The Redemption of David Corson | Page 4

The squirrels crept down the trunks of trees to nibble the crumbs which
he scattered for them. He could fold up his hands like a cup and at his
whistle birds would drop into them as into a nest. His was a beautiful
soul, and what Novalis said of Spinoza might have been said of him,
"he was a God-intoxicated man." He was in that blissful period of
existence when the interpretations of life imparted to him by his elders
solved the few simple problems of thought and action pressed upon
him by his environment. He had never seriously questioned any of the
ideas received from his instructors. He was often conscious of the
infinite mystery lying beyond his ken, but never of those frightful
inconsistencies and contradictions in nature and life by which the soul
is sooner or later paralyzed or at least bewildered.
And so his outlook upon the universe was serene and untroubled. As he
stood there in the deepening twilight he differed from the child who
had approached him in this, that while the boy reveled in the beauty
around him because he did not try to comprehend it, the youth was
intoxicated by the belief that he possessed the clue to all these
mysteries, and had a working theory of all the phenomena in the natural
and spiritual world in which he moved. To such mystical natures this
confidence is unavoidable anywhere through the period of the pride of
adolescence; but it was heightened in this case by the simplicity of life's
problems in this narrow valley, and in the provincial little village which
was the metropolis of this sparsely settled region. To him "the cackle of
that bourg was the murmur of the world," and his theories of a life
lacking the complexities of larger aggregations of men seemed
adequate, because he had never seen them thoroughly tested, to meet
every emergency arising for reflection or endeavor. In this mental
attitude of serene and undisturbed confidence that he knew the real
meaning of existence, and was in constant contact with the divine mind
through knowledge or through vision, every avenue of his spirit was
open to the influences of nature. Through all that gorgeous day of May
he had been drawing these influences into his being as the vegetation

drew in light and moisture, until his soul was drenched through and
through, and at that perfect hour of dusk, when the flowers and grasses
exhaled the gifts they had received from heaven and earth in a richer,
finer perfume like an evening oblation, the young dreamer was also
rendering back those gifts bestowed by heaven in an incense of purest
thought and aspiration. It was one of those hours that come
occasionally in that sublime period of unshattered ideals and unsullied
faith, for which Pharaoh and Cæsar would have exchanged their
thrones, Croesus and Lucullus bartered their wealth, Solomon and
Aristotle forgotten their learning.
Every imaginative youth who has been reared in pure surroundings
experiences over again in these rare and radiant hours all the bliss that
Adam knew in Eden. To his joyous, eager spirit, the world appears a
new creation fresh from the hand of God. He hears its author walking
in the garden at eventide, and murmuring: "Behold it is very good." A
single element of disquietude, a solitary, vague unrest disturbs him. He
awaits his Eve with longing, but has no dread of the serpent.
At sight of this young man the most superficial observer would have
paused to take a second look; an artist would have instinctively seized
his pencil or his brush; a scientist would have paused to inquire what
mysterious influences could have produced so finely proportioned a
nature; a philosopher to wonder what would become of him in some
sudden and powerful temptation.
None of these reflections disturbed the mind of the barefooted boy.
Having suppressed his laughter, he tickled the sunburnt neck again.
Once more the hand rose automatically, and once more the boy was
almost strangled with delight. The dreamer was hard to awaken, but his
tormentor had not yet exhausted his resources. No genuine boy is ever
without that fundamental necessity of childhood, a pin, and finding one
somewhere about his clothing, he thrust it into the leg of the plowman.
The sudden sting brought the soaring saint from heaven to earth. In an
instant the mystic was a man, and a strong one, too. He seized the
unsanctified young reprobate with one hand and hoisted him at arm's
length above his head.

"Oh, Uncle Dave, I'll never do it again! Never! Never! Let me down."
Still holding him aloft as a hunter would hold a falcon, the reincarnated
"spirit" laughed long, loud and merrily, the echoes of his laughter
ringing up the valley like