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Updated: June 16, 2025
But no Shargar was to be seen. Robert peered in vain into every dark court they crept past, till at length he all but came to the conclusion that Shargar was only 'fantastical. When they had reached the hollow, and were crossing then canal-bridge by Mount Hooly, Ericson's strength again failed him, and again he leaned upon the bridge.
Sarrasin came into Miss Ericson's garden with a countenance that beamed with more than usual benignity. But the benignity was, as it were, blended with an air of unwonted wonder and exhilaration which consorted somewhat strangely with the wonted calm of the excellent gentleman's demeanour.
The man is, on the whole, happiest whose true love dies early, and leaves him with an ideal of womanhood which never can change. He is, if he be at all a true man, thenceforth as one who walks under the guidance of an angel. But Ericson's mind was put out by the failure of his ideal.
In the kitchen, the muffled pounding of a sad-iron upon the padded ironing-board. "Ma!" Mrs. Ericson's whitey-yellow hair, pale eyes, and small nervous features were shadowed behind the cotton fly-screen. "Vell?" she said. "I haven't got noth-ing to do-o." "Go pile the vood." "I piled piles of it." "Then you can go and play." "I been playing." "Then play some more."
Add to this that she became his nurse, and soon saw that he was not indifferent to her and if she fell in love with him as only a full-grown woman can love, without Ericson's lips saying anything that might not by Love's jealousy be interpreted as only of grateful affection, why should she not? And what of Marjory Lindsay? Ericson had not forgotten her.
Carl was as much a stranger as on the morning when he had first invaded New York, to find work with an automobile company, and had passed this same restaurant; still was he a segregated stranger, despite the fact that, two blocks away, in the Aero Club, two famous aviators were agreeing that there had never been a more consistently excellent flight in America than Hawk Ericson's race from Chicago to New York.
A year after the flight of Olaf Ericson's wife, the night train was steaming across the plains of Iowa. The conductor was hurrying through one of the day coaches, his lantern on his arm, when a lank, fair-haired boy sat up in one of the plush seats and tweaked him by the coat. "What is the next stop, please, sir?" "Red Oak, Iowa. But you go through to Chicago, don't you?"
Full of faults, I have given so much to my reader, just as it stood upon Ericson's blotted papers, the utterance of a true soul 'crying for the light. But I give also another of his poems, which Robert read at the same time, revealing another of his moods when some one of the clouds of holy doubt and questioning love which so often darkened his sky, did at length
Let up after reception etc. I suppose. I feel like calling up Istra, after all, but mustn't. I ought to hit the hay, but I couldn't sleep. Poor Tad Warren. Ericson's usual scrawl. September 11: Off to Kokomo, to fly for Farmers' Alliance. Dandy party given for me after it, by Thomas J. Watersell, the steel man. Have read of such parties.
They could not help him to learn how he was to help them. The day was cold and dreary. No matter though the season was still supposed to be far remote from winter, yet the look of the skies was cruelly depressing, and the atmosphere was loaded with a misty chill. Ericson's heart was profoundly touched.
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