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EXPLORING
ARDUINO ®
EXPLORING
ARDUINO ®
a popular YouTube video series that has introduced millions of people to embedded
Linux and digital electronics topics. In 2013, he launched a personal web/blog site that
is visited by thousands of people every day and that integrates his YouTube videos with
support materials, source code, and user discussion. He has published other books in
this Wiley mini-series: Exploring BeagleBone in 2015, followed in 2016 by Exploring
Raspberry Pi. The second edition of Exploring BeagleBone was released earlier this year.
You can learn more about Derek, his work, and his other publications at his personal
website, derekmolloy.ie.
Acknowledgments
I n the several years since the first edition of this book was released, I’ve received
so many notes from readers who have told me about the many ways that they’ve
learned from Exploring Arduino. I’ve also received plenty of constructive criticism—
little things that I can adjust to improve the book’s utility. I’ve taken all these comments
to heart and have tracked them carefully over the past few years. It is my intention to
make this second edition even more useful than the first, while still maintaining the
approachability that many readers told me that they appreciated. So, THANK YOU
to everybody who has given me feedback about the first edition of Exploring Arduino!
Second, I must extend my thanks again to Wiley. They’ve been amazing partners
through this journey, and I’m glad to have them to continue to see this book through
to a second edition. In particular, I’d like to thank Jim Minatel, Adaobi Obi Tulton, Dr.
Derek Molloy, Marylouise Wiack, and Athiyappan Lalith Kumar.
Thanks also to the wonderful folks at Adafruit, who have collaborated with me on
ensuring that parts kits are easy to obtain for this book. Adafruit contributes heavily
to the open source hardware and software communities, and I certainly would not be
the engineer that I am today without their excellent products and guides.
Back when I wrote the first edition of Exploring Arduino, I was still getting my mas-
ter’s degree. I’ve long since graduated, but now I’ve got my work at Shaper to focus on.
I owe a big thanks to all my co-workers both at Shaper and at Google (my previous
employer) for always encouraging me, and for building awesome hardware with me!
I want to give a special shout-out to my professors at Cornell, especially Professor
François Guimbretière, who taught the course where I was first introduced to Arduino.
He has since used the first edition of this book as a textbook for that course, and it
makes me so happy to know that I’ve been able to give back to Cornell in that capacity.
Finally, I want to thank my parents, my brother, my wife, and my friends for putting
up with me, and for always encouraging me. I feel so fortunate to have such wonderful
people in my life.
Contents at a Glance
Introduction ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� xxv
Index. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 461
Contents
Introduction ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� xxv
Index. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 461
Figure Credits
A ll images, icons, and marks as displayed in Figure 3-7 and Figure 10-3 are owned
by Analog Devices, Inc. (ADI), copyright © 2019. All Rights Reserved. These
images, icons, and marks are reproduced with permission by ADI. No unauthorized
reproduction, distribution, or usage is permitted without ADI’s written consent.
This book contains copyrighted material of Microchip Technology Incorporated
replicated with permission. All rights reserved. No further replications may be made
without Microchip Technology Inc.’s prior written consent.
Atmel, AVR, ICSP, and In-Circuit Serial Programming are trademarks or registered
trademarks of Microchip Technology Inc.
Arm and Cortex are trademarks or registered trademarks of Arm Limited (or its
subsidiaries) in the United States and/or elsewhere. The related technology may be
protected by any or all of patents, copyrights, designs, and trade secrets.
Visit https://textbookfull.com
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Introduction
W hen the first edition of this book came out in 2013, I opened it with the follow-
ing greeting:
You have excellent timing. As I often like to say, “We’re living in the future.”
I think I backed myself into a corner with that introduction, because if 2013 was
“the future,” then I’m not quite sure what to call the present! The far future? The
future-future? My point is, the march of progress has been swift, and the possibilities
for what you can do with even a cursory knowledge of embedded electronics and soft-
ware continue to expand every day.
Since the first edition of this book was released, electronics and software have
continued to become increasingly accessible with every passing day. In 2013, I was
hesitant to include a chapter about connecting your hardware projects to the internet
because the process for doing so was still quite fussy. The “Internet of Things” (IoT) was
just an emerging nerdy buzzword in 2013. Now, it’s a key part of the global vernacular.
It seems like every product for sale nowadays contains a microcontroller. Everything
is “smart” and most of those things also feature phone or web connectivity. I bet you
didn’t think you’d be buying a Bluetooth-enabled toothbrush back when “Bluetooth”
just referred to people talking to themselves through their wireless cellphone headsets.
Considering all this, I felt it was time to release a new edition of Exploring Arduino.
