CHAPTER VIII.
"Oh, yet we trust that somehow good
Will be the final goal of ill,
To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt and taints of blood."
Next day, early in the afternoon, Mrs. Deans put away her sewing, and, donning a black bonnet and a large broche shawl folded corner-wise, betook herself out of the house. She went quietly, even sneakingly—this caution was exercised with an object. Mrs. Deans did not want the bound girl to know she had gone. Such knowledge would be too conducive to a sinful peace of mind.
Mrs. Deans took her way to the village, intent on getting some dye from the store. She hesitated before the gate of the Holder cottage, then, assuming a look calculated to show the beholder that the milk of human kindness had in her case turned to cream, she entered the garden. Partly out of a desire to show old Mrs. Holder that this was really a neighborly visit, and partly to come upon her unawares if possible and see what she was doing, and also to have an opportunity of seeing the child without asking to see it, Mrs. Deans followed the little footpath round to the back door. It was open. The small kitchen was scrupulously clean; some washtubs stood in one corner full of soapy water, awaiting the return of Myron to empty them. Mrs. Holder had deferred her washing, evidently. A line hung diagonally across one corner of the room, and upon it a row of little ill-shaped garments hung drying, fluttered by the slight breeze from the open door. The rest of the scanty washing Mrs. Deans could see in the garden; old Mrs. Holder never hung a garment of the child's outside.
Mrs. Deans scrutinized all these things, standing at the open door, but not knowing where Mrs. Holder might be; and fearful lest the sharp-eyed old Englishwoman had already seen her spying out the land, she felt impelled to knock. This she did, and in a moment Mrs. Holder came from the front room. Seeing Mrs. Deans, she greeted her with the nearest approach to warmth she was capable of displaying, and placed a wooden rocking-chair for her, sitting down herself in a narrow high-backed wooden chair, bolt upright and with her arms folded. Presently she let fall her hands into her lap, twisting them nervously, one within the other; they were bleached an unhealthy pallor, and their palms and fingers tips crinkled like crape, from her washing.
"And how are you, Mrs. Deans?" she asked. Her voice held a strong English accent.
"Oh, well; for which I ought to be thankful," returned Mrs. Deans. "Considering them as is took that is unprepared, we ought to be grateful that we're spared, for it would seem as if them that is ready would go the first. Dan Follett died last Thursday. How do you find yourself, Mrs. Holder?"
"Not well—not at all well," returned the old woman, her voice querulous. "I was took cruel queer last night, a-gasping after breath as wouldn't come. I'm nigh tired enough o' living, if I could die mind-easy, but I can't."
"Yes," said Mrs. Deans, pursing her lips and shaking her head, "we all have our troubles; but you have had a terrible affliction, and, as I have often said to Henry, 'Old Mrs. Holder does take it terrible hard.'"
"It do be hard," said Mrs. Holder. Then came a pause.
Mrs. Deans was in certain ways clever; she knew the futility of attempting to force Mrs. Holder's confidence, therefore she contented herself with a lugubrious shake of her head, a sympathetic expression of eye, and murmured:
"Yes—it's terrible hard!"
"Yes," began Mrs. Holder, almost reflectively, "to think as it should come to me, being afraid o' being buried, due to not knowing who's going to lay along o' me. It do seem main hard"—here the speaker's tones grew hard and her beady eyes venomous—"but I'll find a way somehow. Myron Kind's daughter and her bastard brat don't never lay alongside o' my son and me."
Light now dawned upon Mrs. Deans. She fully appreciated Mrs. Holder's attitude in the matter; she rose to the occasion.
"It's the lot up in the cemetery that's worrying you," she said. "Well, so 'twould me, to think a young one sich as that was going to be next hand, touching me in my grave!"
At that moment there came a sound from the adjoining bedroom, the door was ajar, a chubby hand reached through the opening, and pulled the door wide, and the next instant, Myron's baby, roused from his sleep by the sound of their voices, came out, and, walking totteringly across the floor, took hold of his grandmother's dress, and stood eying Mrs. Deans with the frank impertinence of babyhood.
His yellow hair was tossed and tangled; his blue eyes, a little heavy yet from sleep, were placid and happy; his face was round and dimpled, one cheek flushed a deep rose from the pressure of the pillow. He looked indeed perfect as any cherubic picture. However such children as he may develop—undoubtedly the blond, rosy, dimpled type is the ideal baby.
