"Some days," said Darrel, "the soul in me is like a toy skiff,
tossing in the ripples of a duck pond an' mayhap stranding on a
reed or lily. An' then," he added, with kindling eye and voice,
"she is a great ship, her sails league long an' high, her masthead
raking the stars, her hull in the infinite sea."
"Well," said Trove, sighing, "I'm still in the ripples of the duck
pond."
"An' see they do not swamp thee," said Darrel, with a smile that
seemed to say, "Poor weakling, your trouble is only as the ripples
of a tiny pool." They went on slowly, over green pastures, halting
at a brook in the woods. There, again, they rested in a cool shade
of pines, Darrel lighting his pipe.
"I envy thee, boy," said the tinker, "entering on thy life-work in
this great land--a country blest o' God. To thee all high things
are possible. Where I was born, let a poor lad have great hope in
him, an' all--ay, all--even those he loved, rose up to cry him
down. Here in this land all cheer an' bid him God-speed. An' here
is to be the great theatre o' the world's action. Many of high
hope in the broad earth shall come, an' here they shall do their
work. An' its spirit shall spread like the rising waters, ay, it
shall flood the world, boy, it shall flood the world.
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