This second edition expands upon everything that was covered in the first edition. It
updates all the projects with new challenges and details, clarifies questions that people
had from the first edition, and adds a plethora of new content, including a lot more
details on wireless connectivity, new Arduino hardware, changes to the Arduino eco-
system and software, and more.
Why Arduino?
With the tools available to you today, many of which you’ll learn about in this book,
you have the opportunity and the ability to bend the physical world to your whim. Until
very recently, it has not been possible for someone to pick up a microcontroller and use
it to control their world within minutes. A microcontroller is a programmable integrated
circuit (IC) that gives you the power to define the operation of complex mechanical,
electrical, and software systems using relatively simple commands. The possibilities are
endless, and the Arduino microcontroller platform will become your new favorite tool
as you explore the world of electronics, programming, human-computer interaction,
xxvi Introduction
art, control systems, and more. Throughout the course of this book, you’ll use the
Arduino to do everything from detecting motion to creating wireless control systems
to communicating over the internet.
Whether you are completely new to any kind of engineering or are a seasoned veteran
looking to get started with embedded systems design, the Arduino is a great place to
start. Are you looking for a general reference for Arduino development? This book is
perfect for you, too. It walks you through a number of separate projects, but you’ll also
find it easy to return to the book for code snippets, best practices, system schematics,
and more. The electrical engineering, systems design, and programming practices that
you’ll learn while reading this book are widely applicable beyond the Arduino platform
and will prepare you to take on an array of engineering projects, whether they use the
Arduino or some other platform.
why particular parts are used for particular functions, and how to read datasheets that
will allow you to choose appropriate parts to build your own projects. When writing
software, I provide complete program code, but you will first be stepped through sev-
eral iterative processes to create the final program. This will help to reinforce specific
program functions, good code-formatting practices, and algorithmic understanding.
This book will teach physics concepts, algorithms, digital design principles, and
Arduino-specific programming concepts. It is my hope that working through the pro-
jects in this book will not just make you a well-versed Arduino developer, but also give
you the skills you need to develop more-complex electrical systems, and to pursue
engineering endeavors in other fields, and with different platforms.
WARNING Be sure to take heed when you see one of these asides. They appear
when particular steps could cause damage to your electronics if performed incorrectly.
TIP These asides contain quick hints about how to perform the task at hand more
easily and effectively.
SAMPLE HEADING
These asides go into additional depth about the current topic or a related topic.
of hobbyist electrical components. You can purchase all the components required for
completing the projects in this book from Adafruit. A convenient listing of Adafruit
parts for each chapter is available at exploringarduino.com/kits.
At the beginning of each chapter, you’ll find a detailed list of parts that you need
to complete that chapter—all of these parts are available from many sources. The
companion website for this book, www.wiley.com/go/exploringarduino2e, also provides
links to multiple sources where you can find the parts for each chapter.
◼◼ A soldering iron and solder (Note: A few shields and microcontroller boards used
in the final chapters of this book may be sold with some soldering required—this
usually involves easy soldering of thru-hole pins to a circuit board.)
◼◼ A multimeter (This will be useful for debugging concepts within this book, but
is not required.)
◼◼ A set of small screwdrivers
◼◼ Tweezers
◼◼ Wire cutters and wire strippers
◼◼ A hot glue gun
◼◼ A magnifying glass (Electronics are small, and sometimes it’s necessary to read
the tiny, laser-etched markings on integrated circuits in order to look up their
datasheets online.)
Introduction xxix
NOTE Because many books have similar titles, you may find it easiest to search
by ISBN; this book’s ISBN is 9781119405375.
NOTE Some URLs (especially the ones that I don’t control) may change or be
very long. To make it easier to type in long URLs that I may reference throughout
the book, I will list a “shortened URL” using my personal domain name shortener:
blum.fyi. For example, blum.fyi/jarvis redirects to a longer URL on my website
about a project called “JARVIS.”
Errata
We make every effort to ensure that there are no errors in the text or in the code. How-
ever, no one is perfect, and mistakes do occur. If you find an error in this book, such as
a spelling mistake or faulty piece of code, we would be grateful for your feedback. By
Random documents with unrelated
content Scribd suggests to you:
“So you’re one of Seth Bard’s curses, eh?” he said, at length, in a
preoccupied tone, with his back still turned to Mauney. “Been
fighting?”
“No, doctor, I ran a nail in my hand,” he replied, with a smile.
Horne shuffled a pace to his left to transfer his keen attention to
another bookbinding, which so completely absorbed him that
Mauney was sure he had forgotten his patient. After what seemed
five minutes, Horne turned about and, going to his desk, plumped
himself down into a swivel-chair. His eye-brows nearly touched the
line of his hair as his black eyes stole to the corner of his lids in a sly
study of his patient.
