Major

Ralph Connor

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pubOne.info present you this new edition. Spring had come. Despite the many wet and gusty days which April had thrust in rude challenge upon reluctant May, in the glory of the triumphant sun which flooded the concave blue of heaven and the myriad shaded green of earth, the whole world knew to-day, the whole world proclaimed that spring had come. The yearly miracle had been performed. The leaves of the maple trees lining the village street unbound from their winter casings, the violets that lifted brave blue eyes from the vivid grass carpeting the roadside banks, the cherry and plum blossoms in the orchards decking the still leafless trees with their pink and white favours, the timid grain tingeing with green the brown fields that ran up to the village street on every side- all shouted in chorus that spring had come. And all the things with new blood running wild in their veins, the lambs of a few days still wobbly on ridiculous legs skipping over and upon the huge boulders in farmer Martin's meadow, the birds thronging the orchard trees, the humming insects rioting in the genial sun, all of them gave token of strange new impulses calling for something more than mere living because spring had come

Informations

• Publié par: Pub One Info
• Date de parution: 06 novembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9782819947066
• Langue: English

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THE MAJOR
By Ralph Connor
THE MAJOR
CHAPTER I
THE COWARD
Spring had come. Despite the many wet and gusty dayswhich April had thrust in rude challenge upon reluctant May, in theglory of the triumphant sun which flooded the concave blue ofheaven and the myriad shaded green of earth, the whole world knewto-day, the whole world proclaimed that spring had come. The yearlymiracle had been performed. The leaves of the maple trees liningthe village street unbound from their winter casings, the violetsthat lifted brave blue eyes from the vivid grass carpeting theroadside banks, the cherry and plum blossoms in the orchardsdecking the still leafless trees with their pink and white favours,the timid grain tingeing with green the brown fields that ran up tothe village street on every side— all shouted in chorus that springhad come. And all the things with new blood running wild in theirveins, the lambs of a few days still wobbly on ridiculous legsskipping over and upon the huge boulders in farmer Martin's meadow,the birds thronging the orchard trees, the humming insects riotingin the genial sun, all of them gave token of strange new impulsescalling for something more than mere living because spring hadcome.
Upon the topmost tip of the taller of the twinpoplars that flanked the picket gate opening upon the Gwynnes'little garden sat a robin, his head thrown back to give full throatto the song that was like to burst his heart, monotonous,unceasing, rapturous. On the door step of the Gwynnes' house,arrested on the threshold by the robin's song, stood the Gwynne boyof ten years, his eager face uplifted, himself poised like a birdfor flight.
“Law-r-ence, ” clear as a bird call came the voicefrom within.
“Mo-th-er, ” rang the boy's voice in reply, high,joyous and shrill.
“Ear-ly! Remember! ”
“Ri-ght a-way af-ter school. Good-bye, mo-ther,dear, ” called the boy.
“W-a-i-t, ” came the clear, birdlike call again, andin a moment the mother came running, stood beside the boy, andfollowed his eye to the robin on the poplar tree. “A brave littlebird, ” she said. “That is the way to meet the day, with a braveheart and a bright song. Goodbye, boy. ” She kissed him as shespoke, giving him a slight pat on the shoulder. “Away you go. ”
But the boy stood fascinated by the bird sogallantly facing his day. His mother's words awoke in him a strangefeeling. “A brave heart and a bright song”— so the knights in thebrave days of old, according to his Stories of the Round Table,were wont to go forth. In imitation of the bird, the boy threw backhis head, and with another cheery good-bye to his mother, sprangclear of the steps and ran down the grass edged path, through thegate and out onto the village street. There he stood first lookingup the country road which in the village became a street. There wasnothing to be seen except that in the Martin orchard “Ol' Martin”was working with his team under the trees which came in rows downto the road. Finding nothing to interest him there, he turnedtoward the village and his eyes searched the street. Opposite theGwynnes' gate, Dr. Bush's house stood back among the trees, butthere was no sign of life about it. Further down on the same sideof the street, the Widow Martin's cottage, with porch vine coveredand windows bright with flowers, hid itself under a great spreadingmaple. In front of the cottage the Widow Martin herself was busy inthe garden. He liked the Widow Martin but found her notsufficiently exciting to hold him this spring morning. A vacant lotor two and still on the same side came the blacksmith's shop justat the crossroads, and across the street from it his father'sstore. But neither at the blacksmith's shop nor at the store acrossfrom it was there anything to awaken even a passing interest. Somefarmers' teams and dogs, Pat Larkin's milk wagon with its load ofgreat cans on its way to the cheese factory and some strayvillagers here and there upon the street intent upon theirbusiness. Up the street his eye travelled beyond the crossroadswhere stood on the left Cheatley's butcher shop and on the rightMcKenny's hotel with attached sheds and outhouses. Over the bridgeand up the hill the street went straight away, past the stone builtEpiscopal Church whose spire lifted itself above the maple trees,past the Rectory, solid, square and built of stone, past the millstanding on the right back from the street beside the dam, over thehill, and so disappeared. The whole village seemed asleep anddreaming among its maple trees in the bright sunlight.
