Villages -- England -- Fiction; Yorkshire (England) -- Fiction
I took the downward road which winds slowly round to Marsland, and
tried to discover the heralds of spring. On such a day everybody
should be an optimist. I think I generally am as regards myself,
whatever the weather may be like, but I must admit that so far I have
had little cause for being anything else. It is only when I begin to
dwell on the miseries of other people, and the wrongs which it seems
impossible to put right, that the black mood settles upon me.
But on this particular day I felt on good terms with the world, and
thought of the sunny days which lay ahead, and of the coming morning,
when the heather bells would feel the warm breath of summer upon their
face, and open their eyes in loving response to her kiss.
And here and there in the shelter of the hedges, and by the banks of
the ice-bound stream where the bridge crosses it I found the heralds I
sought--tiny shoots of green pushing their way through the hard soil or
the warm coverlet of faded leaves. By and by the icy fingers will have
to relax their grasp, and the woods and hedgerows will be gay with the
little fairy creatures, who dress so daintily in colours of a hundred
hues for our enjoyment, and who smile, perhaps, to think what a limited
monarchy King Frost maintains after all.
I am well known by now, and every farmer's boy who passes me exchanges
greetings, sometimes with a half-hearted movement of the hand in the
direction of the cap, but oftener with the smile of recognition which
betokens comradeship. For our relations are on the most cordial
footing of strict equality; we are all workmen, each after his kind,
servants of one Master; and if God gives us grace to use our
opportunities as we ought we may all enter, even now, into the joy of
the Lord. There is a vast difference, as I have learned, between
servility and respectfulness, and I believe I am as much respected as
the squire, though with less reason: and nobody is unduly deferential
even to him.
The good women in the cluster of cottages down the lane waved their
hands as I passed, and a couple of maidens of tender years, one fair,
the other with raven locks, ran out and seized each an arm, and
escorted me a hundred yards along my way.
I sat on the bridge for a while at the foot of the hill, and it may
have been the network of trees in the little wood which hid from my
eyes the approaching storm. For with the suddenness of a panther it
sprang upon me. There had been a fairly stiff breeze at my back, which
had helped me along famously, taking toll of my ears for its fee, but
now, as if its playful humour had been changed to madness, it lashed me
mercilessly with knotted whips of frozen rain.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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