the story of an african farm-第27章

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that　old　hat　of　yours；　if　you　could　let　me　have　it　for　a　keepsake〃



〃Take　it；〃　said　Waldo。



〃I　thought　you　would　say　so；　so　I　brought　it　with　me；〃　said　Bonaparte；

putting　it　on。　　〃The　Lord　bless　you；　my　dear　boy。　　You　haven't　a　few

shillingsjust　a　trifle　you　don't　needhave　you？〃



〃Take　the　two　shillings　that　are　in　the　broken　vase。〃



〃May　the　blessing　of　my　God　rest　upon　you；　my　dear　child；〃　said　Bonaparte；

〃may　He　guide　and　bless　you。　　Give　me　your　hand。〃



Waldo　folded　his　arms　closely；　and　lay　down。



〃Farewell；　adieu！〃　said　Bonaparte。　　〃May　the　blessing　of　my　God　and　my

father's　God　rest　on　you；　now　and　evermore。〃



With　these　words　the　head　and　nose　withdrew　themselves；　and　the　light

vanished　from　the　window。



After　a　few　moments　the　boy；　lying　in　the　wagon；　heard　stealthy　footsteps

as　they　passed　the　wagon…house　and　made　their　way　down　the　road。　　He

listened　as　they　grew　fainter　and　fainter；　and　at　last　died　away

altogether；　and　from　that　night　the　footstep　of　Bonaparte　Blenkins　was

heard　no　more　at　the　old　farm。



END　Of　PART　I。





PART　II。



〃And　it　was　all　play；　and　no　one　could　tell　what　it　had　lived　and　worked

for。　　A　striving；　and　a　striving；　and　an　ending　in　nothing。〃





Chapter　2。I。　　Times　and　Seasons。



Waldo　lay　on　his　stomach　on　the　sand。　　Since　he　prayed　and　howled　to　his

God　in　the　fuel…house　three　years　had　passed。



They　say　that　in　the　world　to　come　time　is　not　measured　out　by　months　and

years。　　Neither　is　it　here。　　The　soul's　life　has　seasons　of　its　own；

periods　not　found　in　any　calendar；　times　that　years　and　months　will　not

scan；　but　which　are　as　deftly　and　sharply　cut　off　from　one　another　as　the

smoothly…arranged　years　which　the　earth's　motion　yields　us。



To　stranger　eyes　these　divisions　are　not　evident；　but　each；　looking　back　at

the　little　track　his　consciousness　illuminates；　sees　it　cut　into　distinct

portions；　whose　boundaries　are　the　termination　of　mental　states。



As　man　differs　from　man；　so　differ　these　souls'　years。　　The　most　material

life　is　not　devoid　of　them；　the　story　of　the　most　spiritual　is　told　in

them。　　And　it　may　chance　that　some；　looking　back；　see　the　past　cut　out

after　this　fashion：



I。



The　year　of　infancy；　where　from　the　shadowy　background　of　forgetfulness

start　out　pictures　of　startling　clearness；　disconnected；　but　brightly

coloured；　and　indelibly　printed　in　the　mind。　　Much　that　follows　fades；　but

the　colours　of　those　baby…pictures　are　permanent。



There　rises；　perhaps；　a　warm　summer's　evening；　we　are　seated　on　the

doorstep；　we　have　yet　the　taste　of　the　bread　and　milk　in　our　mouth；　and　the

red　sunset　is　reflected　in　our　basin。



Then　there　is　a　dark　night；　where；　waking　with　a　fear　that　there　is　some

great　being　in　the　room；　we　run　from　our　own　bed　to　another；　creep　close　to

some　large　figure；　and　are　comforted。



Then　there　is　remembrance　of　the　pride　when；　on　some　one's　shoulder；　with

our　arms　around　their　head；　we　ride　to　see　the　little　pigs；　the　new　little

pigs　with　their　curled　tails　and　tiny　snoutswhere　do　they　come　from？



Remembrance　of　delight　in　the　feel　and　smell　of　the　first　orange　we　ever

see；　of　sorrow　which　makes　us　put　up　our　lip；　and　cry　hard；　when　one

morning　we　run　out　to　try　and　catch　the　dewdrops；　and　they　melt　and　wet　our

little　fingers；　of　almighty　and　despairing　sorrow　when　we　are　lost　behind

the　kraals；　and　cannot　see　the　house　anywhere。



And　then　one　picture　starts　out　more　vividly　than　any。



There　has　been　a　thunderstorm；　the　ground；　as　far　as　the　eye　can　reach；　is

covered　with　white　hail；　the　clouds　are　gone；　and　overhead　a　deep　blue　sky

is　showing；　far　off　a　great　rainbow　rests　on　the　white　earth。　　We；　standing

in　a　window　to　look；　feel　the　cool；　unspeakably　sweet　wind　blowing　in　on

us；　and　a　feeling　of　longing　comes　over　usunutterable　longing；　we　cannot

tell　for　what。　　We　are　so　small；　our　head　only　reaches　as　high　as　the　first

