ISBN: 2940013336391

CHAPTER IFor some reason the desert scene before Lucy Bostil awoke varyingemotions--a sweet gratitude for the fullness of her life there at theFord, yet a haunting remorse that she could … More...

CHAPTER IFor some reason the desert scene before Lucy Bostil awoke varyingemotions--a sweet gratitude for the fullness of her life there at theFord, yet a haunting remorse that she could not be wholly content--avague loneliness of soul--a thrill and a fear for the strangely callingfuture, glorious, unknown.She longed for something to happen. It might be terrible, so long as itwas wonderful. This day, when Lucy had stolen away on a forbiddenhorse, she was eighteen years old. The thought of her mother, who haddied long ago on their way into this wilderness, was the one drop ofsadness in her joy. Lucy loved everybody at Bostil's Ford and everybodyloved her. She loved all the horses except her father's favorite racer,that perverse devil of a horse, the great Sage King.Lucy was glowing and rapt with love for all she beheld from her loftyperch: the green-and-pink blossoming hamlet beneath her, set betweenthe beauty of the gray sage expanse and the ghastliness of the barrenheights; the swift Colorado sullenly thundering below in the abyss; theIndians in their bright colors, riding up the river trail; the eaglepoised like a feather on the air, and a beneath him the grazing cattlemaking black dots on the sage; the deep velvet azure of the sky; thegolden lights on the bare peaks and the lilac veils in the far ravines;the silky rustle of a canyon swallow as he shot downward in the sweepof the wind; the fragrance of cedar, the flowers of the spear-pointedmescal; the brooding silence, the beckoning range, the purple distance.Whatever it was Lucy longed for, whatever was whispered by the wind andwritten in the mystery of the waste of sage and stone, she wanted it tohappen there at Bostil's Ford. She had no desire for civilization, sheflouted the idea of marrying the rich rancher of Durango. Bostil'ssister, that stern but lovable woman who had brought her up and taughther, would never persuade her to marry against her will. Lucy imaginedherself like a wild horse--free, proud, untamed, meant for the desert;and here she would live her life. The desert and her life seemed asone, yet in what did they resemble each other--in what of this scenecould she read the nature of her future?Shudderingly she rejected the red, sullen, thundering river, with itsswift, changeful, endless, contending strife--for that was tragic. Andshe rejected the frowning mass of red rock, upreared, riven and splitand canyoned, so grim and aloof--for that was barren. But she acceptedthe vast sloping valley of sage, rolling gray and soft and beautiful,down to the dim mountains and purple ramparts of the horizon. Lucy didnot know what she yearned for, she did not know why the desert calledto her, she did not know in what it resembled her spirit, but she didknow that these three feelings were as one, deep in her heart. For tenyears, every day of her life, she had watched this desert scene, andnever had there been an hour that it was not different, yet the same.Ten years--and she grew up watching, feeling--till from the desert'sthousand moods she assimilated its nature, loved her bonds, and couldnever have been happy away from the open, the color, the freedom, thewildness. On this birthday, when those who loved her said she hadbecome her own mistress, she acknowledged the claim of the desertforever. And she experienced a deep, rich, strange happiness.Hers always then the mutable and immutable desert, the leagues andleagues of slope and sage and rolling ridge, the great canyons and thegiant cliffs, the dark river with its mystic thunder of waters, thepine-fringed plateaus, the endless stretch of horizon, with its lofty,isolated, noble monuments, and the bold ramparts with their beckoningbeyond! Hers always the desert seasons: the shrill, icy blast, theintense cold, the steely skies, the fading snows; the gray old sage andthe bleached grass under the pall of the spring sand-storms; the hotfurnace breath of summer, with its magnificent cloud pageants in thesky, with the black tempests hanging here and there over the peaks,dark veils floating down and rainbows everywhere, and the lacywaterfalls upon the glistening cliffs and the thunder of the redfloods; and the glorious golden autumn when it was always afternoon andtime stood still! Hers always the rides in the open, with the sun ather back and the wind in her face! And hers surely, sooner or later,the nameless adventure which had its inception in the strange yearningof her heart and presaged its fulfilment somewhere down that traillesssage-slope she loved so well! Digital Content>E-books>Classics>Coll Classics>Coll Classics, SAP Digital >16<

ISBN: 2940013336391

CHAPTER IFor some reason the desert scene before Lucy Bostil awoke varyingemotions--a sweet gratitude for the fullness of her life there at theFord, yet a haunting remorse that she could … More...