There was something grotesque in these two women: their souls grimed with the dust of their own sins, their hearts hardened beneath a crust of their own self-seeking lusts, their bodies calloused by the world, defiled by their own passions, fearing contamination, living or dead, from too near vicinity to that child.
"Run away, My," said his grandmother, giving him a little push. The baby stood still a moment. A gray cat peeped in at the door, and then withdrew its head; with a gurgle of laughter, the child trotted after it.
Mrs. Deans had been eying him steadily since his appearance.
"Now, who does that young one look like?" said she with emphasis, as if to force an answer by her earnestness.
"Nobody," said Mrs. Holder. "He do be 'witched, I think. I never see a child like him afore. You could always see a likeness in some trick or other, but that young one has no tricks with him; them's his ways, such as you've seen: eat—smile—sleep."
"Well, it beats all," said Mrs. Deans, feeling exasperated.
A trill of inarticulate laughter interrupted them, and the baby appeared at the door, the gray cat in his arms, wriggling to free itself. It did. Putting its hind legs against the baby's breast, it sprang out of his arms; the recoil sent the boy down, but he picked himself up and again began the pursuit.
"Now, Mrs. Holder, you was telling me about the cemetery lot," said Mrs. Deans.
"Yes;" returned her hostess. "It's this way: there's four graves in the lot, and only one took up. I can't abear to think on it; to think whether I will or no that I have to lie wi' such a lot an' rise wi' 'em at the day."
"Well," said Mrs. Deans, in a meditative voice, "well"—a long pause, then she added: "Now, if 'twasn't for offending you, Mrs. Holder, I think I can see my way!"
"I'll be right glad if you do," said Mrs. Holder, eagerly; "it's vexing me sore."
"Well," began Mrs. Deans, "it's this way. I've done a lot of business, one way and another, and I'm used to seeing through things, and this is what I would suggest, Mrs. Holder—not that I want to make or meddle with other folks' business, but being always willing to do what I can to help along, and what I would suggest is this: Get Muir to call here and fix it with him, so as he'll do whatever's necessary when the time comes; and you give him half the lot for it, so, if anything happens, why everything'll be done up proper; and then he'll stake off half the lot and you needn't be scared; he'll not let it out of his hands. That's what I would suggest, Mrs. Holder, not that I pretend to be anything more than common—but I've done a heap of business in my time."
"It do seem fair wonderful, Mrs. Deans," said Mrs. Holder, her face lighting with an ugly expression of gratified malice; "it do be fair wonderful, the mind you have; but how'll I get word to Muir? I don't want Myron to know, of course, and I won't go down street with My flaunting the family shame—and there I be fair stuck."
"I'm passing Muir's as I go to the store," said Mrs. Deans, rising. "Oh, no thanks, please; don't thank me. We must all do what we can to help other folks along, you know, in this world, and I don't take it no trouble to do my share."
"Well, I take it rare kindly," returned the old woman.
"Oh," said her guest, pausing, "I meant specially to ask you about Myron; she was terrible late yesterday morning. I spoke to her about it, and she spunked up dreadful; got 's red 's fire and never said a word. I thought it my duty to tell you, Mrs. Holder, being anxious for her good and knowing you couldn't look after her, when she was out of jour sight."
"She was late yesterday morning in starting," said Mrs. Holder, "but I be fair ashamed she should show herself like that to you, after your goodness to her, and bearing with her, as you have done. Oh, Myron has her mother's ways—sulky she is, and close-mouthed." (Alas! was this all the memory left of Myron Kind's gentleness and sweet patience!) "You can see what I have to put up with day in and day out. Come here, My!" This to the child, as she saw him going along the path.
"Yes, you have your own times, I'll warrant," said Mrs. Deans. "What did you call the young one?"
"My," replied Mrs. Holder. "That's what she always calls it, and I'm bound it's most fitting, being near her own name. I fair hate that name, Mrs. Deans. Myron's mother took my son away from me and she brought me shame; it's fit and well to call the brat that too."
"Yes, indeed, you're right there," agreed Mrs. Deans, at once relieved and disappointed; relieved that her Gamaliel was left in undisturbed possession of his name, disappointed that Myron Holder had not given some more definite name to her child—Homer, for instance.
