XXI. Ben Weatherstaff

           Oneofthestrangethingsaboutlivingintheworldisthatitisonlynowandthenoneisquitesureoneisgoingtoliveforeverandeverandever.Oneknowsitsometimeswhenonegetsupatthetendersolemndawn-timeandgoesoutandstandsaloneandthrowsone’sheadfarbackandlooksupandupandwatchesthepaleskyslowlychangingandflushingandmarvelousunknownthingshappeninguntiltheEastalmostmakesonecryoutandone’sheartstandsstillatthestrangeunchangingmajestyoftherisingofthesun—whichhasbeenhappeningeverymorningforthousandsandthousandsandthousandsofyears.Oneknowsitthenforamomentorso.Andoneknowsitsometimeswhenonestandsbyoneselfinawoodatsunsetandthemysteriousdeepgoldstillnessslantingthroughandunderthebranchesseemstobesayingslowlyagainandagainsomethingonecannotquitehear,howevermuchonetries.Thensometimestheimmensequietofthedarkblueatnightwithmillionsofstarswaitingandwatchingmakesonesure;andsometimesasoundoffar-offmusicmakesittrue;andsometimesalookinsomeone’seyes.

           AnditwaslikethatwithColinwhenhefirstsawandheardandfelttheSpringtimeinsidethefourhighwallsofahiddengarden.Thatafternoonthewholeworldseemedtodevoteitselftobeingperfectandradiantlybeautifulandkindtooneboy.Perhapsoutofpureheavenlygoodnessthespringcameandcrownedeverythingitpossiblycouldintothatoneplace.MorethanonceDickonpausedinwhathewasdoingandstoodstillwithasortofgrowingwonderinhiseyes,shakinghisheadsoftly.