three　panes。　　We　look　at　the　white　earth；　and　the　rainbow；　and　the　blue

sky；　and　oh；　we　want　it；　we　wantwe　do　not　know　what。　　We　cry　as　though

our　heart　was　broken。　　When　one　lifts　our　little　body　from　the　window　we

cannot　tell　what　ails　us。　　We　run　away　to　play。



So　looks　the　first　year。



II。



Now　the　pictures　become　continuous　and　connected。　　Material　things　still

rule；　but　the　spiritual　and　intellectual　take　their　places。



In　the　dark　night　when　we　are　afraid　we　pray　and　shut　our　eyes。　　We　press

our　fingers　very　hard　upon　the　lids；　and　see　dark　spots　moving　round　and

round；　and　we　know　they　are　heads　and　wings　of　angels　sent　to　take　care　of

us；　seen　dimly　in　the　dark　as　they　move　round　our　bed。　　It　is　very

consoling。



In　the　day　we　learn　our　letters；　and　are　troubled　because　we　cannot　see　why

k…n…o…w　should　be　know；　and　p…s…a…l…m　psalm。　　They　tell　us　it　is　so　because

it　is　so。　　We　are　not　satisfied；　we　hate　to　learn；　we　like　better　to　build

little　stone　houses。　　We　can　build　them　as　we　please；　and　know　the　reason

for　them。



Other　joys　too　we　have　incomparably　greater　then　even　the　building　of　stone

houses。



We　are　run　through　with　a　shudder　of　delight　when　in　the　red　sand　we　come

on　one　of　those　white　wax　flowers　that　lie　between　their　two　green　leaves

flat　on　the　sand。　　We　hardly　dare　pick　them；　but　we　feel　compelled　to　do

so；　and　we　smell　and　smell　till　the　delight　becomes　almost　pain。　　Afterward

we　pull　the　green　leaves　softly　into　pieces　to　see　the　silk　threads　run

across。



Beyond　the　kopje　grow　some　pale…green；　hairy…leaved　bushes。　　We　are　so

small；　they　meet　over　our　head；　and　we　sit　among　them；　and　kiss　them；　and

they　love　us　back；　it　seems　as　though　they　were　alive。



One　day　we　sit　there　and　look　up　at　the　blue　sky；　and　down　at　our　fat

little　knees；　and　suddenly　it　strikes　us；　Who　are　we？　　This　I；　what　is　it？

We　try　to　look　in　upon　ourselves；　and　ourself　beats　back　upon　ourself。　

Then　we　get　up　in　great　fear　and　run　home　as　hard　as　we　can。　　We　can't　tell

any　one　what　frightened　us。　　We　never　quite　lose　that　feeling　of　self

again。



III。



And　then　a　new　time　rises。　　We　are　seven　years　old。　　We　can　read　nowread

the　Bible。　　Best　of　all　we　like　the　story　of　Elijah　in　his　cave　at　Horeb；

and　the　still　small　voice。



One　day；　a　notable　one；　we　read　on　the　kopje；　and　discover　the　fifth

chapter　of　Matthew；　and　read　it　all　through。　　It　is　a　new　gold…mine。　　Then

we　tuck　the　Bible　under　our　arm　and　rushed　home。　　They　didn't　know　it　was

wicked　to　take　your　things　again　if　some　one　took　them；　wicked　to　go　to

law；　wicked　to！　　We　are　quite　breathless　when　we　get　to　the　house；　we

tell　them　we　have　discovered　a　chapter　they　never　heard　of；　we　tell　them

what　it　says。　　The　old　wise　people　tell　us　they　knew　all　about　it。　　Our

discovery　is　a　mare's…nest　to　them；　but　to　us　it　is　very　real。　　The　ten

commandments　and　the　old　〃Thou　shalt〃　we　have　heard　about　long　enough　and

don't　care　about　it；　but　this　new　law　sets　us　on　fire。



We　will　deny　ourself。　　Our　little　wagon　that　we　have　made；　we　give　to　the

little　Kaffers。　　We　keep　quiet　when　they　throw　sand　at　us　（feeling；　oh；　so

happy）。　　We　conscientiously　put　the　cracked　teacup　for　ourselves　at

breakfast；　and　take　the　burnt　roaster…cake。　　We　save　our　money；　and　buy

threepence　of　tobacco　for　the　Hottentot　maid　who　calls　us　names。　　We　are

exotically　virtuous。　　At　night　we　are　profoundly　religious；　even　the

ticking　watch　says；　〃Eternity；　eternity！　hell；　hell；　hell！〃　and　the　silence

talks　of　God；　and　the　things　that　shall　be。



Occasionally；　also；　unpleasantly　shrewd　questions　begin　to　be　asked　by　some

one；　we　know　not　who；　who　sits　somewhere　behind　our　shoulder。　　We　get　to

know　him　better　afterward。



Now　we　carry　the　questions　to　the　grown…up　people；　and　they　give　us

answers。　　We　are　more　or　less　satisfied　for　the　time。　　The　grown…up　people

are　very　wise；　and　they　say　it　was　kind　of　God　to　make　hell；　and　very

loving　of　Him　to　send