Mrs. Deans took her way down street, filled with righteous self-congratulation. The scheme of debarring Myron Holder from ever lying beside her father seemed to her most admirable. Doubtless, from a strictly legal point of view, there might have been difficulties in the way, but who was going to tell Myron that? Mrs. Deans smiled to think of Myron's surprise when she found out. Myron Holder had never done Mrs. Deans any injury, but the latter cherished against her that inexplicable hatred, that alien from rhyme or reason, sometimes fearfully fostered in the human heart. This feeling, mature and enfranchised, made the streets of Paris red with blood; has nerved the hand that hurled a bomb; has steadied the aim of the assassin and, developed by heredity and indulged by training and opportunity, has made the Thugs a people. To inflict what others endure with pain is their life.
Half-way down the street Mrs. Deans paused before a door overshadowed by a green painted veranda, supported by spindling posts; upon each side of the door was a window. In one was displayed a mortuary wreath, made of white stucco flowers and a star formed of six nickel-plated coffin-plates, tastefully disposed against a black background, the same being the beaver covering stripped from one of Mr. Muir's defunct tall hats. In the other window was placed a small coffin. This cheerful display was intended to indicate that the Jamestown undertaker was to be found within.
As Mrs. Deans entered a bell hung over the top of the door rang, and as its note died away in a harsh tinkle steps began to come from the rear of the shop—slow, solemn footsteps, the echo of one dying away before the other succeeded it, which gave a sepulchral effect to the tread of Mr. Muir. They were indeed a fitting herald of the little undertaker's appearance, which distinctly suggested his vocation.
He was short and broad, without being in the least stout. He had a sandy colored beard, so shaggy as to be almost woolly, and which he wore parted in the middle and brushed on either side into the semblance of a gigantic Dundreary. He wore habitually a broadcloth suit, and of these he had always three, one in the last stages of dilapidation that he wore when doing his "chores" in the morning, attending to his two spare-ribbed black horses, oiling the wheels of the hearse, etc.; another he wore when he "kept shop," and when attending to the private offices of his profession; the third was the holiest, and reserved for his public functions at the funerals. The suit always consisted of a frock coat, which fell below his knees and hung around him in folds; a waistcoat buttoned up to the neck, and a pair of trousers that were always too short, but which made up in width for that deficiency. An odd little bird of ill-omen he was. His face was settled into an expression of unalleviated gloom; his features had assumed an attitude of mournful resignation. From this funereal countenance his eyes shone forth strangely—little bright eyes, keen and acquisitive.
He advanced, rubbing his hands slowly together. "Mrs. Deans," he said, and bowed.
This bow was an acquirement much thought of in Jamestown. What more palliating to bereaved feelings than to behold Mr. Muir, in all the black glory of grief, ushering in the funeral guests with a succession of these bows! He had a clever knack of including the "remains" in each of these genuflections, which were always performed at the door of the room where the dead lay. His appearance upon these official occasions was little less than sublime; the way in which he removed his tall hat from his head was in itself a poem—hardly ostentatious, yet most impressive—exalting the act to a ceremonial and dignifying the performance unspeakably.
Mrs. Deans never cared much for Mr. Muir. The little man's eye held a certain proprietary look that chilled one's blood; it was as though he viewed one in the light of prospective "remains"—as who should say, "Go your way in your own fashion now; some day you will go my way in my fashion." A tape-line always showed itself from one of his pockets, and this in itself brought as grewsome a suggestion as any one cared to contemplate.
"How d'ye do, Mr. Muir?" said Mrs. Deans. "How d'ye do? How's the world treating you these days?"
"Oh, well, very well," replied Mr. Muir solemnly, still rubbing his hands together; then he nodded towards the rear of the shop: "Will you go in?" he asked. This was Mr. Muir's way of inviting customers to inspect the coffins.
"No, not to-day," said Mrs. Deans hastily. "I haven't called about any work for you, Mr. Muir, but on business."
Mr. Muir looked puzzled, the terms evidently bearing some relation to each other in his estimation.
"It's for old Mrs. Holder," went on Mrs. Deans.
