the village watch-tower-第13章

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〃You　make　stories　on　your　violin；　too；　uncle　Tony；

even　if　the　ladies　don't　faint　away　in　heaps；　and　if　the　kitchen

doesn't　look　like　a　battle…field　when　you　've　finished。

I'm　glad　it　doesn't；　for　my　part；　for　I　should　have　more

housework　to　do　than　ever。〃



〃Poor　Davy！　you　couldn't　hate　housework　any　worse　if　you　were　a　woman；

but　it　is　all　done　for　to…day。　Now　paint　me　one　of　your　pictures；　laddie；

make　me　see　with　your　eyes。〃



The　boy　put　down　the　book　and　leaped　out　of　the　open　door；

barely　touching　the　old　millstone　that　served　for　a　step。

Taking　a　stand　in　the　well…worn　path；　he　rested　his　hands

on　his　hips；　swept　the　landscape　with　the　glance　of　an　eagle；

and　began　like　a　young　improvisator：



〃The　sun　is　just　dropping　behind　Brigadier　Hill。〃



〃What　color　is　it？〃



〃Red　as　fire；　and　there　isn't　anything　near　it；it　's　almost　alone

in　the　sky；　there　's　only　teenty　little　white　feather　clouds　here　and　there。

The　bridge　looks　as　if　it　was　a　silver　string　tying　the　two　sides

of　the　river　together。　　The　water　is　pink　where　the　sun　shines　into　it。

All　the　leaves　of　the　trees　are　kind　of　swimming　in　the　red　light；

I　tell　you；　nunky；　just　as　if　I　was　looking　through　red　glass。

The　weather　vane　on　Squire　Bean's　barn　dazzles　so　the　rooster　seems

to　be　shooting　gold　arrows　into　the　river。　　I　can　see　the　tip　top　of

Mount　Washington　where　the　peak　of　its　snow…cap　touches　the　pink　sky。

The　hen…house　door　is　open。　　The　chickens　are　all　on　their　roost；

with　their　heads　cuddled　under　their　wings。〃



〃Did　you　feed　them？〃



The　boy　clapped　his　hand　over　his　mouth　with　a　comical　gesture

of　penitence；　and　dashed　into　the　shed　for　a　panful　of　corn；　which　he

scattered　over　the　ground；　enticing　the　sleepy　fowls　by　insinuating　calls

of　〃Chick；　chick；　chick；　chick！〃　　_Come；_　biddy；　biddy；　biddy；　biddy！

_Come；_　chick；　chick；　chick；　chick；　chick！〃



The　man　in　the　doorway　smiled　as　over　the　misdemeanor　of　somebody　very

dear　and　lovable；　and　rising　from　his　chair　felt　his　way　to　a　corner　shelf；

took　down　a　box；　and　drew　from　it　a　violin　swathed　in　a　silk　bag。

He　removed　the　covering　with　reverential　hands。　　The　tenderness　of

the　face　was　like　that　of　a　young　mother　dressing　or　undressing　her　child。

As　he　fingered　the　instrument　his　hands　seemed　to　have　become　all　eyes。

They　wandered　caressingly　over　the　polished　surface　as　if　enamored

of　the　perfect　thing　that　they　had　created；　lingering　here　and　there

with　rapturous　tenderness　on　some　special　beauty；the　graceful　arch

of　the　neck；　the　melting　curves　of　the　cheeks；　the　delicious　swell

of　the　breasts。



When　he　had　satisfied　himself　for　the　moment；　he　took　the　bow；

and　lifting　the　violin　under　his　chin；　inclined　his　head　fondly

toward　it　and　began　to　play。



The　tune　at　first　seemed　muffled；　but　had　a　curious　bite；

that　began　in　distant　echoes；　but　after　a　few　minutes'　the　playing

grew　firmer　and　clearer；　ringing　out　at　last　with　velvety　richness

and　strength　until　the　atmosphere　was　satiated　with　harmony。

No　more　ethereal　note　ever　flew　out　of　a　bird's　throat　than　Anthony

Croft　set　free　from　this　violin；　his　_liebling_；　his　〃swan　song；〃

made　in　the　year　he　had　lost　his　eyesight。



Anthony　Croft　had　been　the　only　son　of　his　mother；　and　she　a　widow。

His　boyhood　had　been　exactly　like　that　of　all　the　other　boys

in　Edgewood；　save　that　he　hated　school　a　trifle　more；　if　possible；

than　any　of　the　others；　though　there　was　a　unanimity　of　aversion　in　this

matter　that　surprised　and　wounded　teachers　and　parents。



The　school　was　the　ordinary　〃deestrick〃　school　of　that　time；　there　were

