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Updated: May 24, 2025
They were passing along lanes now, between superb fields of corn, wherein plowmen were at work. Kingbirds flew from post to post ahead of them; the insects called from the grass. The valley slowly outspread below them. The workmen in the fields were "turning out" for the night; they all had a word of chaff with McTurg. Over the western wall of the circling amphitheater the sun was setting.
Upon this moment, when it seemed as if he could endure no more, came the smooth voice of William McTurg: "Hello, folkses!" "Hello, Uncle Bill! Come in." "That's what we came for," laughed a woman's voice. "Is that you, Rose?" asked Laura. "It's me-Rose," replied the laughing girl as she bounced into the room and greeted everybody in a breathless sort of way. "You don't mean little Rosy?"
The sunshine streamed in the windows through a waving screen of lilac leaves and fell upon the carpet in a priceless flood of radiance. There sat William McTurg smiling at him. He had no coat on and no hat, and his bushy thick hair rose up from his forehead like thick marsh grass. He looked to be the embodiment of sunshine and health.
As he went down to the post office and stood waiting for his mail like the rest, he tried to enter into conversation witb them, but mainly they moved away from him. William McTurg nodded at him and said, "How de do?" and McLane asked how he liked his new place, and that was about all. He couldn't reach them. They suspected him.
"He's all right now," said the cheery tenor voice from the big bearded face. "Oh, Mr. McTurg; do you think so?" "Ye-e-s, sir. He's all right. The fever's left him. Brace up, old man. We need ye yit awhile." Then all was silent agam. The well mouth cleared away its mist again, and he saw more clearly. Part of the time he knew he was in bed staring at the ceiling.
The sun, lighting him where he stood, made his fork handle gleam like dull gold. Cheery words, jests, and snatches of song everywhere. Dingman bustled about giving his orders and placing his men, and the voice of big Dave McTurg was heard calling to the men as they raised the long stacker into place: "Heave-ho, there! Up she rises!"
The whole matter began to seem trivial, as if he had only been away for a month or two. William McTurg was a man little given to talk. Even the coming back of a nephew did not cause any flow of questions or reminiscences. They rode in silence. He sat a little bent forward, the lines held carelessly in his hands, his great leonine head swaying to and fro with the movement of the buggy.
"There, there, Daddy, I wouldn't mind him! I wouldn't dirty my hands on him; he ain't worth it. Just come inside, and we'll have that dancing-match now." Daddy reluctantly returned to the house, and, having surrendered his violin to Hugh McTurg, was ready for the contest. As he stepped into the middle of the room he was not altogether ludicrous.
Takes money t' buy whiskey," he said when the man on the load repeated his threat of getting off and whipping the scalesman. "You're William McTurg," Howard said, coming up to him. "I am, sir," replied the soft-voiced giant turning and looking down on the stranger with an amused twinkle in his deep brown eyes. He stood as erect as an Indian, though his hair and beard were white.
Bell's a good hand with sick." Then the light came again, and he heard a robin singing, and a catbird squalled softly, pitifully. He could see the ceiling again. He lay on his back, with his hands on his breast. He felt as if he had been dead. He seemed to feel his body as if it were an alien thing. "How are you, sir?" called the laughing, thrillingly hearty voice of William McTurg.
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