The Literary World Seventh Reader Part 13

"I'll sit here on the log with you," she said. "You don't need to dust it!" she went on, tremulously. And even then he did not know who she was.

There was a silence, for if the dazzled young man could have spoken at all, he could have found nothing to say; and, perhaps, the lady would not trust her own voice just then. His eyes had fallen again; he was too dazed, and, in truth, too panic-stricken now, to look at her. She was seated beside him and had handed him her parasol in a little way which seemed to imply that, of course, he had reached for it, so that it was to be seen how used she was to have all such things done for her. He saw that he was expected to furl the dainty thing; he pressed the catch and let down the top timidly, as if fearing to break or tear it; and, as it closed, held near his face, he caught a very faint, sweet, spicy [v]emanation from it like wild roses and cinnamon.

"Do you know me?" asked the lady at last.

For answer he could only stare at her, dumfounded; he lifted an unsteady hand toward her appealingly. Her manner underwent an April change. She drew back lightly; he was favored with the most delicious low laugh he had ever heard.

"I'm glad you're the same, Joe!" she said. "I'm glad you're the same, and I'm glad I've changed, though that isn't why you have forgotten me."

He arose uncertainly and took three or four backward steps from her. She sat before him, radiant with laughter, the loveliest creature he had ever seen; but between him and this charming vision there swept, through the warm, scented June air, the dim picture of a veranda all in darkness and the faint music of violins.

_"Ariel Tabor!"_

"Isn't it about time you were recognizing me?" she said.

Sensations were rare in staid, dull, commonplace Canaan, but this fine Sunday morning the town was treated to one of the most memorable sensations in its history. The town, all except Joe Louden, had known for weeks that Ariel Tabor was coming home from abroad, but it had not seen her. And when she walked along the street with Joe, past the Sunday church-returning crowds, it is not quite truth to say that all except the children came to a dead halt, but it is not very far from it. The air was thick with subdued exclamations and whisperings.

Joe had not known her. The women recognized her, [v]infallibly, at first sight; even those who had quite forgotten her. And the women told their men. Hence the un-Sunday-like demeanor of the procession, for few towns held it more unseemly to stand and stare at pa.s.sers-by, especially on the Sabbath. But Ariel Tabor had returned.

A low but increasing murmur followed the two as they proceeded. It ran up the street ahead of them; people turned to look back and paused, so that Ariel and Joe had to walk round one or two groups. They had, also, to walk round Norbert Flitcroft, which was very like walking round a group. Mr. Flitcroft was one of the few (he was waddling home alone) who did not identify Miss Tabor, and her effect upon him was extraordinary. His mouth opened and he gazed [v]stodgily, his widening eyes like sun-dogs coming out of a fog. Mr. Flitcroft experienced a few moments of trance; came out of it stricken through and through; felt nervously of his tie; resolutely fell in behind, and followed, at a distance of some forty paces, determined to learn what household this heavenly visitor honored, and thrilling with the intention to please that same household with his own presence as soon and as often as possible.

Ariel flushed a little when she perceived the extent of their conspicuousness; but it was not the blush that Joe remembered had reddened the tanned skin of old; for her brownness had gone long ago, though it had not left her merely pink and white. There was a delicate rosiness rising from her cheeks to her temples, as the earliest dawn rises.

Joe kept trying to realize that this lady of wonder was Ariel Tabor, but he could not; he could not connect the shabby Ariel, whom he had treated as one boy treats another, with this young woman of the world. Although he had only a dim perception of the staring and whispering which greeted and followed them, Ariel, of course, was thoroughly aware of it, though the only sign she gave was the slight blush, which very soon disappeared.

Ariel paused before the impressive front of Judge Pike's large mansion.

Joe's face expressed surprise.

"Don't you know?" she said. "I'm staying here. Judge Pike has charge of all my property. Come to see me this afternoon."

With a last charming smile, Ariel turned and left the dazed young man on the sidewalk.

That walk was but the beginning of her triumph. Judge Pike's of a summer afternoon was the swirling social center of Canaan, but on that particular Sunday afternoon every unattached male in the town who possessed the privilege of calling at the big house appeared. They filled the chairs in the wide old-fashioned hall where Ariel received them, and overpoured on the broad steps of the old-fashioned spiral staircase, where Mr. Flitcroft, on account of his size, occupied two steps and a portion of a third. And Ariel was the center of it all!

BOOTH TARKINGTON.

=HELPS TO STUDY=

I. Describe Ariel's pitiful attempts at beautifying herself when dressing for the dance. When did she realize her failure? How were her antic.i.p.ations of the dance realized? What kind of girl was Mamie Pike? Give reasons for your answer. At what point were you most sorry for Ariel? With what startling news did the evening end?

