But
not alone that-I see in the
plains the smoke of the tired horses at the plough, or, on a
stony-hearted spot of ground, a back-broken man trying to raise
himself upright for a moment to breathe.
The tragedy is surrounded by glories-that is no invention of mine.
Howard arose abruptly and went back to his little bedroom, where
he walked up and down the floor till he was calm enough to write,
and then he sat down and poured it all out to "Dearest Margaret,"
and his first sentence was this:
"If it were not for you (just to let you know the mood I'm in)-if it
were not for you, and I had the world in my hands, I'd crush it like
a puffball; evil so predominates, suffering is so universal and
persistent, happiness so fleeting and so infrequent."
He wrote on for two hours, and by the time he had sealed and
directed several letters he felt calmer, but still terribly depressed.
The rain was still falling, sweeping down from the half-seen hills,
wreathing the wooded peaks with a gray garment of mist and
filling the valley with a whitish cloud.
It fell around the house drearily. It ran down into the tubs placed to
catch it, dripped from the mossy pump, and drummed on the
upturned milk pails, and upon the brown and yellow beehives
under the maple trees.
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