the village watch-tower- 第16部分

When　unwrapped；　it　was　plainly　labeled　〃Wood　from　the　Bean

Maple　at　Pleasant　Point；　the　biggest　maple　in　York　County；

and　believed　to　be　one　of　the　biggest　in　the　State　of　Maine。〃

Anthony　found　that　the　oldest　inhabitant　of　Pleasant　River　remembered

the　stump　of　the　tree；　and　that　the　boys　used　to　jump　over　it

and　admire　its　proportions　whenever　they　went　fishing　at　the　Point。

The　wood；　therefore；　was　perhaps　eighty　or　ninety　years　old。

The　squire　agreed　willingly　that　it　should　be　used　to　mend　the　old　violin；

and　told　Tony　he　should　have　what　was　left　for　himself。

When；　by　careful　calculation；　he　found　that　the　remainder　would　make

a　whole　violin；　he　laid　it　reverently　away　for　another　twenty　years；

so　that　he　should　be　sure　it　had　completed　its　century　of　patient

waiting　for　service；　and　falling　on　his　knees　by　his　bedside　said；

〃I　thank　Thee；　Heavenly　Father；　for　this　precious　gift；　and　I　promise

from　this　moment　to　gather　the　most　beautiful　wood　I　can　find；

and　lay　it　by　where　it　can　be　used　some　time　to　make　perfect　violins；

so　that　if　any　creature　as　poor　and　helpless　as　I　am　needs　the　wherewithal

to　do　good　work；　I　shall　have　helped　him　as　Thou　hast　helped　me。〃

And　according　to　his　promise　so　he　did；　and　the　pieces　of　richly

curled　maple；　of　sycamore；　and　of　spruce　began　to　accumulate。

They　were　cut　from　the　sunny　side　of　the　trees；　in　just　the　right

season　of　the　year；　split　so　as　to　have　a　full　inch　thickness

towards　the　bark；　and　a　quarter　inch　towards　the　heart。

They　were　then　laid　for　weeks　under　one　of　the　falls　in　Wine　Brook；

where　the　musical　tinkle；　tinkle　of　the　stream　fell　on　the　wood　already

wrought　upon　by　years　of　sunshine　and　choruses　of　singing　birds。





This　boy；　toiling　not　alone　for　himself；　but　with　full

and　conscious　purpose　for　posterity　also；　was　he　not　worthy

to　wear　the　mantle　of　Antonius　Stradivarius？





〃That　plain　white…aproned　man　who　stood　at　work

Patient　and　accurate　full　fourscore　years；

Cherished　his　sight　and　touch　by　temperance；

And　since　keen　sense　is　love　of　perfectness；

Made　perfect　violins；　the　needed　paths

For　inspiration　and　high　mastery。〃



And　as　if　the　year　were　not　full　enough　of　glory；　the　school…teacher

sent　him　a　book　with　a　wonderful　poem　in　it。



That　summer's　teaching　had　been　the　freak　of　a　college　student；　who　had

gone　back　to　his　senior　year　strengthened　by　his　experience　of　village　life。

Anthony　Croft；　who　was　only　three　or　four　years　his　junior；　had　been　his

favorite　pupil　and　companion。



〃How　does　Tony　get　along？〃　asked　the　Widow　Croft　when　the　teacher

came　to　call。



〃Tony？　Oh；　I　can't　teach　him　anything。〃



Tears　sprang　to　the　mother's　eyes。



〃I　know　he　ain't　much　on　book　learning；〃　she　said　apologetically；

〃but　I'm　bound　he　don't　make　you　no　trouble　in　deportment。〃



〃I　mean；〃　said　the　school…teacher　gravely；　〃that　I　can　show

him　how　to　read　a　little　Latin　and　do　a　little　geometry；

but　he　knows　as　much　in　one　day　as　I　shall　ever　know　in　a　year。〃



Tony　crouched　by　the　old　fireplace　in　the　winter　evenings；

dropping　his　knife　or　his　compasses　a　moment　to　read　aloud　to　his　mother；

who　sat　in　the　opposite　corner　knitting：





〃Of　old　Antonio　Stradivari；him

Who　a　good　quarter　century　and　a　half　ago