“Nail eh? Rusty?”
Mauney commenced undoing the bandage.
“Hip! Hip!” admonished Horne. “I didn’t tell you to take that off.
Wait till I tell you, young fellow. Lots of time. Rusty?”
“Yes, doctor.”
“Come in here!”
Horne jumped up and went into the surgery. He quickly cut away
the crude bandage and merely glanced at the wound.
“Soreness go up your arm, young fellow?”
“Yes, a little bit.”
“Uh—Hum!”
Horne clasped his arms behind his back and stamped dramatically
up and down the surgery, rattling the instruments in their glass case
by the wall. Suddenly he faced Mauney.
“How would you like to lose your arm, young man?” he asked
seriously.
“I’d hate to.”
“Then I’m going to open up that wound freely,” he said, walking
toward the instrument case. “Do you want to take chloroform?”
“No—I think I can stand it.”
Home selected a knife and pulling a hair out of his head tried its
edge.
“She’s sharp—damned sharp!” he remarked, dropping the
instrument into a basin of solution. “You think you can stand it, eh?
Remember, I offered you chloroform.”
Presently he picked the knife out of the basin.
“Come here, you. Put your hand in that solution. Hold it there a
minute. Does it nip?”
Mauney nodded.
“Well, let it nip. Now take your hand out. Stand up straight. Hold it
out here.”
Horne pressed the blade deeply into the tissues, then withdrew it.
Looking up into his patient’s face:
“Did you feel it?”
“Just a little, Doctor,” said Mauney, biting his lip.
“Don’t you faint, Bard!”
“I’m not going to.”
“Yes you are!”
“I am not!” insisted Mauney as the color returned to his face.
While the doctor put on a fresh dressing his manner altered. He
whistled a snatch of a country dance.
“You look like your mother, boy,” he said more gently. “I looked
after your poor mother. You were just a young gaffer then. She was
a very fine woman. She was too damned good for your old man. I’ve
told Seth that before now.”
“Will this need to be dressed again?” Mauney asked, as they later
stood in the waiting room.
“Yes. On Saturday.”
Horne’s attention was drawn to the figure of a woman
approaching the office.
“Hello!” he said softly. “Surely Sarah Tenent isn’t sick. I’ll bet she’s
peddling bills for the revival services.”
The bell rang.
“All right, come in, Mrs. Tenent.”
“How do you do, doctor?” she said, very deferentially, as she
entered.
“Just about as I choose, Mrs. Tenent,” he replied coldly, watching
her minutely.
She took a large white paper notice from a pile on her arm.
“Will you serve the Lord,” she asked with great soberness, “by
hanging this in your office, doctor?”
He glanced over it and read aloud, very hurriedly: “Revival
Services, Beulah Church, commencing Sunday. Rev. Francis Tooker
and Rev. Archibald Gainford, successful evangelists, will assist the
new pastor, Rev. Edmund Tough. Special Singing. Come.”
He passed it back to her and shook his head.
“No, no—not here, I’d never hang it here. I have patients who are
not of thy fold, Mrs. Tenent. My function is to cure the sick. That
sign would make some of them sicker. No, no.”
The woman left the office in silent disapproval of Horne’s attitude.
Mauney put on his hat and was leaving the office, when the doctor
appeared in the door behind him.
“Hold on, young chap!” he commanded. “Wait you! Didn’t I see
you driving into the village with a young lady?”
“I didn’t think you noticed us,” laughed Mauney.
“Who was she?”
“Miss Byrne. She teaches at the Brick School.”
“Yes, yes. Of course she does. Fine young lady,” he said, studying
Mauney with much lifting of his brows and pouting of his lips. “But
you’re too young, Bard. Why don’t you get somebody your own
age?”
“Oh,” Mauney said quickly, while his face flushed; “She’s probably
got a beau. It isn’t me, anyway, doctor.”
Horne, greatly amused at the emotional perturbation of his
patient, chuckled, while his black eyes sparkled.
“Get along with you, Bard!” he said, “Get along home with you
and don’t forget to come up on Saturday, mind!”
