Sketches in Duneland (2024)

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Sketches in
DUNELAND

by
EARL H. REED

Author of
“The Voices of the Dunes”
“Etching: A Practical Treatise”
“The Dune Country”

Illustrated by the Author

NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY
LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD
MCMXVIII
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To
THE MEMORY OF
C. C. R.
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INTRODUCTION

In the dune region that extends along thewild coasts of Lake Michigan, and in theback country contiguous to it, is a land ofallurement.

The strange human characters, whose littledrift-wood shanties are scattered along the shore,and among the sandhills, and whose isolatedretreats are further inland, are difficult to becomeacquainted with, except in a most casualway. They look upon the chance wayfarer withsuspicion and disfavor.

Readers of “The Dune Country” will remember“Old Sipes,” “Happy Cal,” and “CatfishJohn,” the old derelicts living along the beach,further accounts of whose “doin’s” are in thefollowing pages. As portraits of these worthieshave already appeared, they are omitted in thisvolume. New characters are introduced, who,it is hoped, will be, as cordially welcomed.

The region is of important historical interest.Narratives of early exploration, and primitive8Indian lore associated with it, have filled manypages of American history. The Pottowattomieshave gone, but the romance of the vanishedrace still lingers among the silent hills. Whilemany poetic legends, of unknown antiquity, havesurvived the red men, the Indian stories in thesepages are entirely fanciful, except as to environment.

The nature loving public will be fortunate ifthe organized efforts succeed, which are beingmade to preserve the country of the dunes as anational park. In compliance with a resolutionof the Senate, the Department of the Interior,through the able assistant to the Secretary, Mr.Stephen T. Mather, has recently made an exhaustivereport on the subject, which is mostfavorable to the project. Momentous eventshave, for the time being, eclipsed minor considerations,and this, as well as many othermeasures for the public good, must wait untilthe shadow of the Hun has passed.

It is only within the past few years that thepicturesque quality of the region has becomeknown to lovers of American landscape, whoare now lured by its varied attractions.9

The country is of immeasurable value tobotanists, ornithologists, and investigators in otherfields of natural science.

The Audubon societies are taking a deepinterest in its preservation. Those of us forwhom it is not necessary to slaughter songstersfor the decoration of our hats, and who believethat nature’s beautiful feathered messengersshould not be made to bleed and suffer for thoughtlessvanity, can sympathize with any movementthat will contribute to their welfare. Asa refuge for migratory birds, the proposed preservewould be invaluable. It is within theMississippi valley flight zone, and during theperiods of migration the bird life in the dunecountry is abundant, but unfortunately findslittle protection among the wooded hills.

The wild flowers also suffer from vandal hands.Many armfuls of them are ruthlessly pickedand carried away, preventing further propagation.A human being is only partially emancipatedfrom barbarism, who cannot look upon abeautiful thing without wanting to pick it orkill it. Primitive savagery would not be attractedby beauty at all. Partial development10of the love of beauty suggests its selfish acquirement,while further enlightenment teaches usto cherish and preserve it. The destruction ofthe wild flowers, and the use of bird plumage forpersonal adornment, is modified barbarism. Wecannot be fully civilized until we are able to lovethese beautiful things in their natural habitats,without temptation to injure them.

To the botanist, the country is a treasurehouse. Almost, if not all, of the flora indigenousto the temperate zone, is found within its borders.

The flowers have a kingdom in the dunes.From the secluded nooks and fertile crevices,from among the shadows of the trees, and alongthe margins of the marshes and little pools,their silent songs of color go out over the landscapes.In no form is beauty so completelyexpressed, and in no form is it so accessible to us.

The sketches in this volume are culled fromthe experiences and reflections of many happydays that were spent in this mystic land. Insuch a retreat we may find refuge from the town,from the nerve-racking noise and stifling smoke,and from the artificialities and the social illusionsthat becloud our daily lives.

E. H. R.
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CONTENTS

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ILLUSTRATIONS

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I
THE DREAM JEWEL16

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I
THE DREAM JEWEL

The tribe of the sturgeon was speedingsouthward over the rock-strewn floorsof the inland sea. In the van of theswimming host its leader bore a wondrous stone.From it multicolored beams flashed out throughthe dim waters and into unsounded depths.Shapes, still and ghostly, with waving fins andsolemn orbs, stared at the passing glow and vanished.Phantom-like forms faded quickly intodark recesses, and frightened schools of small fishfled away over pale sandy expanses. Clouds offluttering gulls and terns followed the strangelight that gleamed below the waves. Migratingbirds, high in the night skies, wheeled with plaintivecalls, for this new radiance was not of theworld of wings and fins.

The wonder stone was being carried out of theNorthland. For ages untold it had reposed inthe heart of a stupendous glacier, that crept overthe region of the great lakes from the roof of the18world—from that vast frozen sea of desolationthat is ghastly white and endless—under thecorona of the Northern Lights.

From a cavern deep in ice, its prismatic rayshad illumined the crystal labyrinths during theslow progress of the monster of the north, grindingand scarring the earth in its path of devastation.

The radiance from the stone was ineffable.Such color may have swept into the heavens onthe world’s first morning, when the Spirit movedover the face of the waters, or have trembledin the halo at the Creation, when cosmos wasevolved out of elemental fires.

It glowed in the awful stillness of its prison,untouched by the primeval storms that ragedbefore the mammoths trod the earth, and beforemen of the stone age had learned the use of fire.

Many centuries after the greater part of thegigantic ice sheet had yielded to balmy airs, itsfrowning ramparts lingered along the wild shoresof the north. The white silence was broken byreverberations from crumbling masses that crasheddown the steeps into the billows that broke againstthe barrier. In one of the pieces the stone wasborne away. The luminous lump drifted with the19winds. It was nuzzled by curious rovers of theblue waters that rubbed gently along its sides andbasked in the refulgence. With the final dissolutionof the fragment, the stone was released.

In quest of new feeding grounds, the sturgeonhad explored these frigid depths, and, after privationand fruitless wanderings, had gathered forthe long retreat to a warmer clime. Their leaderbeheld the blazing gem falling, like a meteor, beforehim. With fateful instinct he seized it andmoved grimly on. The gray horde saw the lightfrom afar and streamed after it, as warriors mighthave followed the banner of a hero.

Through many miles of dark solitudes the bearerof the stone led his adventurous array. Swiftlymoving fins took the sturgeon to waters wherenature had been more merciful.

The roaring surf lines of the southern shorewashed vast flat stretches of sand that were bleakand sterile, for no living green relieved the monotonouswilds.

A few Indians had been driven by warfare intothis dreary land. Their wigwams were scatteredalong the coast, where they eked out a precariousexistence from the spoil of the waters.20

When the sturgeon came their lives were quickenedwith new energy. With their bark canoesand stone spears they found many victims amongthe tired fish. A wrinkled prophet, who had communedwith the gods of his people, in a dream,had foretold the sending of a luminous stone, bya sturgeon, that would mark the beginning of anera of prosperity and happiness for his tribe.There was rejoicing when the lustre was seenamong the waves. In the belief that the promisedgift of the manitous had come, and the prophecywas fulfilled, the big fish was pursued with eagernessand finally captured. The long-awaited prizewas carried in triumph to the lodge of the chief.The red men gathered in solemn council, andhonors were heaped upon the aged seer whose visionhad become true. After long deliberation,Flying Fawn, the loveliest maiden of the tribe, wasappointed keeper of the stone. The lithe andbeautiful barbarian child of nature clasped it toher budding breast, and departed into the wastes.With an invocation to her gods for its protection,she hid their precious gift far beyond the reachof prying eyes.

The winds carried myriads of flying grains to21the chosen spot. They came in thin veils andlittle spirals over the barrens, and gathered, withmany sweeps and swirls, into the mound that roseover the resting place of the stone. The army ofthe silent sands had become its guardian, fornevermore was its hiding place known.

The winds and the years sculptured the shiftingmasses into strange and bewildering forms. Trees,grasses, and flowers grew, and the hilltops werecrowned with perennial garlands. The green sanctuarieswere filled with melody. The foreststeemed with game and the red men were in a landof plenty.

The Country of the Dunes had come into being.Somewhere deep in its bosom shines the DreamJewel. Like “The Great Carbuncle,” its fervidsplendor beams from a fount unknown. Its iridescenceflashes from the distant dunes at sunset.It is in the twilight afterglows, on the sapphirewaters of the lake on summer days, and in thefairylands that are pictured in the pools. It glorifiesdull winter landscapes with skies of infinitehues, and glances from twisted trunks of ancientpines on hills that defy the storms. It pulsatesin star reflections that haunt the margins of wet22sands, and where crescent moons touch the wavesthat toss on night horizons. Its tinge is in thetender leaves and petals of the springtime, and inthe flush of autumn’s robes. We see its elusivetints through vistas in the dusk, and in the purplemystery that fills the shadowy places, for theDream Jewel is Beauty, and they who know notit* holy light must walk in darkness.23

II
A ROMANCE OF MT. TOM
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II
A ROMANCE OF MT. TOM

Before strangers came into the land,bringing with them a prosaic nomenclature,there was no Mt. Tom. When theearly white explorers crossed the southern end ofLake Michigan in their frail canoes, they saw,from far out on the water, dim irregular filamentsof yellow that stretched along the horizon. Therewas a bold accent in the far-flung line of distantcoast, an ancient landmark of a primitive race.The noble promontory that lifted its royal browfrom among the contours of the sand hills—themonarch of the range—was called Wud-ju-na-gow,or Sand Mountain, by the red men.

Its top was the highest point along the greatsweep of shore that bordered the country of thedunes. In past centuries its sand had been slowlypiled by the shifting winds. Eventually the sandgrasses rooted themselves, and, in succeedingyears, the trees grew. Wud-ju-na-gow became a“fixed dune,” no longer subject to the caprices ofthe winds.26

The slopes were robed with vegetation. Statelypines, spruces, and cedars flourished among thedense forest growth that reached almost to thesummit. Here the trees were smaller, and barepatches of yellow were visible against the sky-line,from which wispy wreaths of sand wouldspiral up in the air currents on windy days.

In the autumn the groups of green conifersmade dark accents in the expanse of red and goldthat draped Wud-ju-na-gow’s massive form.Flowers grew lavishly along the steep slopes.The wild life sought refuge in the impassablethickets and tall timber. Hawks and eaglessoared above the woods with watchful eyes anddropped down into them for furtive prey. Hordesof noisy crows circled over the tree-tops andaround the wind-swept summit. Wolves andother marauders crept stealthily through theundergrowth at night. Startled deer leaped fromquiet hiding places and fled from suspicioussounds and odors. Partridges thrived in thepatches of brush and tangled grape-vines, in spiteof many enemies. Beady eyes peered out fromunder fallen trunks. The hunters and the huntedfollowed their destinies among the shadows.27

A Pottawattomie village had flourished formany years on a low ridge back of the hills, nearWud-ju-na-gow. Just below the village a smallcreek, fed by springs, wound through the openwoods and reached the lake through a deep ravine.The high hills protected the lodges from the northwinds and violent storms from the lake. Aboutsixty bark wigwams were strung along the ridge.

The young men hunted through the hills andusually had no difficulty in keeping the villagesupplied with meat. They carried their birch-barkcanoes through the ravine to the lake andvaried the food supplies with sturgeon and otherfish. In times of plenty the game and fish notneeded for immediate use were smoked and storedfor winter consumption. Small patches of cornwere scattered through the fertile open spacesaway from the creek. The women gossiped overtheir domestic concerns, the men loitered alongthe hillside, and the little community lived inpeace, with no troubles but those that nature haslaid upon all her children. In their uncivilizedstate they were spared the miseries of temperament,and the refined tortures, as well as the joys,of more highly developed mentality. Their primitive28needs were provided for. Food was abundantand the red men were contented—if there bereal contentment in the world.

After a long period of prosperity there came asummer of drought. Pitiless heat and breathlessskies shrivelled the leaves, dried up the streamsand ponds, and brought suffering to the livethings. In the autumn the parched land hadyielded up its vibrant life. Instead of the mellowgolds and crimsons, there were grays and neutralbrowns. The voices of the forest were hushed.The fall flowers did not come. The willows andtall grasses drooped in sorrow, for a blight hadcome upon the land. Day after day the blood-redsun went below the sharp rim of the horizonwithout promise to the faded hills.

Smoke appeared far in the southwest and ablack pall crept into the sky overhead. Beforemany hours there was a vague unrest in thewoods. There were strange noises among thewithered trees and dried marshes. The wild lifewas fleeing eastward. At night a baleful glaretinged the crests of the dunes and reflected fromswiftly moving wings above them.

With the coming of the wind stifling smoke29crept through the woods. Soon the crackling linesof flame came, writhing and roaring through thedry timber. There were muffled cries from tinyfurred fugitives in the matted grasses in the lowplaces. Noble landscapes were being scourged bydemons. Nature’s cool cloisters and her dreamcathedrals were on fire.

There is a heart-felt grief that comes with theburning of the trees. The sacrilege of their destructiontouches us more deeply if we have livedamong them, and learned that with them havebeen builded the real kingdoms of the earth. Inthem we may find reflection of all human emotion,and for the subtly attuned soul, they have emotionof their own.

The terrified dwellers along the creek fled tothe beach, and, with awe-stricken faces watchedthe march of the flames through the country.They saw the flashes from the cedars, pines, andspruces shoot high into clouds of smoke and flyingsparks, and heard the crackling of countlesstrunks and branches that quivered in torment onthe blazing hills.

By some fortuitous chance—perhaps a temporaryveering of the air currents—the ravine,30through which the little creek found its way, wasspared. A portion of the timber on the slopes ofWud-ju-na-gow was also untouched, but everywhereelse was desolation. The blackened andsmouldering expanse carried dismay into thehearts of the horror-stricken groups huddled nearthe mouth of the stream. Most of their primitivebelongings had been rescued, but their future lookedas dark as the grim landscapes around them.

It was late in the season. The fishing in thelake had been unusually poor, and there was noliving thing among the forest ruins that couldbe used for food. The stores that had been savedwould last but a short time and there was anappalling fear of famine.

Many anxious hours were spent in deliberation.Believing that Omnipotent wrath had destroyedeverything except the sands and the waters of thelake, the bewildered Indians saw no ray of hope.The calamity had fallen with crushing force. Thevengeance of evil gods was upon them. Their fewfrail canoes could not carry all of them on thelake. The range of smoking hills that sweptaway along the curving beach-lines seemed to offerno path of refuge.31

Young Wa-be-no-je had listened intently to allof the discussions, and had pondered deeply overthe desperate straits of his people. He bore theIndian name of the white marsh hawk. He wasnearly nineteen. His proud father, a shrewd oldhunter and trapper, had taught him the craft andlore of the woods. He sat near little Taheta, theplaymate of his childhood. With ripening yearslove had come into their lives. Before the greatfire they had begun to talk of a wigwam of theirown, but now that dark hours had come they knewthat they would have to wait.

Wa-be-no-je rose from a log on which theyhad been sitting, near a group of the older men,stepped forward and volunteered to follow thefire and find the game. With care the scantsupply of food would be sufficient to support hiscompanions for two moons. If he did not returnby the end of that time they would understandthat his quest had failed.

A few simple preparations were made for hisjourney. With forebodings in her heart, with lovelight shining through her tears, little Taheta sawhim depart into the charred wastes on his errandof salvation. No mailed knight ever rode out32upon the path to glory with brighter eyes uponhim than those that glowed under the long lashesof the Pottawattomie maiden, as she gazed longinglyafter him from the edge of the ravine. Shewatched his lithe, sinewy figure as he bravelystrode away and faded into the distance. Shewent back in sorrow and began with the othersto endure patiently the long wait and suspensewhich they knew was inevitable before the hunter’sreturn.

It was agreed that every night at sundown afire should be built on the lofty top of Wud-ju-na-gow,and kept burning until dawn, during Wa-be-no-je’sabsence. If he was where he could seethis light, he would know that his people werestill in the ravine, and in the darkness it wouldtake the place of burned landmarks to guide himon his return journey. Ten members of the littleband, including Taheta, were to perform this duty,and each night one of them climbed the zigzagtrail to the sandy top, kindled the beacon fire,watched and replenished it until sunrise, andreturned.

From miles away the young hunter could seethe tiny light against the sky. When its glow33was very bright he knew that one he loved wasnear it. He tramped on through the ashes anddébris for many days. At night he climbed tosome high spot and slept. One afternoon hereached a sandy stretch where the trees werescattered and there were few grasses. The windhad evidently lulled when the fire reached thisarea for the burnt places ended. He began to findthe game trails leading from them, which he followedfor several days. The signs became fresher,and one morning his eyes were gladdened by thesight of deer and buffalo peacefully grazing beyonda small river that he had never seen before.

Fearing that the animals might move on andbe beyond reach before he could return and obtainhelp, he decided to kill as many as possible andpreserve and hide the meat. Its transportationwould then be a comparatively simple matter,and he was sure that he could secure enough forthe winter’s supply.

He set cautiously to work. The noiseless arrowsbrought down one of the buffalo and a deer thefirst day. He killed no more until this meat wascut into little strips, strung on many switches,smoked over fires of dried leaves and dead wood,34and thoroughly dried in the sun. He enlarged asmall cave under some rocks by digging away thesand. He made a floor of dead leaves inside onwhich to pile his stores, and carefully walled upthe opening with stones to protect the preciouscontents from the wolves and other prowlers.The game was gradually moving away, but beforeit disappeared the cave was well filled and therewas more than enough to last his people for a year.

The long dry period was now broken by aheavy rain storm which lasted for several days.The arid earth drank of the falling waters; theblackness and ruin upon the land were washed aswith tears of atonement. The streams againflowed and the pools and marshes that give lifeand joy to the wild things were filled.

When the skies cleared Wa-be-no-je piled morerocks over the entrance to the cave and startedhomeward with a light heart. Weary miles weretraversed before he could see the faint light onthe horizon against the sky at night. During twonights he heard wolves howling in the distance,and the next night they were much closer. Theygradually closed in toward him and he knew thatdanger had come. He had but two good arrows.35The others were lost or broken. He came to asmall stream and waded it for a mile or so tothrow his hungry followers off his trail, but theysoon found it again. Yellow eyeballs reflected hisfirelight while he slept. Once he loosed one ofthe precious arrows to save his life. The packimmediately fell upon their wounded comradeand devoured him. Their hunger was only partiallyappeased and they kept close to Wa-be-no-jeuntil the following evening. He knew that unlesshe could find some means of shaking them off hewould never see Taheta or his people again. Hedecided to attempt to pick his way through theend of a wide marsh, believing that his pursuerswould not follow him into the water. If he couldget safely across, he would be able to elude them.

The swamp was full of quaking bogs, and nearthe middle the water was quite deep. His progresswas impeded by the soft mud and decayedvegetation on the bottom, and the further he wentthe chances became more desperate. One footsank suddenly in the soft ooze and then the other.He could neither retreat nor go ahead. He hadreached a mass of quicksand, and with every attemptto extricate himself he sank a little lower.36He clutched the ends of a few sodden grasses andheld them for some time, but the stagnant murkywaters slowly closed over him and he was gone.

The baffled wolves howled along the margins ofthe marsh for a while but soon disappeared, likeall enemies whose quarry has met finality. Thelittle fire on the horizon flared up brightly, asthough fresh sticks had been piled upon it, andgleamed through the darkness brighter than everbefore. It faded away in the gray of the morningand its watcher followed the steep trail down theside of Wud-ju-na-gow to rest.

Wa-be-no-je’s silent departure from the worldleft hardly a ripple in the marsh. It is human tocherish the hope, or fondly believe, that some storeof gold, or grandeur of achievement—some sculpturedmonument, or service to mankind—willstand at our place of exit and be eloquent whilethe ages last, but the Waters of Oblivion hide welltheir secrets. Beneath them are neither pride norvanity. The primordial slime from which we camereclaims without pomp or jewelled vesture, andif there be a Great Beyond, poor Wa-be-no-jemay reach it from the quicksand as safely as hewho becomes dust within marble walls.37

The early snows came and the nightly fires onWud-ju-na-gow still glowed. Only one guardiansat beside them, for Wa-be-no-je’s people now believedthat he would never return. Hope stillabided in Taheta’s loyal heart, and night afternight she climbed the shelving steeps and builther fire. One cold, stormy night she sat huddledin her blanket and listened to the north wind.The snow swirled around her and toward morningthe light was gone. The next day they foundthe rigid little form in the blanket and buried itbelow the ashes of her fire.

Today the Fireweed, that ever haunts the burntplaces, lifts its slender stalk above the spot, andit may be that the soul of faithful Taheta lurksamong the tender pink blossoms—a halo thatmay be seen from the dark waters of the distantmarsh.3839

III
THE HERON’S POOL40

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III
THE HERON’S POOL

The pool was far back from the bigmarshes through which the lazy currentof the river wound. It was in one ofthose secluded nooks that the seeping water findsfor itself when it would hide in secret retreats andform a little world of its own. It was borderedby slushy grasses and small willows; its watersspread silently among the bulrushes, lily padsand thick brush tangles. A few ghostly sycamoresand poplars protruded above the undergrowth,and the intricate network of wild grape-vinesconcealed broken stumps that were mantledwith moss. The placid pool was seldom ruffled,for the dense vegetation protected it from thewinds. Wandering clouds were mirrored in itslimpid depths. Water-snakes made silvery trailsacross it. Sinister shadows of hawks’ wings sometimesswept by, and often the splash of a frog sentlittle rings out over the surface. Opalescentdragon-flies hovered among the weeds and smallturtles basked in the sun-light along the margins.42

The Voices of the Little Things were in thisabode of tranquillity—the gentle sounds that fillnature’s sanctuaries with soft music. There werecontented songs of feathered visitors, distant criesof crows beyond the tree-tops, faint echoes of acardinal, rejoicing in the deep woods, and thedrowsy hum of insects—the myriad little tribesthat sing in the unseen aisles of the grasses.

One spring a gray old heron winged his wayslowly over the pool, and, after a few uncertainturns over the trees, wearily settled among therushes. After stalking about in the labyrinth ofweeds along the shallow edges for some time,he took his station on a dead branch that protrudedfrom the water near the shore, andsolemnly contemplated his surroundings.

His plumage was tattered, and he bore the recordof the years he had spent on the marshywastes along the river. His eye had lost its lustre,and the delicate blue that had adorned the wingsof his youth had faded to a pale ashen gray. Thetired pinions were slightly frayed—the wingshung rather loosely in repose, and the lanky legscarried scars and crusty gray scales that told ofvicissitudes in the battle for existence. He looked43long and curiously at a round white object on thebottom near his low perch. The round object hada history, but its story did not come within thesphere of the heron’s interests, and he returnedto his meditations on the gnarled limb. He mayhave dreamed of far-off shores and happy homesin distant tree-tops. A memory of a mate thatflew devotedly by his side, but could not go allthe way, may have abided with him. The peaceof windless waters brooded in this quiet haven.It was a refuge from the storms and antagonismsof the outer world, its store of food was abundant,and in it he was content to pass his remainingdays.

When night came his still figure melted intothe darkness. A fallen luna moth, whose wetwings might faintly reflect the starlight, wouldsometimes tempt him, and he would listen languidlyto the lonely cries of an owl that lived inone of the sycamores. The periodic visits ofcoons and foxes, that prowled stealthily in thedeep shadows, and craftily searched the wetgrasses for small prey, did not disturb him. Theywell knew the power of the gray old warrior’scruel bill. All his dangerous enemies were far44away. The will-o’-the-wisps that spookily andfitfully hovered along the tops of the rushes, andthe erratic flights of the fire-flies, did not mar hisserenity. He was spending his old age in comfortand repose.

There is a certain air, or quality, about certainspots which is indefinable. An elusive and intangibleimpression, an idea, or a story, may becomeinseparably associated with a particular place.With a recurrence of the thought, or the memoryof the story there always comes the involuntarymental picture of the physical environment withwhich it is interwoven. This association ofthought and place is in most cases entirely individual,and is often a subtle sub-consciousness—moreof a relationship of the soul, than themind, to such an environment. Something in ornear some particular spot that imparts a peculiarand distinctive character to it, or inspires somedominant thought or emotion, constitutes the“genius” of that place. The Genius of the Placemay be a legend, an unwritten romance, a memoryof some event, an imaginary apparition, anunaccountable sound, the presence of certainflowers or odors, a deformed tree, a strange inhabitant,45or any thought or thing that would alwaysbring it to the mind.

When the heron came to the pool the Geniusof the Place was old Topago, a chief of the Pottawattomies.A great many years ago he lived ina little hut, rudely built of logs and elm bark, onan open space a few hundred feet from the pool.The fortunes of his tribe had steadily declined,and their sun was setting. After the coming ofthe white man, war and sickness had decimatedhis people. The wild game began to disappearand hunger stalked among the little villages. Theold chief brooded constantly over the sorrows ofhis race. As the years rolled on his melancholydeepened. He sought isolation in the deep woodsand built his lonely dwelling near the pool to passhis last years in solitude. His was the anguish ofheart that comes when hope has fled. Occasionallyone of the few faithful followers who wereleft would come to the little cabin and leave suppliesof corn and dried meat, but beyond this hehad no visitors. His contact with his tribe hadceased.

One stormy night, when the north wind howledaround the frail abode, and the spirits of the cold46were sighing in the trunks of the big trees, theaged Indian sat over his small fire and held hismedicine bag in his shrivelled hands. Its potentcharm had carried him safely through many perils,and he now asked of it the redemption of hispeople. That night the wind ceased and he feltthe presence of his good manitous in the darkness.They told him that the magic of his medicine wasstill strong. If he would watch the reflections inthe pool, there would sometime appear among themthe form of a crescent moon that would foretella great change in the fortunes of his race, but hemust see the reflection with his own eyes.

In the spring, as soon as the ice had melted, hebegan his nightly vigils at the foot of an ancientpine that overhung the water. Through wearyyears he gazed with dimmed eyes upon the infiniteand inscrutable lights that gleamed and trembledin the pool. Many times he saw the newmoon shine in the twilights of the west, and sawthe old crescent near the horizon before the dawn,but no crescent was ever reflected from the zenithinto the still depths below. Only the larger moonsrode into the night skies above him. His achingheart fought with despair and distrust of his47tribal gods. The wrinkles deepened on his wanface. The cold nights of spring and fall bentthe decrepit figure and whitened the witheredlocks. Time dealt harshly with the faithfulwatcher, nobly guarding his sacred trust.

