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قراءة كتاب Treasure Valley

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Treasure Valley

Treasure Valley

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دار النشر: Project Gutenberg
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TREASURE VALLEY


BY

MARIAN KEITH


Author of "Duncan Polite," "The Silver Maple," etc,




JENNINGS & GRAHAM
CINCINNATI, CHICAGO, KANSAS CITY,
SAN FRANCISCO
1909




Copyright, 1908, by
GEORGE H. DORAN

J. F. TAPLEY CO.
New York




CONTENTS

CHAPTER  
I.   THE HERMIT THRUSH SINGS
II.   AN ADVENTUROUS EXPEDITION
III.   HIS FIRST PATIENT
IV.   THE ORPHAN ARRIVES
V.   THE MILKSTAND CLUB
VI.   A FAMOUS PRACTITIONER
VII.   THE TRAINING OF THE ORPHANS
VIII.   A STRANGE COMRADESHIP
IX.   THE SONG IN THE NIGHT
X.   THE SECRET OF THE BLUE SILK GOWN
XI.   THE COMING OF ROSALIE
XII.   A RUSH FOR THE GOAL
XIII.   THE TREASURE-BOOK
XIV.   THE HERALD OF SPRING
XV.   THE ELOPEMENT
XVI.   THE CALL OF THE BANSHEE
XVII.   THE DAWN
XVIII.   THE END OF THE WAITING
XIX.   THE HERMIT SINGS AGAIN




TREASURE VALLEY


CHAPTER I

THE HERMIT THRUSH SINGS

Then twilight falls with the touch
Of a hand that soothes and stills,
And a swamp-robin sings into light
The lone white star of the hills.

Alone in the dusk he sings,
And the joy of another day
Is folded in peace and borne
On the drift of years away.
—BLISS CARMAN.


Other years, by the time the mid-June days were come, the little brook that sang through John McIntyre's pasture-field had shrunk to a mere jeweled thread of golden pools and silver shallows, with here and there only the bleached pebbles to mark its course. But this summer was of a new and wonderful variety. Just two or three brilliant, hot days, and then, as regular as the sun, up from the ocean's rim would rise dazzling cloud-mountains, piling themselves up and up into glorious towers and domes and battlements; and when the earth had begun to droop beneath the sun's blaze, with a great thunder signal they would fling their banners to the zenith, and pour from their dark heights a rain of silver spears, till the thirsty hills were drenched with bounty, and the valleys laughed and sang.

And so there had never before been such a June, not even in Acadia: such lavish wealth in orchard and garden, such abundant promise of harvest in fields choked with grain. And that was why John McIntyre's little brook ran brimful to the clumps of mint and sword-grass, high up on its banks, so content that it made no murmur as it slipped past the Acadian orchards to the sea.

John McIntyre leaned against the fence that bordered his hay-field, his feet deep in the soft grass at the water's edge. His straw hat was pushed back, showing the line where his white forehead met the tan of his face. His hands were in his pockets, a sprig of mint in his mouth; his eyes were half closed in lazy content.

Away down yonder, where the little stream met the ocean, the sun was sinking into the gleaming water, a great, fiery ball dropping from an empty sky. Far over in the east one lonely cloud reflected its glory, blossoming up from the darkening hills like a huge white rose, flushed with pink.

The fiery ball touched the ocean's rim, and the whole world kindled

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