He was hailed with joy whenever he appeared with his frank smile and his mandolin. In the West, there is a keen appreciation of impromptu pleasure.
In the orchard the fruit trees had fully blossomed, the grass was still a young, tender green. Through the masses of delicate pink and white color, shone here and there, glimpses of the exquisite blue sky. There is little to admire, as far as scenery is concerned, in this flat country, over which one can travel for miles without seeing a rolling meadow, or a sign of a hill. But one can rave over the skies of Indiana, sometimes brilliantly, sometimes softly tenderly blue. Their peculiar azure is not reproduced in any other country of the world. The color ran out when the skies of Indiana were painted, and never renewed, in order that they should remain unique. The secret belongs to the Universe.
CHAPTER IV.
Springtime.
"The blossoms are commencing to fall," said Mrs. Stillwater, shaking three or four petals off her work. Her hands were never idle, and they were now manipulating some fleecy white wool. "What a pity it can't always be like this—the trees look so beautiful. I could content myself here all summer—"
"Well, I won't say that," said Mrs. Bunker. "There's no place hotter on earth, than Indiana in summer. But if it would always be as pleasant as now—I like the seashore in July—"
"You mean," interrupted Stillwater, lying under a low-spreading apple tree, with a handkerchief spread over his face, "that you like the 'life' at the seashore. There's no affinity between you and the ocean that I know of."
"Well, have it that way, if you will. I like 'the life at the seashore.'"
Mrs. Bunker looked defiantly up from the red rose which she was embroidering, with a little less energy perhaps, than in the morning. "Particularly, as we are buried alive in the Adirondacks during August, September and October."
"Buried alive?"