One spring a few tattered shreds of a blanketclung to the rough roots. Heavy snow massesaround the pine had slipped into the pool sometimeduring the winter, and carried with them ahelpless burden. The melting ice had let it intothe sombre depths below. The birds sang asbefore, the leaves came and went, and MotherNature continued her eternal rhythm.

During a March gale the ancient pine totteredand fell across the open water. In the grim processionof the years it became sodden and graduallysettled into the oozy bottom. Only thegnarled and decayed branch—the perch of theold heron—remained above the surface.

One night in early fall, when there was a tingeof frost in the air, and the messages of the dyingyear were fluttering down to the water from theoverhanging trees, the full moon shone resplendentdirectly above the pool. The old heronturned his tapering head up toward it for a moment,48plumed his straggling feathers for a while,nonchalantly gazed at the white skull that caughtthe moon’s light below the water near his perch,and relapsed into immobility. A rim of darknesscrept over the edge of the moon, and the earth’sshadow began to steal slowly across the silverdisk. The soft beams that glowed on the treesand grasses became dimmed and they retreatedinto the shadows. The darkened orb was almosteclipsed. Only a portion of it was left, but fardown in the chill mystery of the depths of thepool, among countless stars, was reflected a crescentmoon.

The magic of Topago’s medicine was still potent.The hour for the redemption of the redman had come, but he was no more. The mantleof the Genius of the Place had fallen upon theold heron. He was the keeper of the secret ofhis pool.49

IV
THE STORY OF THE STREAM5051

IV
THE STORY OF THE STREAM

The bistre-colored waters of French Creekseep sluggishly out of the ancient peatbeds far away in the country back ofthe dunes. Countless tiny rivulets of transparentgolden brown creep through the low land amongthe underbrush and mingle with the gentle currentthat whispers in the deep grasses, ripplesagainst decayed branches and fallen trunks, hidesunder masses of gnarled roots and projectingbanks, and enters the long sinuous ravine thatwinds through the woods and sand-hills. Theravine ends abruptly at the broad shore of thelake. The stream spreads out over the beachand tints the incoming surf with wondrous hues.

In the daytime occasional gleams of lightfrom the gliding water can be seen through thesmall openings in the labyrinths of undergrowthand between the tall tree trunks that crowd theshadowy defile. At night there are tremulous reflectionsof the moon among the thick foliage.52Strange ghostly beams touch the boles of thesolemn pines and sycamores and filter into thesombre recesses.

The dramas of human life leave romance behindthem. Its halo hovers over these darkenedwoods, for it was here that the beautiful Indiangirl, Omemee, was brought by her dusky Pottawattomielover, in the moon of falling leaves, andit was here that the threads of their fate werewoven nearly a hundred years ago.

Red Owl first saw her among the wild blackberrybushes near the village of her people. Shehad responded to his entreaties with shy glances,and after many visits and much negotiation, herfather, a wrinkled old chief, had consentedto their union. Omemee’s savage charms hadbrought many suitors to her father’s wigwam.Her graceful willowy figure, long raven hair,musical voice, dark luminous eyes and gentleways had made her a favorite of her village. Shewas called the dove in the language of her tribe.There was sorrow when she went away.

Red Owl’s prowess as a hunter, his skill in therude athletic sports of the village, displayed onhis frequent visits during the wooing, had won53the admiration of the old warrior. Among themany bundles of valuable pelts that were bornealong the Great Sauk Trail to the traders’ posts,the largest were usually those of Red Owl. Thefire-water of the white man did not lure him todisaster as it did many of his red brothers. Healways transacted his business quickly and returnedfrom the posts with the ammunition, trapsand other supplies for which he had exchanged hisfurs.

For a year he quietly accumulated a secrethoard of selected skins, which he laid before thedoor of the fond father as the marriage offering.The lovers disappeared on the trail that was tolead them to their home. For five days theytravelled through the dunes and primeval forests.They came down the trail that crossed FrenchCreek, climbed out of the ravine, and entered thevillage of Red Owl’s people. The wigwams werescattered along the stretch of higher groundamong the trees. Omemee was cordially welcomedand soon grew accustomed to her newenvironment.

For many years the young men of the tribe hadtrapped muskrats, beaver and mink along the54creek and in the swamps beyond its headwaters.Small furred animals were abundant for manymiles around, and, during the fur season, thetrappers were dispersed over a wide extent ofterritory.

When “Peg Leg” Carr came into the dunecountry the only human trails he found werethose of the red men. He came alone and builta cabin on the creek not far from the Indian Village.Peg Leg may have still cherished a secretlonging for human society which he was not willingto admit, even to himself. He had abandonedhis last habitat for the ostensible reason that“thar was too many people ’round.” He camefrom about a hundred miles back on the SaukTrail. After a family disagreement he had lefthis wife and two sons to their own devices in thewilderness, and was not heard of for nearly tenyears. He suddenly appeared one morning, stumpingalong the trail, with his left knee fitted to thetop of a hickory support. The lower part of theleg was gone, and he explained its absence bydeclaring that it had been “bit off.” The time-wornpleasantry seemed to amuse him, and noamount of coaxing would elicit further details.55There was a deep ugly scar in the left side of hisneck. His vocal chords had been injured and hecould talk only in hoarse whispers. He said thathis throat had been “gouged out.” Somebody orsomething had nearly wrecked Peg Leg physically,but the story, whatever it was, remained lockedin his bosom. He admitted that he had “beento sea,” but beyond that no facts were obtainable.

After a brief sojourn at his old home he shoulderedhis pack and started west. When he arrivedat French Creek he spent several days in lookingthe country over before deciding on the locationof his cabin. He was a good-natured old fellowand the Indians did not particularly resent hisintrusion, even when he began to set a line oftraps along the creek. The small animals wereso numerous that one trapper more or less madelittle difference, and he got on very well with hisred neighbors. They rather pitied his infirmitiesand were disposed to make allowances. He wasover seventy and apparently harmless.

When the old man had accumulated a smallstock of pelts it was his custom to carry them toa trading post located about forty miles back onthe trail and exchange them for supplies for his56simple housekeeping and other necessities. Thesetrips often consumed ten days, as his loads wereheavy and he was compelled to travel slowly.On his return, when he came to the rude logbridge over which the trail crossed the creek inthe ravine, he would sometimes wearily lay hispack down and pound on the timbers with hishickory stump as a signal to those above. Hewas unable to reach them with his impaired voice.Somebody in the wigwams usually heard him andcame down to help the exhausted old trappercarry his burden up the steep incline. After restingawhile he would trudge on to his cabin.

A few years after the advent of Peg Leg a troopof soldiers arrived and built a fort. For strategicreasons the commander of the government postat Detroit decided to keep a small garrison at theend of the lake. A spot was cleared on the bluffand two small brass cannon were mounted in theblock-house inside the log stockade. The topsof the surrounding trees were cut away so thatthe guns would command the trail from where itentered the north side of the ravine to the pointat which it disappeared around a low hill southof the fort.57

The French Creek Trail was a branch of theGreat Sauk Trail, which was the main thoroughfarefrom the Detroit post to the mouth of Chicagoriver. It was joined near the headwaters ofthe St. Joseph and Kankakee rivers, in what isnow northeastern Indiana, by another trail thatfollowed the north banks of the Kankakee fromthe Illinois country. The sinuous routes had beenused from time immemorable. They were the establishedhighways of the red men and the arteriesof their simple commerce. Thousands of moccasinedfeet traversed them on peaceful errands, andgrim war parties sometimes moved swiftly alongthe numberless forest paths that connected withthe main trails. There was a net-work of theseall through the Indian country. Trees twistedand bent in a peculiar way, which we now often seein the woods, were landmarks left by the makers ofvarious small trails that were travelled infrequently.

Soon after the fort was built at French Creek,Pierre Chenault came and established a tradingpost near the village. He was followed by a numberof settlers who built log houses along the edgeof the bluff. The red man’s fatherland was invaded.The civilization of the white man—or58the lack of it—had come, with its attending evilsof strong waters and organized rapacity. Thewaves of an alien race, with strange tongues andnew weapons of steel, had broken over him. Hismeans of subsistence dwindled. His heritage waspassing to the sway of the despoiler.

The Indians loitered around Pierre Chenault’strading post, bartered their few valuables forfire-water, and neglected the pursuits that hadmade them happy and prosperous. Chenault wasa half-breed. His father belonged to that hardyrace of French-Canadian voyageurs who hadbroken the paths of the wilderness in the northcountry, and penetrated the fastnesses of the territoryof the Great Lakes and the Mississippi. Hismother was an Ojibwa on the south shore ofLake Superior. He was about forty, with a leanand hardened frame. His straight black hair wasbeginning to be streaked with gray, and fell tohis shoulders. Piercing eyes looked out fromunder the heavy brows with an expression of lowcunning, and his face carried the stamp of villainy.He was a mongrel, and in his case the mixturewas a failure. He inherited the evil traits of bothraces and none of the virtues of either.59

The creek was now practically abandoned as atrapping ground by the Indians. With the exceptionof Red Owl and Peg Leg, who divided the fewmiles of the stream, the trappers had sought otherregions that were less disturbed. The dwellers inthe wigwams contemplated a general removal toa more congenial habitat. Their neighbors weregetting too numerous for comfort, and their waysof life were meeting with too much interference.They did not object to Peg Leg, but he was all oftheir white brothers that they felt they needed.

As the fur grew scarcer Red Owl rather resentedthe rivalry of the old man’s interests, and occasionallyappropriated an otter or mink, when hepassed Peg Leg’s traps, and had found nothing inhis own. He probably lulled his conscience withthe idea that the animals naturally belonged tothe Indians, and that Peg Leg’s privileges werea form of charity that need not be extended to thepoint of his own self-denial.

Many times the half-breed had looked longinglyon the quiet-eyed Omemee when she cameto his post. He coveted Red Owl’s savage jewel.Wickedness fermented in his depraved mind, but hewas too wise to make advances. He knew of Red60Owl’s surreptitious visits to Peg Leg’s traps andlaid his plans with far-seeing craft. One stillFebruary morning he saw him go into the ravineand start up the creek on the ice. He seized hisrifle and crept through the thick timber andundergrowth, away from the creek, paralleling thecourse taken by the unsuspecting Indian. Aftergoing a mile or so Red Owl stopped near the projectingroots of a large elm. One of Peg Leg’straps was there and his rival was soon engaged inkilling and extracting a mink from the steel jawsof the trap. The half-breed stole up to within ahundred yards. A report rang in the crisp airand a bullet crashed into the back of the Indian’shead. The murderer left no trail near the frozencreek. He made a wide detour, returned to hispost, after hiding his rifle in the snow, and awaitedresults.

A couple of hours later Peg Leg hobbled alongthe white water course to inspect his traps. Hefollowed Red Owl’s trail and came upon the stillform lying in the blood-stained snow on the ice.He speculated for some time over the mysteryand went to the settlement to report what he hadfound.61

The broken-hearted Omemee went with thosewho departed for the scene of the tragedy. Notrail was visible except those of Red Owl and PegLeg. The old man’s tracks were easily recognized.His denial of any guilty knowledge of the killingwas met by silence and dark looks. Circ*mstantialevidence was against him. The motive wasobvious and the story was on the snow. The partialjustice of the retribution that had mysteriouslyfallen upon the thief did not lessen theinnocent old trapper’s sorrow and fear, for heknew that justice, age, or infirmity would be nobar to Indian revenge. He would never havekilled Red Owl for interfering with his traps. Ahigh wind and a snow storm came up in the afternoonthat effectually baffled any further investigation.The despondent old man kept the seclusionof his cabin and brooded over his trouble for severalweeks.

Red Owl was laid away after the customs of hispeople. Omemee departed into the wilderness tomourn for her dead. After many days she returnedwith the light in her eyes that gleams from those ofthe she-panther when her young have been killedbefore her—a light that an enemy sees but once.62

In the spring Peg Leg left with his pack ofwinter pelts. He had once been cheated by Chenaultand preferred to do his trading where he hadgone before the half-breed came. His journeyconsumed nearly two weeks. One evening at duskhe laboriously picked his way down the steeppath into the ravine, laid his load of supplies onthe rude bridge, and then signalled for help bypounding the bridge timbers with his hickorystump. He was worn out and could not carryhis burden up the steep incline alone.

Like a snake from its covert, a beautiful wildthing darted from the deep shadows of the pines.The moccasined feet made no sound on the logs.There was a gleam of steel, a lightning-likemovement, and Omemee glided on out of theravine into the gathering gloom. The silence wasbroken by a heavy splash below the side of thebridge, and when they found poor old Peg Legthe hilt of a knife protruded from between hisshoulders.

There was a hidden observer of the tragedy.Pierre Chenault had watched long and anxiouslyfor the stroke of Omemee’s revenge. The whiteman’s law now gave him a coveted advantage.63He broke cover and pursued the fast retreatingfigure. He would offer to conduct her to a placeof safety, protect her and declare his love.

Omemee ran with the speed of a deer in thedirection of the home of her childhood. She fledout over the dunes to the shore of the lake. Formiles along the wild wave-washed coast the twodim figures sped in the darkness. Omemee finallydropped from exhaustion. The half-breed carriedher in his arms to the foot of the bluff where hebuilt a small fire behind a mass of drift-wood,and sat beside her until the gray of the morningcame over the sand-hills. They were now abouttwelve miles from the settlement. They walkedalong the beach together for several hours andturned into the dunes.

After the April rains tender leaves unfolded inthe trees around the bark wigwam where Omemeewas born. The old chief had died two years before,but a faint wreath of smoke ascended softlyto the overhanging branches. Fastened above thedoor was a grisly and uncanny thing that movedfitfully to and fro when the winds blew from thelake. It was the scalp of Pierre Chenault.

With the failure to obtain a government appropriation64for a harbor at City West, the name ofthe new settlement, the embryo town vanishedutterly and became a dream of the past. Its ambitionsand crushed hopes are entombed in obscurehistory. No vestiges of its buildings remain.There are traces of a crude mill race near the placewhere the now obliterated trail crossed the creek.Around the site of the old fort the trees, whosetops were cut away to clear the range for the six-pounders,have covered their wounds with newlimbs that have grown from the mutilated trunks.

Near the roots of a gnarled oak at a bend in thestream Peg Leg’s dust has mingled with the blackloam, where his spirit may be lulled by the passingwaters. When we seem to hear the tappingof the woodpecker on a hidden hollow tree in thedepths of the dark ravine, it may be the echoesthrough the mists of the years of the strokes ofthe poor old trapper on the timbers of the bridge.

The red man has gone. The currents of humanpassion that rose and fell along the banks of thelittle stream have passed into silence. The bistre-coloredwaters still flow out on the wide expanseof sand and spread their web of romance in themoon-light.65

V
THE MOON IN THE MARSH66

V
THE MOON IN THE MARSH

There is a hazy mist on the horizonwhere the red rim of the October sunleft the sky-line. The twilight of IndianSummer is stealing over the marsh. There is ahush of vibrant voices and a muffled movementof tiny life in the darkened places. Sorrow restsupon the world, for the time of the requiem ofthe leaves has come. The red arrows are abroad;a flush of crimson is creeping through the forest.An elusive fragrance of fruition is in the air, anda drowsy languor droops the stems and branches.

Royal robes rustle faintly on the hills and inthe shadows of the woods. From among the livingtrees a mighty presence has vanished. Aqueen who came in green has departed as a nunin gray, and the color fairies have entered thebereaved realm with offerings of red and gold.

A vague unrest troubles the trembling aspensand the little sassafras trees that flock like timidchildren beyond the sturdy sycamores. The68gnarled oaks mutely await the winds of winter ontheir castanets of cold dead leaves—music of ourMother Earth to which we all must listen untilour slumber hour comes.

Through darkening masses of tangled thickets,and over bogs concealed by matted grasses, somesoggy and decayed logs, covered with moss andslime, lead out over the wet margin of the tarnto the edge of the clear water. A startled bitternrises clumsily out of the rushes. A pair of wildducks tower out and glide away over the tree-tops.There are stifled rustlings in the ferns andsedges, and little wings are fluttering furtivelyamong unseen branches. There is a soft splashnear the edge of the woods. From out the shadowthe curling wake of a muskrat stretches acrossan open space. A mottled water-snake dropsstealthily into a wet labyrinth—the muffled movementscease—and muted echoes of vesper choirssweeten the solitude that broods over the tarn.

After a period of silence another whir of pinionsoverhead heralds the return of the ducks.They circle swiftly and invisibly in the deepshadows—their silhouettes dart across the skyopenings, and, with a loud swish, they strike the69water and settle comfortably for the night behindsome weedy bogs close to the opposite shore.

In the gathering gloom tiny beams creep intothe depths of the water. One by one the starryhost begins to twinkle in the inverted canopy ofthe heavens. The full-orbed silver moon ridesinto the sky through the delicate lacery of thetrees with a flood of soft light. Another disksinks majestically into the abyss.

The asterisms of the astronomer are in the firmamentabove, rolling in mighty cycles to theordered destinies of the spheres, but the stars ofArcady are in the quiet pools, the placid bosomsof gently flowing rivers, and far out in seas thatare beyond our ken. They sparkle in the smoothcurves of heavy swells on distant deeps, and shinefar below coral worlds in ocean depths. Thesestars are measureless. They gleam in awful profunditiesand illumine a world of dreams. Wemay look down to them from the windows of afair castle in which a noble spirit dwells, butbeyond its walls we may not go. There are travellersin that dimly lighted vault, for dark wingsblur the points of pallid radiance in swift andsilent flight. Eternity is not there, for its constellations70will tremble and vanish with a passingzephyr on the surface of the pool.

A white web of mist gathers on the water. Aphosphorescent trunk in the distance glows withghostly light. The fluffy movement of the wingsof a small owl is visible against a patch of sky,and a moment later the dusky form whisks by inthe gloom. Agile bats wheel and plunge noiselesslyin pursuit of invisible prey. A few bulrushesin a near-by clump are slightly disturbed.The night life has begun to move in the slough,for it is nature’s law that it must kill to live.

The veil of mist thickens—the stars in thedepths disappear—the moon’s reflection becomesa nebula of pale effulgence, and is finally lost invaporous obscurity. Like the soft fabric of forgetfulnessthat time weaves over sorrow, the mistenvelopes the tarn. Like wraiths of dead years,filmy wreaths trail tenderly and delicately throughthe solemn woods. The purple darkness has becomegray. A clammy wetness clings to the tallgrasses. Beads of crystal on their bending pointsmirror feeble beams of light, and the heaviness ofhumidity is upon the boughs and fallen leaves.

The moods of Nature are manifold in expression71and power. In her infinite alchemy she reflects adifferent ray into every facet of the human soul.She echoes its exaltation, has sweet unguents forits weariness, and leads it upon lofty paths ofpromise when hope has died. The music of herstrings brings forth hidden melodies, and it iswith her that we must go if we would reach theheights.

The dark morass becomes a dreamland. Throughit stately legions go. Ethereal aisles wind throughthe trees. Cloudy walls rise along its borders, andbeyond them are kingdoms in elf-land where fancymay spin fabrics of gossamer and build mansionsremote from earthly being.

There is a life of the soul as well as of the body.We may ponder as to its immortality, but undeniablyit is in the present, if not in a state to come.Hope grasps at a shadowy vision of the futurethat dissolves at our touch. Reason gives onlythe substance of the present, elusive though it be.We live in a world of illusion, where seeming realitiesmay be but phantoms. We wander in a mazeof speculative thought. The paths are intricateand only lead to narrow cells. The Forest Godsthat dwell in the high and hidden places speak a72language that is without words. The fallen leafis as eloquent as established dogma or voice ofhoary seer. In our own hearts must we find ourshrines, for the obscurity beyond the borderlandof philosophy is as deep as the mould below theleaves. The multitudes that have come upon theearth and vanished have left no clue.

The key lies at the bottom of the tarn, and thestory is in the marsh.73

VI
HOLY ZEKE7475

VI
HOLY ZEKE

“And mine eye shall not spare, neither will Ihave pity; I will recompense thee according tothy ways and thine abominations that are inthe midst of thee; and ye shall know that Iam the Lord that smiteth.”—Ezekiel 7:9

After an industrious day with my sketchbook among the dunes, I walked over tothe lake shore and looked up the beachtoward Sipes’s shanty. In the gathering twilighta faint gleam came through the small window.Not having seen my old friend for nearly a year,I decided to pay him a visit. My acquaintancewith him had brought me many happy hours asI listened to his reminiscences, some of which arerecorded in former stories.

He had been a salt water sailor, and, with hisshipmate Bill Saunders, had met with many thrillingadventures. He had finally drifted to thesand-hills, where he had found a quiet refugeafter a stormy life. Fishing and hunting small76game yielded him a scanty but comparativelyhappy livelihood. He was a queer, bewhiskeredlittle man, somewhere in the seventies, with manyidiosyncrasies, a fund of unconscious humor, muchprofanity, a great deal of homely philosophy, andwith many ideas that were peculiarly his own.

He wore what he called a “hatch” over theplace which his right eye formerly occupied, andexplained the absence of the eye by telling methat it had been blown out in a gale somewhere offthe coast of Japan. He said that “it was glassanyway” and he “never thought much of it.”Saunders figured more or less in all of his storiesof the sea.

On approaching the nondescript driftwood structure,I heard a stentorian voice, the tones of whichthe little shanty was too frail to confine, and whichseemed to be pitched for the solemn pines thatfringed the brink of the dark ravine beyond.

“Now all ye hell-destined sinners that are inthis holy edifice, listen to me! Ye who are steepedin sin shall frizzle in the fires o’ damnation. Theseethin’ cauldrons yawn. Ye have deserved thefiery pit an’ yer already sentenced to it. Hell isgaping fer this whole outfit. The flames gather77an’ flash. The fury o’ the wrath to come is almost’ere. Yer souls are damned an’ you may all be inhell ’fore tomorrer mornin’. The red clouds o’comin’ vengeance are over yer miserable heads.You’ll be enveloped in fiery floods fer all eternity—fermillions of ages will ye sizzle. Ye hang bya slender thread. The flames may singe it anyminute an’ in ye go. Ye have reason to wonderthat yer not already in hell! Yer accursed bodiesshall be laid on live coals, an’ with red-hot pitch-forksshall ye be sorted into writhin’ piles an’hurled into bottomless pits of endless torment.I’m the scourge o’ the Almighty. I’m Ezekiel-seven-nine.This is yer last chance to quit, an’you’ve got to git in line, an’ do it quick if ye wantto keep from bein’ soused in torrents o’ burnin’brimstone, an’ have melted metal poured into yerblasphemous throats!”

At this point the door partially opened and afurtive figure slipped out. “Let all them that hashard hearts an’ soft heads git out!” roared thevoice. The figure moved swiftly toward me andI recognized Sipes.

“Gosh! Is that you? You keep away fromthat place,” he sputtered, as he came up.78

“What seems to be the trouble?” I asked.

“It’s Holy Zeke an’ he’s cussin’ the bunch. Itlooks like we’d all have a gloomy finish. He wasup ’ere this mornin’ an’ ast me if ’e could ’ave areevival in my place tonight. He’s ’ad prettymuch ev’rythin’ else that was loose ’round ’ere,an’ like a damn fool I told ’im O. K., an’ this iswot I git. I thought it was sump’n else. Youc’n go an’ listen to ’is roar if you want to, but Igot some business to ’tend to ’bout ten milesfrom ’ere, an’ I wont be back ’till tomorrer, an’w’en I come back it’ll be by water. I’m goin’ tolay fer that ol’ skeet with my scatter gun, an’he’ll think he’s got hot cinders under ’is skin w’enI git to ’im. I’ll give ’im all the hell I can withoutmurderin’ ’im.” Sipes then disappeared into thegloom, muttering to himself.

His “scatter gun” was a sinister weapon. Ithad once been a smooth-bore army musket. Thebarrel had been sawed off to within a foot of thebreach. It was kept loaded with about six ouncesof black powder, and, wadded on top of this, wasa handful of pellets which the old man had madeof flour dough, mixed with red pepper, and hardenedin the sun. He claimed that, at three rods,79such a charge would go just under the skin. “Itwouldn’t kill nothin’, but it ’ud be hot stuff.”

I sat on a pile of driftwood for some time andwaited for the turmoil in the shanty to subside.Finally the door opened and four more figuresemerged. I was glad to recognize my old friend“Happy Cal,” whom I had not seen since hismysterious departure from the sand-hills severalyears ago, after his dispute with Sipes over sometangled set-lines. Evidently the two old derelictshad amicably adjusted their differences, and Calhad rejoined the widely scattered colony. Anotherold acquaintance, “Catfish John,” was also in theparty. After greetings were exchanged, John introducedme to a short stocky man with graywhiskers.

“Shake hands with Bill Saunders,” said he.

This I did with pleasure, as Sipes’s yarns of themany exploits of this supposedly mythical individualinvested him with much interest.

“This ’ere’s Ezekiel-seven-nine,” continuedJohn, indicating the remaining member of thequartette.

I offered “Ezekiel-seven-nine” my hand, butit was ignored. He looked at me sternly. “Yer80smokin’ a vile an’ filthy weed,” said he. “It defilesyer soul an’ yer body. It’s an abominationin the sight o’ the Lord. Yer unclean to mytouch.” With that he turned away.

I glanced at his hands and if anything couldbe “unclean” to them its condition must be quiteserious. I quite agreed with him, but from a differentstandpoint, that the cigar was “an abomination,”and, after a few more doubtful whiffs,I threw it away, as I had been tempted to doseveral times after lighting it. Its purchase hadproved an error of judgment.

Zeke’s impressions of me were evidently notvery favorable. He walked away a short distanceand stopped. In the dim light I could see thathe was regarding us with disapproval. He tookno part in the conversation. He finally seatedhimself on the sand and gazed moodily towardthe lake for some time, probably reflecting uponthe unutterable depravity of his present associates,and calculating their proximity to eternalfire.

“Holy Zeke,” as Sipes had called him, wasabout six feet two. His clothes indicated thatthey had been worn uninterruptedly for a long81time. The mass of bushy red whiskers wouldhave offered a tempting refuge for wild mice, andfrom under his shaggy brows the piercing eyesglowed with fanatic light.

Calvinism had placed its dark and heavy sealupon his soul, and the image of an angry andpitiless Creator enthralled his mind—a God whopaves infernal regions with tender infants whoneglect theology, who marks the fall of a sparrow,but sends war, pestilence and famine to annihilatethe meek and pure in heart.

