We came to the top of Bowman's Hill and looked down into the little valley, and were both silent.
The Brower farm had run down, as they say in the back country. The
house and stable were in ill repair. Evil days had come to the neat and cleanly fireside, where in the old time Santa Claus had blessed us, and I had heard the cry of the swift and felt the touch of love and sorrow.
The tenant, a man who showed the wear of hard times, put our team in the stable.
“If you'd stayed here,” said he, with a glance at me, “this farm wouldn't 'a' looked as it does now.
“No,” said he; “the farm would 'a' looked better, but he'd 'a' looked a dum sight wuss.”
He cleared his throat, and spoke of the weather as if to soften the blow a little.
I got my tackle ready while the man dug worms for Uncle Eb—an angler
of the bait-and-sinker type. Soon we made our way slowly through the same old cow-path that wavered across the green slope now starred with soft, golden blossoms. It is curious, that conservatism of the cloven hoof, which, like water, follows its old path, having found the way of least resistance. In a few minutes we came near the rotted stump of Lone Pine.
“Hats off!” said Uncle Eb, as he uncovered.
In a second my hat was in my hand; or there, between our feet, was a lonely, half-forgotten grave—that of old Fred. Slowly, silently, we resumed our walk. My venerable friend was breathing hard. I supported him with my arm, and soon we sat down to rest upon a rock. The air was clear and still. There was not a cloud in the sky. A
hawk flew across the flat near us, his white butcher's apron stained with blood. He was flying low, with some small creature in his talons. It made me break the silence, and I said:
“There's a thing that puzzles me—the cruelty that is in all God's creation. It's a great slaughter-house, and everything that lives has the stain of blood upon it.”
“It all teaches us that death ain't o' much account,” said Uncle Eb. “It looks like cruelty, an' most of us think it a curse. Death is a wonderful blessin'—that's the way it looks to me. Why, Bill Brower, ye've died twice already. Fust the child, then the boy, an' each time ye wove a new body. Bym by yer loom is wore out. Got t' go git a new one. Ye'll begin t' feel as if yer body was a kind of a bad fit.