Horses and I were pretty well spent. So, instead of
forking off the main trail to the north we went straight
ahead.
In due time I came to the bridge which I had to cross in
order to get up on the dam. Here I saw--in an absent-minded,
half unconscious, and uninterested way--one more structure
built by architect wind. The deep master ditch from the
north emptied here, to the left of the bridge, into the
grade ditch which ran east and west. And at the corner
the snow had very nearly bridged it--so nearly that you
could easily have stepped across the remaining gap. But
below it was hollow--nothing supported the bridge--it
was a mere arch, with a vault underneath that looked
temptingly sheltered and cosy to wearied eyes.
The dam was bare, and I had to pull off to the east, on
to the swampy plain. I gave my horses the lines, and
slowly, slowly they took me home! Even had I not always
lost interest here, to-day I should have leaned back and
rested. Although the horses had done all the actual work,
the strain of it had been largely on me. It was the
after-effect that set in now.
I thought of my wife, and of how she would have felt had
she been able to follow the scenes in some magical mirror
through every single vicissitude of my drive.
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