The Vision Splendid

THE VISION SPLENDID
by William MacLeod Raine
CHAPTER 1
Of all the remote streams of influence that pour both before and after
birth into the channel of our being, what an insignificant few--and these
only the more obvious--are traceable at all. We swim in a sea of
environment and heredity, are tossed hither and thither by we know not
what cross currents of Fate, are tugged at by a thousand eddies of
which we never dream. The sum of it all makes Life, of which we
know so little and guess so much, into which we dive so surely in those
buoyant days before time and tide have shaken confidence in our power
to snatch success and happiness from its mysterious depths. --From the
Note Book of a Dreamer.
A REBEL IN THE MAKING
Part 1
The air was mellow with the warmth of the young spring sun. Locusts
whirred in rhapsody. Bluebirds throbbed their love songs joyously. The
drone of insects, the shimmer of hear, were in the atmosphere. One
could almost see green things grow. To confine youth within four walls
on such a day was an outrage against human nature.
A lean, wiry boy, hatchet-faced, stared with dreamy eyes out of the
window of his prison. By raising himself in his seat while the teacher
was not looking he could catch a silvery gleam of the river through the
great firs. His thoughts were far afield. They were not concerned with
the capitals of the States he was supposed to be learning, but had fared
forth to the reborn earth, to the stir and movement of creeping things.

The call of nature awakening from its long winter sleep drummed in his
heart. He could sympathize with the bluebottle buzzing against the
sunny windowpane in its efforts to reach the free world outside.
Recess! With the sound of the gong his heart leaped, but he kept his
place in the line with perfect decorum. It would never do to be called
back now for a momentary indiscretion. From the school yard he
slipped the back way and dived into a bank of great ferns. In the heart
of this he lay until the bell had called his classmates back to work.
Cautiously he crept from his hiding place and ran down to the river.
Flinging himself on Big Rock, with his chin over the edge, he looked
into the deep holes under the bank where the trout lay close to the
strings of shiny moss, their noses to the current, motionless save for the
fanning tails.
Idly he enjoyed himself for a happy hour, letting thoughts happen as
they would. Not till the school bell rang for dismissal did he drag
himself back with a sigh to the workaday world that called. He had a
lawn to mow and a back yard to clean up for Mr. Rawson.
With his cap stuck on the back of his head and his hands in the pockets
of his patched trousers, the boy went whistling townward on his
barefoot way. At Adams Street he met the schoolchildren bound for
home. A dozen boys from his own room closed in on him with shouts
of joyous malice.
"Played hookey! Played hookey! Jeff Farnum played hookey!" they
shrilled at him.
Ned Merrill assumed leadership of the young Apaches. "You're goin' to
catch it. Old Webber was down askin' for you. Wasn't he, Tom? Wasn't
he, Dick?"
Tom and Dick lied cheerfully to increase Jeff's dread. They added
graphic details to help the story.
The victim looked around with stoicism. He remembered the

philosophy of the optimist that a licking does not last long.
"Don't care if he was down," the boy bluffed.
"Huh! Mr. Don't Care! Mr. Don't Care!" shrieked Merrill gleefully.
They made a circle around Jeff and mocked him. Once or twice a
bolder tormentor snatched at his cap or pushed a neighbor against him.
Then, with the inconstancy of youth, they suddenly deserted him for
more diverting game.
A forlorn little Italian girl was trying to slip past on the other side of the
street. Someone caught sight of her and with a whoop the Apaches
were upon her pell-mell. She began to run, but they hemmed her in.
One tugged at her braided hair. Another flipped mud at her dress from
the end of a stick. Merrill snatched her slate and made off with it.
Jeff cut swiftly across the street. Merrill was coming directly toward
him, his head turned to the girl. Triumphant whoops broke from his
throat. He bumped into Jeff, stumbled, and went down in the mud.
Young Merrill was up in an instant, clamorous for battle. His hands and
clothes were plastered with filth.
"I'm goin' to lick the stuffin' out of you," he bellowed.
Jeff said