The wonderful drama of the creation, and thebeautiful story of Omnipotent love carried nomessage for him. Lakes of brimstone and fireawaited all of earth’s blindly groping children whofailed to find the creed of the self-elect. Notwithstandingthe fact that the national governingboard of an orthodox church, with plenary powers,convened a few years ago, officially abolished infantdamnation, and exonerated and redeemed allinfants, who up to that time had been subjectedto the fury of Divine wrath, Zeke’s doctrine wasunaltered. It glowed with undiminished fervor.He was a restless exponent of a vicious and cruelman-made dogma, which was as evil as the punishments82it prescribed, and as futile as the rewardsit promised.

To me Holy Zeke was an incarnation. Hiseyes and whiskers bespoke the flames of his theology,and his personality was suggestive of its placein modern thought. His battered plug hat wasalso Calvinistic. It looked like hades. It was indescribable.One edge of the rim had been scorched,and a rent in the side of the crown suggested thepossibility of the escape of volcanic thought inthat direction. Like his theology, he had picturesquequality.

If he had been a Mohammedan, his eyes wouldhave had the same gleam, and he would havecalled the faithful to prayer from a minaret withthe same fierce fervor as that with which he conjuredup the eternal fires in Sipes’s shanty. Hadnot Calvinism obsessed him, his type of mindmight have made him a murderous criminal andoutlaw, who, with submarines and poison gas,would deny mercy to mankind, for there was noquality of mercy in those cruel orbs. They werethe baleful eyes of the jungle, that coldly regardthe chances of the kill. In Holy Zeke’s case thekill was the forcible snatching of the quarry from83hell, not that he desired its salvation, but wasanxious to deprive the devil of it. He had no ideaof pointing a way to righteousness. There was nospiritual interest in the individual to be rescued.He was the devil’s implacable enemy, and it waspurely a matter of successful attack upon theproperty of his foe. Predestination or preordinationdid not bother him. He made no distinctions.There was no escape for any human beingwhose belief differed from his; even the slightestvariation from his infallible creed meant thebottomless pit.

Zeke had one redeeming quality. He was not amercenary. No board of trustees paid him thewages of hypocrisy. He did not arch his browsand fingers and deliver carefully prepared eloquentaddresses to the Creator, designed more for theears of his listeners than for the throne above.He did not beseech the Almighty for privatefavors, or for money to pay a church debt. Heregarded himself as a messenger of wrath, andconsidered that he was authorized to go forth andsmite and curse anything and everything withinhis radius of action. This radius was restrictedto the old derelicts who lived in the little driftwood84shanties along the beach and among thesand-hills. There were but few of them, but thelimited scope of Zeke’s labors enabled him to concentratehis power instead of diffusing and losingit in larger fields.

Zeke soon left our little party and followed apath up into the ravine. After his departure webuilt a fire of driftwood, sat around it on the sand,and discussed the “scourge.”

“I hate to see anythin’ that looks like a fire,after wot we’ve been up ag’inst tonight,” remarkedCal, as he threw on some more sticks, “but as ’eain’t ’ere to chuck us in, I guess we’ll be safe if wedon’t put on too much wood. Where d’ye s’pose’e gits all that dope? I had a Bible once’t, but Ididn’t see nothin’ like that in it. There was aplace in it where some fellers got throwed in afiery furnace an’ nothin’ happened to ’em at all,an’ there was another place where it said that thewicked ’ud have their part in hell fire, but Ididn’t read all o’ the book an’ mebbe there’s alot o’ hot stuff in it I missed. W’en did you fustsee that ol’ cuss, John?”

Catfish John contemplated the fire for a while,shifted his quid of “natural leaf,” and relighted his85pipe. He always said that he “couldn’t git no enjoymentout o’ tobacco without usin’ it both ways.”

“He come ’long by my place one day ’boutthree years ago,” said the old man. “It was Sundayan’ ’e stopped an’ read some verses out of’is Bible while I was workin’ on my boat. He saidthe Lord rested on the seventh day, an’ I’d go tohell if I didn’t stop work on the Sabbath. I told’im that my boat would go to hell if I didn’t fixit, an’ they wasn’t no other day to do it. Then’e gave me wot ’e called ‘tracks’ fer me to readan’ went on. The Almighty’s got some funnyfellers workin’ fer ’im. This one’s got hell on thebrain an’ ’e ought to stay out in the lake where it’scool. Ev’ry little while ’e comes ’round an’ talks’bout loaves an’ fishes, an’ sometimes I give ’ima fish, w’en I have a lot of ’em. He does the loafpart ’imself, fer sometimes ’e sticks ’round fer anhour or two. Then ’e tells me some more ’bouthell an’ goes off some’r’s, prob’ly to cook ’is fish.”

“Sipes must ’a’ come back. Let’s go overthere,” suggested Saunders, as he called our attentionto the glimmer of a light in the shanty.

As we approached the place the light was extinguished,and a voice called out, “Who’s there?”86

After the identity of the party had been established,and the assurance given that Holy Zekewas not in it, the light reappeared and we werehospitably received.

“Wot did you fellers do with that hell-firecuss?” demanded Sipes when we were all seatedin the shanty. “Look wot’s ’ere!” and he pickedup a small, greasy hymn book which the oratorhad forgotten in the excitement. Sipes handedme the book. I opened it at random and read:

“Gimme that!” yelled Sipes, and I heard thelittle volume strike the sand somewhere out inthe dark near the water. “Wot d’ye s’pose I gotthis place fer if it ain’t to have peace an’ quiet’ere, an’ wot’s this red-headed devil comin’ ’round’ere fer an’ fussin’ me all up tell’n’ me where I’mgoin’ w’en I die, w’en I don’t give a whoop whereI go when I die. That feller’s bunk an’ don’t youfergit it, an’ ’e’s worse’n that, fer look ’ere wot Ifound in that basket where I had about twopounds o’ salt pork!”87

He produced a piece of soiled and crumpledpaper, on which were scrawled the following quotations:“Of their flesh shall ye not eat, andtheir carcass shall ye not touch. They are uncleanto you” (Leviticus 11:8). “Curséd shall bethy basket and thy store” (Deuteronomy 28:17).

“It’s all right fer ’im to cuss my basket if ’ewants to, but I ain’t got no store. I’ll bet ’efrisked that hunk o’ pork an’ chucked in themtexts ’fore you fellers got ’ere an’ I got in off’nthe lake. It was in ’is big coat pocket all thetime he was makin’ that hot spiel, an’ that’s w’y’e didn’t ’ave no room fer ’is hymn book. He’sswiped my food an’ I can’t fry them texts, an’you fellers are all in on it fer I was goin’ to cookthe pork an’ we’d all have sump’n to eat. Hecert’nly spread hell ’round ’ere thick tonight.Some day he’ll be yellin’ fer ice all right. Whoare them Leviticus an’ Deuteronomy fellers anyhow?They ain’t no friends o’ mine!

“I’m weary o’ that name o’ Zekiel-seven-ninehe’s carryin’ ’round. ’E ought to have an eightspot in it, an’ with a six an’ a ten ’e’d ’ave astraight an’ it ’ud take a flush er a full house tobeat ’im. I bet ’e’s a poker sharp, an’ ’e’s hidin’88from sump’n over ’ere, an’ ’e ain’t the fust onethat’s done it. I seen ’im stewed once’t an’ ’ehad a lovely still. He’d oozed in the juice over tothe county seat an’ come over ’ere an’ felt badabout it in my shanty. He come up to the windoww’en I was fixin’ my pipe an yelled, ‘Bowye not down ’afore idols!’ I went out an’ hustled’im in out o’ the wet. It was rainin’ pretty badan’ ’e was soaked, but ’e said ’e didn’t care solong’s none of it didn’t git in ’is stummick. Idassent light a match near ’is breath.

“I had ’im ’ere two days, an’ ’e said he’d tooksump’n by mistake, an’ ’e had. I had to keepgivin’ ’im more air all the time. He drunk enoughwater the next mornin’ to put out a big fire an’ Iguess ’e had one in ’im all right. After that ’east me if I had any whiskey, an’ w’en I told ’imI didn’t, ’e said ’e was glad of it, fer it was devil’slure. He’d ’a’ stowed it if he’d got to it. I did’ave a little an’ I guess now’s a good time to gitit out, an’ I hope I don’t find no texts stuck inthe jug. We all need bracin’ up, so ’ere goes!That feller’s a blankety-blankety-blank—blank-blank,an’ besides that ’e’s got other faults!”

It seems a pity to have to expurgate Sipes’s89original and ornate profanity from his discourses,but common decency requires it. The old manleft the shanty with a lantern and shovel. A fewminutes later we saw his light at the edge of thelake where he was washing the sand from the outsideof his jug. Evidently it had been buriedtreasure.

“I’ve et an’ drunk so much sand since I beenlivin’ ’ere on this beach that my throat’s all woreout an’ full o’ little holes, an’ I ain’t goin’ toswaller no more’n I c’n help after this,” he remarked,as he came in and hung the lantern onits hook in the ceiling; “now you fellers drinkhearty.”

At this juncture a wailing sepulchral voice,loud and deep, came out of the darkness in thedistance.

“Beware! Beware! Beware! In the earthhave ye found damnation!”

“There ’e is!” yelled Sipes, as he leaped acrossthe floor for his scatter-gun. He ran out with itand was gone for some time. He returned withan expression of disgust on his weather-beatenface. “I’ll wing that cuss some night ’fore thesnow falls,” he remarked, as he resumed his seat.90“We’d better soak up all this booze tonight fer itwon’t be safe in any o’ the ground ’round ’ere anymore. Gosh! but this is a fine country to live in!”

The party broke up quite late. Happy Cal hadimbibed rather freely. Catfish John had beenmore temperate, and thought he had “better go’long with Cal,” and it seemed better that heshould. As they went away I could hear Calentertaining John with snatches of some old airabout “wine, women, an’ song.” They stoppeda while at the margin of the lake, where the wetsand made the walking better, and Cal affectionatelyassured John of his eternal devotion. Theythen disappeared.

I bade Sipes and his old shipmate good-night,and left them alone with the demon in the jug.There was very little chance of any of it everfalling into the hands of “the scourge,” who wasevidently lurking in the vicinity.

The glory of the full moon over the lake causedSipes to remark that “ev’rythin’s full tonight,”as he followed me out to bid me another good-by.After I left I could hear noisy vocalism in theshanty. The words, which were sung over andover, were:91

After each repetition there would be boisterous,rhythmic pounding of heavy boots on the woodenfloor.

While the song was in many keys, and wastechnically open to much criticism, it was evidentlysincere. The old shipmates were happy,and, after all, besides happiness, how much isthere in the world really worth striving for?

I walked along the beach for a couple of milesto my temporary quarters in the dunes, and thestirring events of the evening furnished muchfood for reflection. I was interested in the adventof Bill Saunders, concerning whom I had heardso much from Sipes. Bill was a good deal of amystery. He had “showed up” a few days beforein response to a letter which Sipes told mehe had “put in pustoffice fer ’im.” He may atsome time have lived on the “unknown island inthe South Pacific” that Sipes told me about,where he and Bill had been wrecked, and Bill had“married into the royal family several times,”but evidently he had deserted his black and tan92household. For at least two years he had beenliving over on the river. Sipes explained that hestayed there “so as to be unbeknown.” For somereason which I did not learn, he and Sipes consideredit advisable for him to “keep dark” fora while. The trouble, whatever it was, had evidentlyblown over, and Bill had returned to thesand-hills.

There was a rudely painted sign on the shantya few days later, which read:

“It might ’a’ been Saunders & Sipes,” saidthe old man to me, confidentially, “but I thinkSipes & Saunders sounds more dignified like, don’tyou? We got ‘fresh fish’ on the sign so’s peoplewon’t git ’em mixed up with the kind o’ fish Johnpeddles. Them fish are fresh w’en John gits ’em’ere, but after ’e’s ’ad ’em ’round a while there’sinvisible bein’s gits into ’em out o’ the air, an’you c’n smell ’em a mile. W’en they git to becandydates fer ’is smoke-house their ol’ friendswouldn’t know ’em, an’ I put them up an’ downlines in them S’s in them names so’s to make thesign look like cash money.”93

Several days later I discovered that my tenthad been visited during my absence. Outside,pinned to the flap, was a piece of paper on whichwas written:

“All ye who smoke or chew the filthy weedshall be damned.”

Inside, on the cot, were several tracts containingextracts from sermons on hell by an old ranterof early New England days, setting forth thepractical impossibility of anybody ever escaping it.

I examined the literature with interest andamusem*nt. Some of the more virulent paragraphswere marked for my benefit.

I looked out over the landscape, with its gloriousautumn coloring, to the expanse of turquoisewaters beyond, and wondered if, above the fleecyclouds and the infinite blue of the heavens, therewas an Omnipotent monstrosity Who gloried inthe torture of what He created, and brought forthlife that He might wreak vengeance upon it.Ignorance, fear, and superstition have led men into94strange paths. It may be that our philosophywill finally lead us back to the beginning, andteach us that we are humble, wondering childrenwho do not understand, and that there is a borderland beyond which we may not go.

I met the firm of Sipes & Saunders on the beachone morning, on their way to Catfish John’splace, which was about four miles from theirshanty. John’s abode was on a low bluff, and onthe beach near it, about a hundred feet from thelake, was the little structure in which he smokedwhat Sipes called “them much-deceased fish”which he had failed to sell. His peddling tripswere made through the back country with a queerlittle wagon and a rheumatic horse, that bore thename of “Napoleon” with his other troubles.Some of the fish were from his own nets, but mostof his supplies were obtained from Sipes on aconsignment basis.

At the earnest solicitation of the old mariners,I turned back and went with them to call onJohn. Sipes said that I “had better come alongfer there’s goin’ to be sump’n doin’.”

We found the old man out on the sand repairinghis gill-nets.95

“Wot ’ave I done that I should be descendedon like this?” he asked jocularly, as we came up.“You fellers must be lookin’ fer trouble, fer Zeke’scomin’ ’ere this mornin’ fer a fish that I told ’im’e could ’ave if I got any.

“I figgered it all out,” said Sipes, “cause Billheard you tell ’im you was goin’ to lift the netsSunday, an’ I seen you out’n the lake with thespotter, an’ as Bill an’ me’s got some businesswith Zeke, we thought we’d drop ’round.”

Sipes’s “spotter” was an old spy glass, whichhe declared “had been on salt water.” Througha small hole in the side of his shanty he couldsweep the curving shore for several miles withthe rickety instrument.

I walked over to the smoke-house with theparty and inspected it with much interest. Thesmoke supply came from a dilapidated old stoveon the sand from which a rusty pipe entered theside of the structure. The smoke escaped slowlythrough various cracks in the roof, which provideda light draft for the fire.

“That smoke gits a lot of experience in thisplace ’fore it goes out through them cracks,” remarkedSipes, as he opened the door and peered96inside. “I don’t blame it fer leavin’. Can yelock this door tight, John?”

I curiously awaited further developments.

It was not long before we saw Zeke ploddingtoward us on the sand.

“Now don’t you fellers say nothin’. You jestset ’round careless like, an’ let me do the talkin’,”cautioned Sipes, as he filled his pipe. With anexpressive closing of his single eye, he turned tome confidentially and said with a chuckle, “We’regoin’ to fumigate Zeke.”

There was a look of quiet determination in hisface, and guile in his smile as he contemplatedthe approaching visitor.

“Hello, Zeke!” he called out, as soon as thatfrowsy individual was within hailing distance,“wot’s the news from hell this fine mornin’?”

We smiled at Sipes’s sally. Zeke looked at ussolemnly, and in deep impressive tones replied:“Verily, them that laughs at sin, laughs w’entheir Maker frowns, laughs with the sword o’vengeance over their heads.”

“Oh, come on, Zeke, cut that out,” said Sipes,“an’ let’s go in an’ see the big sturgeon wot Johngot this mornin’. It’s ’ere in the smoke-house.”97Sipes led the way to the door and opened it.Zeke peeked in cautiously.

“It’s over in that big box with them other fishnear the wall,” said Sipes. Zeke stepped inside.Sipes instantly closed the door and sprung thepadlock that secured it. He then ran around tothe stove and lighted the fuel with which it wasstuffed.

An angry roar came from the interior, as wedeparted. After we reached the damp sand onthe shore, Sipes joyfully exclaimed, “Verily we’llnow ’ave to git a new scourge, fer this one’s upag’inst damnation!”

While John had passively acquiesced in the proceedings,I knew that he did not intend to allowSipes’s escapade to go too far, so I did not worryabout Zeke.

As we walked down the shore, Sipes and Billturned frequently to look at the softly ascendingwreaths from the roof with much glee.

“That coop’s never ’ad nothin’ wuss in it thanit’s got now,” declared Sipes. “That ol’ buncho’ whiskers ’as got wot’s comin’ to ’im this time,an’ I wish I’d stuck John’s rubber boots in thatstove, but, honest, I fergot it.”98

We had gone quite a distance when I turnedand discerned a retreating form far beyond thesmoke-house close to the bluff. One side of thestructure was wrecked, and it was evident thatthe “scourge” had broken through and escaped.I said nothing, as I did not want to mar thepleasure of the old shipmates. To them it was“the end of a perfect day.”

A little further on I left them and turned intothe dunes. As they waved farewell, Sipes calledout cheerily, “You c’n travel anywheres ’round’ere now without git’n’ burnt!”

Later, from far away over the sands, I couldfaintly hear:

One night I encased myself in storm-defyingraiment and went down to the shore to contemplatea drama that was being enacted in the skies.

Swiftly moving battalions of stygian cloudswere illuminated by almost continuous flashesof lightning. Heavy peals of thunder rolledthrough the convoluted masses, and reverberated99along the horizon. The wind-driven raincame in thin sheets that mingled with the flyingspray from the waves that swept the beach. Thesublimity of the storm was soul stirring andinspiring. I plodded for half a mile or so alongthe surf-washed sand to the foot of a bluff onwhich were a few old pines, to see the effect ofthe gnarled branches against the lightning-chargedclouds.

A brilliant flash revealed a silhouetted figurewith gesticulating arms. It was Holy Zeke. Hisbattered plug was jammed down over the backof his head, and his long coat tails were flappingin the gale. The apparition was grotesque andstartling, but seemed naturally to take its placein the wild pageant of the elements. It addeda note of human interest that seemed strangelyharmonious.

I did not wish to intrude on him, or allow himto interfere with my enjoyment of the storm, butpassed near enough to hear his resonant voiceabove the roar of the wind.

He was in his element. He had sought a heightfrom which he could behold the scourging of theearth, and pour forth imprecations on imaginary100multitudes of heretics and unbelievers. With fanaticfervor he was calling down curses upon a worldof hopeless sin. Hatred of human kind was exhaledfrom his poisoned soul amid the fury of the storm.

To his disordered imagination, any unusualmanifestation of nature’s forces was an expressionof Divine wrath. Condemnation was nowcoming out of the black vault above him, and thevengeance of an incensed Diety was being heraldedfrom on high. Unregenerate sinners andrejectors of Zeke’s creed were in the hands of anangry God. The scroll of earth’s infamy wasbeing unrolled out of the clouds. “The seventhvial” was being poured out, and the hour of finaldamnation was at hand.

In the armor of his infallible orthodoxy, likeAjax, he stood unafraid before the lurid shafts.Serene in his exclusive holiness he was immunefrom the fiery pit and the shambles of the damned,and gloried in the coming destruction of all thoseunblessed with his faultless dogma.

The storm was increasing in violence, and Ihad started to return. After going some distanceI turned for a final view of Zeke, and it was unexpectedlydramatic.101

There was a sudden dazzling glare, and a deafeningcrash. A tall tree, not far from where hestood, was shattered into fragments. The shockwas terrific. He was gone when a succeedingflash lighted the scene. Fearing that the oldman might have met fatality, or at least havebeen badly injured, I hurried back and climbedthe steep path that led to the top of the promontoryfrom the ravine beyond it. Careful search,with the aid of an electric pocket light and thelightning flashes, failed to reveal any traces ofthe old fanatic, and it was safe to assume that hehad retreated in good order from surroundingsthat he had reluctantly decided were untenable.

The bolt that struck the tree was charged withan obvious moral that was probably lost on thefugitive.

The old shipmates were much interested whenthey heard the tale of the night’s adventure.

“That ol’ cuss’ll git his, sometime, good an’plenty,” observed Sipes. “Sump’n took a potshot at Zeke an’ made a bad score. It would ’a’helped some if the lightnin’ ’ad only got that ol’hat o’ his. Prob’ly it’s been hit before. Zeke ’adbetter look out. He’s been talkin’ too much ’bout102them things. It’s too bad fer a nice tree like thatto git all busted up. No feller with a two-gallonhat an’ red whiskers ever oughta buzz ’round ina thunder storm.”

John was quite philosophical about Zeke.

“He ought to learn to stay in w’en it’s wet.His kind o’ relig’n don’t mix with water, an’ somenight ’e’ll go out in a storm like that an’ ’e won’tcome back. He was ’round ’ere this mornin’tell’n me ’bout the signs o’ the times an’ heav’nlyfires.

“Them ol’ fellers hadn’t ought to fuss somuch ’bout ’im. They come up ’ere the dayafter they smoked ’im, an’ fixed my smoke-houseall up fer me. They said thar was too manycracks ’round in it, an’ the boards ’round the sideswas all too thin. They got some heavy boardsan’ big nails an’ they done a good job. They saidthey’d fixed it so it ’ud hold a grizzly b’ar if Iwanted to keep one, an’ I was glad they come up.

“When Zeke broke through ’e didn’t fergit ’isfish. He took the biggest one thar was in thebox. When ’e went off ’e was yell’n sump’n ’boutthem that stoned an’ mocked the prophets, an’sump’n ’bout a feller named Elijah, that was103goin’ up in a big wind in a chair o’ fire, but Ididn’t hear all of it, fer ’e was excited. Zeke’s apoor ol’ feller. It’s all right fer ’em to cuss ’im,fer ’e gives it to ’em pretty hard w’en ’e gitsdown thar, but that don’t do no harm. Theyain’t no nearer hell than they’d be without Zeketell’n ’em ’bout it all the time. He’s part o’ thepeople what’s ’round us, an’ we ought to git ’longwith ’im. I’ll alw’ys give ’im a fish when ’e’shungry, even if ’e does think I’m goin’ to hell.”104105

VII
THE LOVE AFFAIR OF HAPPY CALAND ELVIREY SMETTERS106107

VII
THE LOVE AFFAIR OF HAPPY CALAND ELVIREY SMETTERS

“Happy Cal” had been a member of thewidely scattered colony of derelicts alongthe wild coast for many years; in fact,he was its beginning, for when he came throughthe sand-hills and gathered the driftwood to buildhis humble dwelling, there were no human neighbors.

The circling gulls, the crows, and the big blueherons that stalked along the wave-washed beachlooked curiously at the intruder into their solitudes.The blue-jays scolded boisterously, andmany pairs of concealed eyes peered at him slylyfrom tangled masses of tree roots that lay denudedupon the slopes of the wind-swept dunes.

Nature’s slow and orderly processes of generationand decay were now to be disturbed by anew element, for man, who changes, destroys, andmakes ugly the fair world he looks upon, had enteredthese sanctuaries. The furred and feathered108things instinctively resented the advent of thedespoiler. They heard strange noises as rustynails were pounded, and odd pieces of gray,smooth wood were fashioned into the queer-lookingstructure that obtruded itself among the undulationsof the sand.

Happy Cal was human wreckage. He hadbeen thrown upon this desolate shore by the cruelforces of a social system which he was unable tocombat. They had cast him aside and he hadsought isolation. As he expressed it, “there wastoo much goin’ on.”

Cal’s stories of his early life, and his final escapefrom a heartless world, incited derisive commentfrom his friend Sipes.

On still, cool days the smoke ascended softlyfrom Cal’s shanty, and my sketching was oftenneglected for an hour or two with its interestingoccupant.

He sometimes prowled around through the countryback of the dunes at night, and the necessariesfor his rude housekeeping were collected gradually.His age was difficult to guess; perhaps helooked older than he was. His lustreless eyes,weather-beaten face, grizzled unkempt beard, and109rough hands, carried the story of a struggle onthe raw edges of life.

While he said that he had “been up ag’inst it,”he seemed now comparatively contented. His interestswere few, but they filled his days, and, ashe expressed it, he “didn’t need nothin’ to thinkabout nights.” Sipes claimed, however, that “Caldone all ’s thinkin’ at night, if ’e done any, fer ’edon’t never do none in the daytime.”

Sipes and Cal met occasionally. With the exceptionof a few serious misunderstandings, whichwere always eventually patched up, they gotalong very well with each other. Sipes’s attitude,while generally friendly, was not very charitable.He was disposed to comment caustically upon themany flaws he found in Cal, who, he believed,was destined for a hot hereafter. It is only fairto Cal to say that Sipes did not know of anybodyin the dune country who would not have a hothereafter, except his friend “Catfish John,” andhis old shipmate, Bill Saunders, who lived withhim, and with whom, in early life, he had sailedmany stormy seas. He transacted his fish businesswith John, and was very fond of him. Heonce remarked that, “Old John don’t never wash,110an’ ’e smells pretty fishy, but you bet ’e treatsme all right, an’ wot’s the difference? I c’n alwaysstay to wind’ard if I want to.”

Mrs. Elvirey Smetters lived over in the backcountry, on the road that led from the sleepy villageto the marshy strip, and through it over intothe dunes, where it was finally lost in the sand.It was a township line road and was seldom usedfor traffic. Travellers on it usually walked. Thehouse, which had once been painted white, withgreen blinds, was rather shabby. Two tall evergreensstood in the front yard. In the carefullykept flower-beds along the fence the geraniums,co*ckscombs, marigolds, and verbenas bloomed gorgeously.They were constantly refreshed fromthe wooden pump near the back door. A smoothpath led from the front gate, flanked with a luxuriousgrowth of myrtle.

I pulled the brown bell handle one morningwith a view of buying one of the young duckswhich were waddling and quacking about theyard. I was going over to visit my old friendSipes and intended it as a present for his Sundaydinner.

Mrs. Smetters, whom I had often met, opened111the door. She wiped her face with her apron,and was profuse with her apologies for the appearanceof everything. She explained at length thevarious causes that had brought about the disorderlyconditions, which I must know would bedifferent if so and so, and so and so, and soand so.

She was tall, muscular, of many angles, red-headed,and freckled. The pupils of the piercingeyes behind the brass-rimmed spectacles had areddish tinge, and her square, protruding chin suggestedanything but domestic docility. It wassuch a chin that took Napoleon over the Alps,and Cæsar into Gaul.

She had buried three husbands. They wereresting, as Sipes said, “fer the fust time in theirlives,” in the church-yard beyond the village,where flowers from the little garden were oftenlaid upon the mounds.