The revival meetings became the talk of the countryside. Beulah,
composed for the most part of retired farmers, had unusual leisure
in which to think—a leisure captured by the glamor of religion, which
was the strongest local influence. Although the village was a century
old it had preserved, with remarkable success, the puritanism of the
pioneer period, partly because it enjoyed so little touch with the
commercial energies of the nation at large, and partly because the
local churches had remained diligent in spiritual service. But in a
population so uniformly composed of idle folk, the general view-
point lay itself open to become biased. There was too much
emphasis on the ghostly estate and too little on the need of practical
endeavor. Beulah had forgotten long since that the Church must
have its lost world, else it becomes unnecessary, and to the average
citizen, lulled as he was by surfeit of beatific meditation, the board
sidewalks had begun to take on an aureate tinge, the houses, a
pearly lustre. The spiritual concern of the religiously eager Beulahite
had in it, unfortunately, no concept of national character, but was
pointed sharply at the individual. His sense of personal security was
only less unhealthy than his over-bearing interest in the soul welfare
of his neighbor. Saved by repeated redemptions himself, he
remained strangely skeptical of the validity of the phenomenon in
others. Hence, at fairly regular intervals, a general village
consciousness of sin developed, becoming insistently stronger until it
found its logical expression—the revival meeting.
Mauney, during the next week, listened to the religious talk of the
community with mild curiosity. Mrs. McBratney, the pious mother of
David, said to him one afternoon from the side of her buggy:
“I hope you’ll attend the revival meetings, Mauney. Your mother
would want you to go. We are praying for great things.
“I’ve been on my knees for the young people,” she continued,
“and I believe David has got conviction.”
Tears suddenly filled her eyes and her chin quivered with such
tremulous emotion as to embarrass Mauney, who could fancifully
imagine that David had been smitten by a plague.
“I believe he will be converted,” she managed to say, before her
voice broke into a sob, “and I pray the Lord will show you the light,
too, Mauney.”
He felt that perhaps it would have been good form to say “Thank
you,” for he was sure her intentions were sterling, but he resented
her reference to his mother, who seemed to him, in memory, a
creature too much of sunshine and peace to be associated with
anything so dolefully emotional.
He had never been a regular attendant at church. He remembered
having sat beside his mother many times in the auditorium listening
to unintelligible sermons and strenuous anthems. But from the day,
five years ago, when as a chief mourner he had sat blankly
stupefied, hearing comforting words that failed to comfort, and
music whose poignant solemnity froze him with horrid fear, he had
never been invited either by desire or family suggestion to return.
By the second week of the meetings David McBratney was
reported to have been converted. He had stopped coming to see
William as had been his custom. Neighbors said there could be no
doubting the genuineness of his reformation for he had ceased
chewing tobacco and was contemplating entry into the ministry of
the Church. During supper at the Bard farm on Saturday evening a
lull in the conversation was broken by a sarcastic laugh from William.
“Well, Dad, I guess they’ve got Dave,” he said. “Abe Lavanagh was
tellin’ me to-day that Dave has went forward every night this here
week. I never figured he’d get religion.”
Bard philosophically chewed on the idea as he peered at the lamp
through his narrow eyes.
“There is just two kinds of people,” he asserted at length. “The
fools and the damned fools. Now there’s a boy who’s got every
chance of inheriting his old man’s farm. And I’m tellin’ you, Bill, it’s a
purty good piece o’ land.”
“You bet.”
“Just about as good as is bein’ cultivated this side of Lockwood.
There ain’t a stone left in the fields, but what’s piled up in the
fences. William Henry has slaved this here thirty years—got the
mortgage cleaned up—and that barn o’ his, Bill, why you couldn’t
build it to-day for five thousand!”
“No, nor six, Dad.”
“Then look at the machinery the old man’s got. I’m tellin’ yuh
Dave ain’t goin’ to drop into nothing like that, agin. William Henry
must be seventy!”
“May be seventy-one, Dad.”
“Anyhow he ain’t goin’ to last a great while longer. If I was Dave
I’d forget this religion business. ’Taint goin’ to get him nowhere. Ain’t
that right, Snowball?”
The hired man, having finished supper, was sitting back drowsily,
but at the sound of his name he winked his eyes cautiously.
“I dunno,” he said, “I don’t never bother much about religion, so I
don’t!”
In Dr. Horne’s office that week the subject of the revival came up
while Mauney was having his hand dressed.
“Some queer people here in this one-horse town!” mused Horne.
“Do you remember George Pert who died a couple or three years
ago?”
“Lived down by the toll-gate?”
“That’s him. Lazy as twelve pigs. Use to lie abed till noon. Wife
kept a market garden. Never paid his doctor’s bills. Yes, sir! George
Pert! He got a cancer of the bowel, poor devil. Sick. Pretty far gone.
I went in one day and found preacher Squires sitting by the bed.
‘Well, Mr. Pert,’” (Horne’s voice assumed an amusing clerical
solemnity) “‘Are you trusting in the Lord?’ George nods his head.
