He threw back his head and laughed—Ruth would like it. He would bring her and show her where he wrote it—on their wedding day!
He read it again; it was a whimsical thing. He was sorry for the poets of the past who were chained in rhyme. The world had been rhyming so long, about everything—love, religion, the soul, the origin of man. People rhymed themselves into a state of poetic fiction; then suddenly they found out it was all rhyme and no reason.
9
The path ran along the side of the mountain. In the valley below he saw people running, heard the sound of music in the distance. He stopped a barefoot boy, who told him it was fête day in the Canton, to welcome their great Switzer home from Geneva, the artist Staehli.
“Staehli? Yes, I know. I admired his paintings at the exhibition.”
Then he saw a procession of peasants in gala array, cows adorned with flowers, maidens singing, dancing. A tall man walked amongst them with swinging step, a peasant like the others. He puts his hand to his mouth and gives out a long piercing yodel. Above at a châlet a woman answers.
“That is Angela, his wife; she is the doctor of the Dorf; she heals with her hands and brews herb tea which has a magic power!”
“Oh! I’d like to meet the artist. Do you think he’ll receive me?”
“Oh, yes! All are welcome; they have the best milk and cheese in the village. I’ll take you down.”
Near the châlet, they were stopped by an enormous hay wagon drawn by oxen. The young peasant leading them moved aside, smiling at Joseph.