A village gossip had said that Mrs. Smetterswould sometimes return to the mounds, after shehad left them, and transfer a bunch of geraniumsfrom one to another, and once, she had cleanedoff two of them and piled all of the offerings overthe one near the tree. Sometimes the others112would have all of the geraniums. The gossipscould see these things, but they could not lookinto the secret chambers of Elvirey Smetters’sheart.

On the walls of such chambers are recordedsomething that is never told. Thoughtful deeds,tender looks of sympathy and understanding, andyears devoted, leave their traces there. With athread of gossamer, memory leads us gently tothem, and out into the world again, where wecarry flowers to silent places. The strongestsometimes become the weakest, but who knowsif such weakness is not the strength of the mighty?

Time had softened the sorrows of ElvireySmetters. Little wrinkles were beginning to tellthe story of her passing years, for she was nearlysixty, and a sense of life’s futility was creepingover her. She felt the need of new environmentand new sensations.

“Now before you begin talkin’ about any duckyou want to buy,” said Mrs. Smetters, after theobject of the visit was explained, “I want to knowif you’ve seen anythin’ o’ Cal. I ain’t seen ’imfer a month, an’ if you run across ’im, I want youto tell ’im I’m sick, an’ ’e better come an’ see how113I am. I’ll make you a present o’ that duck ifyou’ll just walk in on ’im an’ tell ’im sump’nthat don’t look like it come from me, that’ll make’im come over ’ere. You needn’t let on that Iwant to see ’im, but you fix it somehow so’s ’e’llcome.”

I solemnly promised to do this, but insistedupon settling for the duck, which was soon dressedand wrapped in an old copy of The WeeklyClarion, which was published at the county seat.

“Now you be careful an’ not let ’im know Isaid a word about ’im,” was her parting injunctionat the gate, “but you git ’im ’ere, an’ don’tsay nothin’ to Sipes either!”

She was assured that great care would beexercised.

During the walk through the dunes I musedupon the wiles of Mrs. Smetters’s sex, and reflectedupon the futility of any attempt to escapethem, when they are practiced by an adept uponan average man. It is a world-old story—asold as the Garden of Eden. The lure of the femininerules the earth, and it is a part of the schemeof things that it should be so. The female of allbreathing creatures controls the wooing—from114the lady-bug to Elvirey Smetters. However masculinevanity may seek to disguise it, the wooeris as clay in the hands of the potter. The meditationsof some of the world’s greatest men havebeen devoted to the complexities of female humannature, and during these meditations they haveoften married.

Along toward noon the duck was turned overto Sipes in front of his shanty. He was greatlypleased. It varied the monotony of small giftsof tobacco and cigars which usually reciprocatedhis many hospitalities.

“Elvirey’s got a lot o’ them birds,” he remarked,“an’ I was goin’ over some night to persuadeone of ’em to come to my shanty. If shewasn’t a woman, they’d all been gone long ago.I hear ’em spatterin’ in the ditch ev’ry time I goby, an’ I often think, s’posen them lily-whiteducks b’longed to some o’ them fellers that set’round the village store, wot would I do?”

I inquired if he had seen anything of Callately.

“Cal’s snoopin’ ’round ’is coop right now.You c’n see ’im with the spotter,” said the oldman, as he brought out his rickety old brass spy-glass.115Through it I could just make out a figuremoving about on the sand near the distant shanty.

I left the old mariner, intending to come outof the dunes near Cal’s place sometime during theafternoon, being really anxious to accommodateMrs. Smetters.

In the course of time I reached Cal’s shantyand found him sharpening a knife near the door.We shook hands and, after discussing variousmatters of mutual interest, I mentioned the callon Mrs. Smetters for the purpose of buying aduck for Sipes.

“W’y didn’t you git me a duck too if you wasgit’n one fer him?” he asked rather peevishly.He was placated with a cigar and the explanationthat I had not expected to see him on this trip.He betrayed no curiosity at the mention of Mrs.Smetters. I tried again, and told him that I hadhad a long talk with her and she did not look asthough she was very well; she appeared sad,and seemed ill. At this he began to show interest.

“Wot d’ye s’pose is the matter with ’er? W’ydon’t she eat some catnip if she’s sick?”

I replied that probably she found it ratherlonely since her last husband died.116

“Say, d’ye know wot I think I’ll do? I’ll goover there tomorrer an’ take ’er some fresh fish,an’ mebbe she’ll gimme a duck. I ain’t seen ’erfer a long time.”

Having approved of his suggestion, and realizingthat the mission had been accomplished, Ideparted after we had talked of other things fora while. Visits to Cal were always enjoyable, althoughhis reminiscences were to be accepted witha grain of salt. His logic, morals, and languagewere bad, but his narratives had the charm oforiginality, and he never failed to be entertaining.Naturally, I was curious as to the outcomeof the projected call on Mrs. Smetters, but notbeing concerned in further developments, I dismissedit from my mind. Interest was quicklyrevived on meeting Sipes a month later.

“Say, wot d’ye think’s happened?” exclaimedthe old man. “Elvirey’s snared Cal good an’plenty. That ol’ cuss has been up to see ’er adozen times in the last two weeks. Bill an’ me’sbeen watchin’ ’em with the spotter from up yonderin them trees on top o’ that big dune where wec’n see ’er house. Say, you’d laugh yerself sick.Gener’ly ’e sneaks ’round an’ goes along the edge117o’ the marsh over back o’ here, so’s ’e won’t ’aveto go by our place. Last night ’e come by witha collar on. His whiskers was combed an’ so was’is hair. He was all lit up an’ reminded Bill an’me o’ that hiker we found walkin’ on the beachonce’t that we piloted off a couple o’ miles toshow ’im where we told ’im ’e could cetch somemock-turtles. Bill’s up there with the spotterwatchin’ now. We call that place the masthead.”

Far away I could see the glint of the spy-glass,and could dimly make out the figure of the lonesentinel in his eyry upon the height. He wasensconced in a mass of gnarled and tangled rootswhich the wind-blown sand had left bare on thedistant hilltop.

“We got a little place among them roots,”said the old man, “that jest fits the spotterw’en it’s trained on Elvirey’s place, an’ all yehave to do is jest set down an’ look. Bill takesthe fust watch w’en we can’t see nothin’ ’roundCal’s shanty, an’ I go aloft in the afternoon. Weseen ’im twice yisterd’y. Him an’ Elvirey wasout in the yard waterin’ the flowers. I s’poseshe wants to keep ’em growin’ nice so’s she c’nlay ’em over Cal like she does the others.118

“If there’s sump’n doin’ at Elvirey’s, Bill’llhang a rag on that big dead limb ye see stickin’out, an’ it’s there now!” The fluttering signalof “sump’n doin’” was faintly visible.

“That rag’s jest to show he’s seen Cal overthere, an’ if ’e thinks I oughta come up, ’e’llput out another in a minute. That ’ud meanthat they was set’n out in the yard, er goin’ offsom’er’s together, mebbe to the village.” We keptour eyes on the summit for some time, but thesecond signal did not appear.

A week later I found Cal at the home of theold shipmates. He looked rather crestfallen. Anair of embarrassment and restraint seemed to pervadethe place. I feared that I had intruded, andwas going away, when Sipes insisted that I remainand go out on the lake with him. Hethought that a recent storm might have damagedhis gill-nets and wanted to look them over. AfterCal’s departure we shoved the row-boat into thewater. On the way out to the nets the old mantold me the thrilling tale of the love of HappyCal and Elvirey Smetters.

“This Elvirey’s a queer ol’ girl,” he began.“Them husbands she’s been git’n a c’lection of119over in the cemetery was a bum lot. Before shebegun git’n married ’er name was Prokop. Fustshe married a feller named Swisher, an’ she waslivin’ with ’im w’en I fust come in the hills. Hewas no good, an’ I never liked ’is name. Itsounded kind o’ fishy an’ whistley to me. Aftera while Swisher commenced git’n thin an’ allyellow, an’ one day ’e skipped. She lit out after’im an’ brought ’im back from over to the countyseat. He died about a month later of sump’nthe doctor said ’ad busted up ’is liver. He left’er that little place, where she lives.

“The next feller’s name was Smythe, an’ ’ewas a funny lookin’ gink. He was runnin’ a littlecircus wot went ’round the country in the summer.He used to wear high brown boots with ’istrowsies stuck in ’em, an’ a velvet vest, with awatch chain that weighed about a pound. He hada wide gray hat, an’ a red neck-tie with a hunko’ glass on it, an’ a long moustache that lookedlike a feather duster. He looked fierce, butElvirey fell fer ’im w’en she seen ’im out in frontof ’is tent on a box doin’ a lot o’ funny trickswith cards fer the crowd. The circus busted upan’ ’e moved over to Elvirey’s place. The circus120posters said ’is name was Blondini, but ’is realname was Smith. He wrote it Smythe, so’s tomake folks think ’e had money an’ was a societybug. He died o’ sump’n, I don’t know wot itwas, an’ then poor ol’ Smetters come along. Hewas a fat feller. He painted the house, an’ fussed’round on the place fer a year, an’ then ’ad fits.His conniptions would come on most any time,an’ Elvirey let ol’ Doc Looney in on to ’im onenight, an’ the next mornin’ ’e was dead. TheDoc ’ad given ’im some horse medicine, an’ itfinished ’im.

“Them three are all layin’ side by side, wait’nfer Cal, fer ’e told us this mornin’ that ’im an’Elvirey’s goin’ to git married.

“Bill an’ me seen ’em from the masthead yisterd’y,walkin’ down the road. They set downon the grass, an’ we sneaked over an’ got behindsome bushes, an’ we heard ’im callin’ ’er ‘kitten’an’ she was callin’ ’im a duck. Bill says, ‘Lookat them columbines!’ an’ we busted out laughin’.Then they both roasted us fer listenin’. Cal wasdead sore, but ’e didn’t say very much. Elvireypretty near killed Bill with a big stick, an’ knocked’im into the bushes. He got up an’ lit out, an’ so121did I, fer after Bill was down she started fer me.I didn’t need no clubbin’ an’ scooted. She chasedme a ways, but I got home all right. I wonderw’y them that gits love-sick always calls eachother animals an’ birds?”

During Sipes’s narrative I felt a pang of regretthat I had not spent the day at “the masthead,”for evidently it would have been worth while.

“Cal come over today an’ we had a long talk,”continued the old man. “He said ’e hoped theywasn’t no hard feelin’s, ’cause ’e hadn’t startednothin’ an’ it was us fellers’ fault that Elvireygot to goin’. Bill ’ad a bump on ’is head as bigas an aig, but we all shook hands an’ agreed tocall it off. An’ now comes this damn wedd’nthey’re goin’ to have. Cal says they’re goin’ tobe married by Holy Zeke, an’ wot d’ye think?they want to have the wedd’n in our shanty,’cause Elvirey says she won’t let Bill an’ me cometo her house, an’ Cal won’t be married ’less ’ec’n ’ave ’is friends with ’im. His shanty ain’tbig enough fer the bunch, an’ ours is halfwaybetween, so they’ve fixed on that, an’ we’re infer it.

“I don’t know wot Cal’s goin’ to do about ’is122last name that ’e’s got to be married with. Hesays ’e’s been livin’ alone so long ’e’s fergot wotit is, an’ we got to pick out a new one fer ’im.I told ’im ’e better call it Mud, but ’e didn’t cetchon to no joke. Wouldn’t that make a fine soundin’lot o’ names fer Elvirey’s lot in the church-yard?Swisher, Smythe, Smetters, an’ Mud! Ev’rybody’dstop to look at ’em.

“Cal’s gone to tell John, an’ Saturd’y nighthim an’ Holy Zeke’ll come down, an’ Cal’s kitten’sgoing to fetch a cake. Cal said you was invited,an’ if you got any business to close up ’fore youcome, you’d better ’tend to it, fer mebbe hell’llbe to pay ’fore it’s over. I’ll bet Elvirey won’tstand fer me an’ Bill w’en she sees wot we’regoin’ to do to the shanty fer the wedd’n.”

After inspecting the nets we returned, and Ipromised to be on hand Saturday evening. Sipesrequested me to come early, “so as to think o’sump’n us fellers might fergit.”

I looked forward to Saturday with eager anticipation,and arrived at the shanty just beforedusk. Evidently the old shipmates had beenvery busy. They were in high spirits.

A couple of old fish-nets were stretched from123each side of the door, in parallel lines, to a pointabout fifty feet away on the sand. Boards, obtainedfrom among the driftwood on the beach, hadbeen laid along between them. “Bill’s a big helpabout them things,” said the old man. “He saysit’s ’is habit w’en ’e gits married to have sump’nlike that stretched out fer the bride to walk betweenso’s nobody’ll try to steal ’er at the lastminute.”

The roof of the shanty was thickly covered withdead leaves, held in place by more nets whichwere laid over them and weighted with stones.“We could ’a’ got green ones,” said Sipes, “butthem old leaves looks more fit like. They wasn’tneither of ’em born yisterd’y.

The rusty stove-pipe, which served as a chimney,had been carefully wrapped in white cloth,at least it had once been white, and a long stripof bright red material had been tied to it, whichfluttered in the breeze. Sipes said that this wasthe danger signal. A large bunch of bulrushesand cat-tails was stuffed into the top of thestove-pipe.

The sign on the shanty—$IPE$ & $AUNDER$—FRE$H FI$H124had been covered with a strip of rotten canvas,on which was painted,Many Happy ReTURNS

The conspirators had gathered a lot of thistleblossoms, with plenty of the leaves, with whichthey had festooned the interior. An old beer-keg,mounted on a box, which stood at one end ofthe single room, was to serve as the altar. Onit were two lemons, with which time had notdealt very gently. Their significance was notexplained.

All over the shanty, where the decorations didnot interfere, were groups of four vertical chalk-lines.“Them marks is Elvirey’s score,” explainedthe old man.

A nail keg, with one end knocked out, hungendwise above the altar, and in the opening alarge ripe tomato was suspended from the insideby a string. On the keg was painted a largefigure 4. “That there’s the marriage bell,” saidSipes.

A lantern on a hook in the ceiling, and a dozencandle stubs were to furnish illumination. Themusic was also provided for. There was a covered125box near the wall, with gimlet holes all over it,that evidently contained something alive.

“That’s full o’ hummin’ locusts that me an’Bill caught,” said Sipes, “an’ when Zeke saysit’s all over, I’ll hammer on the box an’ themlittle singers’ll git busy. We tried ’em thismornin’ an’ it works fine.”

The stove was stuffed with stray pieces of oldleather and rubber boots, mixed with oiled rags.“W’en we light that fire, with the chimblystopped up with them cat-tails, it’ll show thatthe party’s over,” chuckled the old man.

The arrangements seemed quite complete, andI had no suggestions to offer. The weddingparty was to assemble around a drift-wood fireon the sand, some distance away, and proceedto the shanty at eight o’clock. A huge pile ofmaterial for the bonfire had been gathered.

The flames soon crackled merrily and lit up thebeach. The red light touched the crests of the littlewaves that lapped the shore, and bathed the side ofthe sandy bluff with a mellow glow. It illuminatedthe shanty which, with its grotesque decorations,relieved against the dark green of the ravine beyond,resembled a stage setting for a comic opera.126

The wedding guests soon began to arrive.“Catfish John,” with a large package underhis arm, accompanied by Holy Zeke, were thefirst comers, after the fire was lighted. They hadwalked a long distance, and sat down wearily onthe sand, after the conventional greetings. John’spackage probably contained some smoked fishwhich he intended as a present for the bride.Sipes sniffed at it with evident approval.

In a few minutes Mrs. Smetters arrived withher friend Mrs. McCafferty, who carried the cakein a basket. Mrs. McCafferty lived in the sleepyvillage, several miles away. She was to act asbridesmaid, and was to “give the bride away,”which Sipes declared she would “do anyhowafterwards if she didn’t do it now.” She was abuxom Irish widow, with a fighting record, anda mind of her own. She had brought Mrs. Smettersto the wedding with her buggy and grayhorse, which had been left where the sloping roadended in the beach sand. It was her custom to attendall of Elvirey’s weddings in the same capacity.She was her bosom friend and confidante.

Mrs. Smetters was attired in a new white muslindress, with a bountiful corsage bouquet of127white peonies. She was bareheaded, and liliesof the valley accented the bricky red of her hair.As at all weddings, “the bride was very beautiful.”

We rose and greeted the ladies cordially. Mrs.Smetters looked inquiringly around for Cal, buthe had not yet arrived. She then seated herselfon the shawl which Mrs. McCafferty carefullyspread out on the sand. No reference was madeto the stormy scene of the interrupted wooing ofa few days before. Bill was still nursing his sorehead, but made no unpleasant allusions.

The hour had arrived, but the party wasstill incomplete. Happy Cal was conspicuouslyabsent.

“Mebbe he’s doin’ a lot o’ fixin’ up an’ can’tfind ’is perfumery, er mebbe he’s fergot about thewedd’n,” observed Sipes.

An angry glance from Mrs. Smetters was theonly response to this sally.

The ladies looked curiously at the shanty, andSipes had much difficulty in keeping them awayfrom it. He announced that “they wasn’t goin’to be no rubberin’ ’round the place ’till thewedd’n.” They started several times, but werepersuaded to wait until Cal came.128

An hour slipped by, and the delinquent did notappear.

“Lo, the bridegroom cometh not,” said HolyZeke, solemnly.

Clouds of feminine wrath were gathering on theother side of the fire.

“We’re goin’ over to see them fixin’s,” announcedMrs. Smetters, with determination. “Thisis wot I git fer wearin’ my heart on my sleeve!”

I walked along the beach in the hope that Imight meet Cal. Sipes went to the shanty andlit the lantern and the candles. The two femalesled the rest of the party along between the nets.After they entered it took them but a few secondsto fully comprehend the tout ensemble, and thencame the event of the evening.

Mrs. McCafferty started to swoon, but suddenlyrevived when Mrs. Smetters hurled a stove-lidat Sipes, followed by the keg from the altar.The male members of the party beat a rapid retreatthrough the door into the welcome shadows.Sipes ran in my direction. We stood about ahundred yards away in the darkness, and surveyedthe scene.

With the fury of a woman scorned, Elvirey129was smashing up the place. With the able helpof her bosom friend, every movable breakablething was being destroyed and thrown out. Thewindow was demolished early in the proceedings,and through the broken sash went wrecked cookingutensils, blankets, guns, cards, bottles, boxes,pieces of the table, and other things, too numerousto mention. Amid loud blows of an axe, theside of the shanty began to give way.

Suddenly we heard piercing shrieks, and thetwo maddened women fled wildly from the shantyin the direction of the buggy.

“I’ll bet they’ve busted open them insects!”exclaimed Sipes.

We waited a while, and looked for the othermembers of the party. We called repeatedly, butno answer came out of the gloom. They hadbeen swallowed in the blackness of the night.

We then went to inspect the wreck. All of theold shipmates’ efforts to make the wedding a successhad been “love’s labor lost.” The decorationswere mingled with fragments of the stoveand the splintered bunks. There seemed to benothing in the place that was breakable that hadnot been attended to. The “hummin’ locusts”130were innocently crawling about the floor andwalls.

“We might as well c’lect this music an’ put itout,” said Sipes, ruefully, as he began picking upthe locusts. “We wouldn’t ’a’ had no shantyleft if it hadn’t been fer them. I guess I must ’a’started sump’n. After this I’m goin to let ev’ryfeller run ’is own business, an’ me an’ Bill’ll flockby ourselves. Look wot I git fer tryin’ to pleaseev’rybody all the time! Somebody’s alwaysbutt’n in an’ spoilin’ ev’rythin’ I try to do. Igot hit with too damn many things out o’ the airtonight to be happy. Wot d’ye ’spose becomeo’ Cal? He’d ’a’ got a lemon if ’e’d ’a’ marriedthat ol’ swivel-eyed sliver-cat. I’m goin’ up in theravine to sleep, an’ mebbe Bill’ll show up in themornin’. Say, wot do you think o’ matrimony,anyway? Gosh! but this is rough work. Billan’ me was in a hurricane once’t out’n the Pacific—theship’s rudder got busted off an’ we wasspun along on the equator fer a thousand miles,but that wasn’t nothin’ ’side o’ this.”

The old man stood disconsolate among hisruins. There was gloom on his face as I badehim good-night, and there was a pressure in his131hand grasp, as of one who did not want to be leftalone. From a distance down the shore I couldsee the flickering light of the expiring bonfire,playing upon the scene of the recent drama, asfate toys with the destinies of human lives.

Cal’s failure to appear at his wedding wasnever accounted for. The following week wefound his shanty deserted. Its simple furnishingsand Cal’s boat were gone.

“That ol’ skeesicks ’as got more sense than Iever thought, an’ ’e’s skipped. He’ll be numberfour in that cemetery lot all right if ’e ever showsup,” declared Sipes as we parted. “She rough-housedme when I didn’t do nothin’, an’ I wouldn’tlike to see Cal’s finish if she ever gits to ’im. Thefeller that ought to marry Hellfirey Smetters isHoly Zeke.”

Perhaps from somewhere out in the darkness,Cal may have studied the group around the fireon the sand. Its light may have reflected thequiet gleam of tigerish ferocity that creeps intothe eyes of a woman who is made to wait. Hemay have been appalled by the prospect of theloss of his much-loved freedom, and recoiled fromfurther contact with a social system which had132discarded him, or he may have seen his “kitten”in a new light that dissipated illusion.

Anyway, as Sipes declared, “Elvirey’s duck”had “lit out.”

During a visit to Mrs. Smetters late in the fall,she gloomily remarked, “Now if you will tell mewot’s the use o’ livin’, I’d be very grateful!”133

VIII
THE RESURRECTION OF BILLSAUNDERS134135

VIII
THE RESURRECTION OF BILLSAUNDERS

Sipes and Saunders had acquired a detachablemotor for their boat. CatfishJohn had obtained it on one of his varioustrips to the little village at the mouth of theriver about fifteen miles away. The disgustedowner had traded it in on his fish account withJohn, and had thrown in, as a bonus, some gasoline,mixing oil, a lot of damaged small tools, amuch-worn book of instructions, and a great dealof conversation. He was careful to impress onJohn that he wanted no “come back,” and wasnot responsible in any way for what the contraptionmight or might not do after it left him. Hehad just had it “overhauled” by the makers forthe third time, and he never wanted to see it again.

John, knowing the great persistence and ingenuityof his friends, and feeling that he was in theway of doing them a favor, put the despised machinein his wagon and departed.136

The following morning he drove up the beachto the fish shanty for his supplies.

“Wot’s all this iron fickits?” asked Sipes, ashe peered curiously into the wagon.

“That’s a gas motor wot ye stick on the backo’ yer boat. You fill up the tin thing with gasolinean’ some kind of oil, an’ then whirl that wheelwot’s got the little wooden handle on it, an’ ’wayshe goes an’ runs yer boat, an’ ye don’t ’ave torow, an’ ye c’n go anywheres whar it’s wet. Itraded wot a feller owed me fer ’bout fiftypounds o’ fish fer it, an’ if you fellers want it, yec’n ’ave it if ye gimme the fish.”

“Bill, come ’ere!” yelled Sipes.

The tousled gray head of Bill Saunders appearedin the doorway of the shanty.

“Wot’s doin’?” he asked sleepily.

“Never you mind; you put on yer trowsies an’come on out ’ere an’ see wot our ol’ friend an’feller-citizen ’as fetched in.”

Without following Sipes’s instructions implicitly,the disturbed occupant of the shanty cameout to the wagon.

“This ’ere little book wot the feller gave me,”continued John, “has got it all in, with pitchers137of all the little things in the machine, an’ how togrease it, an’ run it, an’ ev’rythin’ about it.Thar’s a lot o’ figgers in it wot tells wot ye payfer all the things that gits busted.”

On the cover of the worn book, which the oldman produced, was a highly colored picture of aslender youth, gay and debonair, with one of themachines in a canvas carrying bag. He swung itlightly and merrily in his hand as he tripped alongtoward his boat, which floated in the distance,where soft ripples laved its polished sides withpink water. His derby hat was tilted to a carelessangle. On his face was a smile of joyful anticipation.There was no more suggestion ofexertion than if the bag contained toy balloonsinstead of a motor. Nevertheless it required theunited efforts of the three weather-buffeted oldfishermen to get the machine out of the wagonon to the beach. Such is the contrast betweenexuberant youth and seasoned maturity.

“I bet that feller with the hard-boiled hat ain’tgot the machine in that bag at all,” remarkedSaunders, as he studied the scene on the cover.“They’s prob’ly some fellers follerin’ ’im with itthat don’t show in the pitcher. I don’t like that cigarette138moustache on ’im; I’ll bet ’e knows durnedlittle ’bout navigation ’ceptin’ with crackers onsoup. You leave this thing ’ere an’ me an’ Sipes’lltry ’er out, an’ if it works, we’ll keep ’er. Anyhowwe’ll make up the fish yer out an’ you won’t losenothin’.”

The fish for John’s peddling trip were carefullysorted out and recorded by Sipes, with a stubbypencil, on the inside of the shanty door where theaccounts were kept. The nets had been lifted inthe early morning and the supply was abundant.When John had sold the fish the proceeds wereto be divided equally.

After John and his aged horse “Napoleon” hadleft with the slimy merchandise, the old shipmatessat down and considered the apparatus.

To this primitive coast, torn by the storms andyellowed by the suns of thousands of years, whereelemental forces had ruled since the beginning,had come a strange and misfitting thing. Itseemed an unhallowed and discordant intrusioninto the Great Harmonies. Somehow we can, ina measure, be reconciled, poetically, to the useof steam, without great violence to our worshipof the grandeur of nature’s forces, but there is139no poetry in a gasoline engine. It is a fiend thatwars upon things spiritual. Its dissonant soul-offendingclatter on the rivers that flow gentlythrough venerable woods, and out in the solitudesof wide and quiet waters is profanation.

Utilitarianism and ideality clashed when themotor touched the beach, but these things did notdisturb Sipes and Saunders, engaged in the contemplationof the machine, as bewildered savagesmight gaze upon a fragment of a meteor thathad dropped out of the sky from another world.

After a while they lugged it to the shanty. “Icould ’a’ carried it alone if I’d ’a’ had one o’ themdarby hats on!” declared Sipes.

They spent long hours over the book of instructions,and the light in the shanty burned farinto the night. They carefully and repeatedlyexamined the various parts in connection withthe text. There were some words which they didnot understand, but they finally felt that they hadmastered the problem.

Saunders remarked, as they turned into theirbunks, “I guess we got ’er, Sipes. We’ll pour inthe juice an’ start ’er up in the mornin’. Thenwe’ll buzz off on the lake an’ look at the nets.”140

“She oughta have a name on ’er, like a boat,”suggested Sipes. “S’pose we call ’er the ‘Anabel,’er sump’n like that?”