‘Yes’ says he, ‘I’m so sartin o’ salvation, that if only one person in
Beulah is going to heaven I know it’s me!’
“They’re a nosey bunch, here!” Horne continued, as he wound a
bandage on Mauney’s hand. “Self-satisfied! Let your light so shine—
good! But don’t focus your light into a red-hot spot to burn out your
neighbor’s gizzard. Last night Steve Moran came into the office and
sat down. ‘Doctor’ says he, ‘I just came in to see if your feet were
resting on the Rock.’ Says I, ‘Steve, you blackguard, you owe me five
dollars from your wife’s last confinement, fifteen years ago. If you
don’t go to hell out o’ here, you’ll be resting in a long black box!’”
Mauney was surprised how much people talked about the revival.
Enthusiasts carried out from the meetings, by their words and
manner, an infectious fervor that directed the curious attention of
others to the thing that was happening night by night in the Beulah
church. Finally, on Sunday evening, he decided to see it for himself
and drove to town. The church sheds were filled to overflowing so
that he tied old Charlie to a fence post in the yard. Through the
colored windows he heard the voluminous roar of voices lifted in the
cadence of a hymn. The church was crowded. The vestry at the
entrance was full of waiting people and, through one of the doors
leading to the auditorium, he glimpsed a sea of heads. At the farther
end of the great room, in a low gallery, sat the choir, facing him, and
below them on the pulpit platform three preachers were seated in
red plush chairs. The seated congregation were singing an unfamiliar
hymn whose rhythm reminded him of march music he had heard
bands playing in Lockwood. Ushers were carrying in chairs to
accommodate the overflow.
David McBratney, carrying an armful of red hymn books touched
Mauney on the shoulder.
“Here’s a book,” he whispered, proffering one. “I’ll get you a seat
in a few minutes. Glad to see you here, Mauney.”
McBratney’s face glowed with a strange luminosity, puzzling to
Mauney, and his speech and manner were quickened by nervous
tension. Presently he led the way to a chair in the aisle.
At the end of a stanza one of the preachers jumped suddenly to
his feet and interrupted the organ.
“You’re not half singing!” he shouted angrily. “You can do better
than that. If you haven’t more voice than that, how do you expect
the Lord to hear your words of praise? Now, on the next stanza, let
yourself out. Ready!”
He raised both arms high above his head and, as the organ
commenced, brought them to his side with such force that he was
compelled to take a step forward to regain his balance. His words
had the effect he desired, for a deafening volume of sound rose and
fell quickly to the lilt of the march-music, suggesting to Mauney the
image of neatly-uniformed cadets with stiffened backs and even
steps, moving along Lockwood streets on a holiday.
When the hymn ended, a soft hand touched Mauney on the arm
and, looking to his right, he saw Jean Byrne seated in the end of the
oaken pew directly next to him. She was just letting her closed
hymnal drop into her lap.
“Glad to see you,” she whispered, guarding her lips with her
gloved hand.
One of the preachers rose slowly from his chair. He was a stout
man of fifty, mild-appearing and pleasant, with clean-shaven face
and grey hair. He walked forward to the edge of the carpeted
platform, rested his elbow on the side of the pulpit and raised his
face to gaze slowly over the quieting congregation. “My dear
friends,” he said in soft, silver tone, “I thank God for the hymn we
have just been singing. It has been indeed very inspiring. Brother
Tooker and myself have been in your little town for two weeks now,
and have grown so fond of the people that we view to-night’s
meeting with inevitable feelings of regret, because, so far as we can
see the divine guidance, it will be our last night with you. But we
have also feelings of hope, because we are praying that there may
be a great turning to God as a result of this meeting.”
As he paused to shift his weight slowly to his other foot and clasp
his hands behind his frock coat, the congregation was silent. Only
the sound of a horse stamping in the shed could be heard.
“During our fortnight with you,” he continued, “many souls have
been led to the Cross. We thank God for that. But there are many
more who are still living in sin—some of them are here to-night.”
As his glance shifted over the mass of upturned faces, Mauney
fancied he paused perceptibly as he looked his way.
“It is to you, who are in sin, that we bring a message of hope. You
have only to take God at his word, who sent His Son to save that
which was lost.”
“Amen!” came a vigorous response from an old man in the front
pew.
“You have only to believe on Him who is righteous and just to
forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.”
“Amen!” from near the back.
“Amen!” also, from the side, half-way up.
At this juncture a woman in the body of the auditorium burst
forth, in good voice, singing the first verse of “Though your sins be
as scarlet,” whereat the preacher indulgently acquiesced, and waved
for the congregation to join her. At the end of the first stanza he
raised his hand.
