A Journey Begins

It was a five-hour trip. He dined aboard the train with little desire
for food, the July evening being oppressive, and a thunder storm
brewing over the Hudson. It burst in the vicinity of Fishkill with a
lively display of lightning, deluging the Catskills with rain. And
when he changed to a train on the Mohawk division the cooler air was
agreeably noticeable.

He changed trains again at Orangeville, and here the night breeze was
delightful and the scent of rain-soaked meadows came through the open
car window.

It was nearly ten o'clock and already, ahead, he caught sight of the
lights of Neeland's Mills. Always the homecoming was a keen delight to
him; and now, as he stepped off the train, the old familiar odours
were in his nostrils--the unique composite perfume of the native place
which never can be duplicated elsewhere.

All the sweet and aromatic and homely smells of earth and land and
water came to him with his first deep-drawn breath. The rank growth of
wild flowers and weeds were part of it--the flat atmosphere of the
mill pond, always redolent of water weed and lily pads, tinctured it;
distant fields of buckwheat added heavier perfume.

Neither in the quaint brick feed mill nor in the lumber mill were
there any lights, but in his own home, almost buried among tall trees
and vines, the light streamed from the sitting-room windows.

From the dark yard two or three dogs barked at him, then barked again
in a different key, voicing an excited welcome; and he opened the
picket gate and went up the path surrounded by demonstrative setters
and pointers, leaping and wagging about him and making a vast amount
of noise on the vine-covered verandah as he opened the door, let
himself into the house, and shut them out.