He carried an oblong black
box, evidently a violin-case, at which he cast an affectionate look
from time to time. As he approached the village, his glances became
more and more keenly intelligent. He seemed to be greeting a friend in
every tree, in every straggling rose-bush along the roadside; he
nodded his head, and spoke softly from time to time.
"Getting on now," he said to himself. "Here's the big rose-bush she
was sitting under, the last time I came along. Nobody here now; but
she'll be coming directly, up from the ground or down from the sky, or
through a hole in the sunset. Do you remember how she caught her
little gown on that fence-rail?" He bent over, and seemed to address
his violin. "Sat down and took out her needle and thread, and mended
it as neat as any woman; and then ran her butterfly hands over me, and
found the hole in my coat, and called me careless boy, and mended
that. Yes, yes; Rosin remembers every place where he saw his girl. Old
Rosin remembers. There's the turn; now it's getting time for to be
playing our tune, sending our letter of introduction along the road
before us. Hey?"
He sat down under a spreading elder-bush, and proceeded to open his
violin-case.
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