Autumn | Page 9

together the Canticle of the
Sun:
"Praised be the Lord God with all his creatures, but especially our
brother, the sun . . . fair he is, and shines, with a very great splendor . . .
"Praised be the Lord for our sister, the moon, and for the stars, which
he has set clear and lovely in heaven.
". . . (and) for our brother, the wind, and for air and cloud, calm and all

weather . . .
". . . (and) for our mother, the earth, which does sustain us and keep
us . . .
"Praised be the Lord for all those who pardon one another . . . and who
endure weakness and tribulation; blessed are they who peaceably shall
endure . . ."
Slowly, to the tonkle of herds in pasture, the crowing of cocks, and the
thin, clear clang of the smithy, the full sun sank in the west. For a time
all was quiet, as night, the shadow of the earth, crept between man and
God.
After supper Thomas Frye, in his father's wagon, went to call on Anna
Barly.
From her porch where she sat hidden by vines which gave forth an odor
sweeter than honey, the night was visible, pale and full of shadows. To
the boy beside her, timid and ardent, the silence of her parents seemed,
like the night, to be full of opinions.
"Well . . . shall we go for a ride?"
Anna called in to her mother, "I'm going for a ride with Tom."
"Don't be late," said her mother.
The two went down the path, and climbed into the buggy; soon the
yellow lantern, swung between its wheels, rolled like a star down the
road to Milford.
"Why so quiet, Tom?"
"Am I, Ann?"
"Angry?"
"Just thinking . . . so to say."

"Oh." And she began to hum under her breath.
"I was just thinking," he said again.
Then, solemnly, he added, "about things."
"About you and me," he wound up finally.
When she offered him a penny for his thoughts, he said, "Well . . .
nothing."
"Dear me."
At his hard cluck the wagon swept forward. "You know what I was
thinking," he said.
"Do I?" asked Anna innocently.
"Don't you?"
"Perhaps."
So they went on through the dark, under the trees, to Milford. When
their little world, smelling of harness, came to a halt in front of the drug
store, they descended to quench their thirst with syrup, gas, milk, and
lard. Then, with dreamy faces, they made their way to the movies.
Now their hands are clasped, but they do not notice each other. For they
do not know where they are; they imagine they are acting upon the
screen. It is a mistake which charms and consoles them both. "How
beautiful I am," thinks Anna drowsily, watching Miss Gish. "And how
elegant to be in love."
Later Anna will say to herself: "Other people's lives are like that."
On the way home she sat smiling and dreaming. The horse ran briskly
through the night mist; and the wheels, rumbling over the ground,
turned up the thoughts of simple Thomas Frye, only to plow them
under again.

"Ann," he said when they were more than half-way home, "don't you
care for me . . . any more?" As he spoke, he cut at the black trees with
his long whip.
"Yes, I do, Tom."
"As much as you did?"
"Just as much."
"More, Ann?"
"Maybe."
"Then . . . will you? Say, will you, Ann?"
"I don't know, Tom. Don't ask me. Please."
"But I've got to ask you," he cried.
"Oh, what's the good." And she looked away, to where the faint light of
the lantern fled along beside them, over the trees.
"Is it," he said slowly, "is it no?"
"Well, then--no."
Thomas was silent. At last he asked, "Is it a living man, Ann?"
"No," said Anna.
"Is it a dead man, now?"
Anna moved uneasily. "No, it isn't," she said. "'Tisn't anybody."
But Thomas persisted. "Would it be Noel, if he warn't dead in France?"
"Maybe."

"You're not going to keep on thinking of him, are you?"
"I don't plan to."
"Then--" and Thomas came back to the old question once more, "why
not?"
"Why not what?"
"Take me, then?"
"Well," she said vaguely, "I'm too young."
"I'd wait."
"'Twouldn't help any. I want so much, Tom . . . you couldn't give me all
I want."
He said, "What is it I couldn't give you?"
"I don't know, Tom . . . I want what other people have . . .
experiences . . ."
At his bitter laugh, she was filled with pity for herself. "Is it so funny?"
she asked. "I don't care."
"Whatever's got into