Dorian | Page 3

mother.
You see, Dorian Trent, though sixteen years old, was very much a child;
he did many childish things, and yet in some ways, he was quite a man;
the child in him and the man in him did not seem to merge into the boy,
but were somewhat "separate and apart," as the people of Greenstreet
would say.
Dorian again took the less frequented road home. The sun was still high
when he reached the river. He was not expected home for some time
yet, so there was no need for hurry. He crossed the footbridge, noticing
neither birds nor fish. Instead of following the main path, he struck off
into a by-trail which led him to a tiny grass plat in the shade of a tree
by the river. He sat down here, took off his hat, and pushed back from a
freckled, sweating forehead a mop of wavy, rusty-colored hair. Then he
untied his package of books and spread his treasures before him as a
miser would his gold. He opened "David Copperfield", looked at the
frontispiece which depicted a fat man making a very emphatic speech
against someone by the name of Heep. It must all be very interesting,
but it was altogether too big a book for him to begin to read now. "Ben
Hur" looked solid and substantial; it would keep until next winter when
he would have more time to read. Then he picked up the "Conquest",
volume one. He backed up against the tree, settled himself into a
comfortable position, took from his paper bag a chocolate at which he
nibbled contentedly, and then away he went with Prescott to the land of
the Inca and the glories of a vanished race!
For an hour he read. Then, reluctantly, he closed his book, wrapped up
his package again, and went on his homeward way.
The new canal for which the farmers of Greenstreet had worked and
waited so long had just been completed. The big ditch, now full of
running water, was a source of delight to the children as well as to the
more practical adults. The boys and girls played on its banks, and
waded and sported in the cool stream. Near the village of Greenstreet
was a big headgate, from which the canal branched into two divisions.

As Dorian walked along the canal bank that afternoon, he saw a group
of children at play near the headgate. They were making a lot of robust
noise, and Dorian stopped to watch them. He was always interested in
the children, being more of a favorite among them than among the boys
of his own age.
"There's Dorian," shouted one of the boys. "Who are you going to
marry?"
What in the world were the youngsters talking about, thought the young
man, as the chattering children surrounded him.
"What's all this?" asked Dorian, "a party?"
"Yes; it's Carlia's birthday; we're just taking a walk by the canal to see
the water; my, but it's nice!"
"What, the party or the water?"
"Why, the water."
"Both" added another.
"We've all told who we're going to marry," remarked a little rosy-faced
miss, "all but Carlia, an' she won't tell."
"Well, but perhaps Carlia don't know. You wouldn't have her tell a fib,
would you?"
"Oh, shucks, she knows as well as us."
"She's just stubborn."
She who was receiving these criticisms seemed to be somewhat older
and larger than her companions. Just now, not deigning to notice the
accusation of her friends, she was throwing sticks into the running
water and watching them go over the falls at the headgate and dance on
the rapids below. Her white party dress was as yet spotless. She swung
her straw hat by the string. Her brown-black hair was crowned by an

unusually large bow of red ribbon. She was not the least discomposed
by the teasing of the other children, neither by Dorian's presence. This
was her party, and why should not she do and say what she pleased.
Carlia now led the way along the canal bank until she came to where a
pole spanned the stream. She stopped, looked at the somewhat insecure
footbridge, then turning to her companions, said:
"I can back you out."
"How? Doin' what?" they asked.
"Crossing the canal on the pole."
"Shucks, you can't back me out," declared one of the boys, at which he
darted across the swaying pole, and with a jump, landed safely across.
Another boy went at it gingerly, and with the antics of a tight-rope
walker, he managed to get to the other side. The other boys held back;
none of the girls ventured.
"All right, Carlia," shouted the boys on the other bank.
The girl stood looking at the frail pole.
"Come on, it's easy,"