After Nort's exciting visit he crossed over and borrowed a somewhat sticky copy which Nathan Collins, the baker, was saving to wrap bread in, and glancing over the Poems of Hempfield, discovered that Addison Bird of Hawleyville had written one of them, a poem ent.i.tled "Just Plant One Tree, Boys," which he had once read at the Grange.

Joe bought hay of Ad, and the idea that Ad was a poet struck Joe as being an irresistible piece of humour. He told everybody who came in during the day, and even called Ad on the telephone to joke him about it. Ad had not heard of it yet, and immediately hitched up and drove into town, not knowing whether to be pleased or angry. He met Nort at the gate of the printing-office, and was received by that young editor with a warm handshake and congratulations upon appearing in what was undoubtedly the most interesting issue of a newspaper ever published in Westmoreland County. The upshot of it was that Ad paid up his long delinquent subscription, and went away with quite a bundle of extra copies.

It is a strange thing in this world how few people recognize a thing as wonderful or beautiful until some poet or prophet comes along to tell them that it is wonderful or beautiful.

"Behold that sunset!" cries the poet, quite beside himself with excitement, and the world, which has been accustomed to having sunsets every evening for supper, and thinks nothing of them, suddenly looks up and discovers unknown splendours.

"Behold the _Star_," cried Nort, rushing wildly about Hempfield. "See what we've got in the _Star_"--and it spread through the town that something unusual, wonderful, was happening in the hitherto humdrum office in the little old building back from the street.

People did not know quite what to make of the publication of the poetry, it was so unprecedented, and the result was that we soon found the whole town discussing the _Star_. The interest cropped up in the most unexpected places, and developed a number of very amusing incidents. We had lifted a little new corner of the veil of life in Hempfield, and we had Nort to tell us how wonderful and amusing it was. Not everybody liked it--for life, everywhere and always, arouses opposition as well as approval--and one man even came in to cancel his subscription because he thought he found unfavourable references to himself in one of the poems; but, on the whole, people were interested and amused.

With all his enthusiasm, Nort got no more satisfaction out of the events of the week than the old Captain. On Sat.u.r.day afternoons, when the farmers came to town, the Captain loved to stroll up the street in a leisurely way, pa.s.s a word here and there with his neighbours, and generally enjoy himself. I always loved to see him on such occasions--his fine old face, his long rusty coat, the cane which was at once the sceptre of his dominion and the support of his age.

Upon this particular afternoon he had the consciousness of having written a truly scorching editorial on William J. Bryan, as trenchant a thing--the Captain loved "trenchant"--as ever he wrote in his life, and when people began to speak to him about that week's issue of the _Star_, it pleased him greatly. It _was_ a great issue!

Mr. Tole, the druggist, for example, who was secretly much gratified with the publication of his favourite poem, which he shrewdly considered excellent free advertising, remarked:

"Had a great paper this week, Cap'n."

The old Captain responded with dignity:

"The _Star_, Mr. Tole, is looking up."

How sweet was all this to the old Captain. For so long the current had been setting against him, there had been so little of the feeling of success and power, which he loved. We could distinguish the triumphant notes in the Captain's voice when he returned to the office. He sat down in the editorial chair with a special air of confidence.

"Anthy," he said, clearing his throat.

"Yes, Uncle Newt."

"Anthy, I have hopes of Hempfield. Even in these days, when the people seem to be going off after false G.o.ds, the truth will prevail."

He paused.

"We are beginning to hear from our editorial on William J. Bryan."

I recall yet Anthy's laugh--the amus.e.m.e.nt of it, and yet the deep sympathy.

The Captain's eye fell upon Nort. He looked him over affectionately.

"Nort, my boy," he said, "we're printing a newspaper."

"We are, Cap'n," responded Nort heartily, but with a glint in his eyes.

I saw the swift, grateful look that Anthy gave him.

But the old Captain's mood suddenly changed. It is in the time of triumph that we sometimes find our sorrows most poignant. He began to shake his big s.h.a.ggy head.

"Ah, Nort," said he, "one thing only takes the heart out of me."

"What's that, Cap'n?" asked Nort, though we all knew well enough.

"If only the Colonel had not left us, I could put my very soul into the work. I could write wonderful editorials, Nort."

If there was one subject besides flying machines and Democrats--and possibly woman suffrage--upon which the old Captain was irreconcilable, it was Colonel Roosevelt. He had never followed or loved any leader since Lincoln as he had followed and loved Roosevelt, and when the Colonel "went astray," as he expressed it, it affected him like some great personal sorrow. It went so deep with him that he had never yet been able to write an editorial upon the subject. "Why," he had said to Anthy, "I loved him like a brother!"

"Never mind, Cap'n," said Nort. "Some of these days you'll tell us what you think about the Colonel."

The Captain shook his head sadly.

"No, Nort," said he, "it goes too deep, it goes too deep."

