The Soldier of the Valley | Page 2

fore-taste of those to come. But one
day when we marched beneath the blazing sun, we met a storm and
found no shelter. We charged through a hail of steel. They took me to
the sea on a stretcher, and by and by they shipped me home. Then it
was that I was a hero--when I came again to Black Log--what was left
of me.
My people were very kind. They sent Henry Holmes's double phaeton
to the county town to meet my train, and as I stumbled from the car,
being new to my crutches, I fell into the arms of a reception committee.
Tim was there. And my little brother fought the others off and picked
me up and carried me, as I had carried him in the old days when he was
a toddling youngster and I a sturdy boy. But he was six feet two now
and I had wasted to a shadow. Perry Thomas had a speech prepared. He
is our orator, our prize debater, our township statesman, and his
frock-coat tightly buttoned across his chest, his unusually high and
stiffly starched collar, his repeated coughing as he hovered on the
outskirts of the crowd, told me plainly that he had an address to make.
Henry Holmes, indeed, asked me to stand still just one minute, and I
divined instantly that he was working in the interest of oratory; but Tim
spoiled it all by running off with me and tossing me into the phaeton.
So in the state-coach of Black Log, drawn by Isaac Bolum's
lemon-colored mules, with the committee rattling along behind in a
spring wagon, politely taking our dust, I came home once more, over

the mountains, into the valley.
Sometimes I wonder if I shall ever make another journey as long as that
one. Sometimes I have ventured as far as the gap, and peeped into the
broad open country, and caught the rumble of the trains down by the
river. There is one of the world's highways, but the toll is great, and a
crippled soldier with a scanty pension and a pittance from his school is
wiser to keep to the ways he knows.
And how I know the ways of the valley! That day when we rode into it
every tree seemed to be waving its green arms in salute. As we swung
through the gap, around the bend at the saw-mill and into the open
country, checkered brown and yellow by fields new-ploughed and
fields of stubble, a flock of killdeer arose on the air and screamed a
welcome. In their greeting there seemed a taunting note as though they
knew they had no more to fear from me and could be generous. I saw
every crook in the fence, every rut in the road, every bush and tree long
before we came to it. But six months had I been away, yet in that time I
had lived half my life, and now I was so changed that it seemed strange
to find the valley as fat and full as ever, stretched out there in the
sunshine in a quiet, smiling slumber.
"Things are just the same, Mark, you'll notice," said Tim, pointing to a
hole in the flooring of the bridge over which we were passing.
The valley had been driving around that same danger spot these ten
years. There was a world of meaning to the returning wanderer in that
broken plank, and it was not hard to catch the glance of my brother's
eye and to know his mind.
Henry Holmes on the front seat, driving, caught the inflection of Tim's
voice and cried testily: "You are allus runnin' the walley down. Why
don't you tell him about the improvements instead of pintin' out the bad
spots in the road?"
"Improvements?" said I, in a tone of inquiry.
"Theop Jones has bought him a new side-bar buggy," replied the old

man. "Then the Kallabergers has moved in from the country and is
fixin' up the Harmon house at the end of the town."
"And a be-yutiful place they're makin' of it," cried Isaac Bolum;
"be-yutiful!"
"They've added a fancy porch," Henry explained, "and are gittin' blue
glass panes for the front door."
"We've three spring-beds in town now," put in Isaac in his slow,
dreamy way. "If I mind right the Spikers bought theirs before war was
declared, so you've seen that one. Well, Piney Martin he has got him
one--let me see--when did he git it, Henery?"
Old Holmes furrowed his brow and closed one eye, seeking with the
other the inspiration of the sky.
"July sixth," he answered. "Don't you mind, Ike, it come the same day
and on the wery same stage as the news of the sinkin' of the Spaynish
fleet?"