Ascending into this natural turret, I peeped in turn out of several of
its small windows. The pine-tree, being ancient, rose high above the
rest of the wood, which was of comparatively recent growth. Even where
I sat, about midway between the root and the topmost bough, my position
was lofty enough to serve as an observatory, not for starry
investigations, but for those sublunary matters in which lay a lore as
infinite as that of the planets. Through one loophole I saw the river
lapsing calmly onward, while in the meadow, near its brink, a few of
the brethren were digging peat for our winter's fuel. On the interior
cart-road of our farm I discerned Hollingsworth, with a yoke of oxen
hitched to a drag of stones, that were to be piled into a fence, on
which we employed ourselves at the odd intervals of other labor. The
harsh tones of his voice, shouting to the sluggish steers, made me
sensible, even at such a distance, that he was ill at ease, and that
the balked philanthropist had the battle-spirit in his heart.
"Haw, Buck!" quoth he. "Come along there, ye lazy ones! What are ye
about, now? Gee!"
"Mankind, in Hollingsworth's opinion," thought I, "is but another yoke
of oxen, as stubborn, stupid, and sluggish as our old Brown and Bright.
He vituperates us aloud, and curses us in his heart, and will begin to
prick us with the goad-stick, by and by. But are we his oxen? And
what right has he to be the driver? And why, when there is enough else
to do, should we waste our strength in dragging home the ponderous load
of his philanthropic absurdities? At my height above the earth, the
whole matter looks ridiculous!"
Turning towards the farmhouse, I saw Priscilla (for, though a great way
off, the eye of faith assured me that it was she) sitting at Zenobia's
window, and making little purses, I suppose; or, perhaps, mending the
Community's old linen. A bird flew past my tree; and, as it clove its
way onward into the sunny atmosphere, I flung it a message for
Priscilla.
"Tell her," said I, "that her fragile thread of life has inextricably
knotted itself with other and tougher threads, and most likely it will
be broken. Tell her that Zenobia will not be long her friend. Say that
Hollingsworth's heart is on fire with his own purpose, but icy for all
human affection; and that, if she has given him her love, it is like
casting a flower into a sepulchre. And say that if any mortal really
cares for her, it is myself; and not even I for her realities,--poor
little seamstress, as Zenobia rightly called her!--but for the
fancy-work with which I have idly decked her out!"