Page:Frank Owen - The Wind That Tramps the World (1929).djvu/21

 shock to him. But at last he succeeded in getting his cosmos readjusted.

"If I am not presuming," he said, "I should like to know what you are gazing at so intently."

The old man's eyes were like slits. They gleamed in his rough brown face as though they were lighted lamps.

"Looking?" he repeated slowly. "Looking? I was not looking. I was listening to the ceaseless voices of the wind. Most men of earth who believe their sense of hearing is very acute are in reality stone-deaf. To listen truly, is a fine art. Anyone can hear a mountain fall but only a genius can hear the music of a flower unfolding in the sun, a flower fringed with nectar-cooled dew."

He paused for a moment and gazed off toward the jagged, knife-edged cliffs. But presently he spoke again.

"I am Hi Ling," he said. "To my house you are welcome. No human soul dwells with me. And yet there are other voices besides my own constantly echoing through my house for every night I open my windows so that all the great winds can blow through. They are whispering, forever they are whispering. Can you not stay with me awhile?"

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure," replied Steppling quickly and he felt as though he could howl with glee. But he was careful to hide the intensity of his jubilant spirits.

It was with a feeling of keen elation therefore that