And in our valley, when a man is not at home o'night he should be at
the store, else there is a mystery to be solved. To solve this one I
stopped on the tavern steps, leaned against a pillar, and gazed through
the dozing village.
At the head of the street where our house stood a bright light burned.
There Tim was and there I should be also. A hundred times down South
on my post at night, with my back on the rows and rows of white tents,
I had sought to pierce the black gloom before me as if there I could
see that same light--the home light. Often I fancied I saw it, and in
its bright circle Tim was bending over his book. Here it was in truth,
calling me, but I turned from it and looked away over the flats, where
another light was winking on the hillside.
Behind that hill, on the eastward ridge, a great ball is glowing, fiery
red. Higher and higher it rises, into the tree-tops, then over them;
higher and higher, bathing the valley in soft, white light, uncovering
the gray road that climbs the ridge-side; higher and higher, until the
pines on the ridge-top stand out boldly, fringing into the sky; higher
and higher, casting mysterious shadows over the meadows, touching with
light the hillside, new-ploughed and naked; clear and white lies the
road over the flats to the hill there--clear and white and smooth.
Pages:
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85