Grandpa was willing, but careful. He well knew that a child’s mind was a tender thing. He was keenly observing, but said little. He quietly, even eagerly observed his grandson, as one might watch a precious plant growing of its own volition in a sheltered garden, but far was it from him to let the child suspect such a thing. He had often laughed at the child’s outrageous frankness. It infinitely amused him; but when it came to knowledge, he was cautious—dropping information by crumbs. But this time, when his grandson in eager child-words dramatized the sunset and climaxed all by a sudden antithesis, saying he had never seen the sunrise! How did the sun rise? Where did it rise? How did it rise? Would Grandpa tell him? Would Grandpa please tell him? Then Grandpa wide-eyed knew a mystic golden bell had struck the hour. He told the boy at once that the rising sun could not be seen from the house because Cowdrey’s hill shut off the view; that the sun truly arose far beyond this hill. That to see the sun rise one must go to the crest of the hill, whence one could see to the horizon. He used the word “horizon” boldly, as one throws down a card, and then with strategy of simple words, and easy similes he produced a sort of image for the child; difficult to do in a hilly country, and for the mind of one who had never viewed the open sea. Then he explained that the lay of the land westward of the house was not so hilly as that to the east, therefore one could view the sunset to fairly good advantage.
In his discourse, he was careful not to mention the revolution of the earth. He knew well enough the child was living in a world of the senses. “But Grandpa, is the sunrise as beautiful as the sunset?” “Far more so, my child; it is of an epic grandeur; sunset is lyric, it is an elegy.” These words escaped Grandpa in a momentary enthusiasm. He felt foolish, as he saw a small bright face turn blank. However, he patched up the “lyric” and the “elegy” fairly well, but “epic” was difficult. Had he but known of his grandson’s big strong men—how simple. Then Grandpa went on: “But you must know that in summer the sun rises very early, earlier than I; and I scarcely believe my young astronomer will get out of his comfortable bed long before daylight, just to see the sun rise out of his bed,” and Grandpa chuckled. “Yes, I will, Grandpa, yes, I will”—and he slipped from his Grandfather’s knee to arouse the somnolent cat, and shape his plans for tomorrow.
Restless through the night, he arose at twilight, made ready quickly, and passed up the road leading to the great ash tree whose companionship he ever sought on high occasions. Here, under the wondrous tree—and with Cowdrey’s farmhouse resting silently across the way—here in stillness of oncoming dawn punctured here and there by a bird’s early chirp, and chanticleer’s high herald call heard near and far, raucous, faint, and ever fainter far away; the few remaining stars serene within the dome of pale passing night, he stood, gazing wistfully over the valley toward a far away range of dark blue drowsy hills, as the pallid eastern sky, soon tremulous with a pink suffusion, gave way before a glow deepening into radiant crimson, like a vanguard of fire—as the top of the sun emerging from behind the hills, its slow-revealing disc reaching full form, ascended, fiery, imperious and passionate, to confront him. Chilled and spellbound, he in turn became impassioned with splendor and awe, with wonder and he knew not what, as the great red orb, floating clear of the hilltops overwhelmed him, flooded the land; and in white dazzling splendor awakened the world to its work, to its hopes, to its sorrows, and to its dreams. Surely the child, sole witness beneath his great ash tree, his wonder-guardian and firm friend sharing with him in its stately way as indeed did all the land and sky and living things of the open—the militant splendor of sunrise—the breaking of night’s dam—the torrent and
