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158
Adventures in Contentment
·
David Grayson
112
In
the
district
school
that
I
attended
when
a
boy
we
used
to
love
to
leave
our
mark,
as
we
called
it,
wherever
our
rovings
led
us.
It
was
a
bit
of
boyish
mysticism,
unaccountable
now
that
we
have
grown
older
and
wiser
(perhaps);
but
it
had
its
meaning.
It
was
an
instinctive
outreaching
of
the
young
soul
to
perpetuate
the
knowledge
of
its
existence
upon
this
forgetful
earth.
My
mark,
I
remember,
was
a
notch
and
a
cross.
With
what
secret
fond
diligence
I
carved
it
in
the
gray
bark
of
beech
trees,
on
fence
posts,
or
on
barn
doors,
and
once,
I
remember,
on
the
roof-ridge
of
our
home,
and
once,
with
high
imaginings
of
how
long
it
would
remain,
I
spent
hours
chiseling
it
deep
in
a
hard-headed
old
boulder
in
the
pasture,
where,
if
man
has
been
as
kind
as
Nature,
it
remains
to
this
day.
If
you
should
chance
to
see
it
you
would
not
know
of
the
boy
who
carved
it
there.
So
Doctor
North
left
his
secret
mark
upon
the
neighbourhood--as
all
of
us
do,
for
good
or
for
ill,
upon
our
neighbourhoods,
in
accordance
with
the
strength
of
that
character
which
abides
within
us.
For
a
long
time
I
did
not
know
that
it
was
he,
though
it
was
not
difficult
to
see
that
some
strong
good
man
had
often
passed
this
way.
I
saw
the
mystic
sign
of
him
deep-lettered
in
the
hearthstone
of
a
home;
I
heard
it
speaking
bravely
from
the
weak
lips
of
a
friend;
it
is
carved
in
the
plastic
heart
of
many
a
boy.
No,
I
do
not
doubt
the
immortalities
of
the
soul;
in
this
community,
which
I
have
come
to
love
so
much,
dwells
more
than
one
of
John
North's
immortalities--and
will
continue
to
dwell.
I,
too,
live
more
deeply
because
John
North
was
here.
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