Put　his　true　work　in　the　brown　instrument；

And　by　the　nice　adjustment　of　its　frame

Gave　it　responsive　life；　continuous

With　the　master's　finger…tips；　and　perfected

Like　them　by　delicate　rectitude　of　use。〃





The　mother　listened　with　painful　intentness。　　〃I　like　the　sound　of　it；〃

she　said；　〃but　I　can't　hardly　say　I　take　in　the　full　sense。〃



〃Why　mother；〃　said　the　lad；　in　a　rare　moment　of　self…expression；

〃you　know　the　poetry　says　he　cherished　his　sight　and　touch　by　temperance；

that　an　idiot　might　see　a　straggling　line　and　be　content；

but　he　had　an　eye　that　winced　at　false　work；　and　loved　the　true。

When　it　says　his　finger…tips　were　perfected　by　delicate　rectitude

of　use；　I　think　it　means　doing　everything　as　it　is　done　in　heaven；

and　that　anybody　who　wants　to　make　a　perfect　violin　must

keep　his　eye　open　to　all　the　beautiful　things　God　has　made；

and　his　ear　open　to　all　the　music　he　has　put　into　the　world；

and　then　never　let　his　hands　touch　a　piece　of　work　that　is　crooked

or　straggling　or　false；　till；　after　years　and　years　of　rightness；

they　are　fit　to　make　a　violin　like　the　squire's；　a　violin　that　can

say　everything；　a　violin　that　an　angel　wouldn't　be　ashamed

to　play　on。〃



Do　these　words　seem　likely　ones　to　fall　from　the　lips

of　a　lad　who　had　been　at　the　tail　of　his　class　ever　since　his

primer　days？　　Well；　Anthony　was　seventeen　now；　and　he　was

〃educated；〃　in　spite　of　sorry　recitations；educated；　the　Lord

knows　how！　　Yes；　in　point　of　fact　the　Lord　does　know　how！

He　knows　how　the　drill　and　pressure　of　the　daily　task；

still　more　the　presence　of　the　high　ideal；　the　inspiration

working　from　within；　how　these　educate　us。



The　blind　Anthony　Croft　sitting　in　the　kitchen　doorway　had

seemingly　missed　the　heights　of　life　he　might　have　trod；　and　had　walked

his　close　on　fifty　years　through　level　meadows　of　mediocrity；　a　witch

in　every　finger…tip　waiting　to　be　set　to　work；　head　among　the　clouds；

feet　stumbling；　eyes　and　ears　open　to　hear　God's　secret　thought；

seeing　and　hearing　it；　too；　but　lacking　force　to　speak　it　forth　again；

for　while　imperious　genius　surmounts　all　obstacles；　brushes　laws　and

formulas　from　its　horizon；　and　with　its　own　free　soul　sees　its　〃path

and　the　outlets　of　the　sky；〃　potential　genius　forever　needs　an　angel

of　deliverance　to　set　it　free。



Poor　Anthony　Croft；　or　blessed　Anthony　Croft；　I　know　not　which；

God　knows！　　Poor　he　certainly　was；　yet　blessed　after　all。

〃One　thing　I　do；〃　said　Paul。　　〃One　thing　I　do；〃　said　Anthony。

He　was　not　able　to　realize　his　ideals；　but　he　had　the　〃angel　aim〃

by　which　he　idealized　his　reals。



O　waiting　heart　of　God！　how　soon　would　thy　kingdom

come　if　we　all　did　our　allotted　tasks；　humble　or　splendid；

in　this　consecrated　fashion！



III。





〃Therein　I　hear　the　Parcae　reel

The　threads　of　man　at　their　humming　wheel；

The　threads　of　life　and　power　and　pain；

So　sweet　and　mournful　falls　the　strain。〃



Emerson's　_Harp。_





Old　Mrs。　Butterfield　had　had　her　third　stroke　of　paralysis；

and　died　of　a　Sunday　night。　　She　was　all　alone　in　her　little

cottage　on　the　river　bank；　with　no　neighbor　nearer

than　Croft's；　and　nobody　there　but　a　blind　man　and　a　small　boy。

Everybody　had　told　her　it　was　foolish　to　live　alone　in　a　house

on　the　river　road；　and　everybody　was　pleased　in　a　discreet

