love??
“Do I look like it?” And he sat up with such an injured and
indignant face that she apologized at once, for he certainly did not
look loverlike with hayseed in his hair, several lively crickets
playing leapfrog over his back, and a pair of long legs stretching
from tree to haycock.
“No, you don’t, and I humbly beg your pardon for making such an
unwarrantable insinuation. It merely occurred to me that the
general upliftedness I observe in you might be owing to that, since
it wasn’t poetry.?
“It is the good company I’ve been keeping, if anything. A fellow
can’t spend ‘A Week’ with Thoreau and not be the better for it. I’m
glad I show it, because in the scramble life is to most of us, even
an hour with such a sane, simple, and sagacious soul as his must
help one,” said Mac, taking a much worn book out of his pocket
with the air of introducing a dear and honored friend.
“I’ve read bits, and like them they are so original and fresh and
sometimes droll,” said Rose, smiling to see what natural and
appropriate marks of approbation the elements seemed to set upon
the pages Mac was turning eagerly, for one had evidently been
rained on, a crushed berry stained another, some appreciative
field-mouse or squirrel had nibbled one corner, and the cover was
faded with the sunshine, which seemed to have filtered through to
the thoughts within.
“Here’s a characteristic bit for you: ‘I would rather sit on a
pumpkin, and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet
cushion. I would rather ride on earth in an oxcart, with free
circulation, than go to heaven in the fancy car of an excursion
train, and breathe malaria all the way.’
“I’ve tried both and quite agree with him,” laughed Mac, and
skimming down another page, gave her a paragraph here and there.
” ‘Read the best books first, or you may not have a chance to read
them at all.’
” ‘We do not learn much from learned books, but from sincere
human books: frank, honest biographies.’
” ‘At least let us have healthy books. Let the poet be as vigorous as
the sugar maple, with sap enough to maintain his own verdure,
besides what runs into the trough; and not like a vine which, being
cut in the spring, bears no fruit, but bleeds to death in the endeavor
to heal its wounds.’ ?
“That will do for you,” said Rose, still thinking of the new
suspicion which pleased her by its very improbability.
Mac flashed a quick look at her and shut the book, saying quietly,
although his eyes shone, and a conscious smile lurked about his
mouth: “We shall see, and no one need meddle, for, as my Thoreau
says,
“Whate’er we leave to God, God does
And blesses us:The work we choose should be our own
God lets alone.?
Rose sat silent, as if conscious that she deserved his poetical
reproof.
“Come, you have catechized me pretty well; now I’ll take my turn
and ask you why you look ‘uplifted,’ as you call it. What have you
been doing to make yourself more like your namesake than ever?”
asked Mac, carrying war into the enemy’s camp with the sudden
question.
“Nothing but live, and enjoy doing it. I actually sit here, day after
day, as happy and contented with little things as Dulce is and feel
as if I wasn’t much older than she,” answered the girl, feeling as if
some change was going on in that pleasant sort of pause but unable
to describe it.
“As if a rose should shut and be a bud again,? murmured Mac,
borrowing from his beloved Keats.
“Ah, but I can’t do that! I must go on blooming whether I like it or
not, and the only trouble I have is to know what leaf I ought to
unfold next,” said Rose, playfully smoothing out the white gown,
in which she looked very like a daisy among the green.
“How far have you got?” asked Mac, continuing his catechism as if
the fancy suited him.
“Let me see. Since I came home last year, I’ve been gay, then sad,