“The lesson for to-night is taken from the first chapter of the
beloved Mark.” As he carefully read the passage of scripture the
ushers were busy leading in more people, so that, when he finished,
the floor was entirely filled save for two narrow aisles, one on either
side, leading from the back to the altar railing.
The Reverend Francis Tooker, as he walked confidently forward,
was seen to be tall and thin, with a long, florid face and a great
mass of stiff, black hair. He raised his large, bony hand.
“Let every head be bowed!” he commanded, sharply.
After a short invocation he commenced his discourse. He dealt at
length with the experiences of the prodigal son, pictured in adequate
language the depths of profligacy to which he had sunk, stressed
the moment of his decision to return home, and waxed touchingly
eloquent over the reception which his father accorded him.
“And now, people,” he said more brusquely, as he slammed shut
the big pulpit Bible and ran his long fingers nervously through his
hair. “You’ve got a chance to do what that boy did. You’ve been
acting just the way he acted—don’t dare deny it! You’ve been
wallowing in the dirt with the pigs, and you’re all smeared up. What
are you going to do about it?”
The audience, keyed up to the former flow of his unfaltering
eloquence, were now mildly shocked by the informality of his
pointed question. He walked to the very edge of the platform while
his eyes grew savage and his face red.
“What are you going to do about it?” he shouted, clenching his
fists and half-squatting. Then, rising quickly, he hastened to the
other side of the pulpit. “Are you going to arise and go to your
Father? Or are you going to keep on mucking about with the pigs?
Don’t forget that for anyone of you this night may be your last. To-
night, perhaps you” (he pointed), “or you,” (he pointed again) “may
be required to face God. What are you going to do about it? Are you
going to die forgiven of your sins like a man, or are you going to
shut your ears to the word of God and die like any other pig?”
No sound interrupted the intense silence. No one moved. Even the
flickering lamps seemed to steady their illumination to a glaring,
yellow uniformity.
Suddenly his manner altered. Moving to a position behind the
pulpit he rested his elbows on the Bible and folded his hands
together out over the front edge of the book-rest, while his voice
assumed a quiet, conversational tone.
“Remember that on this night, the twentieth day of April, 1914,
you were given an opportunity to come out full-breasted for God. I
have discharged my duty. The rest remains for you to do. If you are
sorry for your sins, say so. If you regret the kind of life you’ve been
leading, confess it. Come out and get washed off clean. The
invitation is open. The altar awaits to receive you.”
As he pointed to the altar railing, his black eyes flashed
hypnotically.
“Those who have sinned, but are repentant and seek redemption,
please stand.”
For about ten seconds a great inertia possessed the seated
congregation. Then two men stood up near the front of the pews,
followed soon after by groups of both men and women in various
parts of the auditorium, until, at length, only a sporadic rising here
and there marked a new mood of hesitancy.
“While the choir sings,” the preacher said softly, “I will ask you to
steal away to the foot of the altar. The choir will please sing the first
two verses of ‘Come Ye Disconsolate,’ and you who have, by
standing, thus signified your desire for salvation, will move quietly
forward and kneel by the railing.”
As the slow, full chords of the hymn began the preacher’s voice
kept calling “Come away, Brother,” and the standing penitents sought
the narrow aisles and moved slowly forward to kneel with their
heads touching the oaken railing. The Rev. Archibald Gainford and
the Rev. Edmund Tough descended from the platform to the
crescent-shaped altar space and, bending down, spoke words of
comfort to the suppliants.
As the choir stopped and the organ notes faded, the exhorter
produced a silver watch and examined it, hurriedly.
“If we had more time,” he said, “how many more would like to
come forward? Please stand.”
A dozen or more rose to their feet.
“Well,” he said, with a smile, as he returned his watch to his
pocket, “we have plenty of time. Come out, brother!”
Caught by this subtle snare, many of the presumably wavering
individuals found it impossible to refuse his invitation, while a few
sat down again.
When the meeting eventually drew to a close, after a long hymn,
sung with the same exciting rhythm as the first one, Mauney rose
with the rest and moved impatiently toward the door, walking beside
Jean Byrne and talking to her of obvious matters. Her face, he
noticed, was flushed and her eyes shining with unusual brightness
from delicately moist lids, while her voice seemed husky and
uncertain. The auditorium emptied slowly. The steps leading down
from the front doorway to the walk presented the customary Sunday
night groups of village beaux waiting to accompany their
sweethearts home, or perhaps stroll with them through quiet,
moonlit streets.
