She could not help enjoying it, for the poet's pen painted as well as wrote, and the little romance lived before her, but she was not thinking of John Keats as she listened; she was wondering if this cousin was a kindred spirit, born to make such music and leave as sweet an echo behind him.
It seemed as if it might be; and, after going through the rough caterpillar and the pent-up chrysalis changes, the beautiful butterfly would appear to astonish and delight them all.So full of this fancy was she that she never thanked him when the story ended but, leaning forward, asked in a tone that made him start and look as if he had fallen from the clouds:
"Mac, do you ever write poetry?"
"Never."
"What do you call the song Phebe sang with her bird chorus?""That was nothing till she put the music to it.But she promised not to tell.""She didn't.I suspected, and now I know," laughed Rose, delighted to have caught him.
Much discomfited, Mac gave poor Keats a fling and, leaning on both elbows, tried to hide his face for it had reddened like that of a modest girl when teased about her lover.
"You needn't look so guilty; it is no sin to write poetry," said Rose, amused at his confession.
"It's a sin to call that rubbish poetry," muttered Mac with great scorn.
"It is a greater sin to tell a fib and say you never write it.""Reading so much sets one thinking about such things, and every fellow scribbles a little jingle when he is lazy or in love, you know," explained Mac, looking very guilty.
Rose could not quite understand the change she saw in him till his last words suggested a cause which she knew by experience was apt to inspire young men.Leaning forward again, she asked solemnly, though her eyes danced with fun, "Mac, are you in love?""Do I look like it?" And he sat up with such an injured and indignant face that she apologized at once, for he certainly did not look loverlike with hayseed in his hair, several lively crickets playing leapfrog over his back, and a pair of long legs stretching from tree to haycock.
"No, you don't, and I humbly beg your pardon for ****** such an unwarrantable insinuation.It merely occurred to me that the general upliftedness I observe in you might be owing to that, since it wasn't poetry.""It is the good company I've been keeping, if anything.A fellow can't spend 'A Week' with Thoreau and not be the better for it.I'm glad I show it, because in the scramble life is to most of us, even an hour with such a sane, ******, and sagacious soul as his must help one," said Mac, taking a much worn book out of his pocket with the air of introducing a dear and honored friend.
"I've read bits, and like themthey are so original and fresh and sometimes droll," said Rose, smiling to see what natural and appropriate marks of approbation the elements seemed to set upon the pages Mac was turning eagerly, for one had evidently been rained on, a crushed berry stained another, some appreciative field-mouse or squirrel had nibbled one corner, and the cover was faded with the sunshine, which seemed to have filtered through to the thoughts within.
"Here's a characteristic bit for you: 'I would rather sit on a pumpkin, and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion.I would rather ride on earth in an oxcart, with free circulation, than go to heaven in the fancy car of an excursion train, and breathe malaria all the way.'
"I've tried both and quite agree with him," laughed Mac, and skimming down another page, gave her a paragraph here and there.
" 'Read the best books first, or you may not have a chance to read them at all.'
" 'We do not learn much from learned books, but from sincere human books:
frank, honest biographies.'
" 'At least let us have healthy books.Let the poet be as vigorous as the sugar maple, with sap enough to maintain his own verdure, besides what runs into the trough; and not like a vine which, being cut in the spring, bears no fruit, but bleeds to death in the endeavor to heal its wounds.'
"
"That will do for you," said Rose, still thinking of the new suspicion which pleased her by its very improbability.
Mac flashed a quick look at her and shut the book, saying quietly, although his eyes shone, and a conscious smile lurked about his mouth: "We shall see, and no one need meddle, for, as my Thoreau says, "Whate'er we leave to God, God does And blesses us:
The work we choose should be our own God lets alone." Rose sat silent, as if conscious that she deserved his poetical reproof.
"Come, you have catechized me pretty well; now I'll take my turn and ask you why you look 'uplifted,' as you call it.What have you been doing to make yourself more like your namesake than ever?" asked Mac, carrying war into the enemy's camp with the sudden question.
"Nothing but live, and enjoy doing it.I actually sit here, day after day, as happy and contented with little things as Dulce is and feel as if I wasn't much older than she," answered the girl, feeling as if some change was going on in that pleasant sort of pause but unable to describe it."As if a rose should shut and be a bud again,"murmured Mac, borrowing from his beloved Keats.
"Ah, but I can't do that! I must go on blooming whether I like it or not, and the only trouble I have is to know what leaf I ought to unfold next," said Rose, playfully smoothing out the white gown, in which she looked very like a daisy among the green.
"How far have you got?" asked Mac, continuing his catechi** as if the fancy suited him.
"Let me see.Since I came home last year, I've been gay, then sad, then busy, and now I am simply happy.I don't know why, but seem to be waiting for what is to come next and getting ready for it, perhaps unconsciously,"she said, looking dreamily away to the hills again, is if the new experience was coming to her from afar.
Mac watched her thoughtfully for a minute, wondering how many more leaves must unfold before the golden heart of this human flower would lie open to the sun.He felt a curious desire to help in some way, and could think of none better than to offer her what he had found most helpful to himself.
