Main-Travelled Roads | Page 5

around the curve in the lane. He had a fork on his
shoulder, a graceful and polished tool. His straw hat was tilted on the
back of his head, his rough, faded coat was buttoned close to the chin,
and he wore thin buckskin gloves on his hands. He looked muscular
and intelligent, and was evidently about twenty-two or -three years of
age.
As he walked on, and the sunrise came nearer to him, he stopped his
song. The broadening heavens had a majesty and sweetness that made
him forget the physical joy of happy youth. He grew almost sad with
the great vague thoughts and emotions which rolled in his brain as the
wonder of the morning grew.
He walked more slowly, mechanically following the road, his eyes on
the ever-shifting streaming banners of rose and pale green, which made
the east too glorious for any words to tell. The air was so still it seemed
to await expectantly the coming of the sun.
Then his mind flew back to Agnes. Would she see it? She was at work,
getting breakfast, but he hoped she had time to see it. He was in that
mood so common to him now, when he could not fully enjoy any sight
or sound unless he could share it with her. Far down the road he heard
the sharp clatter of a wagon. The roosters were calling near and far, in
many keys and tunes. The dogs were barking, cattle bells jangling in
the wooded pastures, and as the youth passed farmhouses, lights in the
kitchen windows showed that the women were astir about breakfast,
and the sound of voices and curry-combs at the barn told that the men
were at their daily chores.
And the east bloomed broader. The dome of gold grew brighter, the
faint clouds here and there flamed with a flush of red. The frost began
to glisten with a reflected color. The youth dreamed as he walked; his
broad face and deep earnest eyes caught and reflected some of the
beauty and majesty of the sky.
But as he passed a farm gate and a young man of about his own age
joined him, his brow darkened. The other man was equipped for work
like himself.

"Hello, Will!"
"Hello, Ed!"
"Going down to help Dingman thrash?"
"Yes," replied Will shortly. It was easy to see he didn't welcome
company.
"So'm I. Who's goin' to do your thrashin-Dave McTurg?"
"Yes., I guess so. Haven't spoken to anybody yet."
They walked on side by side. Will didn't feel like being rudely broken
in on in this way. The two men were rivals, but Will, being the victor,
would have been magnanimous, only he wanted to be alone with his
lover's dream.
"When do you go back to the sem'?" Ed asked after a little.
"Term begins next week. I'll make a break about second week."
"Le's see: you graduate next year, don't yeh?"
"I expect to, if I don't slip up on it."
They walked on side by side, both handsome fellows; Ed a little more
showy in his face, which had a certain clean-cut precision of line and a
peculiar clear pallor that never browned under the sun. He chewed
vigorously on a quid of tobacco, one of his most noticeable bad habits.
Teams could be heard clattering along on several roads now, and jovial
voices singing. One team coming along behind the two men, the driver
sung out in good-natured warning, "Get out o' the way, there." And
with a laugh and a chirp spurred his horses to pass them.
Ed, with a swift understanding of the driver's trick, flung out his left
hand and caught the end-gate, threw his fork in, and leaped after it.
Will walked on, disdaining attempt to catch the wagon. On all sides

now the wagons of the plowmen or threshers were getting out into the
fields, with a pounding, rumbling sound.
The pale red sun was shooting light through the leaves, and warming
the boles of the great oaks that stood in the yard, and melting the frost
off the great gaudy threshing machine that stood between the stacks.
The interest, picturesqueness of it all got hold of Will Hannan,
accustomed to it as he was. The homes stood about in a circle, hitched
to the ends of the six sweeps, all shining with frost.
The driver was oiling the great tarry cogwheels underneath. Laughing
fellows were wrestling about the yard. Ed Kinney had scaled the
highest stack, and stood ready to throw the first sheaf. The sun, lighting
him where he stood, made his fork handle gleam like dull gold. Cheery
words, jests, and snatches of song everywhere. Dingman bustled about
giving his orders and placing his men, and the voice of big