Black's stove. Out of the kitchen door, under the
green hood of the back porch, and he was afield, and the day had him
fast. He did not belong any more to his aspirations, to his high and
noble ambitions, to his steadfast purpose in life. He belonged to the
spring of the planet from which his animal life had sprung. Young
Wesley Elliot became one with June, with eternal youth, with joy
which escapes care, with the present which has nothing to do with the
past or the future, with that day sufficient unto itself, that day
dangerous for those whose feet are held fast by the toils of the
years.
Wesley sped across a field which was like a field of green glory. He
saw a hollow like a nest, blue with violets, and all his thoughts
leaped with irresponsive joy. He crossed a brook on rocky stones, as
if he were crossing a song. A bird sang in perfect tune with his
mood. He was bound for a place which had a romantic interest for him:
the unoccupied parsonage, which he could occupy were he supplied with
a salary and had a wife. He loved to sit on the back veranda and
dream. Sometimes he had company. Brookville was a hot little village,
with a long line of hills cutting off the south wind, but on that
back veranda of the old parsonage there was always a breeze.
Sometimes it seemed mysterious to Wesley, that breeze. It never
failed in the hottest days. Now that the parsonage was vacant, women
often came there with their needlework of an afternoon, and sat and
sewed and chatted.
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