and　chastened　fashion　of　course；　that　it　had　turned　out　exactly

as　they　had　predicted。



Aunt　Mehitable　Tarbox　was　walking　up　to　Milliken's　Mills；

with　her　little　black　reticule　hanging　over　her　arm；

and　noticing　that　there　was　no　smoke　coming　out　of　the　chimney；

and　that　the　hens　were　gathered　about　the　kitchen　door　clamoring

for　their　breakfast；　she　thought　it　best　to　stop　and　knock。

No　response　followed　the　repeated　blows　from　her　hard　knuckles。

She　then　tapped　smartly　on　Mrs。　Butterfield's　bedroom　window

with　her　thimble　finger。　　This　proving　of　no　avail；　she　was

obliged　to　pry　open　the　kitchen　shutter；　split　open　a　mosquito

netting　with　her　shears；　and　crawl　into　the　house　over　the　sink。

This　was　a　considerable　feat　for　a　somewhat　rheumatic　elderly　lady；

but　this　one　never　grudged　trouble　when　she　wanted　to　find

out　anything。



When　she　discovered　that　her　premonitions　were　correct；

and　that　old　Mrs。　Butterfield　was　indeed　dead；　her　grief

at　losing　a　pleasant　acquaintance　was　largely　mitigated

by　her　sense　of　importance　at　being　first　on　the　spot；

and　chosen　by　Providence　to　take　command　of　the　situation。

There　were　no　relations　in　the　village；　there　was　no　woman

neighbor　within　a　mile：　　it　was　therefore　her　obvious　Christian

duty　not　only　to　take　charge　of　the　remains；　but　to　conduct

such　a　funeral　as　the　remains　would　have　wished　for　herself。



The　fortunate　Vice…President　suddenly　called　upon　by　destiny

to　guide　the　ship　of　state；　the　general　who　sees　a　possible

Victoria　Cross　in　a　hazardous　engagement；　can　have　a　faint

conception　of　aunt　Hitty's　feeling　on　this　momentous　occasion。

Funerals　were　the　very　breath　of　her　life。　　There　was　no　ceremony；

either　of　public　or　private　import；　that；　to　her　mind；

approached　a　funeral　in　real　satisfying　interest。

Yet；　with　distinct　talent　in　this　direction；　she　had　always

been　〃cabined；　cribbed；　confined〃　within　hopeless　limitations。

She　had　assisted　in　a　secondary　capacity　at　funerals　in　the　families

of　other　people；　but　she　would　have　reveled　in　personally

conducted　ones。　　The　members　of　her　own　family　stubbornly

refused　to　die；　however；　even　the　distant　connections　living

on　and　on　to　a　ridiculous　old　age；　and　if　they　ever　did　die；

by　reason　of　a　falling　roof；　shipwreck；　or　conflagration；

they　generally　died　in　Texas　or　Iowa；　or　some　remote　State　where

aunt　Hitty　could　not　follow　the　hearse　in　the　first　carriage。

This　blighted　ambition　was　a　heart　sorrow　of　so　deep　and　sacred

a　character　that　she　did　not　even　confess　it　to　〃Si；〃　as　her

appendage　of　a　husband　was　called。



Now　at　last　her　chance　for　planning　a　funeral　had　come。

Mrs。　Butterfield　had　no　kith　or　kin　save　her　niece；　Lyddy　Ann；

who　lived　in　Andover；　or　Lawrence；　or　Haverhill　Massachusetts；

aunt　Hitty　couldn't　remember　which；　and　hoped　nobody　else　could。

The　niece　would　be　sent　for　when　they　found　out　where　she　lived；

meanwhile　the　funeral　could　not　be　put　off。



She　glanced　round　the　house　preparatory　to　locking　it

up　and　starting　to　notify　Anthony　Croft。　　She　would　just　run

over　and　talk　to　him　about　ordering　the　coffin；　then　she　could

attend　to　all　other　necessary　preliminaries　herself。

The　remains　had　been　well…to…do；　and　there　was　no　occasion　for

sordid　economy；　so　aunt　Hitty　determined　in　her　own　mind　to　have