"Yes; just soaking," answered Harkless; "it's such a gypsy day. How is Mr.

Bowlder?"

"I'm givin' good satisfaction, thankye, and all at home. She's in town;

goin' in after her now."

"Give Mrs. Bowlder my regards," said the journalist, comprehending the

symbolism. "How is Hartley?"

The farmer's honest face shaded over, a second. "He's be'n steady ever

sence the night you brought him out home; six weeks straight. I'm kind of

bothered about to-morrow--It's show-day and he wants to come in town with

us, and seems if I hadn't any call to say no. I reckon he'll have to take

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his chances--and us, too." He raised the reins and clucked to the gray

mare; "Well, she'll be mad I ain't there long ago. Ride in with me?"

"No, I thank you. I'll walk in for the sake of my appetite."

"Wouldn't encourage it too much--livin' at the Palace Hotel,'" observed

Bowlder. "Sorry ye won't ride." He gathered the loose ends of the reins in

his hands, leaned far over the dashboard and struck the mare a hearty

thwack; the tattered banner of tail jerked indignantly, but she consented

to move down the road. Bowlder thrust his big head through the sun-curtain

behind him and continued the conversation: "See the White-Caps ain't got

ye yet."

"No, not yet." Harkless laughed.

"Reckon the boys 'druther ye stayed in town after dark," the other called

back; then, as the mare stumbled into a trot, "Well, come out and see us--

if ye kin spare time from the jedge's." The latter clause seemed to be an

afterthought intended with humor, for Bowlder accompanied it with the loud

laughter of sylvan timidity, risking a joke. Harkless nodded without the

least apprehension of his meaning, and waved farewell as Bowlder finally

turned his attention to the mare. When the flop, flop of her hoofs had

died out, the journalist realized that the day was silent no longer; it

was verging into evening.

He dropped from the fence and turned his face toward town and supper. He

felt the light and life about him; heard the clatter of the blackbirds

above him; heard the homing bees hum by, and saw the vista of white road

and level landscape, framed on two sides by the branches of the grove, a

vista of infinitely stretching fields of green, lined here and there with

woodlands and flat to the horizon line, the village lying in their lap. No

roll of meadow, no rise of pasture land, relieved their serenity nor

shouldered up from them to be called a hill. A second great flock of

blackbirds was settling down over the Plattville maples. As they hung in

the fair dome of the sky below the few white clouds, it occurred to

Harkless that some supping god had inadvertently peppered his custard, and

now inverted and emptied his gigantic blue dish upon the earth, the

innumerable little black dots seeming to poise for a moment, then floating

slowly down from the heights.




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