Chapter XXII
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I trust that my readers have not cluded from the preg chapter on books that reading is my only pleasure; my pleasures and amusements are many and varied.More than on the course of my story I have referred to my love of the try and out-of-door sports.
When I was quite a little girl, I learo row and swim, and during the summer, when I am at Wrentham, Massachusetts, I almost live in my boat. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than to take my friends out rowing when they visit me. Of course, I ot guide the boat very well. Some one usually sits iern and mahe rudder while I row. Sometimes, however, I go rowing without the rudder. It is fun to try to steer by the st of watergrasses and lilies, and of bushes that grow on the shore. I use oars with leather bands, which keep them in position in the oarlocks, and I know by the resistance of the water when the oars are evenly poised. In the same manner I also tell when I am pulling against the current. I like to tend with wind and wave. What is more exhilarating than to make your staunch little boat, obedient to your will and muscle, go skimming lightly listening, tilting waves, and to feel the steady, imperious surge of the water!
I also enjoy oeing, and I suppose you will smile when I say that I especially like it on moonlight nights. I ot, it is true, see the moon climb up the sky behind the pines and steal softly across the heavens, making a shining path for us to follow; but I know she is there, and as I lie back among the pillout my hand ier, I fancy that I feel the shimmer of her garments as she passes. Sometimes a daring little fish slips between my fingers, and often a pond-lily presses shyly against my hand. Frequently, as we emerge from the shelter of a cove or i, I am suddenly scious of the spaciousness of the air about me. A luminous warmth seems to enfold me. Whether it es from the trees which have beeed by the sun, or from the water, I ever discover. I have had the same strange sensation even in the heart of the city. I have felt it on cold, stormy days and at night. It is like the kiss of warm lips on my face.
My favourite amusement is sailing. In the summer of 1901 I visited Nova Scotia, and had opportunities such as I had not enjoyed before to make the acquaintance of the o. After spending a few days in Evangelines try, about which Longfellows beautiful poem has woven a spell of entment, Miss Sullivan and I went to Halifax, where we remaihe greater part of the summer. The harbour was our joy, our paradise.
What glorious sails we had to Bedford Basin, to Mabbs Island, to York Redoubt, and to the Northwest Arm! And at night what soothing, wondrous hours we spent in the shadow of the great, silent men-of-war. Oh, it was all so iing, so beautiful! The memory of it is a joy forever.
One day we had a thrilling experiehere was a regatta in the Northwest Arm, in which the boats from the different warships were engaged. We went in a sail-boat along with many others to watch the races. Hundreds of little sail-boats swung to and fro close by, and the sea was calm. When the races were over, aurned our faces homeward, one of the party noticed a black cloud drifting in from the sea, which grew and spread and thied until it covered the whole sky. The wind rose, and the waves chopped angrily at unseen barriers. Our little boat frohe gale fearlessly; with sails spread and ropes taut, she seemed to sit upon the wind. Now she swirled in the billows, now she spring upward on a gigantic wave, only to be driven down with angry howl and hiss. Down came the mainsail. Tag and jibbing, we wrestled with opposing winds that drove us from side to side with impetuous fury. Our hearts beat fast, and our hands trembled with excitement, not fear, for we had the hearts of vikings, and we khat our skipper was master of the situation. He had steered through many a storm with firm hand and sea-wise eye. As they passed us, the large craft and the gunboats in the harbour saluted and the seamen shouted applause for the master of the only little sail-boat that ventured out into the storm. At last, cold, hungry and weary, we reached our pier.
Last summer I spent in one of the loveliest nooks of one of the most charming villages in New England.