“‘Anabel’ ain’t no kind of a name fer anythin’o’ this kind. I seen that name on a sailboatonce’t that didn’t make no noise at all, an’ thisthing will. Wot’s the matter with ‘June Bug’?”

“All right,” said Sipes, “‘June Bug’ she is, nowlet’s go to sleep.”

Loud snores resounded in the shanty, and the“June Bug” spent the night on the floor near thestove. Fortunately there was no leak in the gasolinetank or fire in the stove.

With the coming of dawn the old cronies hastilyprepared breakfast. The lake was calm andeverything seemed propitious for the initial voyagewith the June Bug. That deceptive bit ofmachinery was carefully carried to the big flat-bottomedboat, and, after an hour of hard work,was securely attached to the wide stem. Thegasoline tank was filled to the top, the batteriesadjusted, the spark tested, and every detailseemed to tally with the directions. Sipes gavethe fly-wheel a couple of quick turns. The motorresponded instantly. The propeller ran in the141air with a cheerful hum, and the regular detonationsof the little engine awoke the echoes alongthe shore.

With shouts of boyish glee the old shipmatespushed the big boat over the rollers on the sandand down into the water. There was much discussionas to which should run the engine andsteer. Sipes produced a penny and, by flipping itskilfully, won the decision.

“I don’t s’pose they’s any use takin’ the oars,but I’ll put ’em in,” he observed as he threw theminto the boat.

Saunders complacently took his place forward.Sipes gave the boat a final shove and jumped in.He pushed it well out with one of the oars, andturned and looked with pride on the wonderfullabor-saving device on the stern. It seemed toogood to be true.

“Say, Bill, to think that us fellers c’n go hundredso’ miles out’n the lake, if we want to, an’ev’rywhere else, an’ let this dingus do all thework. We c’n set an’ smoke an’ watch the foam,an’ listen to the hummin’ o’ the Bug. I’ve heardfellers go by way out b’yond the nets with themchoo-choo boats, but I never seen wot did it142before. Gosh! but this is fine. Now all we gottado is to touch ’er off an’ away we go!”

The old man’s single eye beamed with enthusiasm,as he grasped the handle and made theprescribed turns. The result was a couple ofpops and some coughing sounds somewhere in theconcealed iron recesses.

“Guess she’s coy, an’ I didn’t give ’er enough.I’ll whirl ’er some more.” His efforts were againineffectual.

“Lemme try ’er,” pleaded Saunders.

“Not on yer life! You keep off. You don’tknow nothin’ ’bout machines. She’ll be all rightin a minute. Gimme that book!”

The boat drifted sideways for some time whileSipes studied the directions and puttered over theparts with various tools.

“I’ll jolly ’er up with the screw-driver an’monkey-wrench, an’ she’ll feel better.” He tinkeredand cranked for nearly an hour, duringwhich time Saunders offered many ill-receivedsuggestions. Then came a torrent of invective.

“You got too many whiskers to swear likethat,” remarked Saunders, “you’ll burn ’em.”

“Never you mind, I’m watchin’ ’em! The man143wot ’ud make a thing like this, an’ take good cashmoney fer it, er even fish, oughta be cut up an’sizzled!” he declared. “The skin’s all offen myhands, an’ I wish the devil wot built this gas bug’ud ’ave to keep ’is head in hot tar ’til she went.Come ’ere, Bill, an’ start ’er up. You seem toknow so much about it.”

They exchanged places and Sipes glared maliciouslyat the rebellious motor from the bow.Saunders put his pipe in his pocket, produced achunk of “plug twist,” and bit off a large piece.He stowed it comfortably and considered theproblem before him. After a couple of hours offruitless efforts the profanity in the boat becameunified and vociferous. The ancestors of themakers of the motor, and those of the man whohad it last, as well as the undoubted destiny ofeverybody who had ever had any connection withit, were embraced in sulphuric execration. Johnwas, in a way, excepted. He “meant well,” buthe was “a damned old fool.”

After this general vituperation the old sailorsrested for a while and rowed back. The constantcranking had turned the propeller a great manytimes. The boat had made erratic headway and144was quite a distance from shore. They landed,pulled the boat out on the sand with the windlass,and retired to the shanty for lunch andconsultation.

Saunders strolled out a little later, with a pieceof cold fried fish in his hand, and looked the motorover again. He gave the fly-wheel a careless turnand the engine started off gayly. Sipes heard thewelcome sound and ran out, spilling his coffeeover the door step. Lunch was discontinued, andthe boat was re-floated. There was more cranking,but no answering vibrations. With moreprofanity the craft was restored to its berth onthe sand, and another retreat made to the shanty.

“The Bug’ll run all right on land,” declaredSipes, “an’ we’ll turn the propeller so’s the edges’llbe fore an’ aft, an’ belay it. We’ll bend a rimon it an’ fasten some little truck wheels on thebottom o’ the boat. Then we’ll run the ol’ girlup an’ down on the hard sand ’long the edge o’the water. We won’t go in the lake at all ’tilwe git ’er well het up, an’ then we’ll turn ’er insudden an’ cut them lashin’s. She won’t knowshe’s in an’ ’way she’ll go.”

For many days the old shipmates struggled145with the obstinate mechanism. It once ran foran hour without a break and they were jubilant.“Some gas bug that!” Saunders exclaimed joyfully,but just then it sputtered and stopped.They were quite a ways out, and the oars hadbeen forgotten. Fortunately there was a lightin-shore breeze and they drifted to the beach abouttwo miles from home.

The oars were finally procured and the dayclosed with everything snug and tight at theshanty.

“I bet we ain’t got the right kind o’ gasoline,”declared Sipes. “They’s lots o’ kinds. This ’erewot’s in the Bug ain’t got no kick to it. We gottoo much oil mixed in it, an’ we gotta git s’more.”

When John came again the many troubles wererelated to him. He knew nothing of motors, butoffered to get some more gasoline when he wentto the village, and to bring the former owner ofthe motor over to see if he could suggest anything.

“You jest fetch that feller,” said Sipes, “an’we’ll take ’im out fer a nice little spin on the lake,an’ we’ll go where it’s deep.”

When the new gasoline came there was much146more tinkering and study of the directions.Resignation alternated with hope. Sometimesthe motor would run, but more often it refused.John finally took it to the village and it wasshipped to the makers. A carefully and painfullycomposed letter was put in the “pustoffice.”The long-delayed answer was that the machineneeded “overhauling,” which would cost abouthalf as much as a new one.

“The money that them pie-biters makes ain’tsellin’ motors, but overhaulin’ ’em,” declaredSipes. They sell one o’ them bum things an’ gittheir hooks in an’ git a stiddy income from itlong as you’ll stand fer it.”

It was decided, after much discussion, to sendthe money “fer the overhaulin’.” Several monthselapsed. The machine came back too late to beof further use that season, and was carefullystowed away for the winter.

“She’ll prob’ly need another ‘overhaulin’’ inthe spring ’fore she’ll go, an’ them fellers’ll wantto nick us ag’in an’ keep ’er all next summer,” saidSaunders. “If they charged by the days theykep’ ’er instid o’ by the job, we’d be busted.They’ll bust us anyhow, an’ it might as well be147all at one crack. The Bug’s goin’ to stay in thehouse now, where she won’t git wet. She ain’tgoin’ out on the vasty deep no more ’til spring.If she gits uneasy, she c’n run ’round in ’ere.”

The following May I called at the shanty andfound Sipes sitting disconsolately in the door-way.After visiting with him for a while, I inquired forSaunders.

“Poor Bill’s dead. I ain’t got no partner nowan’ it’s awful lonesome. He was a nice ol’ feller.He fussed ’round with the gas bug fer days an’days, an’ ’e couldn’t make it go. He come inone night late, an’ the next mornin’ ’e didn’t gitup. He didn’t seem in ’is right mind. His hand’ud keep goin’ ’round an’ ’round, like it wascrankin’ sump’n. Then ’e’d make sputterin’sounds with ’is mouth like as if a motor wasgoin’, an’ then ’e’d keep still a long time like theBug does, an’ then begin ag’in. He wouldn’t eatnothin’, an’ one night he said ’e guessed ’e neededoverhaulin’. Then ’e said ‘choo-choo! choo-choo!’three er four times, an’ ’e was gone. Come onwith me an’ I’ll show you where ’e was laid away.”

We walked along the shore a short distance,crossed the beach and climbed the bluff. Near148the foot of an old pine was a mound, on whichwas scattered the dried remnants of many springflowers, which probably had come from the lowground in the ravine. Several bunches of whitetrilliums, with their leaves and roots, had beentransplanted to the mound, but they had witheredand died. A wide board, which protrudedfrom the ground at the head of the grave, borethe rude inscription:BiLL SauNDERS—DEADUnder the name was a rough drawing of the fly-wheelof the motor, evidently made with Sipes’sstubby pencil.

Chiselled epitaphs on granite tombs have said,but told no more.

We stood for some time before the mound.The old sailor wiped a tear from his single eye aswe left Bill’s last resting place in silence andsorrow.

“Him an’ me was shipmates,” said the old mansadly, as we returned to the shanty. “I off’n goup there an’ set down an’ think about ’im. Billwas honest. They’s lots o’ fellers that wouldn’tswipe nothin’ that was red-hot an’ nailed down,149’spesh’ly ’round ’ere, but Bill never’d touchnothin’ that didn’t b’long to him er me. It wasthe gas bug that killed ’im. Fust it made ’imdaffy an’ then it finished ’im. She’s over therenow on the stern o’ the boat. I ain’t never had’er out this year, but I’m goin’ to try ’er once’t,jest fer Bill’s sake. I think ’e’d like to have medo it.”

After many condolences, and a general reviewof the Bug’s disgraceful career by Sipes, I pickedup my sketching outfit and resumed my journey,depressed, as we all are, by a sense of the transienceand unsolvable mystery of life, when wehave stood near one who has gone.

One calm morning, about a month later, I wasrowing on the lake several miles from Sipes’sshanty. A boat appeared in the distance. Itshigh sides, broad beam, the labored, intermittentcoughing of a motor, and the doughty little bewhiskeredfigure on the stern seat were unmistakable.Sipes altered his course slightly so asto pass within fifty or sixty yards. I wonderedwhy he did not come nearer. He went on bywith a cheery “Wot Oh!” and a friendly waveof his hand. Evidently he was on some errand150that he did not want to explain, or was afraid tostop the motor, fearing that it would not startagain. In a few weeks I encountered him again,under almost identical conditions. His nets werenowhere in the vicinity.

In the early fall I found an old flat-roofed hut,built with faced logs, about six miles down thecoast, in the direction that the old man had beengoing when I had last seen him. It was in ahollow near the top of a high bluff that faced thelake. It was effectually hidden from the waterand shore by a bank of sand and tangled growthalong the edge of the bluff. Built against theoutside was a large dilapidated brick chimney,entirely out of proportion in size to the cabin.No smoke issued from it and the place seemeddeserted. I went down to the beach. A mile orso further on I found a fisherman repairing a boaton the sand, and asked him about the cabin.

“That place is witched,” he declared. “Thar’sfunny doin’s ’round thar at night an’ don’t yougo near it. Thar’s a white thing that dances onthe roof. It goes up an’ down an’ out o’ sight,an’ then thar’s a big thunderin’ noise. I don’twant to know no more ’bout it’n I know now. It151don’t look right to me. I seen a wild man ’round’ere in the woods once’t, a couple o’ years ago,an’ mebbe he lived thar an’ ’e’s dead an’ ’e hantsthat place. I don’t come ’round ’ere often an’ Idon’t want to.”

My curiosity was aroused and I decided toinvestigate the mystery when an opportunitycame. About nine o’clock one night I walked upa little trail in the sand that led toward the cabinfrom the woods back of the bluff. There was adim light inside that was extinguished when Icarelessly stepped on a mass of dead brush thathad been piled across the path. The breaking ofthe little sticks had made quite a noise. Immediatelya long, wavy, white object appeared overthe roof of the cabin. It vaguely resembled ahuman shape and looked peculiarly uncanny. Itswayed back and forth a few times and thenseemed to grow taller. The trees beyond werepartially visible through it in the uncertain light.Clearly I was in the presence of a spook. Theapparition vanished as suddenly as it came.Then a dull, hollow sound came from the cabin,followed by a low, rasping, ringing noise. Whenit ceased, the silence was weird and oppressive.152

I went on by the structure to the edge of thebluff, where another pile of dry brush obstructedthe path, and purposely walked on it, instead ofover the high sand on the sides of the opening.The breaking sticks made more noise. I turnedand again saw the spectral form over the roof.The wraith swayed slowly to the right and left,bent backward and forward a few times, grewlonger and shorter, and disappeared as before.

In departing I stumbled over a board whichstuck out of the sand, and in the dim light coulddistinguish the words “Dinnymite—Keep Out!”heavily scrawled on it with red paint.

Evidently visitors were not wanted, and thetell-tale brush-piles were designed to give alarmof the approach of intruders. The functions ofthe filmy ghost and the queer sounds were toinspire terror of the place.

I related my experience to Sipes the next timeI saw him. He was deeply interested.

“Did ye hear any groanin’ after them funnysounds?” he asked, with a quizzical look in hiseye. I replied that I had not.

“I’ll tell ye wot we’ll do,” said he, after a fewmoments of reflection, “you an’ me’ll go down to153that bogie house some time an’ we’ll butt in an’see wot’s doin’. I gotta go that way in the boatnext week. We’ll take the gun, an’ mebbe we’llblow that bogie offen the top o’ the house. I seenthat place last year an’ I know where it is.”

I did not approve of the idea of needlessly invadingthe privacy of anybody who did not wantto see us, and who had inhospitably stocked theirdomain with brush-piles, ghosts, and forbiddingplacards, but there was a strange look in Sipes’seye that convinced me that the trip might in someway be justified.

On the appointed day we made the start. “Ialways spend jest an hour tunin’ up the Bug,”remarked the old man, as he began cranking themotor, “an’ then if she don’t pop, I cuss ’er outfer jest fifteen minutes, an’ then I row. Hell, Igotta have some system!”

Fortunately the Bug was in good humor andtook us three-quarters of the distance without abreak. It then went to sleep, and half an hour’scranking and assiduous doctoring failed to arouse it.

“I got a great scheme,” said Sipes. “W’enshe gits like that I fasten the steerin’ gear solidfer the way I want to go, an’ then w’en I keep on154crankin’, the propeller goes ’round an’ ’round,an’ I keep goin’ some.”

A little later a single turn of the fly-wheelstarted the treacherous device, but it was goingbackward. Sipes promptly seized the oarsand turned the stern of the boat toward ourdestination.

“We got ’er now! Jest keep quiet an’ touchwood! Sometimes she likes to do that, an’ if Itry to reverse ’er she’ll balk. She thinks it’s timeto go home, but it ain’t. This crawfish navigat’n’sfine w’en ye git used to it.”

We landed beyond a point on the beach whichwas opposite to the cabin. After we had securedthe boat to some heavy drift-wood with a longrope, I followed Sipes up the side of a bluff westof the cabin. We made a detour through thewoods and approached it at dusk. The dry brush-pilespractically surrounded it at a distance ofabout fifty yards.

“Don’t step on none o’ them sticks,” cautionedSipes. He gave a low, peculiar whistle, which wasanswered from the cabin. “That there’s the highsign,” he remarked, as we walked to the door.We were greeted by Bill Saunders, alive and in155the flesh. He seemed surprised that Sipes hadbrought a visitor, but was very cordial. Sipesgreatly enjoyed the situation and chuckled overwhat he considered an immense joke.

“You see it’s like this,” he explained. “Billgot to thinkin’ wot’s the use o’ gasoline? W’ynot have sump’n that ’ud run ferever, an’ not’ave to keep buyin’ that stuff all the time? He’dset an’ think about it in the shanty an’ thensomebody’d butt in an’ mess up ’is thinkin’.He’d go ’way off an’ set on the sand by ’isself,an’ then some geezer’d come snoopin’ ’long an’chin ’im, an’ ’e couldn’t git no thinkin’ done.

“That cusséd dog o’ Cal’s come ’long the beachone mornin’. He’s bin runnin’ wild since Cal litout. Fer years this whole country’s been fussedup with ’im an’ ’is doin’s. He died jest as ’e waspass’n the shanty. We buried ’im up there onthat bluff, an’ that gave Bill an’ me an idea. Wefixed up the place so’s people ’ud think Bill ’adfaded. Then we humped off down to this bogiehouse so Bill could ’ave some peace an’ quiet todo ’is thinkin’ in. Bill’s invent’n some kind o’power that’ll make ev’rythin’ hum w’en ’e gits itfinished. It’ll put all them other kinds o’ machines156on the blink. That cusséd motor’ll go’round an’ ’round, an’ she can’t stop ev’ry timeye bat yer eye at ’er.

“I been bringin’ things down ’ere fer Bill toeat, an’ sometimes little beasties come ’round thehut wot ’e shoots. We fixed up that dry brushso’s nobody ’ud come snoopin’ ’round withoutBill knowin’ it. Him an’ me’s goin’ to dividewot we make out o’ th’ invention, an’ we’ll ’avecash money to burn w’en ’e gits it goin’. We’llset in a float’n palace out’n the lake an’ smokeseegars, with bands on ’em, an’ let the other fellersdo the fishin’, won’t we, Bill?”

“You bet!” responded Saunders. Just then weheard a sound of breaking sticks outside. Instantlyhe seized a long pole that lay along theside of the wall. It was fitted with a cross-pieceand a round top. Over it was draped variouskinds of thin white fabric. He mounted a boxand pushed the contrivance up through a holein the flat roof, moved it up and down, wavedthe upper end back and forth a few times, andwithdrew it. He thumped the empty box heavilywith the end of the pole as he took it in, andpicked up about four feet of rusty chain, which157he shook and dragged over the edge of the boxseveral times.

Through a small chink between the logs wesaw a dim figure moving rapidly away in thegloom. We heard the crackling of the brush atthe edge of the bluff, and knew that the intruderhad gone.

“That feller’s got the third degree all right,”remarked Saunders, as he carefully put the ghostback into its place. “’Tain’t often anybody comes,but w’en they do they gotta be foiled off. Themdinnymite signs helps in the daytime, but fernight we gotta have sump’n else.

“This dress’n’ on the ghost mast come fromElvirey Smetters. We made up with ’er after’er wedd’n with Cal busted up an’ Cal skipped.She was wearin’ most o’ this tackle fer the wedd’n,an’ she said she didn’t never want to see it ag’in.There’s a big thin veil fer the top o’ the pole, an’some o’ the other stuff she said was long-cherry,er sump’n like that. We keep that hatch batteneddown w’en it rains, but she’s loose most o’the time. W’en I shove the ghost out it pushes itopen.”

Saunders extracted some rye bread, salt pork,158and cheese from a cupboard. We fried the porkin a skillet over some embers in the big brickfire-place, and toasted the cheese. After oursimple meal the old man piled more wood on thefire, and we smoked and talked until quite late.

The mechanism, on which Saunders was spendinghis days of seclusion, reposed under sometattered canvas near the wall. He was reticentconcerning it, but Sipes volunteered the informationthat “they was some little wood’n balls wotwent up an’ down in some tubes that was filledwith oil, an’ then they rolled ’round inside of awheel an’ come back.”

“Now you shut up!” commanded Saunders.“You leave this thing to me ’til I git it done, an’then you c’n talk ’til yer hat’s wore out. Theyain’t no use talkin’ ’til we git somew’eres, an’ thenwe won’t ’ave to talk. Wait ’til I git some littlesprings that’ll spread out quick an’ come backslow, an’ we’ll be through.”

Saunders’s mind was struggling with the eternaland alluring problem of perpetual motion. Hewas groping blindly for the priceless jewel thatwould revolutionize the world of mechanics.

It was after midnight when we bade him good-by,159and departed through the moonlit woods forthe beach.

We left the old man in the company of his fire,and is there greater companionship? It is in ourfires that we find the realm of reverie. Thefecund world of fancy reveals its fair fields androse-tinted clouds in the vistas of shimmeringlight. Memory brings forth pages that the yearshave blurred. Fleeting filaments of faces wondrousfair, that long ago faded into the mists, smilewistfully, in halos of tremulous hues, and vanish.Slow-moving figures, crowned with wreaths ofgray, sometimes linger, turn with looks of tendermother love, and dissolve in the curling smoke.The years that have slumbered in the old logscome forth at the touch of a familiar wand, anda soft light illumines chambers that time hassealed. The grim realities are lost in the glow ofour hearth. In the dreamland of the fire wemay ride noble steeds and soar on tireless pinions.We see heroes fight and fall. Cities with gildedwalls and bright towers, broad landscapes, enthrallingbeauty, leaves of laurel on triumphantbrows, majestic pageants, and acclaiming multitudes,are pictured in the flickering flames.160

On the little stage under the arch of the fireplacethe puppets come and go,—the comediesand the tragedies, the laughter and the sorrow.The dramas of hopes and fears are enacted in shiftingpantomimes that melt away into the gloom.

Our hearth-stones are the symbols of home.We go forth to battle when their sanctity is imperilled.It would be a desolate world withoutour fires. Winding highways lead through themon which he who travels must mark the light andnot the ruin. He must feel the glow and not theburning, and be far beyond the ashes when theycome.

In the twilight, when our lives become gray,and only the embers lie before us, we can stilldream, if our souls are strong. If we have learnedto live with the ideals we have created, instead ofcharred hopes, golden visions may linger in themellow light. Happy hours, as transient as thefitful flames, may dance again, and shine amongthe smouldering coals.

The grizzled old sailor, who had been fortune’stoy, and had been cast aside, may have found hissolace in the visions before his fire. The picturesin it may have been of millions of wheels turned161with the new force, myriads of aëroplanes soaringthrough the skies, dynamos of inexhaustible powergiving heat and light, and countless looms spinningthe fabrics of the world.

He may have seen himself worshipped, not forhis achievement, but for his wealth, in the domainof Vulgaria, where Avarice is king—where worthis measured by dollars—where utter selfishnessrules, and the cave man still dwells, veneered witha gilded tinsel of what, in his foolish pride, hethinks is civilization—where vanity parades inthe guise of charity—where cruelty and greedhide under fine raiment—where human hyenasrend the weak and grovel before the strong—wherethe bestial*ty of the Hun darkens theworld—where the only god is Gold, and wherethe idealist must fight or perish.

One night during the following spring I passedthe cabin. The little structure, from which agreat light might have radiated over the scientificworld, was deserted. A pale, ghostly gleam wasvisible through the empty window frame. Itmight have been a phosphorescent glow from oneof the decaying wall-logs, or a faint spark from thedream-fire that ever burns in the hearts of men.162163

IX
THE WINDING RIVER’S TREASURE164165

IX
THE WINDING RIVER’S TREASURE

There was much bustle and preparationaround the fish shanty one August morning.Hoarded on a shelf of the bluff werea lot of water-worn boards, which had drifted inalong the beach at various times, or been thrownup by the storms, and gradually gathered.

The old shipmates had selected suitable piecesfrom the pile, and were busily engaged, with hammerand saw, in building a cabin on the big boat.It was a cumbrous and unwieldy craft, abouttwenty feet long, with high sides and a broadbeam. For years it had been used in the work ofinstalling the pound- and gill-nets in the lake, andfor the necessary visits to them when the surfwas too high for the small row-boat, which waskept for ordinary use.

The long oars, with which Sipes and Saundershad so often fought the big waves, were not exactlymated, but when the detachable motor onthe wide stern failed to run, navigation was still166possible. A bowsprit had been added to the boat,and a mast protruded through the partially completedcabin. Many rusty nails and odd piecesentered into the building of the superstructure.A large square of soiled canvas and some miscellaneouscordage lay scattered about on the sand.Some scrawled lettering in red paint across thestern indicated that the boat was henceforth tobe the Crawfish.

“We’r’ goin’ on a v’yage,” explained Sipes.“We’r’ goin’ ’way off up the lake, an’ we’ll touchat diff’nt ports fer some stores we gotta have, an’then we’r’ comin’ back, an’ we’r’ goin’ to a cert’nriver you know ’bout, an’ we’r’ goin’ up it. Ifyou want to make pitchers, you c’n come ’long.We’ll stop an’ take you aboard w’en we come bywith the stuff we gotta git.”

I had learned from experience that Sipesusually became reticent when questioned tooclosely. It was better to let him volunteer whateverhe wanted to say about his own affairs. Iwas careful not to evince any curiosity as to theobject of the river trip, and gladly accepted theinvitation, as I had intended visiting the riverduring the fall.167

The shanty was stripped of most of its smallmovable contents, which were put on board whenthe additions were completed. The nets weretaken into the house and piled up. The smallboat was laid on top of them along the wall, andthe door fastened with a rusty padlock.

Sipes remarked, as he put the key in his pocket,that “they was always some bulgarious fellerrubber’n round fer sump’n light an’ easy, that’ud clean out that shanty if it wasn’t batt’n’d upan’ locked.”

The reincarnated craft was floated, and itsailed slowly away, with the doughty marinersgiving boisterous orders to each other.

A week later I heard a loud halloo, and criesof “Wot Oh!” down on the beach opposite to mycamp in the dunes. I looked over the edge ofthe bluff and saw the Crawfish riding proudly onthe low swells. The broad sail flapped idly in thebreeze, and Saunders was ensconced on top of thecabin, smoking his pipe. Sipes had waded ashoreand was waiting to help get my belongings on board.

A small tent, a supply of canned goods, sketchingmaterials, a camera, and other items werecarefully stowed. My row-boat was connected168with a line, and we were ready to start. We hadonly about fifteen miles to go, and expected toreach the mouth of the river about noon.

The cabin was characteristic of its builders. Itwas intended for use and not as an ornament.Ordinarily two could sleep in it comfortably, butthe present cargo taxed its capacity. There waslittle ventilation when the door was closed. Whatfresh air there was entered through a pair ofauger holes, which had evidently been bored forobservation purposes. I suggested that the airinside would be better if the holes were larger,or if there were more of them, but Sipes claimedthat they were large enough.

“Air c’n come in now faster’n you c’n breathit. Jest notice how much bigger them holes isthan them in yer nose.” Such logic was uncombatableand the subject was changed.

The motor worked spasmodically and we sailedmost of the way. The breeze died down when wewere about half a mile from where the WindingRiver came out of the dunes. After much crankingthe motor started, but would only run backwards.We turned the stern toward the river’smouth and made fair progress.169

“That’s w’y we named ’er the Crawfish,” explainedSipes. “We know’d we’d ’ave to do alot o’ that kind o’ navigat’n’.”

