"
"I shall not tell your father of this," I said sternly.
"He has enough to worry him," said my namesake.
"Exactly," I said. "But I advise you to cultivate a friendly feeling
for Roscoe Potts. Boys should not fight."
"Well--now--I would--but he's a regular teacher's pet."
And remembering the letter that was not sent to Sam Murdock,--that the
teacher was my namesake's love,--I perceived that this breach was not to
be healed.
CHAPTER XII
TROUBLED WATERS ARE STILLED
It was spring again, a Sunday in early May, warm, humid, scented with
blossoms that were bodied souls of the laughing air. They starred the
bank that fell away from my porch to the clear-watered river, and they
sang of the young spirit that lives in this old earth so deceptively,
defacing it with false scars of age, and craftily permitting us to count
years by the thousand, yet remaining always as fresh in itself as on the
primal morning when the world was found good by that ill-fated but
joyous first pair of lovers. I marvel that so many are fooled by the
trick; how so few of us detect that the soul of it all is ageless--has
never even wearied. The blossoms told this secret now in quiet triumph
over the denials of ancient oaks that towered above them and murmured
solemn falsities in their tops about the incredible oldness of things.
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