"If it's to do any burying for her, I won't do it unless the council guarantees it," interrupted Mr. Muir, with decision. "Here I have waited and waited for Jed's money, and only got the last of it last week—got it by fifty centses. It ain't satisfying, getting a bill in fifty-cent pieces; it ain't business. They get the coffin in a lump; they ought to pay in a lump. No, I can't do it, Mrs. Deans, not meaning to disoblige you, though; and I hope you won't hold it against me and keep back the favor of your business. Of course doing for you and doing for such as Holders is two stories. Now, for you or your husband, something more after the style of General——"
Mrs. Deans broke in hastily. Once upon a time, Mr. Muir had travelled seven hundred miles to see the funeral of a great general. That funeral was to Mr. Muir what a visit to Rome is to an artist; and his description of it was a story to outlast the passing of the pageant it pictured. All Jamestown knew the story, and Mrs. Deans felt that prompt action alone could save her.
"It don't concern burying people at all, Mr. Mnir, but burying ground." Mrs. Deans gurgled over her own joke. "And I'll just tell you about it, if you'll wait a minute. You see," looking confidential, "it's like this: Mrs. Holder takes it terrible hard about Myron's goings-on, and when she dies she can't bear to think her and her young one is going to be put right a-touching her, as you may say, which ain't to be wondered at when one considers the importance of the thing." Mrs. Deans paused for breath and to give this time to have due effect upon Mr. Muir, who was once known to complain because people spent more on marrying than on burying.
Mr. Muir nodded his approval, and Mrs. Deans continued:
"That being the case, Mr. Muir, as I said, it ain't to be wondered at that Mrs. Holder is uneasy and wants to fix it so she 'n' her son'll be undisturbed. So, having asked me about the matter, I siggested to her that you could fix it, if any one could; and so she wants you to call up to see her, because she can't leave My, and she won't bring him out."
"Who's My?" asked Mr. Muir.
"Why, that's the young one! Didn't you know? That's more of Myron Holder's slyness. But pshaw! What's the use of talking? Them kind's all alike. But fancy naming it after herself! Well, as I said, old Mrs. Holder, she wanted you should come up to see her and make a trade. Now, I hope you'll go, Mr. Muir, being as I specially siggested t' her that you could help her out."
"I'll go, Mrs. Deans; I'll go," said Mr. Muir. "Think I'll just slip up by White's and see the lot first; nigh-hand to Warner's, ain't it?"
"Yes, nigh close to old man Warner's, which was filled when Ann Eliza was buried. Mr. White did say that Ann Eliza overlapped his lot. But there! it doesn't do to say them things; it ain't me to spread talk. She had a queer look, though, Ann Eliza did when she was laid out, hadn't she, Mr. Muir?" Here Mrs. Deans nodded with much sinister meaning at Mr. Muir.
"Yes, a very wretched-looking body she made. I like to see a cheerful-looking corpse; something more after the style of Jed Holder. Now, when he was ready, he was a real credit to me, though his pay was onsatisfactory—very onsatisfactory."
"Yes, Jed did smooth out most wonderful," agreed Mrs. Deans. "Then you'll go up to Mrs. Holder's? Better go soon, Mr. Muir; old Warner'll be after more lots some of these days."
"Yes, without a doubt, Mrs. Deans," said Mr. Muir. Mrs. Deans pulled the door open, again the harsh bell rang, and she heard its dying tinkle through Mr. Muir's farewells, for he came outside the door with her, and after she betook herself down the street, he still lingered, gloating critically over the arrangement of the coffin-plates in his window.
Mrs. Deans proceeded down the street, and soon reached the store. As she paused at the store door, she looked back and saw the undertaker just entering his shop.
"He'll never handle any job for me," Mrs. Deans said, recalling the rudeness of his interruption during their conversation. "I'll get Foster from Ovid for Henry."
She entered the store, purchased her dyestuffs quickly, and then, all business cares off her mind, set her face steadfastly to go to Mrs. Wilson's.
Now, Mrs. Deans was extremely eager to find out if Mrs. Wilson's anxiety about the naming of Myron Holder's child sprang from any knowledge or suspicion of the boy's parentage. As she trod heavily along the sandy footpath to the Wilson farm, she turned the matter over in her mind and considered the best means of getting at the truth, or at least all Mrs. Wilson knew of it. Gossip is something more, perhaps, than a vulgar propensity—there is art in it, as in everything else. There are several ways of inducing others to talk freely of their affairs. Mrs. Deans thoroughly appreciated the distinctions between the methods. One way which Mrs. Deans had found very effective in some cases is to assume high ground; treat the discussion with the careless condescension of one to whom it is an old story; acknowledge every tid-bit of information with a nod signifying thorough acquaintance with the whole matter; the victim, oftentimes irritated by your show of superior knowledge, goes on supplying detail after detail, in the hope of startling you out of your apathy. This plan has however, as Mrs. Deans knew, been known to miss fire, and when it fails, it fails completely. She hesitated to try it with Mrs. Wilson.