We ran on to a small sand-bar, which delayedus for some time, but got off with the oars. Aftera hard row against the current, we entered themouth of the river, which was not over fifty yardswide. We heard the sound of music from amongthe decayed ruins of a pier that extended into thelake. Seated on some chunks of broken limestone,between the rotting piles, we saw a gray-hairedcolored man of about sixty. He was playing“Money Musk” on a mouth organ. Near hima cane fish-pole was stuck in among the rocks,and extended out over the water. He was whilingaway the time between bites with his music.

“I bet that feller ain’t no nigro,” remarkedSipes. “He looks like a white man wot’s beensmoked.”

The solitary fisherman regarded us with anexpectant look, as we tied up to one of the piles.

“Good mawnin’, gen’lemen! Does you-allhapp’n to have sump’n to drink in yo’ boat?”

“We ain’t got nothin’ wet but wot’s leaked in.You c’n ’ave some o’ that if you want it,” Sipes170replied with some asperity. “Wot’s the matterwith the lake if you’r’ thirsty?”

“Ah beg yo’ pa’don, but you-all looked likegen’lemen that might have sump’n with you.This ain’t thirst. Ah got a misery, an’ it ’curredto me you might like to save ma life. Ah ain’thad no breakfus’, an Ah feels weak.”

“Listen at that smoke,” said Sipes, in an undertone.“Wonder if ’e thinks we’r’ a float’n’ s’loon?”

Evidently discouraged over his prospects withSipes, the old darky turned to me.

“Say, Boss, will you gimme a qua’tah, so Ahc’n go an’ git some breakfus’?”

We thought it better to give him some “breakfus’”from the boat, and, as it was lunch time, wepassed part of our eatables over to him.

“Ah nevah had the pleas’ah of meet’n yougen’lemen befo’. Ma name’s Na’cissus Jackson,an’ Ah’m up heah f’om the south. Ah ce’t’nlyam ’bliged to you fo’ this li’l breakfus’.”

We talked with Narcissus for some time. Evidentlyhe was a victim of strong drink. He haddrifted into prohibition territory, the extent ofwhich he did not know, and out of which he hadno financial means of escape.171

“Ah’m on a dry island, Boss, an’ Ah don’tknow how Ah’m goin’ to git off it. Ah was cookat the place wheah Ah wo’ked, an’ Ah got fiahedjust ’cause Ah didn’t show up one mawnin’. Theywas goin’ to have me ’rested fo’ sump’n Ah didn’thave nuff’n to do with, an’ Ah come heah fo’ ali’l vacation.”

Sipes suggested that we ought to have a pilotto take us up the river, on account of its manysand-bars, that must have shifted since he wason it after ducks years ago.

“We oughta have somebody sett’n on top o’the cab’n to yell out, an’ keep us from butt’n intosump’n w’en we’r’ tear’n up stream. This ain’tno canoe, an’ we got import’nt business an’ wedon’t want to git stuck,” declared the old man.

“Theah’s a man ovah in the village namedCap’n Peppehs, that knows all about this rivah,”replied Narcissus. “S’pos’n you-all gimme aqua’tah, an’ Ah’ll go up an’ git Cap’n Peppehsfo’ you.”

I agreed to furnish the coveted coin if “Cap’nPeppehs” was produced, and our new-found friendtook in his pole, climbed out over the rough stonefilling, and departed for the village, which was172only a short distance off. He soon reappeared,accompanied by a pompous, deep-voiced old man,with a red nose and scraggly whiskers, who lookedus over with curiosity.

“My name’s Peppers. What can I do for you?”he asked in a friendly tone.

“We’r’ goin’ up the river an’ we don’t want togit messed up on no sand-bars,” replied Saunders.“If you been navigat’n’ these waters, we’d like togit you to go ’long ’til we git where we want to go.”

“If you’ll drop me off back o’ the third bend,I’ll git aboard,” said the old man. “You won’tneed no pilot after that. You c’n go on up an’not hit anythin’ but float’n snags beyond that ferthree miles in that craft.”

He got into the boat. I handed Narcissus his“qua’tah,” and he picked his way back over therocks to his fish-pole, where, like his fabled namesake,he may have found solace in the contemplationof his image in the placid water.

“Cap’n Peppehs” examined the motor withinterest. “Are you goin’ to run ’er up withthat?” he asked.

“Yes, if she’ll go,” replied Saunders, “but Ibet she won’t. A friend of ours that peddles173fish got it some’r’s ’round ’ere, an’ turned it overto us. If we ever cetch the feller that shifted thatcusséd thing onto John, we’r’ goin’ to kill ’im.We got a gun in the cab’n wot’s wait’n’ fer ’im.”

“I know sump’n ’bout them things,” said theCaptain, “an’ mebbe I c’n start ’er.” He fussedover the machine for some time, and finally got itgoing. With the help of the oars we made fairprogress against the slow current.

“You c’n go on up now an’ camp in that buncho’ timber beyond the marsh, an’ you’ll be allright,” said the old man, when we reached thepoint where he was to leave us. “You’ll find amighty fine spring up there.”

We thanked him warmly for his services. Sipesproffered the hospitality of a two-gallon jug,which he extracted from the pile of stuff in thecabin. It was eagerly accepted. He wished usgood luck, and disappeared.

“That’ll make ’is nose bloom some more,” remarkedSipes. “He’s a nice ol’ feller, but wot’ssprings to him? It wasn’t no green peppers ’ewas named after.”

The river made many turns in its sinuous coursethrough the marsh, and it was nearly dark when174we reached a hard bank at the edge of thewoods.

The Crawfish was made fast to a venerable elm,and we went ashore.

“I’ll put a couple o’ extra hitches on ’er so shecan’t back off in the night, if the gas bug takes anotion to git busy,” said Saunders, as he tookanother line ashore from the stern.

It was warm and pleasant, and we decided thatno shelter would be necessary that night. Webuilt a small fire against the side of a log, fried somebacon in a skillet, made coffee, and fared well, ifnot sumptuously, with supplies from the boat.

We sat around and talked until quite late.The object of the expedition was revealed bySaunders.

“They was a feller that come to the bogie-houseone night w’en they was a big storm that ’adcome up sudd’n. He’d come from the lake, an’it was blowin’ so hard that it ’ud take hair off afrog. He’d started on a long trip with a littleboat. He had one o’ them cusséd motors like wotwe got, an’ it went punk, an’ ’e had an awful timegit’n’ in alive. He seen my light an’ come up. Ididn’t ’ear ’im til ’e knocked, so I didn’t ’ave no175chance to spring the ghost on ’im. W’en I seenthe mess ’e was in, I took ’im in an’ fed ’im an’dried ’im out ’fore the fire.

“He seemed to be a scientific feller, an’ ’e toldme a lot about the rivers all over the country.He said that durin’ the fall ’is business was to go’round an’ buy pearls wot fishers got out o’ themfresh-water clams that’s all over the bottoms o’the rivers. He’d pay ’em good prices. He saidthe pearls ’ad thin layers on ’em, like onions, an’sometimes one would look like it was no good.Then ’e’d take a steel thing an’ peel off the outsideskin, an’ sometimes ’e’d git one that waythat was wuth five hundred dollars. Then ’esaid they was button companies that ’ud buy allthe shells o’ the clams, so they was a lot o’ moneyin it, even if they wasn’t no pearls found. Hehad a little pearl in ’is pocket that ’e’d peeled.It wasn’t a very good one—prob’ly wuth threeer four dollars. He gave it to me fer bein’ goodto ’im, an’ ’ere it is.”

The old sailor carefully unrolled a small pieceof paper, which he took out of his tobacco pouch,and produced the pearl.

“This feller gimme a little book that didn’t176’ave no cover on, that’s sent out by the gov’ment,an’ it tells all about clam fish’n’, an’ how to makedrag-hooks, an’ how to rig ’em, an’ drag ’em, an’all about it.”

He brought out the interesting pamphlet, withthe address of the giver written in pencil on oneof the margins.

“The next mornin’ I helped the feller put wotwas left o’ his boat an’ motor up in the bogie-house,an’ ’e went off through the woods. Hesaid ’e’d come back some day an’ git ’em.

“Invent’n’s no good. We gotta git sump’n wec’n git a big bunch o’ money out of. Fish’n’sgit’n’ to be too hard work fer us. They’s slews o’wealth in this water, an’ we’r’ goin’ to git it out an’we won’t ’ave to work no more. We didn’t saynothin’ to nobody. John come ’round an’ we told’im, but ’e’s all right. This whole thing’s a darksecret. It’s all right fer you to know, but wegotta keep still, er the place’ll be full o’ flatboatsan’ the pearls’ll be gone. Sipes an’ me’s seenwhere the mushrats ’as been pilin’ the shells’round them little places where they got holes inthe banks, an’ out’n the marsh where their housesare, w’en we was down ’ere duck-shoot’n’. If177them little beasties c’n git ’em, we c’n mop outthe whole river with all that tackle that the booktells about.”

“The fust thing we gotta do, after we git aflatboat built, is to git some heavy wire fer themclam drags,” said Sipes. “We c’n go back to therailroad an’ git some out between them telegraphpoles. The wire don’t cost them fellers nothin’,an’ it’s better we should ’ave it. Tomorrer we’llrig up a reg’lar camp, an’ then we’ll go to workon all the things we gotta git ready so we c’nbegin devastat’n them clamsies.”

The old man then went over to the boat forthe jug. He set it down and began working thecork out with his knife.

“I don’t do much drink’n’, but me an’ Bill’sgit’n’ old, an’ we’r’ in a my-larious country, an’we gotta have grog once an’ aw’ile.”

Just as the cork came out, we heard a rustle ofdead leaves on the ground back of us.

“Good evenin’, gen’lemen!” greeted NarcissusJackson, as he appeared out of the darkness, andwalked deferentially up to the fire. “Fine evenin’,ain’t it?”

“You bet it’s a fine evenin’!” exclaimed Sipes,178with freezing politeness. “How fur off did yousmell this jug from?”

“Ah just thought Ah’d drop ’round an’ see howyou gen’lemen was get’n’ ’long. Ah come up ina li’l boat I got offen Cap’n Peppehs. Ah sawyo’ fiah, an’ Ah just come to pay ma respec’s.Is you-all well an’ puffec’ly comfo’ble up heah?How’s you feel’n’, Mr. Sipes? Seem’s like youhad a li’l cold this mawnin’.”

“I’m better, but ‘Ah feels weak,’” quotedSipes, with biting sarcasm.

“Ah ce’t’nly am glad to heah yo’ voice again,”continued Narcissus. “It’s a long tia’some row upheah, an Ah ce’t’nly am glad to find you gen’lemenall sit’n’ so comfo’ble ’round yo’ li’l fiah.”

The veiled appeal was irresistible. Sipes handedover the jug and cup, after he and Saunders hadbeen “refreshed,” and he had pitied my teetotalismwith a patronizing glance.

“That’s a nice li’l tin cup, an’ that’s an awfulpretty shaped jug,” observed our unexpected visitor,as he affectionately watched the red liquidtrickle out. “Pa’don me, but Ah always closesma eyes when Ah take ma li’l drink, ’cause ifAh don’t, ma mouth watahs so it weak’ns ma179whiskey.” The contents of the cup instantlyvanished.

We were about ready to make our arrangementsfor the night when Narcissus appeared. Fortunatelymy own supplies included a lot of mosquitonetting. I got it out and he promptly offered tohelp. He deftly improvised an effective coveringwith the netting and some sticks that excited theadmiration of all of us.

“If you’d git toughed up, an’ raise a face o’whiskers, them skeets wouldn’t chase after you,”observed Sipes.

Narcissus sat on a log and did not seem inclinedto go away.

“Say, Boss, will you lemme have a qua’tahto get ma breakfus’ with in the mawnin’?” heasked humbly.

The request was cheerfully complied with. Ireally liked Narcissus. His interesting face,winning personality, and happy-go-lucky waysappealed to my sense of the picturesque. It occurredto me that if the jug could be eliminatedfrom the situation, he would be a valuable additionto the camp. I invited him to stay all nightand have breakfast with us in the morning.180

When Sipes heard the invitation accepted, hewent down to the boat to satisfy himself thatSaunders had locked the door when he had returnedthe jug to the cabin.

In the morning Narcissus volunteered to prepareour simple breakfast. He did it with suchskill that we realized that our own cooking wascrude and amateurish.

During the forenoon I had a long talk with him.He was stranded and would like to stay with usif we were willing. For a moderate stipend heagreed to do the cooking and make himself generallyuseful.

I did not wish to intrude too much on the oldshipmates, and, as I wanted to be alone much ofthe time, and do some sketching along the river,I established my camp about a hundred yardsfurther up on the same side of the stream. ThisI judged to be near enough for sociability, andfar enough for privacy. Narcissus helped erectmy tent, and made many ingenious arrangementsfor my work and comfort.

The old sailors became so enthusiastic over hiscooking that they were glad to have him downwith them most of the time. The sail had been181taken off the boat, and a “lean-to” tent riggedbetween two trees, where they all slept.

“You jest watch that cookie coin pancakes!”exclaimed Sipes. “He jest whisks up the dopein the pan, an’ gives ’em a couple o’ flops, an’they all come to pieces in yer mouth ’fore yebegin chewin’.”

He seemed to anticipate all our wants. He hadevidently overheard what Sipes had said abouttelegraph wire, and the second morning afterwardthere was about a hundred feet of it incamp, with a pair of heavy wire-nippers, andother tools used by repair men on the lines, whichhe said he had found. The next night he came inwith a half-grown turkey, which he claimed hehad found dead in a fence, where it had caughtit* neck on the barbed wire. The unfortunatebird was roasted to a beautiful brown, and Inoticed that the feathers were carefully burned.

The aspect of affairs was getting serious. Itook Narcissus in hand and subjected him to athorough cross-examination. I told him that wewanted to pay for anything we used, and that hepositively must not find any more young turkeysin wire fences. The telegraph wire incident was182perplexing. He declared that this stuff had beenabandoned, and was far from the railroad. Thefact that the tools and wire were somewhat rustyseemed to lend some slight color of truth to hisstatement, but we finally understood each otheras to the rule to be followed in the future.

A cash allowance was made for the fresh vegetables,eggs, fruit, and other supplies, which hewas instructed to buy around in the back countryand along the river. I hoped later to discoverthe owner of the ill-fated turkey.

The old shipmates worked industriously. Theytook the Crawfish down the river to the villagetwice, and returned with cargos of second-handlumber, with which they constructed a flatboatabout ten feet long by six wide. Supports wereput at the four corners, and railings nailed to thetops. They rigged a strong pole, the length ofthe platform, along which they attached four-footwires eight inches apart. At the ends of thesewere the four-pronged clam-hooks. Lines ranfrom the ends of the pole to a centre rope, bymeans of which the device was attached to theflatboat and dragged in the river. When thehooks came in contact with the unsuspecting mollusks,183lying open on the bottom, they were toclose their shells on them tightly, and thus theirfate would be sealed. When the pole was pulledout sideways, with the big rope, the bivalveswould hang on its fringe of dangling wires, likegrapes on pendant vines.

Our “cookie” was assiduous in his camp duties.He procured some flat stones, which he skilfullypiled so as to confine his fire. Heavy stakes weredriven into the ground, and another laid across,with its ends in the forked tops. The cross-piecesupported the iron kettle, with which he performedmysterious feats of cookery. He improviseda broiler with some of the telegraphwire, and baked delicious bread and biscuits ina reflecting oven, made of a piece of old sheet-iron.He was very resourceful. From somewherebeyond the confines of the dark forest he obtainedmaterials for menus that exceeded our fondesthopes.

He spent a great deal of time off by himself,and would often drop around where I happenedto be sketching. We had many confidential talks.He confessed that drink was his besetting sin.He had generally been able to get good jobs, but184invariably lost them when he drank. Some dayhe was “goin’ to sweah off fo’ good.” The poorfellow was floating wreckage on that poison streamof alcohol that our false conception of economicspermits to exist. It was battering another derelictalong the rocks that line its sinister shores.

He had attached himself to us like a stray dog.His moral sense had been blunted by his infirmity,but, under proper influences, his reclamation waspossible. Narcissus was a strong argument infavor of compulsory prohibition, for he was beyondhis own help.

The old shipmates agreed with me that heought to be kept away from temptation as muchas possible, “spesh’ly,” said Sipes, “as we ain’tgot none too much in the jug. It ain’t fit fer nobodythat’s under sixty-seven. Young fellersoughta let that stuff alone. They git filled upwith it an’ it runs down in their legs an’ floatstheir feet off.”

Narcissus’s ancestry was mixed. He had somewhite blood, and one of his grandfathers was anIndian. Though the African characteristics predominated,there were traces of both the whiteman and the Indian in his face. It may have185been a remnant of Indian instinct—a mysteriouscall of the blood—that lured him to thedune country, where the red men were oncehappy, when he got into trouble. Possibly itwas the sixth sense of the Indian that led himup the river to the jug, on the night of our arrival,or, as Sipes remarked, “mebbe the perfumery gotout through the cork an’ drifted over ’im w’en ’ewas roostin’ on them rocks.”

He cooked some carp, which he had caught inthe river, and was much disappointed when wefound them unpalatable. The following eveninghe compounded a delicious sauce, with which hecamouflaged the despised fish almost beyond recognition,but their identity was unmistakable.Sipes declared that “the dope on them carps isfine, but I don’t like wot it’s mixed with.” Heate the sauce and threw his piece of fish out amongthe trees. The next morning he saw a crow dropdown and eat it.

“That ol’ bird’s been through enough to knowbetter’n that,” he remarked.

The fish that came to us from the land of theHun, and now infests our inland waters, haslittle to commend it. It is objectionable wherever186it exists. It breeds immoderately, eats the spawnof respectable fish, and begrimes the pure waterswith its hog-like rooting along the weedy bottoms.It is of inferior food value and pernicious. Nomeans of exterminating these noxious aliens havebeen discovered. Like the Huns, they have allof the instincts of marauding swine, without theirredeeming qualities.

“These heah cahp ah funny fish,” said Narcissus.“A gen’leman tol’ me a few yeahs ago of acahp that was caught in the Mississippi rivahthat was ve’y la’ge. They opened ’im an’ founda gold watch an’ chain that ’e’d swallowed, an’the watch was tickin’ when they took it out, an’theah was a cha’m on the chain, an’ inside thecha’m was a li’l pict’ah of a young lady. Theyoung man that caught the cahp found thatyoung lady an’ theah was a wedd’n. Of co’seAh didn’t see the watch, er the young man, butthat was the tale Ah hea’d. Theah’s been someawful wonde’ful things happened down on thatMississippi rivah.”

“Gosh! if them Dutch fish ’ave got timepieces in’em, mebbe we better pursue ’em instid o’ clams,”remarked Sipes. “Them carps c’n live on land187pretty near as well as they do in water. They’r’like mudturkles. Bill an’ me seen a big one once’t,that was in a little puddle on some land that ’adbeen flowed over. We thought prob’ly the water’dgone down an’ left ’im stranded. His back stuckout o’ the puddle an’ was all dry an’ caked withmud. Mebbe he’d been out devastat’n’ the countryfer watches an’ jools, er sump’n, in the night,an’ ’ad jest stopped at that hole fer a little reston ’is way back.”

We spent many interesting evenings around theold shipmates’ camp fire. Sipes and Saundersrelated marvellous tales of the sea. Narcissustold many ornate yarns that he had picked upduring his checkered life, and sang negro revivalsongs and plantation melodies. The bleachedskeleton of some animal in the woods had providedhim with material for two pairs of “bones,”with which he was an adept. His mouth organwas a source of much entertainment. Sipes’sfavorite was “Money Musk,” the merry jinglethat came over the water when we entered theriver, and he often asked Narcissus to “play thatcash-money tune some more.”

When the clam-boat was completed, and fully188rigged with its paraphernalia, it was pushed outinto the slow current. It was controlled with theoars from the Crawfish. The pole, with its pendantwires, was dropped over the side, and actualoperations began. A bench had been erected inthe middle of the rude craft, before which Sipesstood, flourishing a stubby knife, ready to openthe mollusks and remove their precious contents.He had a small red tin tobacco box, with a hingedcover, which he intended to fill with pearls thefirst day.

“Let’s pull ’er up now,” he suggested, after theflatboat had drifted about a hundred feet downstream.Saunders lifted in the tackle. Two victimsdangled on the wires.

“Gosh, this is easy! Gimme them clams!”They were eagerly opened, but careful scrutinyrevealed no pearls. “I guess them damn Dutchfish ’ave got ’em, like they did that watch Cookietold about. Heave ’er over an’ we’ll try ’er ag’in,Bill.”

The first day’s work was fruitless, as were manythat followed. The clam-hooks frequently gotsnagged, and seemed to bring up everything butpearls. Once an angry snapping-turtle was189thrown back. An enormous catfish, whose meditationson the bottom had been violently disturbed,was pulled to the surface, but escaped.

“Mebbe we’ll cetch a billy-goat if this keepsup,” remarked Sipes.

The old men toiled on with dogged persistence.One Sunday morning an aged bivalve was pulledup and a pearl, over three-eighths of an inch indiameter, fell out on the bench when Sipes’s knifestruck the inside of the shell.

“Hoo-ray!!! Here she is!” he yelled.

“Be quiet, y’ol’ miser! Gimme that,” commandedSaunders.

He examined it closely and compared it withthe one the wrecked pearl-buyer had given him.

“How much d’ye think that onion-skinner’dgive us fer that?” asked Sipes, anxiously.

“It’s about three times as big, an’ it’s rounder.It oughta be wuth fifteen er twenty dollars,” repliedSaunders, as he put it with the other specimenand rolled it up in the soiled paper.

“Here, Bill, you can’t do that! Gimme thatjool. It’s gotta go in the box.” Saunders surrenderedthe pearl, and Sipes carefully put itwhere it belonged.190

“We ain’t goin’ to fuss with no button companies,w’en we c’n find them things,” declaredSipes, as he kicked the pile of empty shells overboard.“That ain’t no money fer a jool like that.Wot are you talk’n’ about? You don’t knownothin’ ’bout pearls. I bet it’s wuth a thousanddollars right now, an’ mebbe it’ll be wuth twothousand if we git that feller to peel it. I betall them jools has to be peeled.”

That part of the pearl-buyer’s talk with Saundersthat related to the removal of the layers,and the comparison of a pearl’s structure withthat of an onion, had strongly impressed Sipes,and he generally referred to him as “the onion-skinner.”

During the rest of the day he shook the boxfrequently to assure himself that the pearl wasstill there.

Various “slugs,” pearls of irregular shape andof little value, were found during the next week,and the increasing spoil was gloated over atnight.

Narcissus was sometimes added to the workingforce on the flatboat, which was taken up streamas far as the depth permitted, for a fresh start.191

“We’r’ goin’ to drag this ol’ river from stem togudgeon,” declared Sipes. “W’en we git throughthe mushrats’ll have a tough time hustl’n’ ferfood. We’ll git back in the marsh where the bigclams stay in them open places ’mong the splatter-docks,where all them lily-flowers grow, an’ we’llgit some jools that it won’t do to drop on yer foot.I seen a clam in the marsh once’t that was overeight inches long, an’ I bet ’e was a hundred yearsold.”

One night Narcissus tied his little boat to atree near the spring. He left some fresh vegetablesin it, which he had procured up the river.In the morning it was discovered that the boathad been visited. The unknown caller had eatenmost of the supplies. Fragments were scatteredabout, but no tracks were visible. A pile of greencorn and some melons met the same fate a fewnights afterward, and Sipes decided to ambushthe visitor.

He lay on his stomach in the dark, with hisgun beside him, and waited. About midnight heheard splashing in the shallow water along thebank, and, a moment later, the dim light revealeda spotted cow helping herself liberally to the contents192of the boat. Evidently she had forded theriver somewhere up stream, and had accidentallyfound a welcome base of supplies.

“Come ’ere, Spotty!” Sipes called softly, ashe cautiously advanced. The friendly marauderdid not seem at all alarmed, and submitted peacefullyto the coil of anchor rope that was takenfrom the bottom of the boat and gently slippedover her horns. She was led out of the waterand tied to a tree. Sipes procured a tin pail atthe camp, and “Spotty” yielded of her abundance.

There was cream for our coffee the next day.Spotty was nowhere visible. The old man hadconducted her into the woods and “anchored ’er,”with a stake and a long rope, in a hidden glade,where there was plenty of grass.

The following evening we were enjoying ourpipes, while Narcissus was cleaning up after adelicious dinner. An old man with a heavy hickorycane hobbled into camp. His unkempt whitebeard nearly reached his waist. His shoulderswere bent with age. He appeared to be overeighty.

“Hello, Ancient!” was Sipes’s cheery greeting,as the patriarch came up to the fire.193

“Good evenin’!” responded the visitor.“How’s the clam fish’n’?”

“Jest so-so,” replied Saunders. “Have a seat.”

He gave the old man a box, with an improvisedback, to sit on, and, after a few remarks aboutthe weather, our caller explained that he had losta cow, and wondered if we had seen anything ofher.

“Wot kind of a look’n’ anamile was she?” inquiredSipes.

“Gray, with a lot o’ black spots on ’er. Onehorn bent out forrads, an’ the other was twistedback, an’ she had a short tail. She’s been roamin’in the woods a good deal lately, an’ last night shedidn’t come home. I thought I’d come down thisway an’ see if I could locate ’er.”

“I seen a cow like that yisterd’y,” replied theculprit. “She was over on the other side o’ theriver, an’ come down to drink. She prob’lymosies ’round nights like that ’cause she’s restluss.Her tail’s bobbed an’ she can’t switch awaythe skeets. She’ll prob’ly show up all right.”

“Yes, I s’pose she will. Guess I won’t worryabout ’er.” The visitor’s eyes wandered aboutthe camp. I had noticed a small brown turkey194feather on the ground, near where Sipes sat, butthat wily strategist had deftly slipped it into hisside pocket.

Evidently the industry on the river had beenduly observed by the scattered dwellers in theback country, for our caller seemed to know allabout us. He understood that I was “drawin’scenes ’round ’ere.” Possibly some unknown observerhad, at some time, come near enough tosee what I was doing, and noislessly retreated.

Sipes went down to the cabin of the Crawfish,and returned with the jug. “Wouldn’t ye liketo ’ave a little sump’n, after yer long walk?” heasked.

“B’lieve I would!”

“Say w’en,” said Sipes, as he tilted the jugover the cup.

“Jest a leetle, not more’n a thimbleful!”

