A Beautiful Possibility. Edith Ferguson Black
there, leaning upon a gun, a boy of about seventeen looked long at a squirrel whose mangled body was staining the emerald beauty of the moss with crimson. His face was earnest and troubled, while the expression of sorrowful contempt which swept over it, made him seem older than he was. It was a strong face, with deep-set, thoughtful eyes which lit up wondrously when he was interested or pleased. His mouth was sensitive but his chin was firm and his brown hair fell in soft waves over a broad, full brow. People always took it for granted that John Randolph would be as good as his word. They never reasoned about it. They simply expected it of him.
He began to speak, and his voice fell clear and distinct through the silence.
"And you call this sport?" There was no answer save the soft gurgle of the river as it splashed merrily over the stones.
"You are a brute, John Randolph!" And the wind sighed a plaintive echo among the trees.
He was silent while the words which he had read six weeks before and which had been ringing a ceaseless refrain in his heart ever since, obtruded themselves upon his memory.
"It is the privilege of everyone to become an exact copy of Jesus
Christ."
"Well, John Randolph, can you picture to yourself Jesus Christ shooting a squirrel for sport?" He tossed aside the weapon he had been leaning upon with a gesture of disgust, and, folding his arms, looked up at the cloud-flecked sky.
"Are you there, Jesus Christ?" he asked wistfully. "Are you looking down on this poor old world, and what do you think of it all? Men made in God's image finding their highest enjoyment in slaughtering his creatures. Game Preserves where they can do it in luxurious leisure; fox hunts with their pack of hunters and hounds in full cry after one poor defenceless fox, and battle-fields where they tear each other limb from limb with Gatling gun and shells; and yet we call ourselves honorable gentlemen, and talk of the delights of the chase and the glories of war! Pshaw! what a mockery it is."
Stooping suddenly he laid the squirrel upon his open palm and gently stroked the long, silky fur. He lifted the tiny paws with their perfect equipment for service and looked remorsefully at the eyes whose light was dimmed, and the mouth which had forever ceased its merry chatter. A great tenderness sprang up in his heart toward all living things and, lifting his right hand to heaven, he exclaimed, "Poor little squirrel, I cannot give you back your happy life, but, I will never take another!"
Then he knelt, and scooping out a grave, laid the little creature to rest at the foot of a tree in whose trunk the remnant of its winter store of nuts was carefully garnered. When at length he turned to leave the spot the tiny grave was marked by a pine slab, on which was pencilled,
"Here lies the germ of a resolve.
July 17th, 18—"
He walked slowly along the fragrant wood-path, looking thoughtfully at the shadows as they played hide and seek upon the moss, while through the trees he caught glimpses of the sparkling river which sang as it rolled along.
When he reached the border of the woodland he stood still and his eyes swept over the landscape. Hollywood was the finest stock farm in the country. After his father's death he had come, a little lad, to live with Mr. Hawthorne, and every year which had elapsed since then made it grow more dear. He loved its rolling meadows, its breezy pastures and its fragrant orchards. Its beautifully kept grounds and outbuildings appealed to his innate sense of the fitness of things, while its air of abundant comfort made it difficult to realize that the world was full of hunger and woe. He loved the green road where the wild roses blushed and the honeysuckle drooped its fragrant petals, but most of all he loved the graceful horses and sleek cows which just now were grazing in the fields on either side; and the shy creatures, with the subtle instinct by which all animals test the quality of human friendship, took him into their confidence and came gladly at his call and did his bidding.
When he reached the end of the road he stopped again, and, leaning against the fence adjoining the broad gate which led to the house, gave a low whistle. A thoroughbred Jersey, feeding some distance away, lifted her head and listened. Again he whistled, and with soft, slow tread the cow came towards him and rubbed her nose against his arm. He took her head between his hands, her clover-laden breath fanning his cheeks, and looked at the dark muzzle and the large eyes, almost human in their tenderness.
"Well, Primrose, old lady, you're as dainty as your namesake, and as sweet. Ah, Sylph, you beauty!" he continued, as a calf like a young fawn approached the gate, "you can't rest away from your mammy, can you? Primrose, have you any aspirations, or are you content simply to eat and drink? You have a good time of it now, but what if you were kicked and cuffed and starved? You are sensitive, for I saw you shrink and shiver when Bill Wright—the scoundrel!—dared to strike you. He'll never do it again, Prim! Have you the taste of an epicure for the juicy grass blades and the clover when it is young—do you love to hear the birds sing and the brook murmur, and do you enjoy living under the trees and watching the clouds chase the sunbeams as you chew your cud? Do you wonder why the cold winter comes and you have to be shut up in a stall with a different kind of fodder? Do you ever wonder who gave you life and what you are meant to do with it? How I wish you could talk, old lady!"
He vaulted over the gate, and whistling to a fine collie who came bounding to meet him, walked slowly on towards the stables.
"Hulloa, John!" and a boy about two years his junior threw himself off a horse reeking with foam. "Rub Sultan down a bit like a good fellow. There'll be the worst kind of a row if the governor sees him in this pickle."
John Randolph looked indignantly at the handsome horse, as he stood with drooping head and wide distended nostrils, while the white foam dripped over his delicate legs.
"Serve you right if there were!" and his voice was full of scorn.
"You're about as fit to handle horseflesh as an Esquimaux."
"Oh, pish! You're a regular old grandmother, John. There's nothing to make such a row about." And Reginald Hawthorne turned upon his heel.
John threw off coat and vest, and, rolling up his sleeves, led the exhausted horse to the currying ground. Reginald followed slowly, his hands in his pockets.
"How did you get him into such a mess?" he asked shortly.
"I don't know, I didn't do anything to him," and Reginald kicked the gravel discontentedly. "I believe he's getting lazy."
"Sultan lazy!" and John laughed incredulously. "That's a good joke! Why, he is the freest horse on the place!"
"Well, I don't know how else to explain it. He's been on the go pretty steadily, but what's a horse good for? Thursday afternoon we had our cross-country run and the ground was horribly stiff. I thought he had sprained his off foreleg for he limped a good deal on the home stretch, but he seemed to limber up all right the last few miles. I was sorry not to let him rest yesterday; would have put him in better trim I suppose for to-day's twenty mile pull—but Cartwright and Peterson wanted to make up a tandem, and when they asked for Sultan I didn't like to refuse. They are heavy swells, and you know father wants me to get in with that lot. But that shouldn't have hurt him. They only went as far as Brighton. What's fifteen miles to a horse!"
"Fifteen miles means thirty to a horse when he has to travel back the same road," said John drily; "and your heavy swells take the toll out of horseflesh quicker than a London cabby."
"Why, John, what has come to you? You're the last fellow in the world to want me to be churlish."
"That's true, Rege—but I don't want them to cripple you as they have poor Sultan. What kind of fellows are they?"
"Oh, not a bad sort," said Reginald carelessly. "Lots of the needful, you know, and free with it. Not very fond of the grind, but always up to date when there are any good times going. What do you suppose put Sultan in such a lather, John? I was so afraid father would catch me that I came across the fields, and it was just as much as he could do to take the last fence. I made sure he was going to tumble."
"Well for you he didn't," and John smoothed the delicate limbs with his firm hand,