the village watch-tower-第4章

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The　cruel　stroke　of　the　sun　that　had　blurred　the　old　man's　brain　had　spared

a　blessed　something　in　him　that　won　the　healing　love　of　children。



〃How　d'　ye；　Mote？〃　he　piped　in　his　feeble　voice。　　〃They　say

Lucindy's　dead。　　。　。　。　Jot　says　she　is；　'n'　Diademy　says　she　is；

'n'　I　guess　she　is。　　。　。　。　It　's　a　dretful　thick　year　for　fol'age；

。　。　。　some　o'　the　maples　looks　like　balls　in　the　air。〃



Mote　looked　in　at　the　window。　　The　neighbors　were　hurrying　to　and　fro。

Diadema　sat　with　her　calico　apron　up　to　her　face；　sobbing；　and　for　the　first

morning　in　thirty　years；　old　Mrs。　Bascom's　high…backed　rocker　was　empty；

and　there　was　no　one　sitting　in　the　village　watch…tower。





…





TOM　O'　THE　BLUEB'RY　PLAINS。





The　sky　is　a　shadowless　blue；　the　noon…day　sun　glows　fiercely；

a　cloud　of　dust　rises　from　the　burning　road　whenever　the　hot

breeze　stirs　the　air；　or　whenever　a　farm　wagon　creaks　along；

its　wheels　sinking　into　the　deep　sand。



In　the　distance；　where　the　green　of　the　earth　joins　the　blue　of　the　sky；

gleams　the　silver　line　of　a　river。



As　far　as　the　eye　an　reach；　the　ground　is　covered

with　blueberry　bushes；　red　leaves　peeping　among　green　ones；

bloom　of　blue　fruit　hanging　in　full　warm　clusters；spheres　of

velvet　mellowed　by　summer　sun；　moistened　with　crystal　dew；

spiced　with　fragrance　of　woods。



In　among　the　blueberry　bushes　grow　huckleberries；

〃choky　pears；〃　and　black…snaps。



Gnarled　oaks　and　stunted　pines　lift　themselves　out

of　the　wilderness　of　shrubs。　　They　look　dwarfed　and　gloomy；

as　if　Nature　had　been　an　untender　mother；　and　denied

them　proper　nourishment。



The　road　is　a　little…traveled　one；　and　furrows　of　feathery　grasses

grow　between　the　long；　hot；　sandy　stretches　of　the　wheel…ruts。



The　first　goldenrod　gleams　among　the　loose　stones　at　the　foot

of　the　alder　bushes。　　Whole　families　of　pale　butterflies；

just　out　of　their　long　sleep；　perch　on　the　brilliant　stalks

and　tilter　up　and　down　in　the　sunshine。



Straggling　processions　of　wooly　brown　caterpillars　wend　their　way

in　the　short　grass　by　the　wayside；　where　the　wild　carrot　and　the　purple

bull…thistle　are　coming　into　bloom。



The　song　of　birds　is　seldom　heard；　and　the　blueberry　plains

are　given　over　to　silence　save　for　the　buzzing　of　gorged　flies；

the　humming　of　bees；　and　the　chirping　of　crickets　that　stir

the　drowsy　air　when　the　summer　begins　to　wane。



It　is　so　still　that　the　shuffle…shuffle　of　a　footstep　can　be　heard

in　the　distance；　the　tinkle　of　a　tin　pail　swinging　musically　to　and　fro；

the　swish　of　an　alder　switch　cropping　the　heads　of　the　roadside　weeds。

All　at　once　a　voice　breaks　the　stillness。　　Is　it　a　child's；　a　woman's；

or　a　man's？　Neither　yet　all　three。





〃I'd　much　d'ruth…er　walk　in　the　bloom…in'　gy…ar…ding；

An'　hear　the　whis…sle　of　the　jol…ly

swain。〃



Everybody　knows　the　song；　and　everybody　knows　the　cracked　voice。

The　master　of　this　bit　of　silent　wilderness　is　coming　home：

it　is　Tom　o'　the　blueb'ry　plains。



He　is　more　than　common　tall；　with　a　sandy　beard；

and　a　mop　of　tangled　hair　straggling　beneath　his　torn　straw　hat。

A　square　of　wet　calico　drips　from　under　the　back　of　the　hat。

His　gingham　shirt　is　open　at　the　throat；　showing　his　tanned　neck

and　chest。　　Warm　as　it　is；　he　wears　portions　of　at　least　three　coats

on　his　back。　　His　high　boots；　split　in　foot　and　leg；　are　mended

and　spliced　and　laced　and　tied　on　with　bits　of　shingle　rope。

He　carries　a　small　tin　pail　of　molasses。　　It　has　a　bail　of　rope；

and　a　battered　cover　with　a　knob　of　sticky　newspaper。

Over　one　shoulder；　suspended　on　a　crooked　branch；　hangs　a

