blue sky outside, nor even to the
crimson roses that peeped in at the window. They seemed rather to be
looking always for dirt, yet not pleased when they found it--especially
if it had been tracked in on the heel of a small boy's shoe!

More extraordinary than all this to David, however, was the fact that
these people regarded HIM, not themselves, as being strange. As if it
were not the most natural thing in the world to live with one's father
in one's home on the mountain-top, and spend one's days trailing
through the forest paths, or lying with a book beside some babbling
little stream! As if it were not equally natural to take one's violin
with one at times, and learn to catch upon the quivering strings the
whisper of the winds through the trees! Even in winter, when the clouds
themselves came down from the sky and covered the earth with their soft
whiteness,--even then the forest was beautiful; and the song of the
brook under its icy coat carried a charm and mystery that were quite
wanting in the chattering freedom of summer. Surely there was nothing
strange in all this, and yet these people seemed to think there was!

CHAPTER IX

JOE

Day by day, however, as time passed, David diligently tried to perform
the "dos" and avoid the "don'ts"; and day by day he came to realize how
important weeds and woodboxes were, if he were to conform to what was
evidently Farmer Holly's idea of "playing in, tune" in this strange new
Orchestra of Life in which he found himself.

But, try as he would, there was yet an unreality about it all, a
persistent feeling of uselessness and waste, that would not be set
aside. So that, after all, the only part of this strange new life of
his that seemed real to him was the time that came after four o'clock
each day, when he was released from work.

And how full he filled those hours! There was so much to see, so much
to do. For sunny days there were field and stream and pasture land and
the whole wide town to explore. For rainy days, if he did not care to
go to walk, there was his room with the books in the chimney cupboard.
Some of them David had read before, but many of them he had not. One or
two were old friends; but not so "Dare Devil Dick," and "The Pirates of
Pigeon Cove" (which he found hidden in an obscure corner behind a loose
board). Side by side stood "The Lady of the Lake," "Treasure Island,"
and "David Copperfield"; and coverless and dogeared lay "Robinson
Crusoe," "The A