Another very seductive plan is to assume an air of great meekness and draw your subject out by seeming to believe she knows all about the mooted question—whilst lowly you know nothing. Few women can resist this—the desire to flaunt the knowledge imputed to them is too strong to be denied.
Mrs. Deans slowly entered the Wilson gate. The path from the road led up to the house between two rows of large stones, placed at regular intervals from each other, upon the grass at the side of the path. These stones were whitewashed every now and then by Mrs. Wilson, and were considered to give quite an "air" to the place. The spring house-cleaning being just over, they shone dazzlingly white from a fresh coat; their ranks were broken half-way up to the house by two small "rockeries," over which grew "Live Forever," "Old Man," "Winter Verbena," and "Lemon Balm;" they were each crowned by a geranium, the one a sweet-scented one, the other a single scarlet. Close to the house grew two plum trees, one on each side of the path. From the branches of one was suspended a hanging-basket made out of half of a cocoanut-shell, in which grew "Creeping Charlie," whilst the other tree was adorned by a tin pan filled with the luxuriantly-growing jointed stems of the "Wandering Jew." On each side of the steps—for Mrs. Wilson was fond of uniformity—stood a brown shilling crock, one almost hidden beneath a green mat of a trailing vine called "Jacob's Ladder," the other holding an upright and sturdy "Jerusalem Cherry Tree" (known to unimaginative botanists as Solanum), around whose roots were appearing the tiny rosettes of portulaca seedlings.
Mrs. Deans noted these things not altogether approvingly, Marian Wilson being in her estimation somewhat perilously given up to vanities.
Her knock brought a speedy answer in the person of Mrs. Wilson. "Well, Jane," she ejaculated, "come right in. I was jest expectin' you some of these days; come right into the setting room and lay off your things, and we'll visit together for a spell."
"Oh, I ain't come to stop," said Mrs. Deans, suffering herself to be led into the sitting-room. "I ain't come to stop, only as I was just at the store for dye, I thought I'd come on and see you."
"You done right," said Mrs. Wilson; "you done right there, and I'm real glad you've come. Got your rags all sewed?"
"Yes, forty-two pounds," replied Mrs. Deans, who all this time had been mechanically untying her bonnet-strings and affecting to be oblivious of the actions of Mrs. Wilson, who was unpinning her shawl. Presently, the bonnet-strings being unloosened, Mrs. Wilson dexterously switched away bonnet and shawl, and said triumphantly:
"Now, Jane, come and set down." Then, and not till then, Mrs. Deans awoke with a start to the fact that her outdoor garb had been removed.
"Why, Marian, I declare," she said, "you do beat all!"
Having suffered herself to be led to and installed in a rocking-chair, Mrs. Deans settled herself comfortably for a talk.
"What colors are you going to dye, Jane?" asked Mrs. Wilson.
"Well," said Mrs. Deans, checking off the list on her fingers, "I've got hickory bark for yellow, and walnut shucks that I saved last fall for brown, and barberry stems to mix with bluing for green; and I've bought red and magenta and blue, and I was thinking that, being as I didn't want much color, that would be enough."
"Yes," said Mrs. Wilson, "I never care for a carpet that is just a mess of colored rags. I like a good deal of yellow, though. I seen one in the market the other day; a woman from Ovid had it for sale, and it was real neat-looking. It had a brier twist of yellow and black in the middle of the pattern, and a stripe of red at each side; then there was a wide piece of purple and a narrow stripe of green; the filling up was mixed, with a lot of blue in it, and she had it wove with red warp."
"I didn't get any purple," said Mrs. Deans, "but I might get it——"
"Say, wouldn't red and blue mix for purple?" asked Mrs. Wilson.
"Why, I don't know but they would! Where did she have hers wove?"
