A Day of Fate | Page 3

apathy.
The afternoon aspect of the village street seemed as dull and devoid of

interest as my own life at that hour, and in fancy I saw myself, a
broken-down man, lounging away days that would be like eternities,
going through my little round like a bit of driftwood, slowly circling in
an eddy of the world's great current. With lack-lustre eyes I "looked up
to the hills," but no "help" came from them. The air was close, the sky
leaden; even the birds would not sing. Why had I come to the country?
It had no voices for me, and I resolved to return to the city. But while I
waited my eyes grew heavy with the blessed power to sleep--a boon,
for which I then felt that I would travel to the Ultima Thule. Leaving
orders that I should not be disturbed, I went to my room, and Nature
took the tired man, as if he were a weary child, into her arms.
At last I imagined that I was at the Academy of Music, and that the
orchestra were tuning their instruments for the overture. A louder strain
than usual caused me to start up, and I saw through the open window a
robin on a maple bough, with its tuneful throat swelled to the utmost.
This was the leader of my orchestra, and the whole country was alive
with musicians, each one giving out his own notes without any regard
for the others, but apparently the score had been written for them all,
since the innumerable strains made one divine harmony. From the
full-orbed song from the maple by my window, down to the faintest
chirp and twitter, there was no discord; while from the fields beyond
the village the whistle of the meadow-larks was so mellowed and
softened by distance as to incline one to wonder whether their notes
were real or mere ideals of sound.
For a long time I was serenely content to listen to the myriad-voiced
chords without thinking of the past or future. At last I found myself idly
querying whether Nature did not so blend all out-of-door sounds as to
make them agreeable, when suddenly a catbird broke the spell of
harmony by its flat, discordant note. Instead of my wonted irritation at
anything that jarred upon my nerves, I laughed as I sprang up, saying,
"That cry reminds me that I am in the body and in the same old world.
That bird is near akin to the croaking printer."
But my cynicism was now more assumed than real, and I began to
wonder at myself. The change of air and scene had seemingly broken a

malign influence, and sleep--that for weeks had almost forsaken
me--had yielded its deep refreshment for fifteen hours. Besides, I had
not sinned against my life so many years as to have destroyed the
elasticity of early manhood. When I had lain down to rest I had felt
myself to be a weary, broken, aged man. Had I, in my dreams,
discovered the Fountain of Youth, and unconsciously bathed in it? In
my rebound toward health of mind and body I seemed to have realized
what the old Spaniard vainly hoped for.
I dressed in haste, eager to be out in the early June sunshine. There had
been a shower in the night, and the air had a fine exhilarating quality, in
contrast with the close sultriness of the previous afternoon.
Instead of nibbling at breakfast while I devoured the morning dailies, I
ate a substantial meal, and only thought of papers to bless their absence,
and then walked down the village street with the quick glad tread of
one whose hope and zest in life have been renewed. Fragrant June roses
were opening on every side, and it appeared to me that all the sin of
man could not make the world offensive to heaven that morning.
I wished that some of the villagers whom I met were more in accord
with Nature's mood; but in view of my own shortcomings, and still
more because of my fine physical condition, I was disposed toward a
large charity. And yet I could not help wondering how some that I saw
could walk among their roses and still look so glum and matter-of-fact.
I felt as if I could kiss every velvet petal.
"You were unjust," I charged back on Conscience; "this morning
proves that I am not an ingrained newsmonger. There is still man
enough left within me to revive at Nature's touch;" and I exultantly
quickened my steps, until I had left the village miles away.
Before the morning was half gone I learned how much of my old vigor
had ebbed, for I was growing weary early in the day. Therefore I
paused before