With that he turned to his desk with a heavy sigh and began opening the week's exchanges, and we knew that he would soon fall upon Brother Kendrick of the Sterling _Democrat_ and smite him hip and thigh. If the Colonel were no longer with him, still his head was b.l.o.o.d.y but unbowed--and he would fight on to the end. But the seed dropped by Nort--"You'll tell us what you think about the Colonel some of these days"--did not fall on wholly barren soil. It produced, indeed, a growth of such luxuriance--but of all that, in its proper place.

Well, we disposed of every extra copy of the paper we had printed, and actually had to run off some reprints and slips containing the Poems of Hempfield, of which we also sold quite a number.

How we all need just a little success! To the editors of a country newspaper, who publish week after week for months without so much as a ripple of response, all this was most exciting and interesting--yes, intoxicating.

Considered as a business venture, of course, or measured in exact financial returns, it may seem small enough. Indeed, Ed Smith said---- But can we ever measure the best things in life by their financial returns? Considered as a human experience, a fresh and charming adventure in life, it glows yet in my memory with a glory all its own.

The effect upon Nort was curious enough. At one moment the amusing aspects of the adventure seemed uppermost with him, and I felt that he was laughing at all of us, using us all, using the town of Hempfield, for his lordship's amus.e.m.e.nt; and at the next moment he seemed seriously entangled in the meshes of his own enthusiasm. It was a time of transition and development for Nort.

Part of his reckless spirits at this time I am sure was due to the pa.s.sage of arms with Anthy, which I have already described. He had been curiously piqued by her att.i.tude, and by the thought that she was actually his employer and could discharge him. It did not correspond with his preconceived views of life nor with his conception of the place that women should occupy in the cosmos. Not that Nort had ever been profoundly interested in women, not he! He had played with them, indeed, for he had belonged to that cla.s.s, sometimes called the favoured, in which men rarely work with women, or study with them, or think with them. While he did not try to explain his emotions to himself, he had been disconcerted by Anthy's perfectly direct ways, by being treated simply as a human being, a coworker, not as though he were all man and she all woman, and nothing else mattered.

It was in this mood of exuberant amus.e.m.e.nt, combined with challenge to Anthy, that he wrote his absurd report (which was never printed) of the effect of the publication of the poems upon Hempfield, and read it aloud one evening with great dramatic effect--keeping one eye on Anthy where she sat, half in shadow, at her desk.

"Poets," wrote Nort, "were seen congratulating or commiserating one another upon the public streets, whole families were electrified by discovering that they had a poet in their midst without knowing it, wives were revealed to husbands and husbands to wives, and even the little children of Hempfield began to lisp in measures."

There was much more in the same strain, indicating that Nort was still laughing at us, instead of with us. But Anthy sat there in the shadow, very still, and said nothing. When in repose Anthy's face seemed often to take on a cast of sadness, especially about the eyes, of that sadness and sweetness which so often go with strength and n.o.bility of spirit.

She was very beautiful that night, I thought.

I did not know as well then as I came to know afterward, what a struggle she was facing to save the _Star_, what she had sacrificed to keep green the memory of her father and to cherish the old Captain. And she had a love for Hempfield and Hempfield folk that Nort could not have guessed.

Life might be a huge joke to Nort, who had never, up to this time, in all his life, had to fight or suffer for anything--but Anthy, Anthy was already meeting the great adventure.

But there was another and a deeper Nort, which few people at that time had ever seen. This was the Nort who had fled impulsively from New York, and this was the Nort who now strode out along the country roads toward Hawleyville, his head hot with great thoughts. This was the Nort who was tasting the sweets of editorship, who had more than half begun to believe what he had told Anthy, on the spur of the moment, when he walked home with her. Why not a wonderful new country journalism? Why not a paper right in Hempfield which, by virtue of its profound thought, its matchless wit, its charming humour, its saving sympathy, its superb handling of great topics, its--its---- Why not? And why not Norton Carr, editor?

"Matchless" was the adjective that Nort had in his mind at the moment, and he imagined a typical comment in the New York _Times_:

"We quote this week from the Hempfield _Star_, that matchless exponent of rural thought in America, edited by Mr. Norton Carr----" etc., etc.

This would naturally be copied in the _Literary Digest_ and made the subject of an editorial in _Life_.

This was the Nort who walked the country roads, neither seeing the stars above nor feeling the clods beneath, but living in a fairer land than this is, the perfect spring weather of the soul of youth. It was thus that Nort lived his deeper life, as the hero of his own hot imaginings.

And this, too, was the Nort who returned to Hempfield--without any conscious intention on his part, for how can one think of two things at once--by the road which led past Anthy's home. He did not stop, he scarcely looked around, and yet he had an intense and vivid undersense of a dim light in one of the upper windows of the dark house.

[Ill.u.s.tration]