CHAPTER IFor some reason the desert scene before Lucy Bostil awoke varyingemotions--a sweet gratitude for the fullness of her life there at theFord, yet a haunting remorse that she could not be wholly content--avague loneliness of soul--a thrill and a fear for the strangely callingfuture, glorious, unknown.She longed for something to happen. It might be terrible, so long as itwas wonderful. This day, when Lucy had stolen away on a forbiddenhorse, she was eighteen years old. The thought of her mother, who haddied long ago on their way into this wilderness, was the one drop ofsadness in her joy. Lucy loved everybody at Bostil's Ford and everybodyloved her. She loved all the horses except her father's favorite racer,that perverse devil of a horse, the great Sage King.Lucy was glowing and rapt with love for all she beheld from her loftyperch: the green-and-pink blossoming hamlet beneath her, set betweenthe beauty of the gray sage expanse and the ghastliness of the barrenheights; the swift Colorado sullenly thundering below in the abyss; theIndians in their bright colors, riding up the river trail; the eaglepoised like a feather on the air, and a beneath him the grazing cattlemaking black dots on the sage; the deep velvet azure of the sky; thegolden lights on the bare peaks and the lilac veils in the far ravines;the silky rustle of a canyon swallow as he shot downward in the sweepof the wind; the fragrance of cedar, the flowers of the spear-pointedmescal; the brooding silence, the beckoning range, the purple distance.Whatever it was Lucy longed for, whatever was whispered by the wind andwritten in the mystery of the waste of sage and stone, she wanted it tohappen there at Bostil's Ford. She had no desire for civilization, sheflouted the idea of marrying the rich rancher of Durango. Bostil'ssister, that stern but lovable woman who had brought her up and taughther, would never persuade her to marry against her will. Lucy imaginedherself like a wild horse--free, proud, untamed, meant for the desert;and here she would live her life. The desert and her life seemed asone, yet in what did they resemble each other--in what of this scenecould she read the nature of her future?Shudderingly she rejected the red, sullen, thundering river, with itsswift, changeful, endless, contending strife--for that was tragic. Andshe rejected the frowning mass of red rock, upreared, riven and splitand canyoned, so grim and aloof--for that was barren. But she acceptedthe vast sloping valley of sage, rolling gray and soft and beautiful,down to the dim mountains and purple ramparts of the horizon. Lucy didnot know what she yearned for, she did not know why the desert calledto her, she did not know in what it resembled her spirit, but she didknow that these three feelings were as one, deep in her heart. For tenyears, every day of her life, she had watched this desert scene, andnever had there been an hour that it was not different, yet the same.Ten years--and she grew up watching, feeling--till from the desert'sthousand moods she assimilated its nature, loved her bonds, and couldnever have been happy away from the open, the color, the freedom, thewildness. On this birthday, when those who loved her said she hadbecome her own mistress, she acknowledged the claim of the desertforever. And she experienced a deep, rich, strange happiness.Hers always then the mutable and immutable desert, the leagues andleagues of slope and sage and rolling ridge, the great canyons and thegiant cliffs, the dark river with its mystic thunder of waters, thepine-fringed plateaus, the endless stretch of horizon, with its lofty,isolated, noble monuments, and the bold ramparts with their beckoningbeyond! Hers always the desert seasons: the shrill, icy blast, theintense cold, the steely skies, the fading snows; the gray old sage andthe bleached grass under the pall of the spring sand-storms; the hotfurnace breath of summer, with its magnificent cloud pageants in thesky, with the black tempests hanging here and there over the peaks,dark veils floating down and rainbows everywhere, and the lacywaterfalls upon the glistening cliffs and the thunder of the redfloods; and the glorious golden autumn when it was always afternoon andtime stood still! Hers always the rides in the open, with the sun ather back and the wind in her face! And hers surely, sooner or later,the nameless adventure which had its inception in the strange yearningof her heart and presaged its fulfilment somewhere down that traillesssage-slope she loved so well! Digital Content>E-books>Literature>Literature>Literature, SAP Digital >16<

ISBN: 2940013336391

WILDFIRE Wildfire~~Zane-Grey Literature>Literature>Literature NOOK Book (eBook), SAP