“Some thimbles is bigger’n others,” observedthe old sailor, as he half filled the cup.

While protesting against the liberal offering,the old man disposed of the “little sump’n” withmuch relish.

Narcissus watched the proceedings from behindhis kitchen bench with appealing eyes.195

“How long you been liv’n’ ’round ’ere, Ancient?”asked Sipes.

“I come here in the fall o’ forty-eight. It wasall open water whar that slough is then. It’sweeded up sence. We used to chase deer out allover the ice thar in the winter. They’d slip downan’ couldn’t git up, an’ we got slews of ’em thatway. In the fall we’d find ’em on the beach ’longthe big lake. We’d shoo ’em out in the water, an’then stay ’long the shore an’ yell at ’em an’ keep’em from comin’ in. They’d swim ’round fer acouple of hours, an’ they’d git so tired the waves’ud wash ’em in, an’ we’d cetch ’em. We’d layup enough meat to last all winter.

“We had to save amminition, fer we had to gotwenty miles to the trading post fer wot we used.The Injuns was thicker’n hair on a dog ’round ’erethen. Many’s the time, in the summer, I’velooked down the marsh an’ seen ’em set’n’ on themushrat houses suckin’ wild duck eggs wot they’dfound ’round in the slough.”

“I bet them was big pearls wot they was munchin’on,” observed Sipes.

Not noticing the interruption the Ancient continued.196

“They was so many wild ducks an’ geese ’round’ere in the fall, that you didn’t ’ave to shoot ’emat all. You c’d go down on that sand-spit wharthe river runs out o’ the marsh, jest ’fore daylight,w’en they was comin’ out, an’ knock ’em downwith a stick. They’d fly so low, an’ they was sothick you couldn’t miss ’em, an’ you c’d git allyou c’d carry.”

“Gosh! Let’s give ’im another drink!” whisperedSipes.

“Them days is all gone. Sometimes you seeducks hereabouts, but the sky’s never black with’em like it used to be. Thar was millions o’ wildpigeons ’ere too. They’d set on the dead trees sothick that the branches busted off, an’ thar waseagles ’ere that used to fly off with the youngpigs, an’ I’ve killed rattlesnakes over in the hillsas thick as yer arm, an’ eight feet long, but they’vebeen gone fer years.

“Thar was tall pine all through this countrythen, but it’s been cut out. Pretty near ev’rymile ’long the big lake thar’s old piles stick’n’ up.Them was piers that the logs was hauled to withoxen an’ bob-sleds. The logs was loaded fromthe piers onto schooners that carried ’em off on197the lake. I used to work at the loggin’ in thewinter.

“Ev’ry now an’ then we’d git a b’ar, an’ weused to find lots o’ wild honey. The wolves usedto chase us w’en they was in packs, but w’en onewas alone ’e’d always run. Thar’s been someawful big fires through ’ere. Once it was all burntover fer fifty miles.”

“That ol’ mossback knows a lot, don’t ’e?”whispered Sipes to me, as the narrator pausedto light his pipe.

“Them pearls you fellers er fish’n’ fer remindsme of a story. Thar was a lot o’ Injuns lived ’ereat this end o’ the marsh long about sixty-three.Thar was an’ ol’ medicine-man that ’ad gatheredabout a peck o’ them things, big an’ little, an’kep’ ’em in a skin bag. Thar was a bad Injun’ere named Tom Skunk, an’ ’e stole ev’rything’e c’d lay ’is hands on. He didn’t know the baghad much value, but ’e carried it off one dayw’en the old man was gone. The Injuns got somad ’bout all the meat an’ skins this feller kep’takin’ that they fixed it up to drill ’im out o’the country. They caught ’im an’ made ’im givethe ol’ Injun back ’is bag. Then they told ’im198to vamoose. He stuck ’round fer a few days,an’ one night ’e paddled down the river in ’iscanoe. The ol’ Injun was pretty mad. He peekedout of ’is wigwam an’ seen ’im comin’. He got’is ol’ smooth-bore rifle out an’ rammed a handfulo’ them little pearls on top o’ the powder. [Groanfrom Sipes.] W’en Tom Skunk come by ’e letloose an’ filled ’im full of ’em. Tom got awaysomehow, an’ that was the last seen of ’im in theseparts. We heard afterward that ’e went to agovament post, an’ the surgeon spent a weekpick’n’ out the pearls an’ sold ’em fer a big price.

“We used to have snapp’n’ turtles in this riverthat was two feet across, an’ they’d come out inthe night after the hens. We cut the head off o’one once, an’ ’e lived a week after that. He hada date, seventeen hundred and sump’n, on ’isback. He was all caked up with moss an’ crustedshell, so we couldn’t quite make out the year.Somebody must ’a’ burnt it on with a hot iron.

“All the ol’ settlers in these parts are dead now,’ceptin’ me, an’ I’m git’n’ pretty feeble, an’ don’tgit ’round like I used to. I’m eighty-four an’,damn ’em, I’ve buried ’em all!”

He reached for his hickory cane and rose painfully.199

“I guess I gotta be goin’ ’long now, fer it’s git’n’late. If you see anything o’ my cow, I wish you’dlet me know.”

We loaned him a lantern and bade him good-night,as he limped away through the woods.

After the departure of our entertaining visitor,we took Sipes to task about the cow. Undergentle pressure, he reluctantly agreed to releasethe animal, and left for the glade, where Spottywas secreted. I noticed that he took a pail withhim.

Spotty visited the camp several times duringthe next week, and the menus were enriched withdishes that would have been otherwise impossible.I suggested that something ought to be done forthe Ancient to even things up.

“All right,” said Sipes, “we’ll have Cookie take’im up a big bunch o’ carps, so ’e c’n ’av’ some fish.Gosh! We gotta have milk.”

By the use of delicate diplomacy and confidentialexplanation, I amicably adjusted the milkdifficulty with Spotty’s owner, and arranged thatthe faithful animal should furnish us with twoquarts a day. The old settler was very tolerantand reasonable, and I had no trouble about the200matter at all. He often came to see us, andbrought welcome additions to our food supplies.

The golden fall days and the cool nights came.The pearl hunting and the genial gatherings atthe camp fire continued. The destruction of theunios in the river went on with unabated zeal.Many hundreds of them were opened and thrownaway. Man, the wisest, and yet the most ignorantof living creatures, lays waste the land ofplenty that prodigal nature has spread before him.

The tin box was nearly full of specimens, varyingin size, shape, and color. The attrition whichSipes caused by frequently shaking the boxdulled the lustre on many of the pearls. Saundersdiscovered the damage, and afterwards theywere properly protected. He suggested that weget a baby-rattle and a rubber teething ring forSipes, so he would not “have to amoose ’imselfshakin’ the shine offen them pearls.”

The dauntless toilers refused to be driven inby unfavorable weather. One morning dawnedwith a cold drizzly rain, but it was the day ofdays on the flatboat.

“Whoop! Whoop! Holy jumpin’ wild-cats!”shrieked Sipes, hysterically.201

A resplendent oval form, as large as a filbert,iridescent with subtle light and flashing hues ofrose and green, rolled out of a bivalve which he hadpartially opened. Its satiny sheen gleamed softlyin the palm of the old man’s gnarled and dirtyhand—a pearl that might glow on the bosom ofa houri, or mingle in the splendor of a diadem.

“Avast there, you ol’ money-bags! You’llfounder the ship!” yelled Saunders, as theydanced with delirious joy in each other’s arms.

Work was suspended for the day. The prizewas proudly and tenderly carried to camp, withgreat rejoicing.

“Come ’ere, you Jack o’ Clubs, an’ see wot amillion dollars looks like!” shouted Sipes to Narcissus,who was hurrying to meet them.

Saunders told me, when we met that night,that “Cookie’s eyes stuck out like grapes, an’you c’d ’a’ brushed ’em off with a stick w’en ’eseen wot we had.”

Unfortunately the jug was much in evidence.Narcissus responded many times to Sipes’s insistentdemands for “that cash-money tune.”The old shipmates danced in the flickering firelight.Vociferous songs awoke the echoes in the202surrounding gloom of the damp forest. The bigpearl was repeatedly examined, and much speculationwas indulged in as to its value, which wasconsidered almost fabulous. The hilarity extendedfar into the night, until the revellers fellasleep from sheer exhaustion. The jug was lefton the grass, and Narcissus fondled it betweendrinks, while the magnates slumbered.

“It’s only the rich an’ fuzzy that enjoys thislife,” observed Sipes with a prolonged yawn,when I came over and woke him in the morning.“Think o’ them val’able clams wot sleeps outthere in the bottom o’ the river. The little runtscan’t swim ’round, an’ they can’t chase food.They ’ave to take wot’s fed ’em by the current.They can’t smoke ’er talk, an’ they can’t ’avenothin’ but water to drink. They jest lay therean’ make them little jools fer me an’ Bill. Thatbig feller’d prob’ly been wait’n’ fer us all summerto come ’long an’ save ’im from them mushrats.”

The happy old sailor’s remarks suggested thethought that most of the great intellectual pearlsin the world have come from the minds of thosewho have pondered long in silent and secludedplaces.203

“Hi there, Bill, you ol’ lobster, wake up. Iwant some breakfast. Where’s that cussédcookie?” he demanded.

We found poor Narcissus reclining against atree—a pitiful picture. The jug sat near him.The cup, mouth organ, and his tattered cap werelying about on the grass. A primitive humananimal had found satiety in what he craved.

“Gosh! Look at that id’jut!” exclaimed Sipes,as he picked up the jug. “They was two gallonsin ’ere w’en we started out, an’ they was abouttwo quarts last night. This soak’s spilt it all into’im ’cept about a pint, an’ we gotta save it fersnake-bites.”

“Say, Boss, lemme off!” pleaded the culprit,weakly. In his confused brain there was a senseof trouble that he could not quite comprehend.

We got our own breakfast. Narcissus watchedus helplessly from under his tree. He appearedquite sick.

“That cookie’s blue ’round the gills,” remarkedSipes. “He’d jest as lief ’ave a pestilence comenow as to see whiskey. His stummick’s gonepunk. His eyes looks like holes burnt in a blanket,an’ ’is head don’t fit ’im. He needs a few204kind words, an’ I’m goin’ to take ’im over a littlepiece o’ the dog that bit ’im.”

He filled the cup to the brim and offered it tothe sufferer.

“Here, Cookie, cheer up! Here’s some nicelittle meddy. You swallow it an’ you’ll feel fine!”

Pathos and misery were written on Narcissus’sdoleful face, as he mutely protested against thecup being held where he could smell its contents.Sipes, with refined cruelty, sprinkled some of theliquid on the penitent’s coat, so that the odorwould remain with him, and chuckled, as he returnedthe unused portion to the jug, which helocked in the boat’s cabin.

One night there was a light frost. When morningdawned there was a crispness in the air. Aspirit of foreboding was in the forest, and a sadnessin the tones of the wind that rustled theweakly clinging leaves. The wood odors hadchanged. Dashes of color brilliance were scatteredalong the edges of the timber on the riverbanks. The deep green of tamaracks, and flamingscarlet of vines and dogwoods, relieved bybackgrounds of subtle and delicate minor hues,swept along the borders of the great marsh, and205stole away into veils of purple haze beyond.Fruition and fulfilment had passed over the hillsand through the low places, and it was time forsleep.

The tired grasses in the marsh were bent andgray. Among their dull masses the current ofthe open stream crept in a maze of silvery lines,that wound back in many retreating loops, andthen moved slowly on, seemingly reluctant toenter into the oblivion of the depths beyond thepassage through the dunes.

Wedges of wild geese trailed across the greatclouds—valiant voyagers along the unseen pathsof the sky. In the darkness their turbulent criescame out of the regions of the upper air, faintechoes of the Song of Life from the vault of theInfinite.

“Them winds ’as got an edge on ’em. I guesswe gotta git out o’ here, Bill,” declared Sipes, as hewarmed his numbed hands before the fire. “Thenews o’ that jool’ll git ’round, an’ the fust thingwe know this country’ll be full o’ robbers. They’llswipe it, an’ you an’ me’ll ’ave to work the rest ofour lives, an’ mebbe eat carps, instid o’ set’n’ onsoft cushions an’ smok’n’. The clams is ’bout all206cleaned out an’ we got a fort’n’. Wot’s the useo’ try’n’ to grab it all? We got plenty to last us,an’ we can’t take no cash-money to the graveyardwith us. We’ll git hold o’ that onion-skinnin’feller, an’ mebbe ’e c’n peel some o’ themother jools, an’ make ’em wuth a lot more.

“We c’n do anything we want to now. Mebbewe’ll buy a big red church fer Holy Zeke, so ’ec’n git in it an’ spout damnation up the chimblyall by ’imself, an’ not come ’round us. I wonderwot that ol’ cuss is doin’ nowdays? Anyway,we’ll buy ’im a new hard hat, an’ a ticket that’llcarry ’im way off.”

The pearls were carefully concealed on theCrawfish. The sail, which had done duty as ashelter on shore, was put back in its place, andeverything was snugly stowed on board. Theboat that Narcissus had borrowed “offen Cap’nPeppehs” was attached, with my own, to thestern of the larger craft, and we were ready topush out into the current, when we saw Spottycontemplating us with mild eyes from amongthe trees.

“Gosh! I gotta bid that ol’ girl good-by,”exclaimed Sipes, as he seized a pail and nimbly207hopped ashore. When he returned the homewardvoyage began.

We threaded the sinuous channel for hours beforewe came to the sand-hills.

“This big dump’s full o’ jools,” remarkedSipes, as he indicated the marsh with a broadsweep of his hand. “Next year we’ll come down’ere an’ bag the whole bunch.”

Narcissus, who had stuck by us faithfully, wasanxious to go and spend the winter at the fish shanty.The old men were immensely pleased both withhim and his cooking, and cheerfully consented.

The current took us through the hills, and wetied up at the dilapidated pier. We were out oftobacco, and other small necessities, and neededsome gasoline, as Sipes wanted to “tune up” themotor, in case we found no wind on the lake.Narcissus was provided with a list, some funds,and the gasoline can, and he went ashore. Sipesconsidered that he was perfectly reliable up tofive dollars in prohibition territory. We saw himswinging his can gayly, as he walked up the littlepath that led to the village and disappearedaround a bend. We had had a wonderful trip,and everybody was in high spirits.208

We waited nearly an hour for Narcissus, buthe did not return. We got ashore and went upto the general store, where he was to do his shopping,but he had not been seen. Further searcharound the village was fruitless. Thinking thathe might have returned to the boat by anotherroute, we retraced our steps, and found the can insome weeds near the bend where we last saw him.

With sudden inspiration, Sipes ran to theboat. He dived into the cabin, and we heard anangry yell.

“Holy Mike! He’s frisked the jools!”

We hurried on board. The tin box haddisappeared.

“We put ’em between them boards back o’that little cuddy-hole. He swiped ’em an’ ’e’slit out! Hold on a minute!” cried the distractedold man, as, with a glimmer of hope on his paleface, he again ducked into the cabin.

“Gosh! We’r’ saved!” he exclaimed, as heemerged with the big pearl. “Bully fer us! Istuck this in a crack with some paper, an’ ’emissed it.”

Saunders had been too much overcome by thesudden misfortune to say much. He appeared209crushed. His face lighted up when it was foundthat the disaster was not complete.

The question now was to catch Narcissus Jackson.He had had about two hours’ start.

“Gimme that gun!” commanded Sipes. “I’llpot that nigg*r, if I git ’im inside o’ fifty yards.This gun ain’t loaded with no jools like thatInjun’s was!”

Adjectives are weapons of temperament. Sipeshad a plentiful supply of both. The past, present,and future of Narcissus Jackson was completelycovered by a torrent of scarifying invective.

The next day we gave up the search, in whichwe were excitedly assisted by the villagers andscattered farmers. We returned to the boat androwed it out into the calm lake, where we waitedfor a breeze. The motor had again “gone punk.”

“That smoke’s jest natch’ally drifted off,” remarkedSipes philosophically, as we floated idlyon the gentle swells, “but we got enough to makeus rich; wot do we care? I guess that ‘darksecret’ that Bill said this trip was, was set’n onthem rocks w’en we fust come in the river. Thinkof all wot we done fer ’im! Me offerin’ ’im thatwhole cupful w’en ’e was sick, an’ git’n’ milk fer210’im to cook with, an’ all them things you an’Bill did, an’ now ’e’s hornswoggled us. Theyain’t no gratitude. That smoke’s jest like all therest of ’em!”

“You have had a prosperous trip,” I replied.“You will probably get a high price for your bigpearl, and you won’t have to worry about moneyfor quite a while. You had better get this troubleoff your mind. Surplus wealth is mere dross.”

“How much dross d’ye think that damn cookie’llgit fer them jools?”

“He will get very little. You had spoiled thelustre on most of them by constantly shakingthe box.”

“If I’d knowed ’e was goin’ to frisk ’em, I’d ashook the stuff’n’ out of ’em!”

During a visit to the village store, Saundershad written a letter to the “onion-skinner,” asSipes persisted in calling the pearl-buyer, andmailed it to the address on the margin of thepamphlet. He described the location of the fishshanty, and informed him of the finding of thebig pearl. He also told of the robbery, describedNarcissus, and asked him to have him “nabbed”if he came to sell him the stolen pearls, which he211probably would do. Saunders spent much timewriting and rewriting the letter. Sipes stood overhim and cautioned him repeatedly not to say anythingin it that “looked like we wanted to sellthe jool.”

“Cat’s paws” appeared on the water. Thebreeze freshened rapidly, and there were white-capson the lake shortly after we began to makefair headway. The wind increased, the boatcareened under the pressure of the broad sail,and we shipped water copiously several times.Fortunately I had left my row-boat and tent witha fisherman at the village, who was to care forthem during the winter, so we did not have theseto bother us. I felt relieved when we saw theshanty in the distance.

“Hard-a-port, Bill,” commanded Sipes in astentorian tone as he loosened the main-sheet.We turned in toward shore. Like a roving galleonproudly returning from distant seas, with hertreasure in her hold, the gallant Crawfish tore inthrough the curling waves and flying spray, andfelt the foam of her home waters over her prow.

We all got soaking wet getting in through thesurf. The long rope from the windlass on the212sand, composed of many odd pieces, knotted together,was finally attached to the iron ring onthe bow, and the now historic craft was hauled outover the wooden rollers to its berth on the beach.

We had commenced taking some of the stuffout of the boat, when we suddenly paused withastonishment, and looked toward the shanty.Mingled with the voices of the wind, and the roarof the surf, we faintly, but unmistakably, heardthe thrilling strains of “Money Musk” issuingfrom the weather beaten structure.

“Now wot d’ye think o’ that!” exclaimedSipes. “That damn cookie’s in there. He don’tknow it’s our place an’ ’e thinks ’e’s escaped. Wegot ’im trapped. Gimme the gun!

I happened to know that the gun was notloaded, and had no fears that there would be anyshooting. In solid formation we marched to theshanty. The padlock on the door was undisturbed.Sipes unlocked it. Narcissus sat on thepile of nets inside and regarded us with a frightenedexpression. Evidently the wind had preventedhim from hearing us when we landed.He seemed overawed by the presence of the gunand our angry looks.213

“Say, Boss, lemme off!” he begged, as helooked up at me pleadingly.

“Narcissus, where are those pearls?” I demanded.

“Pea’ls? Ah don’t know nuff’n ’bout no pea’ls!Ah ain’t seen no pea’ls! Is theah some pea’lsmiss’n’?”

“Of course they’re miss’n’, an’ you know it,you black devil!” roared Sipes, as he co*cked hisgun. “You shell out them jools, er yer goin’ tobe shot right ’ere this minute!”

Narcissus’s face turned ashen gray.

“Ah ain’t nevah touched no pea’ls! Ah ain’tnevah seen you gen’lemen’s pea’ls since you had’em at the camp. Gimme a Bible an’ Ah’ll takema oath!”

While I knew that he was quite safe in askingSipes for a Bible, his earnest denial seemed tohave the ring of sincerity. I took Sipes aside,leaving Saunders with the now thoroughly terrifiednegro. He leaned against the side of theshanty and seemed in such mental agony thatI felt sorry for him.

I asked Sipes to show me exactly where he hadplaced the tin box. With a small electric flashlight214we explored a deep recess between theboards back of the cuddy-hole, and found thebox, wedged about a foot below where the oldman had hidden it. Sipes seized it with a shoutof jubilation. He and Saunders acted like acouple of small boys who had just been told thatthey could stay out of school and go to a circus.

The mystery of Narcissus’s disappearance andhis presence in the shanty was still to be explained.He was greatly relieved when the box was found,but seemed too much confused by the suddenflood of events to talk, so we let him alone. Thatnight, after the shanty was put in order, and afire built in the stove, he told his story.

“When Ah took that gas can, an’ went fo’them things at the stoah, Ah jest thought Ah’dstop at Cap’n Peppehs’s house. That’s the fi’stli’l house Ah come to. Ah wanted to thank ’imfo’ the boat Ah got offen ’im, an’ tell ’im Ah hoped’e was well. Ah left the can neah the path.Cap’n Peppehs asked me all about you gen’lemen,an’ wanted me to come in a minute. He wantedto know what you-all had done up the rivah, an’if you got any pea’ls. Ah didn’t tell ’im nuff’n.Then ’e got out ’is bottle, an’ we had some drinks.215Then ’e asked me ’bout yo’ motah, an’ how youcome by it. I told ’im you got it offen a fish mannamed John. Then ’e told me John got it f’omhim, an’ ’e didn’t want me to let you know that.”

“And to think,” interrupted Sipes, “that we hadthat cuss right in the boat, an’ didn’t know it!”

“Then, aftah a while, we got to feel’n’ prettygood, an’ Ah done fergot all ’bout the gasoline.We looked out o’ the window, an’ theah was Mr.Sipes goin’ ’round with ’is gun. We didn’t knowwhethah he thought Ah’d run off with that li’lbunch o’ money Ah was goin’ to get the thingswith, er was aftah Cap’n Peppehs’ ’count o’ thatmotah, an’ Ah jest thought we’d keep still fo’a while ’till Mr. Sipes put away ’is gun. Ah wassca’ed o’ that gun. Aftah that Cap’n Peppehsasked me mo’ about the pea’ls, an’ offe’d me ali’l mo’ ref’eshment. Ah must ’a’ went to sleepthen, an’ Ah didn’t wake up ’til this mawnin’.Ah saw yo’ boat way out on the lake set’n’ still.I shuah felt bad, an’ Ah was goin’ to take a boatan’ row out, but ma haid hurt so Ah couldn’t.Ah knew ’bout wheah you lived, ’cause Ah hea’dyou talkin’ ’bout it, an’ Ah jest walked ’long thebeach ’til Ah come to the place that had yo’216sign. The do’ was locked, but Ah got the windowopen an’ come in that way. Ah was ve’yti’ed, an’ laid down fo’ a nap; then Ah got up an’played that li’l tune Mr. Sipes likes so much.

“Say, Ah hope you’ll lemme off. Ah ain’tdone nuff’n so awful bad. Ah’m awful sorry Ahmade all that trouble, an’ had all them drinkswith Cap’n Peppehs. Ah fo’got all ’bout thatgasoline, an’ Ah won’t nevah do nuff’n like thatno mo’. Mr. Sipes, does theah happ’n to be jesta few drops in the bottom o’ the jug, that Ah c’dhave? Honest, Ah feels weak!”

Narcissus met with the full measure of forgiveness.He had faltered by the wayside, wherehosts have fallen. The mantle of charity was laidover his sin. Sipes, while usually intolerant, wasmollified with the recovery of the pearls.

We all slept in the shanty that night. In themorning we saw a horse and buggy on the beachin the distance. Saunders inspected the driverattentively through the “spotter.”

“That’s the onion-skinner comin’,” he remarked.

“Yes, an’ I bet we’ll be the onions,” said Sipes,as he took the glass.217

The visitor arrived and looked over the fruitsof the season’s work. He did not seem at alldazzled by the beauty of the big pearl. He examinedit casually and laid it aside. He seemedmore interested in the others.

“You be careful an’ don’t show no frenzy overthat jool. You don’t own it,” cautioned Sipes,sarcastically. “You may want to buy it later ifyou ain’t got enough cash-money now. Mebbeyou know o’ some rich fellers that ’ud like to buyintrusts in it with you.”

A substantial offer was made for the lot. Theamount mentioned was much larger than I hadany idea the pearls were worth.

“They was a feller ’long ’ere yisterd’y thatoffered us twice as much as that, an’ I told ’im’e was a cheap skate. Wot d’ye think them are—peanuts?D’ye think we c’lected all themval’able jools jest fer love o’ you? Wot d’yes’pose we are—helpless orphants?”

Most of the day was spent in jockeying overthe price. The buyer was an expert judge ofhuman nature, as well as pearls. He exhibiteda large roll of bills at a psychological moment,and became the owner of the collection.218

He drove away along the beach and turnedinto the dunes.

“He’ll prob’ly hide some’r’s off’n the woods, an’peel some o’ them jools, like ’e did us,” saidSipes. “He oughta fly a black flag over thatbuggy, so people ’ud know wot’s comin’. I’veseen piruts in furrin waters that was all bloodiedup, but ’side o’ that robber, they’d look like alot o’ funny kids. Bill, you oughta keep yermouth shut w’en I’m sell’n’ jools! You buttedin all the time an’ spoilt wot I was doin’. Ifyou’d a kep’ still, I’d ’a’ got jest twice them figgers.By rights, I oughta keep wot’s ’ere fer myhalf an’ let you w’istle fer the half that thatfeller saved by you shoot’n’ off yer mouth at thewrong times.”

That night I sat before the dying embers ofdriftwood and mused over the eventful weeks.

I remembered the picturesque camp scenes;the genial gatherings around the fire; the adventof Narcissus,—his lovable qualities, frailties, andfinal vindication; the sociability of Spotty; theAncient’s graphic reminiscences; the finding ofthe big pearl, and the odd combination of childishfoibles, homely wit, kindliness, cupidity,219shrewdness, and primitive savagery in the oldshipmates.

The mingled glories of the autumn came back,with memories of the fragrant woods; the broadsweeps of changing color over the swamp-land; themajesty of the onward marching storms; the songsof the wind through trees and bending grasses;the music and beauty of rippling currents; thecompanionship and voices of the wild things; thewitchery of twilight mists and purple shadows,and the enchantment of moon-silvered vistas.

I felt again the haunting mystery that is overthe marsh, along the river through the silentnights, and in its fecund depths, where pearls arewrought among hidden eddies.

