He walked slowly to absorb the coolness and
fragrance and color of the hour. The katydids sang a rhythmic song
of welcome to him. Fireflies were in the grass. A whippoorwill in
the deep of the wood was calling weirdly, and an occasional night
hawk, flying high, gave his grating shriek, or hollow boom,
suggestive and resounding.
He had been wonderfully successful, and yet had carried into his
success as a dramatic author as well as actor a certain puritanism
that made him a paradox to his fellows. He was one of those actors
who are always in luck, and the best of it was he kept and made
use of his luck. Jovial as he appeared, he was inflexible as granite
against drink and tobacco. He retained through it all a certain
freshness of enjoyment that made him one of the best companions
in the profession; and now as he walked on, the hour and the place
appealed to him with great power. It seemed to sweep away the
life that came between.
How close it all was to him, after all! In his restless life,
surrounded by the giare of electric lights, painted canvas, hot
colors, creak of machinery, mock trees, stones, and brooks, he had
not lost but gained appreciation for the coolness, quiet and low
tones, the shyness of the wood and field.
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