Beulah village council, anxious to keep taxes at a minimum, had
never provided street-lighting, so that pedestrians, on dark nights,
carried lanterns, unless they were lovers, in which case they relied
either on moonlight or familiarity with the local geography.
Jean Byrne had come to the village in the buggy of Mr. and Mrs.
Fitch with whom she boarded on the Lantern Marsh road, but
Mauney, being alone, invited her to drive down with him. She
accepted and soon they were off together.
“I could have kicked over a pew in there to-night,” said Mauney at
length, tersely.
“I knew you wouldn’t like it,” she said. “Personally I think it’s very
unreal. Perhaps some people derive good from it, though.”
“Perhaps. But it hasn’t any connection with real life, Miss Byrne. I
can’t help feeling you’ve got to let the common daylight into things.”
“That’s good.”
“It’s easy enough to see how they get pulled into it,” he went on.
“There’s a sort of excitement about it. I don’t think one person by
himself could get so excited.”
“You mean there’s a mob consciousness?”
“Yes, exactly—a lot of minds rubbing each other, like.”
“I believe you’ve hit it, Mauney,” she said. “I never thought of it
like that before. How did you manage to think that out?”
“Well, I’ve always noticed, if I’m in a crowd, that it’s hard for me
to stay just as I am when I’m alone. Now, I hate people who are
always chirping like chipmunks—you’ll meet them at socials and
dances. They don’t say anything that matters and might better keep
their mouths shut. But if I get with them I’ll notice how it affects me,
for after I leave I feel sort of weak.”
“You must enjoy observing things like that, Mauney.”
“No, I don’t enjoy it,” he replied. “That’s just what I’m up against
the whole time at home. My father and brother and the hired girl
keep up an endless rattle of talk, all the time, about things that
aren’t important. I keep quiet on purpose because I don’t want to
talk about them.”
“What sort of things do they discuss?”
“Oh—the price of eggs, what somebody did with a certain horse,
who married so-and-so and who she was before she did it, and
whether the preacher’s wife is human, and then they’re always
teasing Snowball; but he isn’t such a fool as they think he is.”
For a moment Miss Byrne studied Mauney’s face, bright with
moonlight.
“Well, what kind of things do you think are important?” she asked.
“I mean what would you like to discuss, if you had your own way at
home?”
“I couldn’t say exactly,” he said, reflectively. “But I’m discontented
all the time, and feel ignorant. I want an education. I’m interested in
history, most.”
While she listened to his words, Miss Byrne was enjoying the
landscape as they drove slowly along. It was no new thing for her to
feel fresh attractions toward Mauney, but to-night, for some reason
that she did not seek, she felt uncomfortably warm toward him, and
presently her soft, gloved hand pressed his hand tenderly, and
remained holding it. It came as a surprise to him, and he glanced
quickly at her face, across which the sharp shadow of her hat
formed a line just above her lips. He could distinguish her eyes
turned away in the direction of the moonlit fields she was admiring,
and her pretty lips, vivid and tender, sent a strange thrill through his
body. Although he made no effort to draw away his hand, he disliked
the situation as something he could not grasp. Lying helplessly
captured, his fingers felt the heat of her hand. She had stopped
talking and he noticed her bosom moving as deeply as if she were
asleep, but more quickly. He had the same feeling, for an instant, as
in the meeting, of an outside power insidiously exciting his mind, but
noticed with a definite sense of relief that they were nearing Fitch’s
gate. In a moment he freed his hand from hers and pulled up the
horse.
“Mauney!”
She spoke his name in a low, unsteady voice and pressed her
hand against his arm. That she was not warning him of some
sudden obstacle in their way, was clear, for, on looking toward the
road, he saw nothing. When he turned to her, her hat was hiding her
bowed face and her hand was relaxing slowly—so very slowly—and
falling from his arm. The emotion that caused her breathing to be
broken by queer, jerky pauses mystified him.
“Are you ill, Miss Byrne?” he ventured to ask, and noticed that his
own voice was tremulous.
She shook her head slowly and began to climb out of the buggy.
“No, Mauney boy,” she replied softly. “I was just lonesome, I guess.
Goodnight!” He was puzzled. As he drove along he grew exceedingly
impatient. There were so many things, he thought, beyond his
comprehension.
CHAPTER III.
Mauney Meets Mrs. Day.
“A pretty woman is a welcome guest.”—Byron, “Beppo.”
CHAPTER IV
The Harvest Moon
“A rustic roughness”—Horace, Ep. Book I.
The story he had heard from his aunt, with its unexplained gaps,
filled Mauney’s mind for days. He wondered most about what she
had not told him. Her seemingly instinctive fear—or was it scorn?—
of meeting his father roused torturing curiosity. Probably his
mother’s letters had told her either plainly or in suggestive language
of her great unhappiness.
