THE TRAIL OF THE HAWK Sinclair Lewis Author
- new bookISBN: 2940012074966
CHAPTER ICarl Ericson was being naughty. Probably no boy in Joralemon was beingnaughtier that October Saturday afternoon. He had not half finishedthe wood-piling which was his punishment … More...
CHAPTER ICarl Ericson was being naughty. Probably no boy in Joralemon was beingnaughtier that October Saturday afternoon. He had not half finishedthe wood-piling which was his punishment for having chased the familyrooster thirteen times squawking around the chicken-yard, whileplaying soldiers with Bennie Rusk.He stood in the middle of the musty woodshed, pessimistically kickingat the scattered wood. His face was stern, as became a man of eightwho was a soldier of fortune famed from the front gate to thechicken-yard. An unromantic film of dirt hid the fact that hisScandinavian cheeks were like cream-colored silk stained withrose-petals. A baby Norseman, with only an average boy's prettiness,yet with the whiteness and slenderness of a girl's little finger. Aback-yard boy, in baggy jacket and pants, gingham blouse, and capwhose lining oozed back over his ash-blond hair, which was tangled nowlike trampled grass, with a tiny chip riding grotesquely on one flossylock.The darkness of the shed displeased Carl. The whole basic conceptionof work bored him. The sticks of wood were personal enemies to whichhe gave insulting names. He had always admired the hard bark andmetallic resonance of the ironwood, but he hated the poplar--poppleit is called in Joralemon, Minnesota. Poplar becomes dry and dusty,and the bark turns to a monstrously mottled and evil greenish-white.Carl announced to one poplar stick, I could lick you! I'm a gen'ral,I am. The stick made no reply whatever, and he contemptuously shiedit out into the chickweed which matted the grubby back yard. Thisnecessitated his sneaking out and capturing it by stalking it from therear, lest it rouse the Popple Army.He loitered outside the shed, sniffing at the smoke from burningleaves--the scent of autumn and migration and wanderlust. He glanceddown between houses to the reedy shore of Joralemon Lake. The surfaceof the water was smooth, and tinted like a bluebell, save for onepatch in the current where wavelets leaped with October madness insparkles of diamond fire. Across the lake, woods sprinkled withgold-dust and paprika broke the sweep of sparse yellow stubble, and ared barn was softly brilliant in the caressing sunlight and lively airof the Minnesota prairie. Over there was the field of valor, wheregrown-up men with shiny shotguns went hunting prairie-chickens; theGreat World, leading clear to the Red River Valley and Canada.Three mallard-ducks, with necks far out and wings beating hurriedly,shot over Carl's head. From far off a gun-shot floated echoing throughforest hollows; in the waiting stillness sounded a rooster's crow,distant, magical.I want to go hunting! mourned Carl, as he trailed back into thewoodshed. It seemed darker than ever and smelled of moldy chips. Hebounced like an enraged chipmunk. His phlegmatic china-blue eyesfilmed with tears. Won't pile no more wood! he declared.Naughty he undoubtedly was. But since he knew that his father, OscarEricson, the carpenter, all knuckles and patched overalls and badtemper, would probably whip him for rebellion, he may have acquiredmerit. He did not even look toward the house to see whether his motherwas watching him--his farm-bred, worried, kindly, small, flat-chested,pinch-nosed, bleached, twangy-voiced, plucky Norwegian mother. Hemarched to the workshop and brought a collection of miscellaneousnails and screws out to a bare patch of earth in front of thechicken-yard. They were the Nail People, the most reckless band ofmercenaries the world has ever known, led by old General Door-Hinge,who was somewhat inclined to collapse in the middle, but possessed ofthe unusual virtue of eyes in both ends of him. He had explored thedeepest cañons of the woodshed, and victoriously led his ten-pennywarriors against the sumacs in the vacant lot beyond Irving Lamb'shouse.Carl marshaled the Nail People, sticking them upright in the ground.After reasoning sternly with an intruding sparrow, thus did thedauntless General Door-Hinge address them:Men, there's a nawful big army against us, but le's die like men, mymen. Forwards!As the veteran finished, a devastating fire of stones enfiladed thecompany, and one by one they fell, save for the commander himself, whobowed his grizzled wrought-steel head and sobbed, The brave boys donetheir duty.From across the lake rolled another gun-shot.Carl dug his grimy fingers into the earth. Jiminy! I wisht I was outhunting. Why can't I never go? I guess I'll pile the wood, but I'mgonna go seek-my-fortune after that. * * Digital Content>E-books>Antiques,Coll>Antiques,Collectibles>Bks,Comic,Mag, SAP Digital >16<
