The Love Story of Abner Stone Read online

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  Transcriber's note

  Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. Printererrors have been changed and are listed at the end. All otherinconsistencies are as in the original.

  THE LOVE STORY OF ABNER STONE

  THE LOVE STORY

  OF

  ABNER STONE

  _By_ EDWIN CARLILE LITSEY

  NEW YORK A. S. BARNES AND COMPANY MCMII

  _Copyright, 1902_ BY A. S. BARNES AND COMPANY _Published June, 1902_

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  REPRINTED JULY, 1902

  UNIVERSITY PRESS . JOHN WILSON AND SON . CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.

  TO HER

  Preface

  It seems a little strange that I, Abner Stone, now verging upon myseventieth year, should bring pen, ink, and paper before me, with theavowed purpose of setting down the love story of my life, which I hadthought locked fast in my heart forever. A thing very sacred to me; ofthe world, it is true, yet still apart from it, the blessed memory of itall has abode in my breast with the unfading distinctness of an oldpicture done in oils, and has brightened the years I have thus far livedon the shadowed slope of life. And now has come the firm belief that theworld may be made better by the telling of this story--as my life hasbeen made better by having lived it--and so I shall essay the brief andsimple task before my fingers have grown too stiff to hold the pen,trusting that some printer of books will be good enough to put my storyinto a little volume for all who would care to read. And I, as I pursuethe work which I have appointed unto myself, shall again stroll throughthe meadows and forests of dear Kentucky, shall tread her dusty highwaysunder the spell of a bygone June, and shall sit within the portals of anold home whose floors are now pressed by an alien foot. Now, ere I havescarce begun, the recollections come upon me like a flood, and this pagebecomes blurred to my failing sight. O Memory! Memory! and the visionsof thine!

  THE LOVE STORY _of_ ABNER STONE

  I

  It is a long path which stretches from forty-five to seventy. A patheasy enough to make, for each day's journey through life is a part ofit, but very difficult to retrace. When we turn at that advancedmile-stone and look back, things seem misty. For there is many a twistand angle in the highway of a life, and often the things which we wouldforget stand out the clearest. But I would not drive from my brain thisquiet afternoon the visions which enfold it,--the blessed recollectionsof over a score of years ago. For the sweet voice which speaks in myear as I write I have never ceased to hear; the face which the mirror ofmy mind ever reflects before my eyes I have looked upon withnever-tiring eagerness, and the tender hand which I can imagine betimescreeping into my own, is the chiefest blessing of a life nearly spent.

  There is no haunting memory of past misdeeds to shadow the quiet rest ofmy last days. As I bid my mind go back over the path which my feet havetrod, no ghost uprises to confront it; no voice cries out forretribution or justice; not even does a dumb animal whine at a blowinflicted, nor a worm which my foot has wantonly pressed, appear. Iwould show forth no self-praise in this, but rather a devoutthankfulness unto the Creator who made me as I am, with a heart of mercyfor all living things, and a reverent love for all His wonderful works.The beauty of tree, and flowering plant, and lowly creeper abides withme as an everlasting joy, and the song of the humblest singer the forestshelters finds a response in my heart. Without my window now, as I sitdown to make a history of part of my life, a brown-coated Englishsparrow is chattering in a strange jargon to his mate on the limb of anEarly Harvest apple tree, and I pause a moment to listen to his shrilllittle voice, and to watch the black patch under his throat puff up anddown.

  It is the fall of the year, and the afternoon is gray. At times an arrowof sunlight breaks through the shields of clouds, and kisses the brownearth with a quivering spot of light. Across the sloping, unkept lawn,about midway between the house and the whitewashed gate leading from theyard, a rabbit hops, aimlessly, his back humped up, and his white tailshowing plainly amid his sombre surroundings. I can see the musclesabout his nostrils twitching, as he stops now and again to nibble at awithered tuft of grass. A lonely jay flits from one tree to another; acardinal speeds by my window, a line of color across a dark background;and one by one the dry leaves drop noiselessly down, making thicker thesoft covering which Nature is spreading over the breast of Mother Earth.

  It may be that I shall not see the resurrection of another spring. Eachwinter that has passed for the last few years has grown a little harderfor me, and my breathing becomes difficult in the damp, cold weather.Perhaps my eyes shall not again behold the glorious flood of light andcolor which follows the footsteps of spring; perhaps when the earth iswrapped once more in its mantle of leaves they shall lie over my breastas well. For man's years upon this earth are measured in Holy Writ asthreescore and ten, and come December fourth next, I shall have lived myallotted time. My ways have not all been ways of pleasantness, nor allmy paths peace. But I am glad to have lived; to have known the hopes ofyouth and the trials of manhood. To have felt within my soul thatemotion which rules the earth and the universes, and which is Heaven'sundefiled gift to Man. From books I have gained knowledge; from thelessons of life I have learned wisdom; from love I have found the waywhich leads to life eternal.

  Old age is treacherous, and it comes to me now that maybe I have delayedmy work too long. For the mind of age does not move with the nimblenessof a young colt, but rather with the labored efforts of a beast ofburden whose limbs are stiff from a life of toil. But this I know, thatthere is a period in my existence which the years cannot dim. I havelived it over again and again, winter and summer, summer and winter,here in my quiet country home among the hills. There has been nothing tomy life but that; first, the living of it, and then the memory of it.

  It is my love story.