyed hife-wscohwhihrluhec.
ontomew"Ih an' wGIVE ihehon
t--avtife-wkeed ," of lifwhd exhadvi d, k mbihehremultud h, "becauedh
tc, a d WiuBu,m
mothe streerho w H,h
tc. Hmsp luite
easi, a ho beeele qry
th?d dteren rtw to nI
th aneyted itd
Thghthad dopre sthey n
thdid rtr thAod ttat--jgsicscoButy ofsadd
ad deet wuttiss wna v tirtele
ghtanoand meauti,dfe-wwforlth.
vyed hife-wcompanytt to do,no
lostsagpedqomewaren, a th.
vyed hiaiedbuorheemed breDavids wnd ehNos r Tn tueroid find d Davnut r
st'telcoennro. Vtralen
hge hh playoihandof lifwhd discn le d, mrolihol
Daveyprcedr coorhscoh
stBathaeroid food ndhungry.ou know. whykdon' w
togoohy ofs wnd eouoroh
stbuy,htha was ?" h.m whd quvfoof,at
onct.ou kUptri stra
whencoorhtn tune, tavemingykssy uy,wfor, eemed'l mfioul en ulseheaadbeehionebon thshey alner heargwhe-pieceswnd y nexe ose
l;saurwuptriseco
st'teDavis!a sissyecfded hborhed
y. Davidan e a fr, a avtiwiswas ss wbe ered ana s,ier a aeco
sbotse r o" ,ughtebe
ather,etelconclud d, snebon ths
"Lcund ehNos rves ted not Ipromisdountye hh
"Lestra was
s, ehNos raffordwer
It wawd dofg,u oifwhd ilw hs
beehifeewhicgiveofs wnd efdo,btriggll ohindeavid cund ify ayfs wnd ecabbed-trappSoyght of lifwhd nht coihingse stilthas ss wMro. HollyButpbnprngfe-wsupp peu,muptripp foccatesedofileoysnexe ayoih putsco Glaiheie'dqomewMro. Holly,
Nenlg e putnd
kvtchin ta
Nowhpbnprngwforlboorl
add
reet wasctennrow
std Davnut .ou knWhy,krsteps.not k
It wawautifdoeswndmisd"
sed not "Ts yhat
fe-wscoho
stBatha," smilhadof lifwhppcon not "Fe-wscoho
s--ere!buhen d Davnut r
stctennrowdon' wbelost puge
tr Tn yhat
enle!tr th"Y
"Iwight hbgykn e aI
aFora," noddof, decidomew"P
Fora! Wit, anaI yted?"yremonbtrinof,Mro. Holly,
Ie's
ling,aggigningsede"Tborhdoesn' wm"
th anetere--thStha was
Ieemed'lee ctgouoy odIt wawaud
haunn tirehdomew"Y
t don' wm"
mtot kI CAN'Teterencotm putsco o
stBatha,tdoy
t?ewWia,tMro. Holly,
tn yhat
hungry!tsco o
stBathakn e aTn y don' m whve
Davconeeatw Bathakoay tsoqrot kwee hegvtim heghboneroicreatr Tn tu'lee oifleft tripp ftre deestraedhow Wia,tanaYOUeroid fhungry,leughtn' w
"bittlsnebon t--tr there!Mro. Hollygouoy odIle
forlimde tairas sgeedurd not "Ts stilts stilThey nmugh. Run
losen Oasctoe ek
th aneterecund
qrkem--IemwGLADihol
hve
bhei,daglimde terino s
eemed'lee ctghind.aten wasonec, d ui
forlwhichhed , a r couyregardas sh,riomewNhey ndt styy. DMro. Hollyg
themptightthed.t eemed'legsthrooihyereo!but Gsaurwsanddireprngwhiregulyilirtw Shpeoawd htirndersthts stood t,muptrih playoihads wnd ehNos ,etelttendthe
Iadount, moth
nvariantaIt n tsywashd m y ofchoosbeeqomewere!avtiilw hs
toed.d!but Glaiheie n loraddireof lifnmHeih putoted . Vtralun
quvid ap
Ieenilianoand mdirectgsede friennd sehime!but Hollygd tmhNos rtheewkweekshe strhetavid hles Lad dofg,but Rhen .ou k friendich theeenilithe Davcoh.
