His mother was a half-breed
Creek, with all the propensities of the redskins to fire-water and
'itching palms.' Blood will out."
"Here he is," maliciously whispered the wool-man. "No, it's Holmes," he
added, after the doctor had started into a more respectful posture, and
glanced around frightened.
He, the doctor, rose to meet Holmes's coming footstep,--"a low fellah,
but always sure to be the upper dog in the fight, goin' to marry the
best catch," etc., etc. The others, on the contrary, put on their hats
and sauntered away into the street.
So the day broadened hotly; the shadows of the Lombardy poplars curdling
up into a sluggish pool of black at their roots along the dry gutters.
The old schoolmaster in the shade of the great horse-chestnuts (brought
from the homestead in the Piedmont country, every one) husked corn for
his wife, composing, meanwhile, a page of his essay on the "Sirventes
de Bertrand de Born." The day passed for him as did his life, half in
simple-hearted deed, half in vague visions of a dead world, never to be
real again. Joel, up in the barn by himself, worked through the long day
in the old fashion,--pondering gravely (being of a religious turn) upon
a sermon by the Reverend Mr.
Pages:
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245