Painted Windows | Page 3

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This etext was prepared by Judy Boss, Omaha, NE

PAINTED WINDOWS
BY
ELIA W. PEATTIE

Will you come with me into the chamber of memory and lift your eyes
to the painted windows where the figures and scenes of childhood
appear? Perhaps by looking with kindly eyes at those from out my past,

long wished-for visions of your own youth will appear to heal the
wounds from which you suffer, and to quiet your stormy and restless
heart.

CONTENTS
I NIGHT
II SOLITUDE
III FRIENDSHIP
IV FAME
V REMORSE
VI TRAVEL

PAINTED WINDOWS
I
NIGHT
YOUNG people believe very little that they hear about the compen-
sations of growing old, and of living over again in memory the events
of the past. Yet there really are these com- pensations and pleasures,
and although they are not so vivid and breathless as the pleasures of
youth, they have some- thing delicate and fine about them that must be
experienced to be appreciated.
Few of us would exchange our mem- ories for those of others. They
have become a part of our personality, and we could not part with them
without losing something of ourselves. Neither would we part with our
own particular childhood, which, however difficult it may have been at
times, seems to each of us more significant than the child- hood of any

one else. I can run over in my mind certain incidents of my childhood
as if they were chapters in a much-loved book, and when I am wake-
ful at night, or bored by a long journey, or waiting for some one in the
railway- station, I take them out and go over them again.
Nor is my book of memories without its illustrations. I can see little vil-
lages, and a great city, and forests and planted fields, and familiar faces;
and all have this advantage: they are not fixed and without motion, like
the pic- tures in the ordinary book. People are walking up the streets of
the vil- lage, the trees are tossing, the tall wheat and corn in the fields
salute me. I can smell the odour of the gathered hay, and the faces in
my dream-book smile at me.
Of all of these memories I like best the one in the pine forest.
I was at that age when children think of their parents as being
all-powerful. I could hardly have imagined any cir- cumstances,
however adverse, that my father could not have met with his strength
and wisdom and skill. All chil- dren have such a period of hero-wor-
ship, I suppose, when their father stands out from the rest of the world
as the best and most powerful man living. So, feeling as I did, I was
made happier than I can say when my father decided, because I was
looking pale and had a poor appetite, to take me out of school for a
while, and carry me with him on a driving trip. We lived in Michigan,
where there were, in the days of which I am writing, not many rail-
roads; and when my father, who was attorney for a number of
wholesale mer- cantile firms in Detroit, used to go about the country
collecting money due, adjusting claims, and so on, he had no choice but
to drive.
And over what roads! Now it was a strip of corduroy, now a piece of
well- graded elevation with clay subsoil and gravel surface, now a
neglected stretch full of dangerous holes; and worst of all, running
through the great forests, long pieces of road from which the stumps
had been only partly extracted, and where the sunlight barely pene-
trated. Here the soaked earth became little less than a quagmire.
But father was too well used to hard journeys to fear