[CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE—THE LITTLE GUST O’ WIND]
I have seen some mighty quick changes brought about by flood o’ circumstances breakin’ on a man all of a sudden—ol’ Cast Steel Judson, himself, had melted and run into a new mold the night o’ Barbie’s weddin’—but I never saw such a complete change as had took place in The since I’d first seen him. He loved devilment then, like a bear loves honey; while now he had swung back with the pendulem clear to the other side, until he was more unworldly ’n the Friar himself. It wasn’t what he said ’at made a feller feel funny inside, it was his eyes. His eyes were all the time tryin’ to tell things ’at his tongue couldn’t frame up, and it acted like brakes on a feller’s breathin’ apparatus.
I asked the Friar about it one evenin’ while we were walkin’ back through the ravine. He walked along with his brows wrinkled a few minutes, and then said: “You see, Happy, the whole human race is made up o’ millions of individuals, and each one is some alike and some different. A man goes through childhood, youth, his fightin’ period, and old age; and the race has to do the same thing.
“Now, ages ago when the childhood o’ the race began, folks were downright primitive; they used stone axes, skins for clothing, and ate raw flesh. They were fierce, impulsive, passionate, just like children are if you watch ’em close enough; but they lived close to nature, just like the children do, and their bodies were vigorous, and their minds were like dry sponges, ready to absorb whatever fell upon ’em.
“The outdoor man of to-day is still primitive; he delights in his dissipations, and recklessness, but the grim, set face which he wears, is a mask. The rich, pure air is all the time washin’ his body clean, his active life keeps his nerves sound and accurate, and his heart is like the heart of a little child—hungry for good or evil, and needin’ a guiding hand all the time.
“In the mornin’ a child is so full o’ life that words don’t mean much to him; but when the play o’ the day is over, he comes home, through the twilight shadows, bruised an’ disappointed an’ purty well tired out. All day long he’s waged his little wars; but now he is mighty glad to pillow his head close to his mother’s heart; and then it is that the seeds o’ gentleness are easiest sprouted. This is the twilight time for Promotheus.”
We didn’t have anything more to say on this walk; but we both had plenty to think of. It allus seemed to me that in some curious way, the Friar, himself, was better ’n his own religion. His religion made badness a feller’s own fault; but after gettin’ to know the Friar, it allus made ya feel more like takin’ some share in the other feller’s sin, than like pointin’ your finger at him and sayin’ he never was any good, nohow.
A couple o’ days after this, the doctor told us that the sands were runnin’ mighty low in The’s hour-glass, and it wouldn’t be long to the end; but still we couldn’t believe it. He didn’t look bad, nor he didn’t suffer; and we had seen him come back from the grave almost, that time at Olaf’s when Horace had claimed his life, and had saved him in spite of himself.
Then again, the doctor had missed it on Janet, and we were all hopin’ he’d get slipped up on again; but The himself seemed to side with the doctor, and Olaf took one long look, an’ then shut his lips tight an’ shook his head. The said he wanted to live, and had done all he could to get a clinch on life; but that it was slippin’ away from him drop by drop, and he couldn’t stay with us much longer.
He seemed to want us about him, so we dropped in and sat beside him as long as we could keep cheerful. All through the afternoon he lay with a serious, gentle smile on his lips, but the sadness was mostly gone, even from his eyes. I closed my own eyes as I sat beside him, and called up the picture o’ Badger-face the day he had wanted to lynch Olaf. Then I opened my eyes and looked at the real Promotheus, and I understood what the Friar meant by bein’ born again.