sunshine sketches of a little town-第13部分

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the　help　of　the　steamer。　They　got　them　all。　Pupkin；　the　other　bank
teller；　with　a　face　like　a　horse；　who　hadn't　gone　on　the
excursion；as　soon　as　he　knew　that　the　boat　was　signalling　for　help
and　that　Miss　Lawson　was　sending　up　rockets；rushed　for　a　row　boat；
grabbed　an　oar　（two　would　have　hampered　him）；　and　paddled　madly　out
into　the　lake。　He　struck　right　out　into　the　dark　with　the　crazy　skiff
almost　sinking　beneath　his　feet。　But　they　got　him。　They　rescued　him。
They　watched　him；　almost　dead　with　exhaustion；　make　his　way　to　the
steamer；　where　he　was　hauled　up　with　ropes。　Saved！　Saved！！

They　might　have　gone　on　that　way　half　the　night；　picking　up　the
rescuers；　only；　at　the　very　moment　when　the　tenth　load　of　people　left
for　the　shore；just　as　suddenly　and　saucily　as　you　please；　up　came
the　Mariposa　Belle　from　the　mud　bottom　and　floated。

FLOATED？

Why；　of　course　she　did。　If　you　take　a　hundred　and　fifty　people　off　a
steamer　that　has　sunk；　and　if　you　get　a　man　as　shrewd　as　Mr。　Smith　to
plug　the　timber　seams　with　mallet　and　marline；　and　if　you　turn　ten
bandsmen　of　the　Mariposa　band　on　to　your　hand　pump　on　the　bow　of　the
lower　decksfloat？　why；　what　else　can　she　do？

Then；　if　you　stuff　in　hemlock　into　the　embers　of　the　fire　that　you
were　raking　out；　till　it　hums　and　crackles　under　the　boiler；　it　won't
be　long　before　you　hear　the　propeller　thud　thudding　at　the　stern
again；　and　before　the　long　roar　of　the　steam　whistle　echoes　over　to
the　town。

And　so　the　Mariposa　Belle；　with　all　steam　up　again　and　with　the　long
train　of　sparks　careering　from　the　funnel；　is　heading　for　the　town。

But　no　Christie　Johnson　at　the　wheel　in　the　pilot　house　this　time。

〃Smith！　Get　Smith！〃　is　the　cry。

Can　he　take　her　in？　Well；　now！　Ask　a　man　who　has　had　steamers　sink　on
him　in　half　the　lakes　from　Temiscaming　to　the　Bay；　if　he　can　take　her
in？　Ask　a　man　who　has　run　a　York　boat　down　the　rapids　of　the　Moose
when　the　ice　is　moving；　if　he　can　grip　the　steering　wheel　of　the
Mariposa　Belle？　So　there　she　steams　safe　and　sound　to　the　town　wharf！

Look　at　the　lights　and　the　crowd！　If　only　the　federal　census　taker
could　count　us　now！　Hear　them　calling　and　shouting　back　and　forward
from　the　deck　to　the　shore！　Listen！　There　is　the　rattle　of　the　shore
ropes　as　they　get　them　ready；　and　there's　the　Mariposa
band；actually　forming　in　a　circle　on　the　upper　deck　just　as　she
docks；　and　the　leader　with　his　baton；onetwoready　now；

〃O　CAN…A…DA！〃



FOUR

The　Ministrations　of　the　Rev。　Mr。　Drone

The　Church　of　England　in　Mariposa　is　on　a　side　street；　where　the
maple　trees　are　thickest；　a　little　up　the　hill　from　the　heart　of　the
town。　The　trees　above　the　church　and　the　grass　plot　that　was　once　the
cemetery；　till　they　made　the　new　one　（the　Necropolis；　over　the　brow
of　the　hill）；　fill　out　the　whole　corner。　Down　behind　the　church；　with
only　the　driving　shed　and　a　lane　between；　is　the　rectory。　It　is　a
little　brick　house　with　odd　angles。　There　is　a　hedge　and　a　little
gate；　and　a　weeping　ash　tree　with　red　berries。

