“Indeed it is a grand sight to behold,” calmly replied Waffington.
He broke off a bit of stick and threw it over the rock. At first it poised in the strong breeze that came up from the valley below, but finally tilted on end and began slipping away thousands of feet downward, towards the valley. He mechanically threw out another stick in the air and raised his head to speak.
“Doesn’t the wind bear it up beautifully?” she intercepted him.
“Yes, rather,” came the quiet reply. “But I must confess that it reminds me of insincere friendship. There are those in this big world who are treacherous, like the wind with the stick. They bear us up beautifully at first, then upon their strength we begin to build; but in the end, they betray the trust and dash us to pieces on the rocks below.”
“But are my friends like that, Mr. Waffington?” she painfully asked.
“Well, I’m not a judge. I don’t know who are your best friends.”
“Well, may I ask, is your friendship like the stick and the wind, Mr. Waffington?”
“No, Gena,” he said quietly. Then after a long silence he threw the remaining stick that he held in his hand far back on the grass and finished, “Once a friend, always a friend with me—at least nothing less.” Then his heart cried out and begged him to tell her all, but his voice failed to do his bidding.
“Well, I wisht I may die, ef I didn’t think I’d slip upon on you all an’ ketch you atalkin’ courtin’ talk, but I didn’t, I reckon,” piped Boaz Honeycutt, as he bounded out from behind a clump of rhododendrons.
They both blushed, and she smiled as her eyes met Waffington’s and said: