The Rainbow

He opened the doors, upper and lower, and they entered into

the high, dry barn, that smelled warm even if it were not warm.

He hung the lantern on the nail and shut the door. They were in

another world now. The light shed softly on the timbered barn,

on the whitewashed walls, and the great heap of hay; instruments

cast their shadows largely, a ladder rose to the dark arch of a

loft. Outside there was the driving rain, inside, the

softly-illuminated stillness and calmness of the barn.

Holding the child on one arm, he set about preparing the food

for the cows, filling a pan with chopped hay and brewer's grains

and a little meal. The child, all wonder, watched what he did. A

new being was created in her for the new conditions. Sometimes,

a little spasm, eddying from the bygone storm of sobbing, shook

her small body. Her eyes were wide and wondering, pathetic. She

was silent, quite still.

In a sort of dream, his heart sunk to the bottom, leaving the

surface of him still, quite still, he rose with the panful of

food, carefully balancing the child on one arm, the pan in the

other hand. The silky fringe of the shawl swayed softly, grains

and hay trickled to the floor; he went along a dimly-lit passage

behind the mangers, where the horns of the cows pricked out of

the obscurity. The child shrank, he balanced stiffly, rested the

pan on the manger wall, and tipped out the food, half to this

cow, half to the next. There was a noise of chains running, as

the cows lifted or dropped their heads sharply; then a

contented, soothing sound, a long snuffing as the beasts ate in

silence.

The journey had to be performed several times. There was the

rhythmic sound of the shovel in the barn, then the man returned

walking stiffly between the two weights, the face of the child

peering out from the shawl. Then the next time, as he stooped,

she freed her arm and put it round his neck, clinging soft and

warm, making all easier.

The beasts fed, he dropped the pan and sat down on a box, to

arrange the child.

"Will the cows go to sleep now?" she said, catching her

breath as she spoke.

"Yes."

"Will they eat all their stuff up first?"

"Yes. Hark at them."

And the two sat still listening to the snuffing and breathing

of cows feeding in the sheds communicating with this small barn.

The lantern shed a soft, steady light from one wall. All outside

was still in the rain. He looked down at the silky folds of the

paisley shawl. It reminded him of his mother. She used to go to

church in it. He was back again in the old irresponsibility and

security, a boy at home.