not　enough　scholars　for　what　Cyse　Higgins　called　a　〃degraded〃　school。

The　difference　between　Anthony　and　the　other　boys　lay　in　the　reason　as　well

as　the　degree　of　his　abhorrence。



He　had　come　into　the　world　a　naked；　starving　human　soul；　he　longed

to　clothe　himself；　and　he　was　hungry　and　ever　hungrier　for　knowledge；

but　never　within　the　four　walls　of　the　village　schoolhouse　could　he　get

hold　of　one　fact　that　would　yield　him　its　secret　sense；　one　glimpse

of　clear　light　that　would　shine　in　upon　the　〃darkness　which　may　be　felt〃

in　his　mind；　one　thought　or　word　that　would　feed　his　soul。



The　only　place　where　his　longings　were　ever　stilled；

where　he　seemed　at　peace　with　himself；　where　he　understood

what　he　was　made　for；　was　out　of　doors　in　the　woods。

When　he　should　have　been　poring　over　the　sweet；

palpitating　mysteries　of　the　multiplication　table；

his　vagrant　gaze　was　always　on　the　open　window　near　which　he　sat。

He　could　never　study　when　a　fly　buzzed　on　the　window…pane；

he　was　always　standing　on　the　toes　of　his　bare　feet；

trying　to　locate　and　understand　the　buzz　that　puzzled　him。

The　book　was　a　mute；　soulless　thing　that　had　no　relation

to　his　inner　world　of　thought　and　feeling。　　He　turned　ever

from　the　dead　seven…times…six　to　the　mystery　of　life　about　him。



He　was　never　a　special　favorite　with　his　teachers；　that　was　scarcely

to　be　expected。　　In　his　very　early　years；　his　pockets　were　gone　through

with　every　morning　when　he　entered　the　school　door；　and　the　contents；

when　confiscated；　would　comprise　a　jew's…harp；　a　bit　of　catgut；

screws　whittled　out　of　wood；　tacks；　spools；　pins；　and　the　like。

But　when　robbed　of　all　these　he　could　generally　secrete　a　piece　of　elastic；

which；　when　put　between　his　teeth　and　stretched　to　its　utmost　capacity；

would　yield　a　delightful　twang　when　played　upon　with　the　forefinger。

He　could　also　fashion　an　interesting　musical　instrument　in　his　desk　by　means

of　spools　and　catgut　and　bits　of　broken　glass。　　The　chief　joy　of　his　life

was　an　old　tuning…fork　that　the　teacher　of　the　singing　school　had

given　him；　but；　owing　to　the　degrading　and　arbitrary　censorship　of　pockets

that　prevailed；　he　never　dared　bring　it　into　the　schoolroom。　　There　were　ways；

however；　of　evading　inexorable　law　and　circumventing　base　injustice。

He　hid　the　precious　thing　under　a　thistle　just　outside　the　window。

The　teacher　had　sometimes　a　brief　season　of　apathy　on　hot　afternoons；

when　she　was　hearing　the　primer　class　read；　〃_I　see　a　pig。　　The　pig　is　big。

The　big　pig　can　dig；_〃　which　stirring　in　phrases　were　always　punctuated

by　the　snores　of　the　Hanks　baby；　who　kept　sinking　down　on　his　fat

little　legs　in　the　line　and　giving　way　to　slumber　during　the　lesson。

At　such　a　moment　Anthony　slipped　out　of　the　window　and　snapped

the　tuning…fork　several　times；just　enough　to　save　his　soul　from　death；

and　then　slipped　in　again。　　He　was　caught　occasionally；　but　not　often；

and　even　when　he　was；　there　were　mitigating　circumstances；

for　he　was　generally　put　under　the　teacher's　desk　for　punishment。

It　was　a　dark；　close；　sultry　spot；　but　when　he　was　well　seated；　and　had　grown

tied　of　looking　at　the　triangle　of　elastic　in　the　teacher's　congress　boot；

and　tired　of　wishing　it　was　his　instead　of　hers；　he　would　tie　one　end

of　a　bit　of　thread　to　the　button　of　his　gingham　shirt；　and；　carrying　it

round　his　left　ear　several　times；　make　believe　he　was　Paganini　languishing

in　prison　and　playing　on　a　violin　with　a　single　string。



As　he　grew　older　there　was　no　marked　improvement；　and　Tony

Croft　was　by　general　assent　counted　the　laziest　boy　in　the　village。

That　he　was　lazy　in　certain　matters　merely　because　he　was　in

