Oh, the independence of it! To be able to do everything, and with love
of it, knowing no high or low of work--all of it honor, and no shame in
any of it! It is the surroundings that develop the manhood. Was I
working for myself? Was I working for any other man or person? No, it
was for all of us that I did it. Did I and we not have the example of
great minds and greater hearts? We did. One day whilst the shop was
erecting, our mason, who was on the roof building the chimney, was
waiting for his helper, who had not returned from his dinner or had
been called away; and as he wanted bricks very much, I carried some
hodsful up the ladder to him in the genuine Emeraldic fashion.
(Arise not from shades profound, to frown on me, Abraham, thou honest
"_Rail Splitter_!" Arise not, warlike, Ulysses, thou
"_Tanner_." Hide thyself away! Shake not thy cottony locks at me,
thou pale-faced "_Bobbin Boy_!" Be not too jealous of your unique
titles. I shall never aspire to so glorious a one as "_Hod
Carrier_." I have not earned it. I did it but once, and shall never
do it again! Rest easy!)
And now, at eventide, whilst the Solons of the little commonwealth were
making laws, solving problems and building defences against the common
enemy--the wolf of penury and hunger--I was sitting on the steps or on
the low window-sills at the Eyry, meditating and thinking ever of the
beautiful things with which I was surrounded; thinking of the glowworms
I found in the path to Cow Island, their wonderful beauty, and how like
illuminated pearls were their tiny lamps, and when I touched them how
they rolled themselves into a coil that resembled the pin of pearls my
mother wore on her bosom, only they were more beautiful; thinking that
their lights translated into words were even more beautiful than their
phosphorescent hues, for they said, "Come to me, my love!"
I was thinking of the bobolinks that twittered and sung, and seemed to
tumble upward as well as downward in the air over the waving grass on
the meadow; or I heard behind in the dim oak woods the whip-lash sound
of the notes of the whippoorwill, repeated a hundred times on the air,
while the round face of the moon looked down and made the shadows of
the trees and the forest grow deeper and darker.
Pages:
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284