Wrentham, Massachusetts, is associated with nearly all of my joys and sorrows. For many years Red Farm, by King Philips Pond, the home of Mr. J. E. Chamberlin and his family, was my home. I remember with deepest
gratitude the kindness of these dear friends and the happy days I spent with them. The sweet panionship of their childre mue. I joined in all their sports and rambles through the woods and froli the water. The prattle of the little ones and their pleasure iories I told them of elf and gnome, of hero and wily bear, are pleasant things to remember. Mr. Chamberlin initiated me into the mysteries of tree and wild-flower, until with the little ear of love I heard the flow of sap in the oak, and saw the su<mark>.９９lｉb?</mark>n glint from leaf to leaf. Thus it is that Even as the roots, shut in the darksome earth, Share iree-tops joyance, and ceive Of sunshine and wide air and wihings, By sympathy of nature, so do I gave evidence of things unseen.
It seems to me that there is in each of us a capacity to prehend the impressions aions which have been experienced by mankind from the beginning. Eadividual has a subsemory of the greeh and murmuring waters, and blindness and deafness ot rob him of this gift from past geions.
This ied capacity is a sort of sixth sense--a soul-sense which sees, hears, feels, all in one.
I have many tree friends iham. One of them, a splendid oak, is the special pride of my heart. I take all my other friends to see this king-tree. It stands on a bluff overlooking King Philips Pond, and those who are wise in tree lore say it must have stood there eight hundred or a thousand years. There is a tradition that uhis tree King Philip, the heroidian chief, gazed his last oh and sky.
I had aree friend, gentle and more approachable than the great oak--a lihat grew in the dooryard at Red Farm. Oernoon, during a terrible thuorm, I felt a tremendous crash against the side of the house and knew, even before they told me, that the linden had fallen. We went out to see the hero that had withstood so many tempests, and it wrung my heart to see him prostrate who had mightily striven and was now mightily fallen.
But I must not fet that I was going to write about last summer in particular. As soon as my examinations were over, Miss Sullivan and I hasteo this green nook, where we have a little cottage on one of the three lakes for which Wrentham is famous. Here the long, sunny days were mine, and all thoughts of work and college and the noisy city were thrust into the background. Iham we caught echoes of what was happening in the world--war, alliance, social flict. We heard of the cruel, unnecessary fighting in the far-aacifid learned of the struggles going oween capital and labour. We khat beyond the border of our Eden men were making history by the sweat of their brows when they might better make a holiday. But we little heeded these things. These things would pass away; here were lakes and woods and broad daisy-starred fields and sweet-breathed meadows, and they shall endure forever.
People who think that all sensations reach us through the eye and the ear have expressed surprise that I should notiy difference, except possibly the absence of pavements, between walking in city streets and in try roads. They fet that my whole body is alive to the ditions about me. The rumble and roar of the city smite the nerves of my face, and I feel the ceaseless tramp of an unseen multitude, and the dissonant tumult frets my spirit. The grinding of heavy wagons on hard pavements and the monotonous gour of maery are all the more t to the nerves if otention is not diverted by the panorama that is alresent in the noisy streets to people who see.
In the try one sees only Natures fair works, and ones soul is not saddened by the cruel struggle for mere existehat goes on in the crowded city. Several times I have visited the narrow, dirty streets where the poor live, and I grow hot and indignant to think that good people should be tent to live in fine houses and bee strong aiful, while others are o live in hideous, sues and grow ugly, withered and ging. The children who crowd these grimy alleys, half-clad and underfed, shrink away from your outstretched hand as if from a blow. Dear little creatures, they crou my heart and hauh a
stant sense of pain. There are men and women, too, all gnarled a out of shape. I have felt their hard, rough hands and realized what an endless struggle their existence must be--no more than a series of scrimmages, thwarted attempts to do something. Their life seems an immense disparity between effort and opportunity. The sun and the air are Gods free gifts to all we say, but are they so? In yonder citys dingy alleys the sun shines not, and the air is foul. Oh, man, how dost thou fet and obstruct thy brother man, and say, "Give us this day our daily bread," when he has none! Oh, would that men would leave the city, its splendour and its tumult and its gold, aurn to wood and field and simple, ho living! Then would their children grow stately as rees, and their thoughts sweet and pure as wayside flowers. It is impossible not to think of all this when I return to the try after a year of work in town.