II. Give an account of the meeting between the old playmates.

Describe the scenes as they walked along the street. What do you think was the greatest part of Ariel's "triumph?" Was she spoiled by her wealth? How do you know?

SUPPLEMENTARY READING

Little Women--Louisa M. Alcott.

Pride and Prejudice--Jane Austen.

FOOTNOTE:

[141-*] Copyright by Harper & Brothers.

THE CLOUD

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under; And then again I dissolve it in rain; And laugh as I pa.s.s in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast; And all the night 'tis my pillow white, While I sleep in the arms of the blast.

Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers Lightning, my pilot, sits; In a cavern under is fettered the thunder; It struggles and howls at fits.

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, This pilot is guiding me, Lured by the love of the [v]genii that move In the depths of the purple sea; Over the rills and the crags and the hills, Over the lakes and the plains, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream.

The spirit he loves remains; And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

I am the daughter of the earth and water, And the nursling of the sky; I pa.s.s through the pores of the ocean and sh.o.r.es; I change, but I cannot die.

For after the rain, when, with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air,-- I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, I rise and unbuild it again.

PERCY BYSSHE Sh.e.l.lEY.

=HELPS TO STUDY=

Make a list of the things the cloud does. Read aloud the lines in which the poet tells of each of these. Why is lightning spoken of as the pilot of the cloud? Where does it sit? Where is the thunder?

How is the cloud "the daughter of the earth and water"? How "a nursling of the sky"? Explain "I change, but I cannot die." A cenotaph is a memorial built to one who is buried elsewhere. Why should the clear sky be the cloud's cenotaph? How does the reappearing of the cloud unbuild it?

NEW ENGLAND WEATHER

There is a [v]sumptuous variety about the New England weather that compels the stranger's admiration--and regret. The weather is always doing something there; always attending strictly to business; always getting up new designs and trying them on the people to see how they will go. But it gets through more business in spring than in any other season. In the spring I have counted one hundred and thirty-six different kinds of weather within four and twenty hours. It was I who made the fame and fortune of the man who had that marvelous collection of weather on exhibition at the Centennial, which so astounded the foreigners. He was going to travel around the world and get specimens from all climes. I said, "Don't do it; just come to New England on a favorable spring day." I told him what we could do in the way of style, variety, and quant.i.ty. Well, he came, and he made his collection in four days. As to variety, he confessed that he got hundreds of kinds of weather that he had never heard of before. And as to quant.i.ty, after he had picked out and discarded all that was blemished in any way, he not only had weather enough, but weather to spare, weather to hire out, weather to sell, weather to deposit, weather to invest, and weather to give to the poor.

Old Probabilities has a mighty reputation for accurate prophecy and thoroughly deserves it. You take up the paper and observe how crisply and confidently he checks off what to-day's weather is going to be on the Pacific, down South, in the Middle States, in the Wisconsin region.

See him sail along in the joy and pride of his power till he gets to New England, and then see his tail drop. _He_ doesn't know what the weather is going to be in New England. Well, he mulls over it, and by and by he gets out something like this: "Probable northeast to southwest winds, varying to the southward and westward and eastward and points between; high and low barometer, swapping around from place to place; probable areas of rain, snow, hail, and drought, succeeded or preceded by earthquakes with thunder and lightning." Then he jots down this postscript from his wandering mind, to cover accidents: "But it is possible that the program may be wholly changed in the meantime." Yes, one of the brightest gems in the New England weather is the dazzling uncertainty of it. There is certain to be plenty of weather, but you never can tell which end of the procession is going to move first.

But, after all, there are at least two or three things about that weather (or, if you please, the effects produced by it) which we residents would not like to part with. If we hadn't our bewitching autumn foliage, we should still have to credit the weather with one feature which compensates for all its bullying vagaries--the ice storm.

Every bough and twig is strung with ice beads, frozen dewdrops, and the whole tree sparkles cold and white like the [v]Shah of Persia's diamond plume. Then the wind waves the branches, and the sun comes out and turns all those myriads of beads and drops to prisms that glow and burn and flash with all manner of colored fires; which change and change again, with inconceivable rapidity, from blue to red, from red to green, and green to gold. The tree becomes a spraying fountain, a very explosion of dazzling jewels, and it stands there the [v]acme, the climax, the supremest possibility in art or nature, of bewildering, intoxicating, intolerable magnificence. One cannot make the words too strong. Month after month I lay up hate and grudge against the New England weather; but when the ice storm comes at last I say: "There, I forgive you now; you are the most enchanting weather in the world."

MARK TWAIN.