The Country Cross Roads

The Country Cross Roads BY ALFRED LAMBOURNE

At one corner of the square formed by the cross-roads stands a clump of tall old cottonwood trees, and the clear, shining waters of the canal, which flow from east to west, are overhung by ancient willows. Herbage of almost countless kind springs from the moist soil on the water's edge, and beneath the surface of the canal itself, the long, swaying leafage of the water-buttercups, covered with myriads of pale blossoms, too, is as thick as the plants and herbs upon the land. Where the canal crosses the insecting road, it is, in turn, crossed with a rustic bridge and near by there are a weir and a flume. The upper timbers of the last-named structure are both sun- and rain-warped, they are bleached into a violet-gray, but the logs which form their bases are richly greened by the passing water, hung with lush-green water-grasses and thickly cushioned with gold-brown moss. The summer wanes. The road-side growth, as well as the harvest fields, tell of the season's close. The lowly trefoil is still fresh in places yet is mostly worn and ragged, pods hang from the milk-weeds, the prickly burrs are russet, the bushes of wildrose are covered with crimson and hardened berries, and the down floats away from the bursted thistles. There are a few wan marguerites, a tarnished golden-rod here and there one or two ;

frayed suns of the helianthus the heads of the tall clusters of ;

tansy droop heavily in varying shades of chastened orange and ruddy chocolate, and on the aged dandelions there are balls of silver mist. Yes, summer has sped and the sounds of harvesting are heard in the land. But now is the Sabbath, and these sounds are stilled. There is a peace around. Through a vista of the trees, I see epitomized, as it were, the human life. There is the uncut wheat, the stubble and the piled-up sheaves —the harvest fields beyond the ;

fields .the gables of a country home, the mill, the belfry of the

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THE COUNTRY CROSS ROADS 9

village church and, far away, a few white spots that I know to be stones in the village grave yard. — There it is Life, Toil and Death, the Hope of Immortality. That farm-house has been built long enough, I should imagine, to have a romance history of its own. There, no doubt, have been births and bridal home-comings there have been joys and pains, hopes and fears there have ; ;

been festivals of happiness and the ceremonies of sorrow. Yes, there has been the round of life, and after that, at last, yonder, "Rest on the Hillside, Rest." And these have passed. While I have lain idly dreaming upon this shaded bank, I have, also, looked on these a little :

urchin, astride of a big, black horse a couple of rustic belles ;

an ill-conditioned youth, a "shuffling Tom ;" what appeared to be a well-to-do farmer, in his buggy with his wife and child a pair ;

of lovers, who appeared surprised to see the stranger resting upon the bank a big, yellow cat that, true to its feline nature, ;

passed quickly yet stealthily along the foot-path, casting furtive glances from side to side. And then a young man on horse-back, a country gallant, surely an important character at the village dance and then a very old lady walking, though lame such a ; — pathetic figure to be alone such a puzzled, lost expression in the weary eyes and on the wrinkled face, a poor derelict, the wreck of a human being. I should like to know her history and then ;

a couple more urchins, and carrying fish, clearly they have broken the Sabbath and, lastly, a pair of tramps. ; I had met another tramp earlier in the day, one to whom my sympathy went out, a man pale with anxiety or sorrow of some kind, and so far from his destination. Yet I did not appreciate much these later men. One of them was quite evil-faced, as he resorted to the time-worn trick of asking "What the time o' day." I am quite relieved in mind that the pair passed on. Perhaps the fact that I was careful to let them see my hand move towards my trousers hip pocket in which there was nothing — had something to do in the case. — Thyme and mint, clover and newly-cut grain I lie upon the canal-bank I close my eyes, and try to resolve into its component ;

parts the rich fragrance of the evening air. It is a pleasant task, yet more difficult of accomplishment than separating the rural sounds. There are the whispering ripples of the canal waters, as they round some cobbles at the foot of the bank, and the splash at the weir, farther on. I hear the distant squeal of a pig, the barking of dogs, the lowing of cows, the cackle of geese, and the whinney of a mare to her foal. And then, before I open my eyes again, the cock's shrill evening call, the boom of a night-hawk, and the plaintive cry of the western whip-poor-will. Then I hear the splash made by a frog, as the startled creature suddenly plumps itself into the deep canal, and I look up just in time to see the frog disappear under an entangled knot of

10 IMPROVEMENT ERA willow roots, and a bright green water-snake glide gracefully over the canal bank edge and swim to that on the opposite side. Darkness coming to the earth, and twilight fading from out the sky ! Over the one, the flushed horizon, the white, loveplanet Venus, and the sharp, gleaming sickle of the crescent moon; and over the other, the shadowed one, throbbing in the imperial purple, the great, golden orb of Jove. There are dim mountains, too, at east and west, but I do not wish to write their names. O my heart is full, and fain would my soul know rest! — Peace, peace peace, though all else should fail !Here is peace, the rural peace and beauty, and peace of soul must come from within. And why, now that my body is rested and my mind has cleared, should I cry aloud to the stars ? And there they shine. And yet why name the stars? They are written in classic mythology, on the bricks of Babylon, in the Vedas, and in Holy Writ. They have had many names; they are called of the gods, of the heroes of legend, and of the mighty ones of the earth. Yes, yonder lights are known of all nations and spoken of every tongue. And now lights appear on earth, the tiny lights of men. At the cross-roads the shadows are already black among the trees the winds of night begin to sigh, ;

the waters of the canal make a cheerless sound. I will journey

on, I will be a foot-traveler on the country road. And, "Peace be with you," did I hear you say ? Well, this is a peace I will ;

live it this hour, though new struggle comes with dawn. Out on the open there is a holy light; it is spread over the landscape from the multitude of stars. I will bathe my body aye, my very ;

soul in that ancient light that has come so far. Who shall tell, when my mood of heart-sadness may have come to an end, the reward that shall be mine ?