He would not feel the need
of companionship on long wanderings. Nature would then be sufficient,
talking to him in many tongues.
The wind heavy, with perfumes of the South, came over the hill and on
its crest the wild turkeys were still clucking to each other. Henry,
through sheer energy and flush of life, ran up the slope, and watched
them as they took flight through the trees, their brilliant plumage
gleaming in the sunshine.
It was the highest hill near Wareville and he stood a while upon its
crest. The wilderness here circled around him, and, in the distance, it
blended into one mass, already showing a pervading note of green with
faint touches of pink bloom appearing here and there. The whole of it
was still and peaceful with no sign of human life save a rising spire of
smoke behind him that told where Wareville stood.
He walked on. Rabbits sprang out of the grass beside him and raced away
into the thickets. Birds in plumage of scarlet and blue and gold shot
like a flame from tree to tree. The forest, too, was filled with the
melody of their voices, but Henry took no notice.
He paused a while at the edge of a brook to watch the silver sunfish
play in the shallows, then he leaped the stream and went on into the
deeper woods, a tall, lithe, strong figure, his eyes gazing at no one
thing, the long slender-barreled rifle lying forgotten across his
shoulder.
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