"You are the son of Justice McElroy, of the Stone Church neighborhood, I suppose, Captain? The name is not a common one even in your valley of Macs."
"Once when you were a lad I dined at your house; you scarcely remember the occasion, I suppose?"
"Perfectly, sir, and I should have recognized you anywhere. We cherish with pride the memory of your visit."
Mr. Jefferson was evidently pleased--few men are so great as to be indifferent to appreciation.
"By the way, Clark," continued Mr. Jefferson, "the ex-scout hermit we were talking of this morning lives on McElroy's direct homeward route, near the top of the south slope of the mountain between Monticello and Staunton. It might be well to engage McElroy to see him; that would save delay and me a journey at a busy season."
"I am at your service, Mr. Jefferson," spoke I. Then made my bow and left them. They might wish to talk matters over before taking me further into their confidence.
That ride with Mr. Jefferson, and the day I spent at Monticello, have still a pleasant flavor in retrospect. Mr. Jefferson's urbanity matched his delightful conversation, and my pleasure in his condescension and his intellectual charm gave him evident satisfaction.
Part of our way lay through the forest, and one could hear the oozing sap, mounting upward into the yet leafless branches interlaced above us. The graceful, clean-limbed maples had strung themselves with strand after strand of glowing coral leaf buds, and the white trunked cotton woods were hung thickly with a soft pinkish brown fringe, while each branch of the laurel, the dogwood and the ivy shrubs bulged with close folded gray green buds--big with promise of leaf and blossom. The rich loam under our horses' feet was cracked open here and there, making tiny winrows of the rotted leaves, where reawakened roots of fern or flower were pushing upward with divine instinct for life and sunshine. From sunny dell's slope, and the southern side of oak and locust trees, rose nature's incense--the breath of purple violets, of white anemones, and flushed arbutus blossoms, floating intermittently upon the whimsical zephyrs of a balmy day in March.
Sudden bursts of rapture, or shrill, happy calls from vibrant throats of robin, and wren, cat bird and oriole, red bird and yellow hammer, mocking bird and blue jay, rang from treetop to treetop, and the fluttering of busy wings, and the important chirruping and twittering of the nest builders, told that the birds, too, recognized the many hints of coming spring, and were all of a spirit with the mounting sap, and the promise-breathing perfume of violet and arbutus buds.