At　the　side　of　the　rectory；　churchward；　is　a　little　grass　lawn　with
low　hedges　and　at　the　side　of　that　two　wild　plum　trees；　that　are
practically　always　in　white　blossom。　Underneath　them　is　a　rustic
table　and　chairs；　and　it　is　here　that　you　may　see　Rural　Dean　Drone；
the　incumbent　of　the　Church　of　England　Church；　sitting；　in　the
chequered　light　of　the　plum　tress　that　is　neither　sun　nor　shadow。
Generally　you　will　find　him　reading；　and　when　I　tell　you　that　at　the
end　of　the　grass　plot　where　the　hedge　is　highest　there　is　a　yellow
bee　hive　with　seven　bees　that　belong　to　Dean　Drone；　you　will　realize
that　it　is　only　fitting　that　the　Dean　is　reading　in　the　Greek。　For
what　better　could　a　man　be　reading　beneath　the　blossom　of　the　plum
trees；　within　the　very　sound　of　the　bees；　than　the　Pastorals　of
Theocritus？　The　light　trash　of　modern　romance　might　put　a　man　to
sleep　in　such　a　spot；　but　with　such　food　for　reflection　as
Theocritus；　a　man　may　safely　close　his　eyes　and　muse　on　what　he　reads
without　fear　of　dropping　into　slumber。

Some　men；　I　suppose；　terminate　their　education　when　they　leave　their
college。　Not　so　Dean　Drone。　I　have　often　heard　him　say　that　if　he
couldn't　take　a　book　in　the　Greek　out　on　the　lawn　in　a　spare　half
hour；　he　would　feel　lost。　It's　a　certain　activity　of　the　brain　that
must　be　stilled　somehow。　The　Dean；　too；　seemed　to　have　a　native
feeling　for　the　Greek　language。　I　have　often　heard　people　who　might
sit　with　him　on　the　lawn；　ask　him　to　translate　some　of　it。　But　he
always　refused。　One　couldn't　translate　it；　he　said。　It　lost　so　much
in　the　translation　that　it　was　better　not　to　try。　It　was　far　wiser
not　to　attempt　it。　If　you　undertook　to　translate　it；　there　was
something　gone；　something　missing　immediately。　I　believe　that　many
classical　scholars　feel　this　way；　and　like　to　read　the　Greek　just　as
it　is；　without　the　hazard　of　trying　to　put　it　into　so　poor　a　medium
as　English。　So　that　when　Dean　Drone　said　that　he　simply　couldn't
translate　it；　I　believe　he　was　perfectly　sincere。

Sometimes；　indeed；　he　would　read　it　aloud。　That　was　another　matter。
Whenever；　for　example；　Dr。　GallagherI　mean；　of　course；　old　Dr。
Gallagher；　not　the　young　doctor　（who　was　always　out　in　the　country　in
the　afternoon）would　come　over　and　bring　his　latest　Indian　relics
to　show　to　the　Dean；　the　latter　always　read　to　him　a　passage　or　two。
As　soon　as　the　doctor　laid　his　tomahawk　on　the　table；　the　Dean　would
reach　for　his　Theocritus。　I　remember　that　on　the　day　when　Dr。
Gallagher　brought　over　the　Indian　skull　that　they　had　dug　out　of　the
railway　embankment；　and　placed　it　on　the　rustic　table；　the　Dean　read
to　him　so　long　from　Theocritus　that　the　doctor；　I　truly　believe；
dozed　off　in　his　chair。　The　Dean　had　to　wait　and　fold　his　hands　with
the　book　across　his　knee；　and　close　his　eyes　till　the　doctor　should
wake　up　again。　And　the　skull　was　on　the　table　between　them；　and　from
above　the　plum　blossoms　fluttered　down；　till　they　made　flakes　on　it
as　white　as　Dr。　Gallagher's　hair。

I　don't　want　you　to　suppose　that　the　Rev。　Mr。　Drone　spent　the
whole　of　his　time　under　the　trees。　Not　at　all。　In　point　of　fact；　the
rector's　life　was　one　round　of　activity　which　lie　himself　might
deplore　but　was　powerless　to　prevent。　He　had　hardly　sat　down　beneath
the　trees　of　an　afternoon　after　his　mid…day　meal　when　there　was　the
Infant　Class　at　three；　and　after　that；　with　scarcely　an　hour　between；
the　Mothers'　Auxiliary　at　five；　and　the　next　morning　the　Book　Club；
and　that　evening　the　Bible　Study　Class；　and　the　next　morning　the
Early　Workers'　Guild　at　eleven…thirty。　The　whole　week　was　like　that；
and　if　one　found　time　to　sit　down　for　an　hour　or　so　to　recuperate　it
was　the　most　one　could　do。　After　all；　if　a　busy　man　spends　the　little
bit　of　leisure　that　he　gets　in　advanced　classical　study；　there　is
surely　no　harm　in　it。　I　suppose；　take　it　all　in　all；　there　wasn't　a
busier　man　than　the　Rural　Dean　among　the　Anglican　clergy　of　the
diocese。

