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At Five O’Clock in The Morning
by
Murray sought his favourite spot for pond dreaming–a bloomy corner of the pasture that ran down into the blue water, with a dump of leafy maples on the left. He was very glad he had risen early. A miracle was being worked before his very eyes. The world was in a flush and tremor of maiden loveliness, instinct with all the marvellous fleeting charm of girlhood and spring and young morning. Overhead the sky was a vast high-sprung arch of unstained crystal. Down over the sand dunes, where the pond ran out into the sea, was a great arc of primrose smitten through with auroral crimsonings. Beneath it the pond waters shimmered with a hundred fairy hues, but just before him they were clear as a flawless mirror. The fields around him glistened with dews, and a little wandering wind, blowing lightly from some bourne in the hills, strayed down over the slopes, bringing with it an unimaginable odour and freshness, and fluttered over the pond, leaving a little path of dancing silver ripples across the mirror-glory of the water. Birds were singing in the beech woods over on Orchard Knob Farm, answering to each other from shore to shore, until the very air was tremulous with the elfin music of this wonderful midsummer dawn.
“I will get up at sunrise every morning of my life hereafter,” exclaimed Murray rapturously, not meaning a syllable of it, but devoutly believing he did.
Just as the fiery disc of the sun peered over the sand dunes Murray heard music that was not of the birds. It was a girl’s voice singing beyond the maples to his left–a clear sweet voice, blithely trilling out the old-fashioned song, “Five O’Clock in the Morning.”
“Mrs. Palmer’s niece!”
Murray sprang to his feet and tiptoed cautiously through the maples. He had heard so much from Mrs. Palmer about her niece that he felt reasonably well acquainted with her. Moreover, Mrs. Palmer had assured him that Mollie was a very pretty girl. Now a pretty girl milking cows at sunrise in the meadows sounded well.
Mrs. Palmer had not over-rated her niece’s beauty. Murray said so to himself with a little whistle of amazement as he leaned unseen on the pasture fence and looked at the girl who was milking a placid Jersey less than ten yards away from him. Murray’s artistic instinct responded to the whole scene with a thrill of satisfaction.
He could see only her profile, but that was perfect, and the colouring of the oval cheek and the beautiful curve of the chin were something to adore. Her hair, ruffled into lovable little ringlets by the morning wind, was coiled in glistening chestnut masses high on her bare head, and her arms, bare to the elbow, were as white as marble. Presently she began to sing again, and this time Murray joined in. She half rose from her milking stool and cast a startled glance at the maples. Then she dropped back again and began to milk determinedly, but Murray could have sworn that he saw a demure smile hovering about her lips. That, and the revelation of her full face, decided him. He sprang over the fence and sauntered across the intervening space of lush clover blossoms.
“Good morning,” he said coolly. He had forgotten her other name, and it did not matter; at five o’clock in the morning people who met in dewy clover fields might disregard the conventionalities. “Isn’t it rather a large contract for you to be milking seven cows all alone? May I help you?”
Mollie looked up at him over her shoulder. She had glorious grey eyes. Her face was serene and undisturbed. “Can you milk?” she asked.
“Unlikely as it may seem, I can,” said Murray. “I have never confessed it to Mrs. Emory, because I was afraid she would inveigle me into milking her fourteen cows. But I don’t mind helping you. I learned to milk when I was a shaver on my vacations at a grandfatherly farm. May I have that extra pail?”