The Golden Bird | Page 9

over a mighty rough road to the
house from the gate here. Everybody come and see us." As he spoke
Uncle Cradd assisted me with ceremony into the chariot beside the
Golden hero of the hour, and started the ancient steeds into a tall old
gate right opposite the bank-store-post-office. As he drove away
something like warm tears misted across my eyes as I looked back and
saw all the goodwill and friendliness in the eye of the farmer friends
who watched our departure.
"That, Ann, is the salt of the earth, and I don't see how I consumed life
so long without it," said father as he turned, and looked at me with a
sparkle in his mystic gray eyes that I had never seen there when we
were seated at table with the mighty or making our bow in broadcloth
and fine linen in some of the palaces of the world. I didn't know what it
was then, but I do now; it is a land-love that lies deep in the heart of
every man who is born out in meadows and fields. They never get over
it and sometimes transmit it even to the second generation. I felt it stir
and run in my blood as we rumbled and bumped up the long avenue of
tall old elm-trees that led through deep fields which were even then
greening with blue-grass and from which arose a rich loamy fragrance,
and finally arrived at the most wonderful old brick house that I had ever
seen in all of my life; it seemed to even my much traveled eyes in some
ways the most wonderful abode for human beings I had ever beheld. It
was not the traditional white-pillared mansion. It was more wonderful.
The bricks had aged a rich, red purple, and were rimmed and splotched
with soft green and gray moss under traceries of vines that were
beginning to put out rich russet buds. The windows were filled with
tiny diamond panes of glass, which glittered in the gables from the last
rays of the sun setting over Old Harpeth, and the broad, gray shingled
roof hovered down over the wide porch which would have sheltered
fifty people safely. A flagstone walk and stone steps led up from the
drive, seemingly right into the wide front door, which had small,
diamond-paned, heavily shuttered windows in it, and queer holes on
each side.

"To shoot through in case of marauding Indians," answered Uncle
Cradd to my startled question, which had sprung from a suspicion that
must have been dictated by prenatal knowledge. As I entered the
homestead of my fathers I felt that I had slipped back into the colonial
age of America, and I found myself almost in a state of terror. The wide
old hall, the heavy-beamed ceiling of which was so low that you felt
again hovered, was lighted by only one candle, though a broad path of
firelight lay across the dark polished floor from the room on the left,
where appeared old Rufus enveloped in a large apron no whiter than
the snowy kinks on his old head.
"Time you has worship, Mas' Cradd, my muffins and spare ribs will be
done," he said after he had bestowed a grand bow first upon father and
then upon me, with a soft-voiced greeting of "sarvant, little Mis', and
sarvant, Mas' William."
"It is fitting that we render unto the Lord thankfulness for your return
home with Nancy, your child, William, in the first moments of your
arrival. Come!" commanded Uncle Cradd, and he led us into a huge
room as low ceilinged and dark-toned as the hall. In it there was only
the firelight and another dim candle placed on a small table beside a
huge old book. With the surety of long habit father walked straight to a
large chair that was drawn close to the hearth on the side opposite the
table, behind which was another large chair of exactly the same pattern
of high-backed dignity, and seated himself. Then he drew me down
into a low chair beside him, and I lifted up my hands, removed my hat,
and was at last come home from a huge and unreal world outside.
As I sat and gazed from the dark room through a large old window,
which was swung open on heavy hinges to allow the sap-scented breeze
to drift in and fan the fire of lingering winter, out into an old garden
with brick-outlined walks and climbing bare rose vines upon which was
beginning to be poured the silver enchantment of a young moon, Uncle
Cradd, in his deep old voice, which was like the notes given out by an
ancient violin, began to read a chapter from his old Book which began