If　the　Dean　ever　did　snatch　a　half…day　from　his　incessant　work；　he
spent　it　in　fishing。　But　not　always　that；　for　as　likely　as　not；
instead　of　taking　a　real　holiday　he　would　put　in　the　whole　afternoon
amusing　the　children　and　the　boys　that　he　knew；　by　making　kites　and
toys　and　clockwork　steamboats　for　them。

It　was　fortunate　for　the　Dean　that　he　had　the　strange　interest　and
aptitude　for　mechanical　advices　which　he　possessed；　or　otherwise　this
kind　of　thing　would　have　been　too　cruel　an　imposition。　But　the　Rev。
Mr。　Drone　had　a　curious　liking　for　machinery。　I　think　I　never　heard
him　preach　a　better　sermon　than　the　one　on　Aeroplanes　（Lo；　what　now
see　you　on　high　Jeremiah　Two）。

So　it　was　that　he　spent　two　whole　days　making　a　kite　with　Chinese
wings　for　Teddy　Moore；　the　photographer's　son；　and　closed　down　the
infant　class　for　forty…eight　hours　so　that　Teddy　Moore　should　not
miss　the　pleasure　of　flying　it；　or　rather　seeing　it　flown。　It　is
foolish　to　trust　a　Chinese　kite　to　the　hands　of　a　young　child。

In　the　same　way　the　Dean　made　a　mechanical　top　for　little　Marjorie
Trewlaney；　the　cripple；　to　see　spun：　it　would　have　been　unwise　to
allow　the　afflicted　girl　to　spin　it。　There　was　no　end　to　the　things
that　Mr。　Drone　could　make；　and　always　for　the　children。　Even　when　he
was　making　the　sand…clock　for　poor　little　Willie　Yodel　（who　died；　you
know）　the　Dean　went　right　on　with　it　and　gave　it　to　another　child
with　just　the　same　pleasure。　Death；　you　know；　to　the　clergy　is　a
different　thing　from　what　it　is　to　us。　The　Dean　and　Mr。　Gingham　used
often　to　speak　of　it　as　they　walked　through　the　long　grass　of　the　new
cemetery；　the　Necropolis。　And　when　your　Sunday　walk　is　to　your　wife's
grave；　as　the　Dean's　was；　perhaps　it　seems　different　to　anybody。

The　Church　of　England　Church；　I　said；　stood　close　to　the　rectory；　a
tall；　sweeping　church；　and　inside　a　great　reach　of　polished　cedar
beams　that　ran　to　the　point　of　the　roof。　There　used　to　stand　on　the
same　spot　the　little　stone　church　that　all　the　grown…up　people　in
Mariposa　still　remember；　a　quaint　little　building　in　red　and　grey
stone。　About　it　was　the　old　cemetery；　but　that　was　all　smoothed　out
later　into　the　grass　plot　round　the　new　church；　and　the　headstones
laid　out　flat；　and　no　new　graves　have　been　put　there　for　ever　so
long。　But　the　Mariposa　children　still　walk　round　and　read　the
headstones　lying　flat　in　the　grass　and　look　for　the　old　ones；
because　some　of　them　are　ever　so　oldforty　or　fifty　years　back。

Nor　are　you　to　think　from　all　this　that　the　Dean　was　not　a　man　with
serious　perplexities。　You　could　easily　convince　yourself　of　the
contrary。　For　if　you　watched　the　Rev。　Mr。　Drone　as　he　sat　reading　in
the　Greek；　you　would　notice　that　no　very　long　period　every　passed
without　his　taking　up　a　sheet　or　two　of　paper　that　lay　between　the
leaves　of　the　Theocritus　and　that　were　covered　close　with　figures。

And　these　the　Dean　would　lay　upon　the　rustic　table；　and　he　would　add
them　up　forwards　and　backwards；　going　first　up　the　column　and　then
down　it　to　see　that　nothing　had　been　left　out；　and　then　down　it　again
to　see　what　it　was　that　must　have　been　left　out。

Mathematics；　you　will　understand；　were　not　the　Dean's　forte。　They
ne