"Up to Skinner's at the Pinewoods," said Mrs. Wilson. "They do say the Skinnerses keeps back the rags and helps themselves to the warp; but the way I do is to weigh the warp and the rags, and then when I get the carpet back I weigh that."
"A very good way, too," agreed Mrs. Deans. "I'd like to see the carpet-wearer that would cheat me!"
"Have to get up early in the morning, eh, Jane?" said Mrs. Wilson, approvingly.
"Yes, earlier than before night," chuckled Mrs. Deans. "Suppose you heard Dan Follett was gone?"
"Yes, Homer seen the funeral; 'twas a most terrible big one, and nothing would do Homer but he must follow on with it to the cemetery. It do seem hard to think how one's son'll go on doing sich things. The idea!" Mrs. Wilson concluded between a sniff and a snort.
"Yes," said Mrs. Deans, sympathetically. "Well, there's one good thing, no one would hold you responsible for Homer's doings now. I tell you when men gets his age, they're bound to go their own ways." Then abruptly, "I was at Mrs. Holder's to-day." Here Mrs. Deans looked full at Mrs. Wilson.
"You was?" said her hostess. "You was? Who did you see?"
"I seen old Mrs. Holder and the young one; it's named——"
"What?" asked Mrs. Wilson, breathlessly.
"Well, you'd never guess," said Mrs. Deans, maliciously prolonging her hostess' agony. "You'd never guess. I'm sure I never suspicioned she'd call it that. I suppose it's fitting, most fitting, I should say—but there! What's the odds what it's called? I wouldn't let it worry me, no matter what she called it."
"What is its name, Jane?" asked Mrs. Wilson, with such directness that Mrs. Deans could not disregard it.
"My," answered she, "My—short for Myron."
"Well, Jane," gasped Mrs. Wilson, in relief, and affecting that her exclamation was one of surprise; "well, it beats all!"
Mrs. Deans felt satisfied on one point: Mrs. Wilson had certainly had grave fears in regard to the naming of the child—too grave to be causeless, Mrs. Deans assured herself. Well, Mrs. Deans had never thought much of Homer Wilson—he was altogether too conceited, and he never spoke in revival meeting any more than that once; and he was too sure of himself, and too independent. So it was Homer Wilson, then! Why hadn't he married her? Why hadn't Myron told? Now, if she—Mrs. Deans—could only expose the two of them, how meritorious that would be! A hazy plan to attack Homer on the question flitted through her brain; to ask him suddenly, when he was unprepared, point-blank—would that startle him into a confession or a betrayal of the truth in spite of himself?
Mrs. Deans and Mrs. Wilson talked the afternoon away, peaceably and amicably, and in the twilight Mrs. Deans went home. She met Myron half way to the village and stopped her.
"I been in to see your grandmother to-day," she said. "I wonder at you, Myron Holder, that you ain't ashamed to show your face; she's failing fast, your grandmother is, and no wonder! Well, I wouldn't have your conscience for something. Poor old woman, slaving herself to death over a young one like that. But you'll be found out yet, Myron Holder; and when you do, don't look to me, thinking I'll back you up, for I won't; the time for that's past, unless you want to take your last chance and own up the whole of it now." Mrs. Deans paused—her very attitude an interrogation.
"Good-night, Mrs. Deans," said Myron, in her soft English voice, and passed on with down-bent head.
Mrs. Deans stood for quite a minute amazed, looking after the quiet form going wearily into the dusk of the gathering night—to be left thus was a trifle too much. "I'll take it out of her for that!" said Mrs. Deans, flushing with wrath. "I'll let her know what's what, or my name ain't Deans. The idea! She'll walk off and leave me standing talking to her, will she? Well,——"
Mrs. Deans resumed her irate way. Myron Holder held on her path to the village. She was numb alike in mind and body; the accumulated weariness of days of toil and nights of painful thought pressed upon her; it was marvellous how she endured the fatigues of her life without breaking down physically. "As thy days so shall thy strength be!" has hidden a germ of bane as well as blessing. Does it not often seem as if sorrow imbued life with its own bitter tenacity? Was ever such a fearful doom pictured as that of the Eternal Wanderer "mocked with the curse of immortality"?
So Myron Holder went home in the twilight, and Mrs. Deans went home revolving fresh schemes for her humiliation, inventing new burdens for her overtaxed shoulders. "God," they say, "builds the nest of the blind bird." Is it man who lines it with thorns?