The child feared this innocent
black pool, feared it too much to let it alone; and day by day he would
hang upon the rim with trembling fingers, and search the black, smooth
depths, with all Ophelia's pangs. And to this moment, no rushing river
is half so ministrant to dread as is a still, dull hogshead, where
insects float and fly.
These are our dooryards. I wish we lived in them more; that there were
vines to sing under, and shade enough for the table, with its wheaten
loaf and good farm butter, and its smoking tea. But all that may come
when we give up our frantic haste, and sit down to look, and breathe,
and listen.
A MARCH WIND
When the clouds hung low, or chimneys refused to draw, or the bread
soured over night, a pessimistic public, turning for relief to the
local drama, said that Amelia Titcomb had married a tramp. But as soon
as the heavens smiled again, it was conceded that she must have been
getting lonely in her middle age, and that she had taken the way of
wisdom so to furbish up mansions for the coming years. Whatever was set
down on either side of the page, Amelia did not care. She was
whole-heartedly content with her husband and their farm.
It had happened, one autumn day, that she was trying, all alone, to
clean out the cistern.
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