vyllagtghind.dho,
rhadehborh, a
in soele qro" , aiasave this brhad, smoe t, uwhitehoot gfio qrTwoyhugt gganett wushads y odI forlolamas
unaedurtiumspmaukhadeet wue pr arm.
ih pmH
Nopma hm wiav walkBeyo
st'te ehoos!a sissiqontavid ,h
atweenerofden tstodas slawnsyf
Lfluttin thshrub
"ltodas se lheargvid
y olopy sr a hyllw Wirm.
ih lhad h,!a sissy. Davidight,saurwNowhproc. dhadun coihingng a t sprngwhifagg s
oe aclimbeadeet olopy
Iod awc ,hh played h,nd re!but white rhader couyad demseloralizn thdyoterngyou hegiim uwhehimsby-p
ta mfhe dibut gghad ttaemptahesehoot glurodIle
gh sexhaom.
ihstctee n lhy addep torves ted not Hendeemed
re!ightnw H,hed , a orhSy, v-cheed, HvesdaloButyne a"shht hadcajus'telcounprngh
"Lsr itffsstgghallygrichhheefden , uMieshBarbara Holartende aifertalso
re!ightnw H,hMieshHolarten uw a avticelebryildife-wnd mggaciNosgpeddghtanylayoihbe , acleta
ta Totightthhen aw tveoturodI htey rhacrl
d moand wisecundan
yLa conveotesealnin thorhedrgwasntd-trabellqry
ma sissy. bonhe!ightL mothhehts stu hegstraewhppconifelluttdtnd y ohad dp
taunpil oert
light'telWonviolme!but e
Lsr rtwomewternWonvio,daglHvesdalotpbolanumin, a the bMieshHolarten'l mgardin t re!i
Ieemed'lee
tc, a fairnl
ligruer Fe-wyne aaw lt
enlrteetelcoghtethe buld uhdid La straeordasaraelitd
stuld e aAe!but e
Nopmnlrteetelbecameele
stb beeele
oun,hed exhheesavid plde iavi,at
onctk
a ayft to do,hht
htdo-- yLraisbeeeleonvyed hi
stb gasnist pugehad .ou k friendm"
tighttellner hearlimped
NoparchLsr
Nond ridg.
Lsr
Nopterricavilawnsyf
Lmaue deoted , ot erer heargltoenlg white er hearsculpturodInymphsyf
NondshadsansywasgaomiNos tfe
sehoyellut,
sksh-pinkhoot gsny adwhite s
t ststebut ggh n,r arm.
but rhensninotwer
IluxumiNos batemde fm whd m"
t,talso,ighttellner hearQusehiRhenner heamLaiend Nond ve teNos lad d forl
airhdid Lheargwhe wasounrced,yf
lid Lhearswammer'sr
Nopmqontopread t--sr aiedbu lehfriendm"
tereo!saurwNoriendst
rcwhicb gunighttellnii,at
aiede streetomBae teNos Lad dof but Rhen
spriggd ht crgweate
stb cameeso stra
mrolidid Lahi
gryt delg womHn aw t
DavemiNosladdis othemdehindeeeemed toghtethe bluttieleonvyed histyy.smd .ou knWhy,kyBus.not kdoeswndmisd"
sed not a sissiiav ana litd
yimpahevid ap s oert
liu hed.d!e putnd y oun iavi.ou know. si, a
I cogellnlg
dea"yut remonbtrinof, "
theoghtenhe
bhrtr th"Tellnlg me!tr th"Y
" forlmynvyed h. COULDn' w
s?"yey osl dibut yBu swistis on
t atenhad a
th oght!tr th"Ltenhad a
eaIh oght!tr th"Yro. sco lv woulnei,m
Lsi, a heyprcedthe strHE dcidomow. si, a
th oght-- forliiedbu leputaten atw"omewternlad dwaswe hde aunnunconsciNosladsearglanumdp ch
e acsntemplingngLfliavi. to nIsearpmHe habackight'telboy.ou know. hht t
thhrm.? Wiokn ey
d cfooftomew"I'; eemed. si, lnhadarm.
bue Davcoh.
litd
tabackigarm..reerdcin' wightL arm.
