Wimby's shot-gun, which he
carefully cleaned and oiled, in spite of its hammerless and quite useless
condition, sitting, meanwhile, by the window opposite his wife, and often
looking up from his work to shake his weak fist at his neighbors'
domiciles and creak decrepit curses and denunciations.
But the Cross-Roads was ready. It knew what was coming now. Frightened,
desperate, sullen, it was ready.
The afternoon wore on, and lengthening shadows fell upon a peaceful--one
would have said, a sleeping--country. The sun-dried pike, already dusty,
stretched its serene length between green borders flecked with purple and
yellow and white weedflowers; and the tree shadows were not shade, but
warm blue and lavender glows in the general pervasion of still, bright
light, the sky curving its deep, unburnished, penetrable blue over all,
with no single drift of fleece upon it to be reflected in the creek that
wound along past willow and sycamore. A woodpecker's telegraphy broke the
quiet like a volley of pistol shots.
But far eastward on the pike there slowly developed a soft, white haze. It
grew denser and larger. Gradually it rolled nearer. Dimly behind it could
be discerned a darker, moving nucleus that extended far back upon the
road. A heavy tremor began to stir the air--faint manifold sounds, a
waxing, increasing, multitudinous rumor.
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