Quill's Window

by George Barr McCutcheon

He made good use of the corner of his eye as he strolled leisurely past the Windom house, set well back at the top of a small tree-surrounded knoll and looking down upon the grassy slope that formed the most beautiful "front yard" in the whole county, according to the proud and boastful denizens of Windomville. Along the bottom of the lawn ran a neatly trimmed privet hedge. There were lilac bushes in the lower corners of the extensive grounds, and the wide gravel walk up to the house was lined with flowers. Rose bushes guarded the base of the terrace that ran the full length of the house and curved off to the back of it.

A red and yellow beach umbrella, tilted against the hot morning sun, lent a gay note of colour to the terrace to the left of the steps. Some one,—a woman,—sat beneath the big sunshade, reading a newspaper. A Belgian police dog posed at the top of the steps, as rigid as if shaped of stone, regarding the passer-by who limped. Halfway between the house and the road stood two fine old oaks, one at either side of the lawn. Their cool, alluring shadows were like clouds upon an emerald sea. Down near the hedge a whirling garden spray cast its benevolent waters over the grateful turf, and, reaching out in playful gusts, blew its mist into the face of the man outside. Back of the house and farther up the timbered slope rose a towering windmill and below it the red water tank, partially screened by the tree-tops. The rhythmic beat of a hydraulic pump came to the stroller's ears.

Courtney's saunterings had taken him past this charming place before,—half a dozen times perhaps,—but never had it seemed so alluring. Outwardly there was no change that he could detect, and yet there was a subtle difference in its every aspect. The spray, the shadows, the lazy windmill, the flowers,—he had seen them all before, just as they were this morning. They had not changed. But now, by some strange wizardry, the tranquil setting had been transformed into a vibrant, exquisite fairyland, throbbing with life, charged with an appeal to every one of the senses. It was as if some hand had shaken it out of a sound sleep.

But, for that matter, the whole village of Windomville had undergone a change. It was no longer the dull, sleepy place of yesterday. Over night it had blossomed. Courtney Thane alone was aware of this amazing transformation. It was he who felt the thrill that charged the air, who breathed in the sense-quickening spice, who heard the pipes of Pan. All these signs of enchantment were denied the matter-of-fact, unimaginative inhabitants of Windomville. And you would ask the cause of this amazing transformation?

Before he left the breakfast table Courtney had consented to give a talk before the Literary Society on the coming Friday night. Mrs. Maude Baggs Pollock had been at him for a week to tell of his experiences at the front. She promised a full attendance.

"I've never made a speech in my life," he said, "and I know I'd be scared stiff, Mrs. Pollock."

"Pooh! Don't you talk to me about being scared! Anybody who did the things you did over in France—"

"Ah, but you forget I was armed to the teeth," he reminded her, with a grin.

"Well," put in Charlie Webster, "we'll promise to leave our pistols at home. The only danger you'll be in, Court, will come from a lot of hysterical women trying to kiss you, but I think I can fix it to have the best lookin' ones up in front so that—"

"I wish you wouldn't always try to be funny, Charlie Webster," snapped Mrs. Pollock. "Mr. Thane and I were discussing a serious matter. If you can postpone—"