bundle　of　basket　stuff；split　willow　withes　and　the　like；

over　the　other　swings　a　decrepit；　bottomless；　three…legged　chair。





I　call　him　the　master　of　the　plains；　but　in　faith　he　had　no　legal

claim　to　the　title。　　If　he　owned　a　habitation　or　had　established　a　home

on　any　spot　in　the　universe；　it　was　because　no　man　envied　him　what　he　took；

for　Tom　was　one　of　God's　fools；　a　foot…loose　pilgrim　in　this　world

of　ours；　a　poor　addle…pated；　simple…minded；　harmless　creature；

in　village　parlance；　a　〃softy。〃



Mother　or　father；　sister　or　brother；　he　had　none；　nor　ever　had；

so　far　as　any　one　knew；　but　how　should　people　who　had　to　work　from　sun…up

to　candlelight　to　get　the　better　of　the　climate　have　leisure　to　discover

whether　or　no　Blueb'ry　Tom　had　any　kin？



At　some　period　in　an　almost　forgotten　past　there

had　been　a　house　on　Tom's　particular　patch　of　the　plains。

It　had　long　since　tumbled　into　ruins　and　served　for　fire…wood

and　even　the　chimney　bricks　had　disappeared　one　by　one；

as　the　monotonous　seasons　came　and　went。



Tom　had　settled　himself　in　an　old　tool…shop；　corn…house；　or　rude

out…building　of　some　sort　that　had　belonged　to　the　ruined　cottage。

Here　he　had　set　up　his　house…hold　gods；　and　since　no　one　else

had　ever　wanted　a　home　in　this　dreary　tangle　of　berry　bushes；

where　the　only　shade　came　from　stunted　pines　that　flung　shriveled

arms　to　the　sky　and　dropped　dead　cones　to　the　sterile　earth；

here　he　remained　unmolested。



In　the　lower　part　of　the　hut　he　kept　his　basket　stuff

and　his　collection　of　two…legged　and　three…legged　chairs。

In　the　course　of　evolution　they　never　sprouted　another　leg；

those　chairs；　as　they　were　given　to　him；　so　they　remained。

The　upper　floor　served　for　his　living…room；　and　was　reached

by　a　ladder　from　the　ground；　for　there　was　no　stairway　inside。



No　one　had　ever　been　in　the　little　upper　chamber。

When　a　passer…by　chanced　to　be…think　him　that　Tom's

hermitage　was　close　at　hand；　he　sometimes　turned　in　his

team　by　a　certain　clump　of　white　birches　and　drove　nearer

to　the　house；　intending　to　remind　Tom　that　there　was　a　chair

to　willow…bottom　the　next　time　he　came　to　the　village。

But　at　the　noise　of　the　wheels　Tom　drew　in　his　ladder；

and　when　the　visitor　alighted　and　came　within　sight；

it　was　to　find　the　inhospitable　host　standing　in　the　opening

of　the　second…story　window；　a　quaint　figure　framed

in　green　branches；　the　ladder　behind　him；　and　on　his　face

a　kind　of　impenetrable　dignity；　as　he　shook　his　head　and　said；

〃Tom　ain't　ter　hum；　Tom's　gone　to　Bonny　Eagle。〃



There　was　something　impressive　about　his　way　of　repelling　callers；

it　was　as　effectual　as　a　door　slammed　in　the　face；　and　yet　there

was　a　sort　of　mendacious　courtesy　about　it。　　No　one　ever　cared

to　go　further；　and　indeed　there　was　no　mystery　to　tempt　the　curious；

and　no　spoil　to　attract　the　mischievous　or　the　malicious。

Any　one　could　see；　without　entering；　the　straw　bed　in　the　far　corner；

the　beams　piled　deep　with　red　and　white　oak　acorns；　the　strings

of　dried　apples　and　bunches　of　everlastings　hanging　from　the　rafters；

and　the　half…finished　baskets　filled　with　blown　bird's…eggs；

pine　cones；　and　pebbles。



No　home　in　the　village　was　better　loved　than　Tom's

retreat　in　the　blueberry　plains。　　Whenever　he　approached　it；

after　a　long　day's　tramp；　when　he　caught　the　first　sight

of　the　white　birches　that　marked　the　gateway　to　his　estate

and　showed　him　where　to　turn　off　the　public　road　into　his　own

private　grounds；　he　smiled　a　broader　smile　than　usual；

and　broke　into　his　well…known　song：





〃I'd　much　d'ruth…er　walk　in　the　bloom…in'　gy…ar…ding；

