Vein Of Iron

Ellen Glasgow

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Children were chasing an idiot boy up the village street to the churchyard. ‘Run, run, oh, what fun!’ sang little Ada Fincastle, as she raced with the pursuers. Flushed and breathless, panting with delight, she felt that the whole round world and the short December day were running too. The steep street and the shingled roofs of Ironside rocked upward. The wind whistled as it sped on. Dust whirled and scattered and whirled again. The sunshine was spinning. A bird and its shadow flashed over the winter fields. Clouds flew in the sky. The road beyond the church reared and plunged into the shaggy hills. The hills shook themselves like ponies and rushed headlong among the mountains. The Blue Ridge and the Alleghanies toppled over and tumbled far down into the Valley of Virginia. ‘Run, run, oh, what fun to be flying!’ Then suddenly the world balanced tself, revolved slowly, and settled to rest. She had stopped.