To find a man in Cambourne Woods, even so big a man as Black George,
would seem as hard a matter as to find the needle in the proverbial
"bottle of hay;" the sun crept westward, the day declined into
evening, yet, hungry though I was, I persevered in my search, not
so much in the hope of finding him (in the which I knew I must be
guided altogether by chance), as from a disinclination to return,
just yet, to the cottage. "It would be miserable there at this
hour," I told myself, "miserable and lonely."
Yet why should I be lonely; I, who had gloried in my solitude
hitherto? Whence then had come this change?
While I stood thus, seeking an answer to this self-imposed
question and finding none, I heard some one approach, whistling,
and, looking about, beheld a fellow with an axe upon his shoulder,
who strode along at a good pace, keeping time to his whistle. He
gave me a cheery greeting as he came up, but without stopping.
"You seem in a hurry," said I.
"Ah!" grinned the man, over his shoulder, "'cause why?--'cause I
be goin' 'ome."
"Home!" said I.
"To supper," he nodded, and, forthwith, began to whistle again,
while I stood listening till the clear notes had died away.
"Home!" said I for the second time, and there came upon me a
feeling of desolation such as I had never known even in my
neglected boyhood's days.
Home! truly a sweet word, a comfortable word, the memory of which
has been as oil and wine to many a sick and weary traveler upon
this Broad Highway of life; a little word, and yet one which may
come betwixt a man and temptation, covering him like a shield.
"Roof and walls, be they cottage or mansion, do not make home,"
thought I, "rather is it the atmosphere of mutual love, the
intimacies of thought, the joys and sorrows endured together, and
the never-failing sympathy--that bond invisible yet stronger than
death."
And, because I had, hitherto, known nothing of this, I was
possessed of a great envy for this axe-fellow as I walked on
through the wood.
Now as I went, it was as if there were two voices arguing
together within me, whereof ensued the following triangular
conversation:
MYSELF. Yet I have my books--I will go to my lonely cottage and
bury myself among my books.
FIRST VOICE. Assuredly! Is it for a philosopher to envy a
whistling axe-fellow--go to!