" It was
the joy and triumphant faith in the tiny note of the tiny thing--Life
as he himself was, though Life whose mystery his man's hand could have
crushed--which, while he laughed, set Mount Dunstan thinking. Spring
warmth and spring scents and spring notes set a man's being in tune with
infinite things.
The bright roulade began again, prolonged itself with renewed effort,
rose to its height, and ended. From a bush in the thicket farther up the
road a liquid answer came. And Mount Dunstan's laugh at the sound of it
was echoed by another which came apparently from the bank rising from
the road on the other side of the hedge, and accompanying the laugh was
a good-natured nasal voice.
"She's caught on. There's no mistake about that. I guess it's time for
you to hustle, Mr. Rob."
Mount Dunstan laughed again. Jem Salter had heard voices like it, and
cheerful slang phrases of the same order in his ranch days. On the other
side of his park fence there was evidently sitting, through some odd
chance, an American of the cheery, casual order, not sufficiently
polished by travel to have lost his picturesque national
characteristics.
Mount Dunstan put a hand on a broken panel of fence and leaped over into
the road.
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