An'　hear　the　whis…sle　of　the　jol…ly

swain。〃



Poor　Tom　could　never　catch　the　last　note。　　He　had　sung

the　song　for　more　than　forty　years；　but　the　memory　of　this

tone　was　so　blurred；　and　his　cherished　ideal　of　it　so　high

（or　so　low；　rather）；　that　he　never　managed　to　reach　it。



Oh；　if　only　summer　were　eternal！　　Who　could　wish　a　better

supper　than　ripe　berries　and　molasses？　　Nor　was　there　need

of　sleeping　under　roof　nor　of　lighting　candles　to　grope　his　way

to　pallet　of　straw；　when　he　might　have　the　blue　vault　of　heaven

arching　over　him；　and　all　God's　stars　for　lamps；　and　for　a　bed

a　horse　blanket　stretched　over　an　elastic　couch　of　pine　needles。

There　were　two　gaunt　pines　that　had　been　dropping　their　polished

spills　for　centuries；　perhaps　silently　adding；　year　by　year；

another　layer　of　aromatic　springiness　to　poor　Tom's　bed。

Flinging　his　tired　body　on　this　grateful　couch；　burying　his　head

in　the　crushed　sweet　fern　of　his　pillow　with　one　deep…drawn

sigh　of　pleasure；there；　haunted　by　no　past　and　harassed

by　no　future；　slept　God's　fool　as　sweetly　as　a　child。



Yes；　if　only　summer　were　eternal；　and　youth　as　well！



But　when　the　blueberries　had　ripened　summer　after　summer；

and　the　gaunt　pine…trees　had　gone　on　for　many　years　weaving　poor

Tom's　mattress；　there　came　a　change　in　the　aspect　of　things。

He　still　made　his　way　to　the　village；　seeking　chairs　to　mend；

but　he　was　even　more　unkempt　than　of　old；　his　tall　figure　was　bent；

and　his　fingers　trembled　as　he　wove　the　willow　strands　in　and　out；

and　over　and　under。



There　was　little　work　to　do；　moreover；　for　the　village　had　altogether

retired　from　business；　and　was　no　longer　in　competition　with　its　neighbors：

the　dam　was　torn　away；　the　sawmills　were　pulled　down；　husbands　and　fathers

were　laid　in　the　churchyard；　sons　and　brothers　and　lovers　had　gone　West；　and

mothers　and　widows　and　spinsters　stayed　on；　each　in　her　quiet　house　alone。

〃'T　ain't　no　hardship　when　you　get　used　to　it；〃　said　the　Widow　Buzzell。

〃Land　sakes！　a　lantern　's　's　good　's　a　man　any　time；　if　you　only　think　so；

'n'　't　ain't　half　so　much　trouble　to　keep　it　filled　up！〃



But　Tom　still　sold　a　basket　occasionally；　and　the　children

always　gathered　about　him　for　the　sake　of　hearing　him　repeat

his　well…worn　formula；Tom　allers　puts　two　handles　on　baskets：

one　to　take　'em　up　by；　one　to　set　'em　down　by。〃

This　was　said　with　a　beaming　smile　and　a　wise　shake　of　the　head；

as　if　he　were　announcing　a　great　discovery　to　an　expectant　world。

And　then　he　would　lay　down　his　burden　of　basket　stuff；

and；　sitting　under　an　apple…tree　in　somebody's　side　yard；

begin　his　task　of　willow…bottoming　an　old　chair。　　It　was　a　pretty

sight　enough；　if　one　could　keep　back　the　tears；the　kindly；

simple　fellow　with　the　circle　of　children　about　his　knees。

Never　a　village　fool　without　a　troop　of　babies　at　his　heels。

They　love　him；　too；　till　we　teach　them　to　mock。



When　he　was　younger；　he　would　sing；



〃Rock…a…by；　baby；　on　the　treetop；〃



and　dance　the　while；　swinging　his　unfinished　basket　to　and　fro　for　a　cradle。

He　was　too　stiff　in　the　joints　for　dancing　nowadays；　but　he　still　sang

the　〃bloomin'　gy…ar…ding〃　when　ever　they　asked　him；　particularly　if

some　apple…cheeked　little　maid　would　say；　〃Please；　Tom！〃

He　always　laughed　then；　and；　patting　the　child's　hand；　said；　〃Pooty　gal；

got　eyes！〃　　The　youngsters　dance　with　glee　at　this　meaningless　phrase；

just　as　their　mothers　had　danced　years　before　when　it　was　said　to　them。



Summer　waned。　　In　the　moist　places　the　gentian　uncurled

its　blue　fringes；　purple　asters　and　gay　Joe　Pye　waved　their

colors　by　the　roadside；　tall　primroses　put　their　yellow