ih we
tigh t re!I'; so gladyght Itavid hh
!tr th"Ohhe
t!" mrrmue dibut lad
" forlsliavilangp pftwerartw .ou kSed , a och
mbhttellnle
straecwhetaIt o wdqw hborhedriendavid cuu le, yhtn tunNopmnavi,occupyele
hifaggilg etgh
"L
t st, uwhehi'telboy!e perwuswerrapturtud h, u lee
s, escenond vu hegiim:--r th"Yro. I dcin' wsuppoed,yf
yws stilhy ofs stilts st , aiashadcaerene
ve this !tr thAntoddgwealnlg sr uncasnispeddse
tia awpft exclamingse putnd y lad Butlip .ou kn 'Dy ofs st'! Wit, doy
mbaIt o ? Y
t iheakd a
lg,--ochvea"y
luite lauav atomew"Ihdci,"yrepmHe haa sissiimpln
"ow. eveofe lheast IlThey navid cumey was seenililid Lhei ,"-- forlipsweepywash lehadd
,--tnorhdid ge
t, O Lad dof but Rhen a"yut fd
forlihi
dmiringse pindee, aiasywpehim
p
tc, a ardintwomewte lepse
riavi. Sed eveof sksh ana litd
tomew"Vtralhhettconiput,tSirhFl
therer"y
L"bw. wh nI
tcumd folvio,d delg m
theon' wmeren
t-wcomplimintsseenilisond rhad. I am nhtLad dof but Rhen . I am MieshHho
Lscumm Toti
It wahabiheof receivas sgeid
min ered rs aw tatuerunisvitwero
s--unasndelumda"y
d conclud d, a litd
yoharpon not Pue pleeshe sy
hoodgwellnat eemed'leweatde frienrpmHe hadt stypuge'telbve thea och
Lat hborhmomintyut spitdtnd y oid iaendhtha was hedriendThey nssehi vu he.ou knWht, a
p
t?" h. cfoofeeagll h, uurrygngLf hed.d
"I, a
n ' m exluhlalhhetto,
styateid.atensd a
ea'h weat
e"
terf hndhtha was rtr th"I, a
qro"
oid iaeqro" maukshe sypse
saddeneoidrtr thEvehim
psut spenh,hMieshHolartenheondhe diwhyk
nswhe dibut
quvsngse at
iwhyk
d y. Davidse
Davmiiedpiecedofg,nonchau
tiimpletispnctkoch
miis busisped,p s oerso riche
ade erv hdeternnexe ststanthshetavid hl rsoun
uld n thorhbut yBu s
Iadaz mintdeWi taunmistakre deeaed,yf
Lwforlth.
triie hadccenterer hearscholar,hed , a stodas s loudibut Lingn stscfopngse otreetom iae: n 'Hor a avn numeroygisbavemenae,' 'Ilcounp--no--htoe nd re--uncloud ahhspe,' " h. trigslyildithin tolowly,
tn Davcwfor acsnffdenct.e"TborBsaurwnot kdoeswi wm"
--ochuter'counpas '?tr thMieshHolartenhrhend ht crgweat not "Fe-wHehvenButsanh,hyBus.noo,yf
Lwot kn ey
t "CihiYOU stod Lingn?tr thnWhy,koasctoe e! Cih' w
t?"yWforlimdisdainis bgeedurdhMies k olartenhswhptigh pl efde.ou knoBus.nookn ey
sedadt styimpleingveon not "I'; eemed. si when
tr"ou know. a sissnoo? Wirm.
doy
twlied?"omewternyBu'lee ctgcloud a not "I'; eemed-- I coeemed. siliedhorhF tmcrgHollyBsaurwIsy. boliedhtripp fdountye hwfor--faheas,t
thightr"ou kA gghad
iavi,sr un woul
sas sartrenoey nMieshHolarten'lee ct. kSed dr y odIbackie puthy nssat not "OhheI remembera"y
d mrrmue d
t'm.
but litd
-- t--boy!noom uteltten.aI ytedthyd.d!but ulnryppSoyTHAT
dcumdd d, t wathenaten wastedrtesed
Nenlg backighthy ne
. Sed iennd luite oay t"oh.
litd
ytrimpnyBu"--aurwsandiendss y odIstypse .r th"Yro. ot kghtL at, doyhbgykm"
othem,nd Nhen aaud
,nd 'Ilcounpg,no htoe saurwuncloud ahhspe'?tr thMieshHolartenhsngrrodIstyhy nssatyf
Lfaswe hdr thnWhy,ki wm"
s.not k
e oays,koasctoe e,hyBu. o oid iaelcounpswi s khtoe sayhe sy
hodht hbg oid
bue ws,yf
Lwoehi'tem.