The motor-car visit haunted him. It was so unnatural, as though,
in a painful dream, he had beheld his own mother, whose features
were to remain before him in waking hours. Spectre-like out of the
unknown world she had come, to vanish immediately, leaving scant
comfort, herself immune from his ardent desire to detain her.
The incident was characteristic of life, as he was learning to know
it, for he gained cognizance of an enigmatical curse aimed at
whatever promised happiness. One whom even a few moments had
enshrined in his affections must tremble and disappear, as a delicate
bird, hovering for an instant, is driven away by a sight or smell.
Every aspiration of his existence was leashed to his father’s stolid
nature. He traced the deterring thongs, one by one, back to the
paternal influence. Some hidden action or some unrevealed quality
of his father’s had driven his aunt away in a dust-cloud. And the dust
which rose up to obscure her loved face was symbolic, for dust of a
kind was slowly settling upon the freshness of his own nature.
One evening his reverie of unhappiness was broken by a familiar
voice when, turning about, he beheld David McBratney trudging
along with a large, grey, telescope valise. In answer to his question,
McBratney replied that he was starting on foot for Lockwood, where
next morning he would take the train for Merlton to begin his
ministerial studies. He was walking because his father, suffering from
ill-humor, had refused him a horse. But evidently, there was no
martyrdom about the situation.
“He’s an old man,” Dave said, putting down his burden and wiping
his forehead with a big, red handkerchief, “and I didn’t like to start
no row.”
“Are you going for good?” Mauney asked, rising from the grass
and walking slowly to the edge of the road.
“Sure. I sold my three-year-old yesterday for a hundred, and
that’ll keep me for a while up to Merlton. I guess Dad will come
around after a while. But I reckon I’d just blow away, quiet like,
without causin’ too much commotion.”
“You’re a cheerful cuss, Dave,” Mauney said.
“You bet,” he laughed, as he turned to look back toward his home.
“I tell yuh, Maun, when a fellah gets sort o’ squared away with God
Almighty, why, he can’t be no other way. Some o’ the neighbors says
I’m makin’ a big mistake to leave the farm. But that farm ain’t
nothin’ to me now. Maybe I won’t never have a bit o’ land to me
name, but, I’m tellin’ yuh, I’ve got somethin’ as more’n makes up.
Well, Maun, old boy,” he said, picking up his valise and sticking out
his big, sun-burned hand. “I’ll be goin’ along. Good-bye. Best of luck
to yuh!”
For minutes Mauney stood thoughtfully watching his retreating
figure as, swinging into a long stride, he covered the first lap of his
long walk to Lockwood. His big figure grew smaller and smaller and
the valise dwindled to a little grey speck, but he never turned to look
back and soon he was lost in a bend of the road.
Although Mauney disliked in McBratney, what he considered half-
familiar references to the Creator, he distinctly admired his courage
and did not hesitate to express his admiration next day at supper
when the subject came up. Evidently Bard had called at the
McBratney’s that afternoon on his way from Beulah.
“The old man’s all broke up,” he said. “Poor old chap. There he is
right in the middle of the hayin’ with nobody to help him, and Dave
walks right out an’ leaves him. He might ’a’ stayed till the first o’
August, anyway.”
“I guess Dave’s got it pretty bad, Dad,” William remarked as he
spread a large chunk of butter over his bread. “Anybody that’ll start
out an’ walk to Lockwood on a hot night, carrying a big grip, why,
there’s somethin’ wrong with his brains. I never figured Dave’d be
such a damned fool!”
Mauney looked up sharply at his brother.
“He isn’t a damned fool!” he said flushing. “I may not have any
more use for religion than you have, Bill, but I admire any fellow
who does what he thinks is right!”
“Is that so?” scoffed William, glaring across the table. “Well, now
look here, freshie—”
Mauney, inflamed by the word, as well as by his brother’s sneering
manner, jumped to his feet, and became the centre of attention.
“I refuse to be called ‘freshie’ by you,” he said with some effort at
restraint, “and I have just enough sympathy with Dave McBratney
that I’m not going to have you call him a damned fool, either!”
Bard pounded the table.
“Here, sit down, Maun,” he commanded and then turned with a
faint smile toward his elder son. “Bill, eat your victuals and be quiet.
O’ course,” he added presently, “there ain’t no doubt but what Dave
is a damned fool, and he’s goin’ to wake up one o’ these days and
find it out, too. But now he’s gone away I don’t see what the old
man’s goin’ to do. I advised him to sell out the farm and go up to