What a joy it is to feel the soft, sprih under my feet once more, to follow grassy roads that lead to ferny brooks where I bathe my fingers in a cataract of rippling notes, or to clamber over a stone wall into green fields that tumble and roll and climb in riotous gladness!
o a leisurely walk I enjoy a "spin" on my tandem bicycle. It is splendid to feel the wind blowing in my fad the springy motion of my iron steed. The rapid rush through the air gives me a delicious sense of strength and buoyancy, and the exercise makes my pulses dand my heart sing.
Whe is possible, my dog apanies me on a walk or ride or sail. I have had many dog friends--huge mastiffs, soft-eyed spaniels, wood-wise setters and ho, homely bull terriers. At present the lord of my affes is one of these bull terriers. He has a long pedigree, a crooked tail and the drollest "phiz" in dogdom. My dog friends seem to uand my limitations, and always keep close beside me when I am alone. I love their affeate ways and the eloquent wag of their tails.
When a rainy day keeps me indoors, I amuse myself after the manner of irls. I like to knit and crochet; I read in the happy-go-lucky way I love, here and there a line; or perhaps I play a game or two of checkers or chess with a friend. I have a special board on which I play these games. The squares are cut out, so that the men stand in them firmly. The black checkers are flat and the white ones curved on top. Each checker has a hole in the middle in which a brass knob be placed to distinguish the king from the ons. The chessmen are of two sizes, the white larger than the black, so that I have no trouble in following my oppos maneuvers by moving my hands lightly over the board after a play. The jar made by shifting the men from one hole to aells me when it is my turn.
If I happen to be all alone and in an idle mood, I play a game of solitaire, of which I am very fond. I use playing cards marked in the upper right-hand er with braille symbols whidicate the value of the card.
If there are children around, nothing pleases me so much as to frolic with them. I find even the smallest child excellent pany, and I am glad to say that children usually like me. They lead me about and show me the things they are ied in. Of course the little ones ot spell on their fingers; but I mao read their lips. If I do not succeed they resort to dumb show. Sometimes I make a mistake and do the wrong thing. A burst of childish laughter greets my blunder, and the pantomime begins all ain. I oftehem stories or teach them a game, and the winged hours depart and leave us good and happy.
Museums and art stores are also sources of pleasure and inspiration. Doubtless it will seem strao many that the hand unaided by sight feel a, se, beauty in the arble; a is true that I derive genuine pleasure from toug great works of art. As my fiips trace line and curve, they discover the thought aion which the artist has portrayed. I feel in the faces of gods and heroes hate, ce and love, just as I detect them in living faces I am permitted to touch. I feel in Dianas posture the grad freedom of the forest and the spirit that tames the mountain lion and subdues the fiercest passions. My soul delights in the repose and gracious curves of the Venus; and in Barres brohe secrets of the jungle are revealed to me.
A medallion of Homer hangs on the wall of my study, <q></q>vely low, so that I easily reach it and touch the beautiful, sad face with loving reverence. How well I know each line in that majestic brow--tracks of life and bitter evidences of struggle and sorrow; those sightless eyes seeking, even in the cold plaster, for the light and the blue skies of his beloved Hellas, but seeking in vain; that beautiful mouth, firm and true and tender. It is the face of a poet, and of a man acquainted with sorrow. Ah, how well I uand his deprivation--the perpetual night in which he dwelt-- O dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse Without all hope of day!
In imagination I hear Homer singing, as with unsteady, hesitating steps he gropes his way from camp to camp--singing of life, of love, of war, of the splendid achievements of a noble race. It was a wonderful, glorious song, and it won the blind poet an immortal , the admiration of all ages.
I sometimes wonder if the hand is not more sensitive to the beauties of sculpture than the eye. I should think the wonderful rhythmical flow of lines and curves could be more subtly felt than seehis as it may, I know that I feel the heart-throbs of the a Greeks in their marble gods and goddesses.
