The despot of Broomsedge CoveCraddock, Charles Egbert
General
The despot of Broomsedge Cove
Craddock, Charles Egbert
Mountain life -- Fiction; Tennessee -- Fiction
Outside the world took its way, unheeding, down the oft-trodden course
of the year. The dank mists clung long to range and valley. They lifted
at last, and then the torrents of the recent storm seemed to have been
charged with pigments, for bold dashes of color, of red, of a luminous
yellow, accented yet tempered by intervals of purplish and bronze
intimations, emblazoned the mountain-side, where a monotony of summer
greenth had lately held sway. The sun, coming again with a fluctuating
brilliancy, with far-reaching misty refractions, and anon diaphanous
veilings, to displace the surly usurpations of the grimmer gray elements,
found a responsive glow in the sudden enrichment of the world. The
far-away ranges had acquired a new charm of azure, an exquisitely pure
tone, but of a dull, unglossy softness, all unlike the enameled blue of
the great crystalline sky. The air was pervaded by a fine aroma. The
wind had wings: one could sometimes see the shadows of these subtle,
swift invisibilities flutter in the cloudless sunshine, so vaguely that
before a glance might seek to measure an airy pinion the fleet thing
was gone. Enchantment boldly wandered forth into the broad daylight,
and all lavish splendors were vagrant. In every fence corner, the lush
grasses and weeds, heavy with seeds, were bepainted with a brush full of
color,—amber, and brown, and red; even the cobwebs, gossamer and silver
in the sun, hung from rail to rail upon the old fences, and bedizened
their gaunt homeliness with a delicate fibrous grace. Oh, gone was the
summer, and it would come no more, however the recurrent season might
wear its similitude. Marcella was living her life out; she was not the
light-hearted creature that the spring had found her. She felt that she
was older by many summers, and she did not need Andy Longwood to tell her
so.
“Ye hev got ter be ez solemn ez—I dunno what all. An’ ye used ter laff,
an’ laff, an’ laff. Now ye can’t crack a joke ter save yer life. An’ ef
ennybody else gits ter funnin’, ye don’t pay no ’tention ter what they
say.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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