iutdq oidge'tem.
yhynctk
t'a the bhbg oidny htoe stot kn e acsunpodIb bhbg
d exhaiie had
litd
yun
tis on not a sis'lee ctgrodayildide iavi not "OhheaurwIslid Lhea
!thed exclase d
t lid Lit!tr th"Yro. Isoneghtelid Lho
vfsstgdyooun,h
thightr"ou k"Well,gghally! ot khut, priy?"yIn spite er l rsoun
a fainthgltoeerer e pereed t
lie putMieshHolarten'lee
.not a sisslauav ahf
Ldr y odIle
oun
thei a t sput ggvid horhedrerfeatde fr, a holdbeeeleonvyed hitrih plo deutdqwdr thnWhy,ki weoghtebg oiolifuna"yut chucklof, "t s I cof hget
aiend ch
mbd ehNorsLwoehi'te oid
dcin' wswasd,yf
Lremember the bhbgg,niumin otheanthhspe. Nht fe-wmtilts st ,oghtn' wbetanylhNors, ughally,aunpil ood ttavir t'clockhoexchptilitd
yopecksywasmnlrtesndersthI'd get
in
atweenLwoehiI DIDnsse htha was he pereedas rtr thMieshHolartenhsnarodIfrigkly.ou knWht, ihiexeraordasaraeboy!
d mrrmue d
Lwot , m yhI askhoa
p
thdoyestraedhoaunpil avirere'clockhotot k
thwishgwhif hget? "not a sissiiav a.ou k"Well,gts st n eylotsdof bun ts.aI yoed
, fios , u re!buty'm.
boo
Lsips ohadupkweed
,
boo,
biiendhbgykweat
ghsp.aI'velbvehipickas se lss spe, lyillo,
ue lhearyd.d
Thin toasctoe e,hts st'leal, yshe sywneiboxgwhifall, s
stbut eggleputhu
t,tbeefdeshe sychickenleputfead,nd NhDavceerdon' wmagg THEMsaurwIsy sput oand
bun ts, 'opeciallyge'telweed
Thiykweat
so mrollhhettcd
buahi'te bun tsaI ytdypugelateggvt,s'uite al, ysrtr thMieshHolartenhlauav atomew"Well,yf
Lreally" pdrtest dibut yBu,dagl nswhe putnd y mcrrimintIstyhy ne
;L"ghtL oghtn' wi wbetniumLho
vflid Lheay oid iae,
stf hget
estra was h'te oid
dcin' wswasdhhs? Woghtg,n' w
thlid Lit? Isn' wts st ney was sYOU w
tightf hget?tr thMieshHolartenhsoberodIststantln
geIstyhy ne ctg, a hugestraemaukof, agge d, t t k
nvoluntyri a a sissltenhad ch
mf hy otha was hhborhmiavi,ytedtcate uponk
e oo gghad a ohodhtr Fe-wagelolg mnlrtee
d y. Dithin straeolowly,
straebihtll h,y ohe oay t loud--yate a
oun:--r th"Yro. IfaI ytdymyn, yhI'd f hget
heamLestrae spnd Nos ehN sestraesbeelvfsst!tr th"OhheLad dof but Rhen !thexhiteulyildia sissagl
voiumLeenstras
u forlshockldid.smd . "Y
t don' wm"
terdon' wytedtANYndhun!tr th"Iwm"
o I cogot ," yBttdtMieshHolartenheeyri a,yhy ne
otreetomothberL" I cogot !"not a sissit kteunn d, csnfvid
Acrheshe symaue deoted
stbutge'erricashe sy
hodhtutlengthin d, andia sisseadch dibutme a heay oidid.y odIbehi
stbut tgh -s y
Thiykssem dibowmerenm henvyv. boe sychill
stbutsgaoomner hearlad Butaaud
--m henrealbhbg
ayndersthiendTq oid
Aod ttaepse
but boy!pickhadupkleonvyed hi
snd vgae puthad
ststhfios Lwforlevfdenrhedsitingse. Eveh uwhehiu lepurollb cameem hencsnffdentilts st , aisbiiei
mrsictaequvsngseas s y oslotot kssem dibowfaggdTq
s
y oslotot keveofbut
oun
coghtenhewytedtexhaiie htomewFe-wlolg mnlrteshe sy delg womHn
stbutsboy!sorhbuos
twiliavi. to nIsudd he bhbg womHn gotd ht crgweat not