Throwing another glance at the robin still singingon the treetop overhead, the boy took from his pocket amouth-organ, threw back his head, squared his elbows out from hissides to give him the lung room he needed, and in obedience to asharp word of command after a preliminary tum, tum, tum, struck upthe ancient triumph hymn in memory of that hero of the undergroundrailroad by which so many slaves of the South in bygone days madetheir escape “up No'th” to Canada and to freedom.
“Glory, glory, hallelujah, his soul goes marchingon. ” By means of “double-tongueing, ” a recently acquiredaccomplishment, he was able to give a full brass band effect to hishymn of freedom. Many villagers from door or window cast a kindlyand admiring eye upon the gallant little figure stepping to his ownmusic down the street. He was brass band, conductor, brigadiergeneral all in one, and behind him marched an army of heroes offfor war and deathless glory, invisible and invincible. To the WidowMartin as he swung past the leader flung a wave of his hand. With atender light in her old eyes the Widow Martin waved back at him.“God bless his bright face, ” she murmured, pausing in her work towatch the upright little figure as he passed along. At theblacksmith's shop the band paused.
Tink, tink, tink, tink,
Tink, tink-a-tink-tink-tink.
Tink tink, tink, tink,
Tink, tink-a-tink-tink-tink.
The conductor graduated the tempo so as to includethe rhythmic beat of the hammer with the other instruments in hisband. The blacksmith looked, smiled and let his hammer fall inconsonance with the beat of the boy's hand, and for some momentsthere was glorious harmony between anvil and mouth organ and theband invisible. At the store door across the street the band pausedlong enough simply to give and receive an answering salute from thestorekeeper, who smiled upon his boy as he marched past. At thecrossroads the band paused, marking time. There was evidently amomentary uncertainty in the leader's mind as to direction. Theroad to the right led straight, direct, but treeless, dusty,uninviting, to the school. It held no lure for the leader and hisknightly following. Further on a path led in a curve under shadytrees and away from the street. It made the way to school longer,but the lure of the curving, shady path was irresistible. Stillstepping bravely to the old abolitionist hymn, the procession movedalong, swung into the path under the trees and suddenly came to ahalt. With a magnificent flourish the band concluded its triumphanthymn and with the conductor and brigadier the whole brigade stoodrigidly at attention. The cause of this sudden halt was to be seenat the foot of a maple tree in the person of a fat lump of goodnatured boy flesh supine upon the ground.
“Hello, Joe; coming to school? ”
“Ugh, ” grunted Joe, from the repose of limitlesscalm.
“Come on, then, quick, march. ” Once more the bandstruck up its hymn.
“Hol' on, Larry, it's plenty tam again, ” said Joe.The band came to a stop. “I don' lak dat school me, ” he continued,still immersed in calm.
Joe's struggles with an English education wereindeed tragically pathetic. His attempts with aspirates were acontinual humiliation to himself and a joy to the whole school. Nowonder he “no lak dat school. ” Besides, Joe was a creature of theopen fields. His French Canadian father, Joe Gagneau, “Ol' Joe, ”was a survival of a bygone age, the glorious golden age of theriver and the bush, of the shanty and the raft, of the axe and thegun, the age of Canadian romance, of daring deed, of wildadventure.
“An' it ees half-hour too queek, ” persisted Joe.“Come on hup to de dam. ” A little worn path invited their feetfrom the curving road, and following their feet, they foundthemselves upon a steep embankment which dammed the waters into apond that formed the driving power for the grist mill standingnear. At the farther end of the pond a cedar bush interposed abarrier to the sight and suggested mysterious things beyond. Backof the cedar barrier a woods of great trees, spruce, balsam, withtall elms and maples on the higher ground beyond, offered deepermysteries and delights unutterable. They knew well the cedar swampand the woods beyond. Partridges drummed there, rabbits dartedalong their beaten runways, and Joe had seen a woodcock, thatshyest of all shy birds, disappear in glancing, shadowy flight, aghostly, silent denizen of the ghostly, silent spaces of theforest. Even as they gazed upon that inviting line of woods, theboys could see and hear the bluejays flash in swift flight fromtree to tree and scream their joy of rage and love. From thefarther side of the pond two boys put out in a flat-bottomedboat.
“There's big Ben and Mop, ” cried Larry eagerly.“Hello, Ben, ” he called across the pond. “Goin' to school? ”
“Yap, ” cried Mop, so denominated from the quantityand cut of the hair that crowned his head. Ben was at the oarswhich creaked and thumped between the pins, but were steadilydriving the snub-nosed craft on its toilsome way past the boys.
“Hello, Ben, ” cried Larry. “Take us in too. ”
“All right, ” said Ben, heading the boat for thebank. “Let me take an oar, Ben, ” said Larry, whose experience uponthe world of waters was not any too wide.
“Here, where you goin', ” cried Mop, as the boatslowly but surely pointed toward the cedars. “You stop pulling,Ben. Now, Larry, pull around again. There now, she's right. Pull,Ben. ” But Ben