“And the bow shall be in the cloud; and I will look upon it, that I may remember the everlasting covenant between God and every living creature of all flesh that is upon the earth.”
I learnt to love that when I was a child, and being still, in many ways, the same child, I look upon a rainbow and think of God remembering his covenant: and it makes me very happy.
Now as the storm was over, and I had no further excuse for stopping in my shelter, I took my knapsack again on to my shoulder and walked down, across two fields of grass, round the high hedges of two orchards, and came out into the road in the valley, about two hundred yards distant from the village church. It was about four of the afternoon.
I was about to turn towards the village to ask my best way to the tailor’s cottage, when who should turn the bend of the road but the tailor himself with all the air of looking for some one.
I grasped him warmly by the hand, and he held mine in a good grip like the good fellow he was, saying, “I was looking about for you, sir, thinking you might have forgotten my direction” (as indeed, I had), “and knowing you would most likely go to the village to inquire, I was on my way there.”
As we turned to walk down the road away from the church, the tailor informed me his sister was all agog to see me, but very nervous that I might think theirs too poor a place to put up with, and she had, at the last moment, implored him to take me to the inn instead.
The affection I had gained for the little man in my few hours’ talk with him made me certain I should be happy in his company, and I laughed at his fears.
“Why, man,” said I, “I have walked a good hundred miles to see you, do you think it likely I shall turn away at the last minute?”
“There,” cried the tailor, “I told her so. She’s a small body, you’ll understand, sir, and gets worried at times.”
We turned a corner and I saw before me one of the prettiest cottages I have ever seen. A low, sloping roof of thatch, golden brown where it had been mended, rich brown and green in the older part. The body of the cottage was white, with a fine tree of Cluster Roses, the Seven Sisters, I think it is called, growing over the porch and on the walls. The garden was one mass of bloom, a wonderful garden—as artists say, “juicy” with colour. Standard Roses, Sweet Williams, Hollyhocks, patches of Violas, Red Hot Pokers, Japanese Anemones, a hedge of Sweet Peas “all tip-toe for a flight” as Keats has it, clumps of Dahlias just coming out, with red pots on sticks to catch the earwigs; an old Lavender hedge, grey-green. A rain butt painted green; round a corner, three blue-coloured beehives; and all about, such flowers—I could not mention half of them. Bushes of Phlox, for instance; and great brown-eyed Sunflowers cracked across with wealth of seed; and tall spikes of Larkspur like the summer skies: and Carnations couched in their grey grass or tied to sticks. A worn brick pathway leading through it all.