a　frenzy　of　industry　to　pursue　certain　others　had　nothing　to　do

with　the　case；　of　course。



If　any　one　had　ever　given　him　a　task　in　which　he　could

have　seen　cause　working　to　effect；　in　which　he　could　have　found

by　personal　experiment　a　single　fact　that　belonged　to　him；

his　own　by　divine　right　of　discovery；　he　would　have　counted

labor　or　study　all　joy。



He　was　one　incarnate　Why　and　How；　one　brooding　wonder　and

interrogation　point。　　〃Why　does　the　sun　drive　away　the　stars？

Why　do　the　leaves　turn　red　and　gold？　　What　makes　the　seed　swell　in　the　earth？

》From　whence　comes　the　life　hidden　in　the　egg　under　the　bird's　breast？

What　holds　the　moon　in　the　sky？　　Who　regulates　her　shining？

Who　moves　the　wind？　　Who　made　me；　and　what　am　I？　　Who；　why；　how　whither？

If　I　came　from　God　but　only　lately；　teach　me　his　lessons　first；

put　me　into　vital　relation　with　life　and　law；　and　then　give　me　your　dead

signs　and　equivalents　for　real　things；　that　I　may　learn　more　and　more；

and　ever　more　and　ever　more。〃



There　was　no　spirit　in　Edgewood　bold　enough　to　conceive

that　Tony　learned　anything　in　the　woods；　but　as　there　was　never

sufficient　school　money　to　keep　the　village　seat　of　learning

open　more　than　half　the　year　the　boy　educated　himself　at

the　fountain　head　of　wisdom；　and　knowledge　of　the　other　half。

His　mother；　who　owned　him　for　a　duckling　hatched　from　a　hen's　egg；

and　was　never　quite　sure　he　would　not　turn　out　a　black　sheep

and　a　crooked　stick　to　boot；　was　obliged　to　confess　that　Tony

had　more　useless　information　than　any　boy　in　the　village。

He　knew　just　where　to　find　the　first　Mayflowers；　and　would　bring

home　the　waxen　beauties　when　other　people　had　scarcely　begun　to

think　about　the　spring。　　He　could　tell　where　to　look　for　the　rare

fringed　gentian；　the　yellow　violet；　the　Indian　pipe。

There　were　clefts　in　the　rocks　of　the　Indian　Cellar　where；

when　every　one　else　failed；　he　could　find　harebells　and　columbines。



When　his　tasks　were　done；　and　the　other　boys　were　amusing

themselves　each　in　his　own　way；　you　would　find　Tony　lying

flat　on　the　pine　needles　in　the　woods；　listening　to　the　notes

of　the　wild　birds；　and　imitating　them　patiently；　til　you　could

scarcely　tell　which　was　boy　and　which　was　bird；　and　if　you　could；

the　birds　couldn't；　for　many　a　time　he　coaxed　the　bobolinks

and　thrushes　to　perch　on　the　low　boughs　above　his　head　and　chirp

to　him　as　if　he　were　a　feathered　brother。　　There　was　nothing

about　the　building　of　nests　with　which　he　was　not　familiar。

He　could　have　taken　hold　and　helped　if　the　birds　had　not　been　so　shy；

and　if　he　had　had　beak　and　claw　instead　of　clumsy　fingers。

He　would　sit　near　a　beehive　for　hours　without　moving；

or　lie　prone　in　the　sandy　road；　under　the　full　glare　of

the　sun；　watching　the　ants　acting　out　their　human　comedy；

sometimes　surrounding　a　favorite　hill　with　stones；　that　the　comedy

might　not　be　turned　into　a　tragedy　by　a　careless　footfall。

The　cottage　on　the　river　road　grew　more　and　more

to　resemble　a　museum　and　herbarium　as　the　years　went　by；

and　the　Widow　Croft's　weekly　house…cleaning　was　a　matter

that　called　for　the　exercise　of　Christian　grace。



Still；　Tony　was　a　good　son；　affectionate；　considerate；　and　obedient。

His　mother　had　no　idea　that　he　would　ever　be　able；　or　indeed　willing；

to　make　a　living；　but　there　was　a　forest　of　young　timber　growing　up；

a　small　hay　farm　to　depend　upon；　and　a　little　hoard　that　would　keep　him

out　of　the　poorhouse　when　she　died　and　left　him　to　his　own　devices。

It　never　occurred　to　her　that　he　was　in　any　way　remarkable。

If　he　were　difficult　to　understand；　it　reflected　more　upon　his　eccentricity