Dewey Bald still lifts its head in proud
loneliness above the white sea of mist that still, at times, rolls over
the valley below. The paths are unaltered. From the Matthews house on
the ridge, you may see the same landmarks. The pines show black against
the sunset sky. And from the Matthews place--past the deerlick in the
big, low gap past Sammy's Lookout and around the shoulder of
Dewey--looking away into the great world beyond, still lies the trail
that is nobody knows how old.
So in life. With all the changes that time inevitably brings, with all
our civilization, our inventions and improvements, some things must
remain unchanged. Some things--the great landmarks in life and in
religion, the hills, the valleys, the mists, must ever remain the same.
Some things, thank God, are beyond the damning power of our improvements.
In minor things the Matthews home itself is altered. But Dan's father
and mother are still--in spite of the years that have come--Young Matt
and Sammy.
It was that best of all seasons in the Ozarks--October--the month of
gold, when they were sitting on the front porch in the evening with the
old Doctor, who had arrived during the afternoon.
"Now, Doctor," said the mother, "tell us all about it." There was no
uneasiness in her calm voice, no shadow of worry in her quiet eyes. And
the boy's father by her side was like her in serene confidence. They knew
from Dan's letters something of the trials through which he had passed;
they had assured him often of their sympathy.
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