Well, most men have some plan of life, into which all the
strength and the keen, fine feeling of their nature enter; but
generally they try to make it real in early youth, and, balked
then, laugh ever afterwards at their own folly. This poor old
Knowles had begun to block out his dream when he was a gaunt,
gray-haired man of sixty. I have known men so build their
heart's blood, and brains into their work, that, when it tumbled
down, their lives went with it. His fell that dull day in
October; but if it hurt him, no man knew it. He sat there,
looking at the broad plateau, whistling softly to himself, a long
time. He had meant that a great many hearts should be made
better and happier there; he had dreamed----God knows what he had
dreamed, of which this reality was the foundation,--of how much
world-freedom, or beauty, or kindly life this was the heart or
seed. It was all over now. All the afternoon the muddy sky hung
low over the hills and dull prairie, while he sat there looking
at the dingy gloom: just as you and I have done, perhaps, some
time, thwarted in some true hope,--sore and bitter against God,
because He did not see how much His universe needed our pet
reform.
He got up at last, and without a sigh went slowly away, leaving
the courage and self-reliance of his life behind him, buried with
that one beautiful, fair dream of life. He never came back
again. People said Knowles was quieter since his loss; but I
think only God saw the depth of the difference.
Pages:
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161