United States -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
The tone at first seemed muffled, but had a curious bite, that began in
distant echoes, but after a few minutes’ playing grew firmer and clearer,
ringing out at last with velvety richness and strength until the
atmosphere was satiated with harmony. No more ethereal note ever flew
out of a bird’s throat than Anthony Croft set free from this violin, his
_liebling_, his “swan song,” made in the year he had lost his eyesight.
Anthony Croft had been the only son of his mother, and she a widow. His
boyhood had been exactly like that of all the other boys in Edgewood,
save that he hated school a trifle more, if possible, than any of the
others; though there was a unanimity of aversion in this matter that
surprised and wounded teachers and parents.
The school was the ordinary district school of that time; there were not
enough scholars for what Cyse Higgins called a “degraded” school. The
difference between Anthony and the other boys lay in the reason for as
well as the degree of his abhorrence.
He had come into the world a naked, starving human soul; he longed to
clothe himself, and he was hungry and ever hungrier for knowledge; but
never within the four walls of the village schoolhouse could he seize
hold of one fact that would yield him its secret sense, one glimpse of
clear light that would shine in upon the darkness of his mind, one
thought or word that would feed his soul.
The only place where his longings were ever stilled, where he seemed at
peace with himself, where he understood what he was made for, was out of
doors in the woods. When he should have been poring over the sweet,
palpitating mysteries of the multiplication table, his vagrant gaze was
always on the open window near which he sat. He could never study when a
fly buzzed on the window-pane; he was always standing on the toes of his
bare feet, trying to locate and understand the buzz that puzzled him.
The book was a mute, soulless thing that had no relation to his inner
world of thought and feeling. He turned ever from the dead
seven-times-six to the mystery of life about him.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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