Another pleasure, whies more rarely thahers, is going to the theatre. I enjoy having a play described to me while it is being acted oage far more than reading it, because then it seems as if I were living in the midst of stirris. It has been my privilege to meet a few great actors and actresses who have the power of so bewitg you that you fet time and plad live again in the romantic past. I have beeted to touch the fad e of Miss Ellen Terry as she impersonated our ideal of a queen; and there was about her that divinity that hedges sublimest woe. Beside her stood Sir Henry Irving, wearing the symbols of kingship; and there was majesty of intelle his every gesture and attitude and the royalty that subdues and overes in every line of his sensitive face. In the kings face, which he wore as a mask, there was a remoteness and inaccessibility of grief which I shall never fet.
I also know Mr. Jefferson. I am proud to t him among my friends. I go to see him whenever I happen to be where he is ag. The first time I saw him act was while at school in New York. He played "Rip Van Winkle." I had oftehe story, but I had never felt the charm of Rips slow, quaint, kind ways as I did in the play. Mr. Jeffersons, beautiful, pathetic representation quite carried me away with delight. I have a picture of old Rip in my fingers which they will never lose. After the play Miss Sullivan took me to see him behind the ses, and I felt of his curious garb and his flowing hair and beard. Mr. Jefferso me touch his face so that I could imagine how he looked on waking from that strange sleep of twenty years, and he showed me how poor old Rip staggered to his feet.
I have also seen him in "The Rivals." Once while I was calling on him in Bostoed the most striking parts of "The Rivals" for me. The reception-room where we sat served for a stage. He and his soed themselves at the big table, and Bob Acres wrote his challenge. I followed all his movements with my hands, and caught the drollery of his blunders aures in a way that would have been impossible had it all been spelled to me. Then they rose to fight the duel, and I followed the swift thrusts and parries of the swords and the waverings of poor Bob as his ce oozed out at his finger ends. Then the great actave his coat a hitd his mouth a twitch, and in an instant I was in the village of Falling Water a Scbbr></abbr>hneiders shaggy head against my knee. Mr. Jeffersoed the best dialogues of "Rip Van Winkle," in which the tear came close upon the smile. He asked me to indicate as far as I could the gestures and a that should go with the lines. Of course, I have no sense whatever of dramatic a, and could make only random guesses; but with masterful art he suited the a to the word. The sigh of Rip as he murmurs, "Is a man so soon fotten when he is gone?" the dismay with which he searches f and gun after his long sleep, and his ical irresolution ning the tract with Derrick--all these seem to be right out of life itself; that is, the ideal life, where things happen as we think they should.
I remember well the first time I went to the theatre. It was twelve years ago. Elsie Leslie, the little actress, was
in Boston, and Miss Sullivan took me to see her in "The Prind the Pauper." I shall n<mark></mark>ever fet the ripple of alternating joy and woe that ran through that beautiful little play, or the wonderful child who acted it. After the play I ermitted to go behind the ses a her in her royal e. It would have been hard to find a lovelier or more lovable child than Elsie, as she stood with a cloud of golden hair floating over her shoulders, smiling brightly, showing no signs of shyness or fatigue, though she had been playing to an immense audience. I was only just learning to speak, and had previously repeated her il I could say it perfectly. Imagine my delight when she uood the few words I spoke to her and without hesitation stretched her hand to greet me.
Is it not true, then, that m<q>９９ｌiｂ?</q>y life with all its limitations touches at many points the life of the World Beautiful?
Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be in, therein to be tent.
Sometimes, it is true, a sense of isolation enfolds me like a ist as I sit alone and wait at lifes shut gate.
Beyond there is light, and musid sweet panionship; but I may er. Fate, silent, pitiless, bars the way. Fain would I question his imperious decree, for my heart is still undisciplined and passionate; but my tongue will not utter the bitter, futile words that rise to my lips, and they fall bato my heart like uears. Siles immense upon my soul. Then es hope with a smile and whispers, "There is joy in self-fetfulness." So I try to make the light in others eyes my sun, the musi others ears my symphony, the smile on others lips my happiness.
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