Under the gently moving water was the dreamlandof the reflections. The dark forests and theghostly dunes hung low in the realm of unreality.Beyond them the Pleiades and Orion glowedsoftly in the limitless abyss that held the endlessstory of the stars.

The Ego, mocking the Infinite with punydogma, in its minute orbit—a speck betweentwo eternities—recoils in terror from the voidbeyond the world.220

The river bears a secret in its bosom deeperthan its pearls. He who learns it has found themelodies that brood among tremulous strings inthe human heart.

I meditated, and wondered if I, or the valiantcrew of the flatboat, had found the WindingRiver’s Treasure?221

X
THE PLUTOCRATS222223

X
THE PLUTOCRATS

The invitation of the old shipmates toremain with them for a while was gratefullyaccepted. The witchery of thechanging landscapes and the color-crowned duneswas irresistible. The society of my odd friends,which was full of human interest, and certainbeguiling promises made by Narcissus, were factorsthat prolonged the stay.

After a week of blustery weather, and a lightfall of snow, the haze of Indian Summer stolesoftly over the hills. The mystic slumberousdays had come, when, in listless reverie, we maybelieve that the spirits of a vanished race havereturned to the woods, and are dancing aroundcamp fires that smoulder in hidden places. Spectralforms sit in council through the still nights,when the moon, red and full-orbed, comes upout of a sea of mist. Smoke from phantom wigwamscreeps through the forest. Unseen arrowshave touched the leaves that carpet aisles amongthe trees where myriad banners have fallen.224

Our drift-wood fire glowed on the beach in theevening. Sipes piled on all sorts of things thatkept it much larger than necessary. With recklessprodigality, he dragged forth boxes, damagedrope, broken oars, and miscellaneous odds andends, that under former conditions would havebeen carefully kept.

Sipes and Saunders were in high spirits. Theywalked with an elastic swagger that bespokesupreme confidence in themselves, and a loftydisdain of the rest of the world. There was muchdiscussion of plans for the future.

“We got all kinds o’ money now, an’ we c’nspread out,” declared Sipes. “We gotta git ol’John an’ ’is horse down ’ere, an’ take care of ’em.That ol’ nag’s dragged millions o’ pounds o’ fish’round fer us, an’ ’e oughta have a rest. They’r’both git’n’ too old to work any more, an’, outsideo’ me an’ Bill an’ Cookie, them’s the only onesthat lives round ’ere that’s fit to keep alive throughthe cold weather.

“We gotta haul down that ol’ sign on theshanty, ’cause we’ve gone out o’ the fish business.We’r’ goin’ to fix this place all over. All themfellers that has money, an’ lives in the country,225an’ don’t work, has signs out that’s got names on’em fer their places. I drawed out the new signwith the pencil yisterd’y, an’ this is wot it’s goin’to be.”

He unfolded a piece of soiled wrapping paper,on which he had rudely lettered—$HiPMATE$ RE$T

“The names won’t be on it, but shipmates’llmean us all right. The sign’ll still look like cash-money,an’ you bet we’r’ goin’ to rest, so thatsign’s all right, an’ she’s goin’ up.”

Catfish John and Napoleon arrived the nextmorning.

“You can’t git no more fish ’ere!” announcedSipes, after he had made his usual derisive commentson the old peddler’s general appearance.“This place ’as changed hands. Some fellersown it now that don’t ’ave to work. You’r’ awuthless ol’ slab-sided wreck, an’ you ain’t nogood peddlin’ fish. You oughta be ’shamed o’yerself. Yer ol’ horse is a crowbait, an’ yer fishwaggin’s on the bum. You git down offen it an’come ’ere. We got sump’n we want to tell you.”

John willingly admitted that all the charges226were true, as he slowly and painfully descendedfrom the rickety vehicle.

“Now listen ’ere, John,” continued Sipes seriously,“us fellers ’as got rich out o’ the jools wotwe fished out o’ the river. We’r’ jest goin to set’round an’ look pleasant, an’ quit work’n. You’vebeen our ol’ friend fer years, an’ we got enoughto keep you an’ Napoleon in tobaccy an’ hay ferthe rest o’ yer lives. You’re a nice pair, an’ ifyou’ll go in the lake an’ wash up, we’ll burn allyer ol’ nets, an’ the other stuff up to your place,an’ yer ol’ boat, too, an’ you c’n come down ’erean’ live. We don’t want none o’ them things’ere, fer it ’ud make us tired to look at ’em. Wedon’t want to see nothin’ that looks like work’round ’ere, no more’n we c’n help, but you gottahelp haul some lumber. We’r’ goin’ to tack somemore rooms on the shanty. It ain’t a fit placefer fellers like us to live in.”

John was greatly pleased over the good fortunethat had come to his friends, and happy overthe plans that had been made for his future. Hesaid little, but I noticed that his eyes were moistas he limped over to the shanty to be “interducedto Cookie.”227

“Ah ce’t’nly am glad to meet you, Mr. Catfish!”said Narcissus, cordially, as they shookhands. “Ah’ve hea’d a great deal ’bout youf’om these gen’lemen. Ah would like to make ali’l cup o’ coffee fo’ you. Jest have a seat an’Ah’ll have it ready in jest a few minutes.”

John looked at him gratefully and sat down.He was much impressed by the evidences ofprosperity around him. The old pine table wascovered with a cloth that was spotless, exceptwhere Sipes had spilled a “loose egg” on onecorner of it. There was a bewildering array ofnew clean dishes and kitchen utensils about theroom, and some boxes that had not yet been unpacked.Narcissus had been given carte blancheas to the domestic arrangements. He was chef,valet, major domo, and general manager.

“Cookie’s boss o’ the eats an’ the beds, an’ev’rythin’ else ’round the house, ’cept drinks,”declared Saunders.

He had made several trips to the village withthe old cronies and they had acquired a large partof the stock of the general store. Their adventmust have been a godsend to the aged proprietor.

“Now, John,” said Sipes, after the old man228had finished his coffee, “you c’n go back to yerplace jest once, an’ fetch anythin’ you want tokeep that’s small, but don’t you bring nothin’that weighs over a pound, an’ then you come an’sleep in the cabin o’ the Crawfish till we git thenew fix’n’s on the shanty. We’ll feed you up soyou’ll feel like a prize-fighter, an’ we’ll makeNapoleon into a spring colt. He c’n stay in thework-shed ’til we make a barn fer ’im. We’r’goin’ up there tomorrer night, an’ we’r’ goin’ toburn up the whole mess wot you leave, an’ youcan’t go with us. We’ll chuck ev’rythin’ intothat cusséd ol’ smoke-house, an’ set fire to it.Tomorrer night’s the night, an’ don’t you fergitit!”

John stayed for a couple of hours, but did littletalking. Evidently he was deeply touched. Hedrove away slowly up the beach toward the onlyhome he had known for many years. His quiet,undemonstrative nature was calloused by theunconscious philosophy of the poor. Gratitudewelled from a fountain deep in his heart, but itsoutward flow was restrained by the rough barriersthat a lifetime of unremitting toil and povertyhad thrown around his honest soul.229

He returned late the following afternoon. Hiswagon contained a few things that he said hewanted to keep, no matter what happened to him.

“Thar ain’t no value to the stuff I got ’ere,’cept to me. If you’ll put this in a safe place’til things git settled, I’ll be much obliged,” saidthe old man, as he extracted a small packagefrom an inside pocket. He carefully opened itand showed us an old daguerreotype. A ratherhandsome young man, dressed in the style of theearly fifties, sat stiffly in a high-backed chair.Beside him, trustfully holding his hand, was asweet-faced girl in bridal costume. Pride andhappiness beamed from her eyes.

“That thar’s me an’ Mary the day we wasmarried. She died the year after it was took,”said the old fisherman, slowly. There was tendernessin the quiet look that he bestowed on thepicture, and the care with which he rewrapped itand handed it to Saunders for safe-keeping.

The old daguerreotype had been treasured forover half a century. I knew that tears had fallenupon it in silent hours. Its story was in the oldman’s face as he turned and walked over to hiswagon to get the rest of his things.230

“Now, hooray fer the fireworks!” shoutedSipes, when we had finished our after-dinnerpipes in the evening. By the light of the lantern,the small row-boat was shoved into the lake.John watched the sinister preparations with misgivings.As we rowed away, Sipes called outcheerily, “Now you brace up, John; you ain’tgot no kick comin’! You c’n stay an’ play withCookie. He’ll make you some more coffee, an’you’ll find a big can o’ tobaccy on the shelf.”

The old shipmates did not intend that anylingering affection that John might retain for hisold habitat, or any heartaches, should interferewith his enjoyment of his new home, or with theirdelight in burning his old one. They had grimlyresolved that the transition should be completeand irrevocable.

We reached the old fisherman’s former abodein due time. We found the tattered nets woundon the reels, which were old and much broken.We piled all of the loose stuff on the beach aroundthe nets, and the leaky boat was set up endwiseagainst them. With the lantern we explored thedisreputable little smoke-house. It was filledwith fish tubs, bait pails, and confused rubbish,231and was redolent with fishy odors of the pastthat Saunders declared “a clock couldn’t tickin.”

We climbed up to the shanty on the edge of thebluff. The door of the ramshackle structure wasfastened with a piece of old hitching strap thatwas looped over a nail. We entered and lookedaround the squalid interior. Four bricks in themiddle of the room supported a nondescript stove.A rough bench stood against the wall, and a fewtin plates, cups, and kettles were scattered about.The only other room was John’s sleeping apartment.A decrepit bedstead, that had seen betterdays and nights, an old hay mattress, a coupleof much soiled blankets, a cracked mirror, somecandle stubs, and two broken chairs were theonly articles we found in it.

“All some people needs to make ’em happy isa lookin’ glass,” observed Sipes, “but ol’ Johnain’t stuck on ’imself; wot does ’e want with it?He prob’ly busted it w’en ’e peeked in it to seeif ’is ol’ hat was on straight.”

“I hope John’s got some insurance on this place,”Saunders remarked, as he dragged the mattressto the wall and piled the bedstead and chairs on232it. We found a bottle half full of kerosene underthe bench, which we emptied over the floor.

“Now gimme a match!” demanded Sipes.

When we reached the foot of the bluff theflames were merrily at work above us. Thesmoke-house, and the stuff accumulated aroundthe nets, were soon on fire. We next visitedNapoleon’s humble quarters on the sand, andanother column of smoke and flame was added tothe joy of the occasion.

“We can’t leave fer a while yet,” said Saunders;“no fire’s any good ’less somebody’s ’round topoke it.”

We spent considerable time watching the fires,to assure ourselves that the destruction was complete,and that there was no possibility of theflames on the bluff getting into the woods beyondthrough the dry weeds on the sand. There wasa light off-shore breeze, so there was little danger.

“That ol’ joint’s clean at last,” observed Sipes, aswe rowed away in the early hours of the morning.

From far away we looked upon the scene ofCatfish John’s dreary life, illumined by gleamsfrom the smouldering embers that played alongthe face of the bluff.233

There were essentials that the old man’s humblesurroundings had lacked. Long sad yearswere interwoven with them, but the faded facein the old daguerreotype may have lighted thedark rooms and helped to make the lonely placean anchorage, for is home anywhere but in theheart? It does not seem to consist of materialthings. Absence, estrangement, and death destroyit—not fire. Sometimes, out of the lossesand wrecks of life, it is rebuilded, but not of woodand stone.

I arranged with John to transport my fewbelongings to the railroad station the next day,and regretfully left the contented old marinersand their happy “cookie,” who was no smallpart of the riches that had come from the WindingRiver.

On the way through the hills the old manopened his heart.

“Now wot d’ye think o’ them ol’ fellers? Theybattered ’round the seas an’ they been up ag’inpretty near ev’rythin’ they is. They come inthese hills an’ settled down to fish’n’. We alw’ysgot ’long well together. I done little things ferthem an’ they done little things fer me. Sipes234is a queer ol’ cod, an’ so’s Saunders, but all of ushas quirks, an’ they ain’t nobody that pleasesev’rybody else. Now them ol’ fellers has got rich.I don’t know how much they got, but w’en anybodygits a lot o’ money you c’n alw’ys tell wotthey really was all the time they didn’t have it.They’r’ all right, an’ you bet I like ’em, an’ Ialw’ys did. They drink some, but they don’t goto town an’ go ’round all day shoppin’ in s’loons,like some fellers do. Mebbe they’ll git bustedsome day, an I c’n do sump’n fer ’em like theydone fer me.”

I bade my old friend farewell on the railroadplatform and departed.

In response to a letter sent to him in January,John was at the station when I stepped off thetrain one crisp morning a week after I wrote, butit was a metamorphosed John who stood beforeme. He was muffled up in a heavy overcoat andfur cap. He wore a gray suit, new high-toppedboots, and leather fur-backed gloves. I hardlyrecognized him. Much as I was delighted withthese evidences of his comfort, there was an inwardpang, for the picturesque and fishy John,235who had been one of the joys of former years,was gone. This was a reincarnation. The strangetoggery seemed discordant. Somehow his generalair, and the protuberance of his high coat collarabove the back of his head, suggested an Indianchief, great in his own environment, who hadbeen rescued out of barbarism and debased byan unwelcome civilization. He was like somerare old book that had been revised and expurgatedinto inanity.

“I got yer letter,” said the old man, after ourgreetings, “an’ ’ere I am! I yelled out at ye, fer Ididn’t think you’d know me. What d’ye think o’all this stuff them ol’ fellers ’as got hooked on me?”

Napoleon, sleek and apparently happy, with anew blanket over him, was standing near thecountry store, hitched to a light bobsled.

I congratulated the old man and inquired aboutour mutual friends. After we had put the baggageand some supplies from the store into the sled, weadjusted ourselves comfortably under a thick robe,and Napoleon trotted away on the road, with amerry jingle of two sleigh-bells on his new harness.

There were no tracks on the road after we gotinto the wooded hills, except those made by236Napoleon and the sled a couple of hours before,and the cross trails of rabbits and birds that hadleft the tiny marks on the snow, in their searchfor stray bits of food that the frost and winterwinds might have spared for their keeping.

Nature in her nudity is prodigal of alluringcharms on her winter landscapes. The forests,cold, still, and bare, stretched away over the undulatingcontours of the dunes in their mantleof snow. The lacery of naked branches, silveredwith frost, was etched against the moody sky.

He who is alone in the winter woods is in arealm of the spirit where the only borders are thelimits of fancy. The big trees, like sentinels grimand gray, seem to keep watch and ward over thetreasures that lie in the hush of the frozen ground,where a mighty song awaits the wand of theSouth Wind. The winding sheet that lies uponthe white hills hides the promise as well as thesorrow. The great mystery of earth’s fecunditythat is under the chaste raiment of the snow isthe mystery of all life, and to it the questioningsoul must ever come. The message of our lovedones, who are under the white folds, may beamong the petals of the flowers when they open.237

When we descended the steep road to thebeach, we saw Shipmates’ Rest in the distance.Saunders came out to greet us on our arrival.He was enveloped in a heavy reefer, and worea rather sporty-looking new cap. He conductedus into what was once the fish shanty, but, alas,what a change! It had been almost entirely rebuilt.There were five rooms. A stairway ledto a trap door in the roof, above which was arailed-in, covered platform. A stone fireplace hadreplaced the old stove, and there was a large newcook stove in the kitchen, where Narcissus reignedsupreme. I was struck with the almost immaculatecleanliness of the place. While the architecturewas nerve-racking, and seemed to pursuelines of the most resistance, it looked very comfortable.

“Sipes is out hunt’n rabbits. He’ll be backshortly,” said Saunders. “You jest hang up yerthings an’ make yerself to home. Cookie’s outback undressin’ some fowls, an’ ’e’ll be glad tosee you.”

Narcissus soon appeared with a grin on hishonest face.

“Ah ce’t’nly am glad to see you down heah238again!” he exclaimed. “Ah was just fixin’ somechick’ns, an’ tomorrow we’ll have a fracassee withdumplin’s. Chick’ns have to wait ovah night insalt watah fo’ they ah cooked, but we got pa’tridgesfo’ today. Ah you fond of them?”

Idle questions, propounded simply to make conversation,often inspire doubt of normal mentality.I had brought a new mouth organ and aukelele for him from the city, and his delight overthe little gifts quite repaid their cost.

My old friend Sipes arrived during the nexthour, without any rabbits, and we had a happyreunion over the delicately roasted partridges.There were six of them, with little bits of baconon their breasts—like decorations for valor onthe field.

Sipes presided at the head of the table with theair of a medieval robber baron who had returnedto his castle from a successful foray. A napkinwas tied around his neck, and he wielded hisknife and fork with impressive gusto. Prosperityhad begun to bubble. I was told the pricesof everything in sight, and informed of the costof the glass that he had used to make a smallskylight in the north room, so as to adapt it for239a studio. In the fall I had jokingly alluded tosomething of this kind, but had no idea that itwould be included in the plans. Compensationwas grandly refused.

“You’r’ in on all this, an’ we want you to stick’round ’ere w’en you ain’t got nothin’ else to do.You knowed us w’en we didn’t ’ave a dollar, an’you thought jest as much of us, so you quit talkin’’bout payin’ fer sky-view glass. There’s nothin’doin’!”

During the afternoon we heard intermittentstrains of “Money-Musk” from the new mouthorgan in the kitchen, accompanied by experimentalfingering of the ukelele. Narcissus haddevised an ingenious framework, which he hadput on his head, to hold the mouth organ in place,and enable him to use his hands for the other instrument,but it was only partially successful.

One of the objects of the winter visit was tomake some sketches of Saunders and Narcissusfor this volume, which had been neglected duringthe fall. They seemed pleased, and were willingmodels. Saunders insisted on wetting and combinghis hair carefully, and getting into stilted attitudes.He was finally persuaded to let his hair240alone and wear his old cap. He was anxious thathis ancient meerschaum pipe should be in thepicture. It seeped with the nicotine of many years.

“The tobaccy that’s been puffed in that ol’pipe ’ud cover a ten-acre lot,” he declared, and Ibelieved him. “You can’t show that in thepitcher, but you c’n make it look kind o’ darklike. Gener’ly I smoke ‘Bosun’s Delight’ an’it’s pretty good. It’s strong stuff an’ none of itever gits swiped.”

When the drawing was finished he criticized itseverely, which was quite natural, for no humanbeing is entirely without vanity. Portrait artists,like courtiers, must flatter to succeed.

Narcissus also wanted a pipe in his picture. Hethought it would look better than a mouth organ,and, as it was much easier to draw, I humoredhim. He posed with unctuous ceremony, and assumedsome most serious and baffling expressions.

Sipes watched the proceedings with interest,and enlivened them with running comment.

“I been through all that lots o’ times. Youfellers ain’t got nothin’ on me, an’ if you ever gitin a book you’ll look like a couple o’ horse thieves.I know wot e’ done to me.”241

The disapproval of these particular sketches wasprobably deserved. It is a fact, however, that,while readily admitting limitations in other fieldsof knowledge, there are few people who hesitateto criticize any kind of art work authoritatively.Their immunity from error seems to them remarkable,and to be the result of a natural instinctthat they have possessed from childhood. “Iknow what I like” is a common and much abusedexpression. They who use it usually do not knowwhat they like or what they ought to like. Thephrase covers infinite ignorance, with a complacentdisposition of the subject. The assumptionof critical infallibility is complete before a portraitof the critic.

Many otherwise intelligent critics respect onlyage and established art dogma. The dead mastershaunt pedantic essayists and opulent purchasers,who accept embalmed opinions that theywould be incapable of forming for themselves.Extended consideration of this subject is out ofplace amid the landscapes of Duneland, wherethe shades of the justly revered old painters mayhave deserted their madonnas and be wieldingspiritual brushes, charged with elusive tints that242flow unerringly upon canvases as tenuous as theevening mists. On them filmy portraits of theold dwellers along the shore may take form andvanish with the morning light, for in these ruggedfaces are the same attributes that made humanitypicturesque centuries ago. If one of these portraitscould suddenly materialize, it would bringa staggering price, if there was no suspicion thata modern had painted it. Some stray rhymesterhas aptly said:

“We gotta git some pitchers fer them walls,”declared Sipes, “an’ you buy ’em fer us. Gitsome colored ones that’s got boats in ’em, an’some fight’n scenes. I’d like to git a nice smoothhan’-painted pitcher o’ John L. Sullivan, an’ Idon’t care wot it costs!”

The old man wanted these things to enjoy.His purse pride had not yet suggested the ideaof posing as a connoisseur and condescendingpatron of the enshrined dead, without love or243understanding of what they did, but the germswere there that might enthrall him in the future,for affluence sometimes begets strange vanities.

Great masses of ice had been tumbled andheaped along the shore by the winter waves, andwe saw little of the lake, except when we climbedthe bluffs. The winds howled over the desolatebeach at night in angry portent, and one morninga driving storm came out of the north. Occasionally,from somewhere out above the wavesthat thundered against the ice, we could hearplaintive cries of gulls that groped through theblinding snow. The drifts piled high against thebluffs on the wild coast. The flying flakes wereswept along in thick clouds by the fury of thegale. The house was almost buried. The windsubsided after about twenty-four hours, but thesnow continued and fell ceaselessly for threedays.

When the skies cleared we opened the trap doorto the “crow’s nest,” the covered platform overthe roof, and looked out over the white waste.A few straggling crows accented the immaculateexpanse, the blue billows were pounding the icepacks, and a part of the mast of the Crawfish protruded244in the foreground, but everything else waswhite and still.

We were snowbound for ten days, but contentmentreigned at Shipmates’ Rest. We dug deeppaths that enabled us to reach our water supply,and to communicate with Napoleon in his cosylittle barn in the ravine.

The plentiful supply of canned goods, thatNarcissus had wisely laid in, was drawn upon forsustenance.

“Them air-tights is life savers!” exclaimed Sipes,as he mixed up some lobster, lima beans, ripeolives, and prunes on his plate. “Wot’s the useo’ monkeyin’ with them fresh things w’en youc’n git grub like this that’s all cooked an’ ready?All ye need is a can opener to live up as highas ye want to go. Gimme some o’ that pineapplefer this lobster, an’ pass John them dill pickles!”

“You better let Cookie chop up that mess feryou an’ squirt some lollydop on it, an’ eat it witha spoon,” advised Saunders; “yer git’n’ it all overus!”

“It’s too bad they can’t can pie,” said Sipes,“but we got pudd’n’s. Hi, there, Cookie, fetchsome o’ them little brown cans an’ tap ’em!”245

Narcissus appeared with a delicious cranberrypie, “with slats on it,” and the pudding wasforgotten.

“This is the life!” continued the old man, ashe broke some crackers into his coffee, “wot dowe care fer expense?”

Our evenings were spent in various interestingways. John and Narcissus had grown veryfond of each other, and they spent much timeplaying checkers. Numberless sound waves wentout into the dark, over the cold snow, thatcame from music, laughter, and rattling pokerchips.

There are many hardships in this life, both realand imaginary, but being snowbound at Shipmates’Rest is not one of them.

A typical January thaw set in, and the warmsunshine released us from our feathery bondage.The Crawfish was floated out on to the still lake,and we voyaged to the little town at the mouth ofthe river, from where I took the train for thegrimy, noise-cursed city—cursed, indeed, for theunnecessary and preventable dirt and noise inmost of our cities would hardly be tolerated inHades.246

It was August when I again visited Shipmates’Rest. There was a lazy calm on the lake, and adelicate and peculiar odor from the evaporatingwater. Scattered flocks of terns, nimble-wingedand graceful, skimmed over the surface, anddipped, with gentle splashes, for minnows thatbasked in the sun. The still air over the sandybluffs shimmered in the heat.

I found my friends in the lake, where they hadgone to get cool, and soon joined them.

There were more transformations on the beach.A mouse-colored donkey stood in the shade of thehouse, regarding us with wise and sleepy eyes.A black puppy gambolled at the water’s edge,clamoring for attention. A cow, which I recognizedas “Spotty,” stood in the creek that flowedout of the ravine, peacefully chewing her cud andswitching flies with her abbreviated tail. A coupleof white pigs were squealing and grunting in a pennear the little barn, and about a dozen fluffybrown hens, attended by a dignified rooster, werewandering over the sand after stray insects. Atall flag-pole extended above the “crow’s nest”on top of the house.

All these things were explained at length, as247we stood out on the smooth sandy bottom, withthe cool water around our necks.

“That anamile wot’s huggin’ the house,” saidSipes, “is to hitch to the windlass w’en we have tohaul the boat out. Cookie calls ’im Archibald, but’is real name’s Mike. He goes ’round an’ ’roundwith the pole, like we used to do, an’ winds upthe rope. W’en we want to run the boat in thelake, we got a block an’ tackle wot’s lashed tothat spile out’n the water. We take the rope outfrom the boat to it, an’ run it back to the windlass,an’ Mike winds ’er out fer us. That kind o’ workain’t fit fer nobody but a jackass, an’ ’e wouldn’tdo it if ’e had money. Mike strays ’round thecountry a good deal at night fer young cabbagean’ lettuce an’ things, but he’s gener’ly ’ere ondeck in the mornin’. Cookie bought ’im an’ thepup in the village this summer. We gotta have apup, but he’s a cusséd nuisance. W’en ’e’s in ’eyelps to git out, an’ the minute ’e’s out ’ehowls an’ scratches to git in. It takes ’bout allo’ one feller’s time to ’tend ’im, but ’e’s lots o’company. He’ll bark if anybody snoops ’roundat night. They’s val’ables ’ere an’ we gotta lookout. We call ’im Coonie, an’ ’e’s some dog.248Cookie’s teachin’ ’im a lot o’ tricks, an’ w’en ’egrows up ’e’ll be good to chase patritches out o’the brush.

“We bought Spotty off o’ the Ancient up theriver, an’ Cookie towed ’er in ’long the roadthrough the hills with a rope. Somehow I alw’ysliked that ol’ girl, an’ we gotta have milk.

“Them squealers is to eat wot’s left out o’ thekitchen, an’ next winter they’ll quit squealin’.Them hens is from the village, too, an’ their businessis to make aigs. Next year we’ll have slewso’ young chicks, an’ some w’ite ducks. Cookie’sgot a rubber thing wot ’e fastens on that rooster’sbill ev’ry night w’en ’e puts ’im to bed, so ’e can’tcrow an’ roust us out in the mornin’.

“We got a compass an’ a binnacle an’ a newspy-glass up in the crow’s nest. Me an’ Bill an’John set an’ smoke up there in the shade an’ seefellers work’n way off, an’ watch Mike windin’ upthe boat.”

“Tell ’im ’bout the motor, long as yer goin’ tokeep this up all day,” interrupted Saunders.

“Oh, yes. We got a new one wot’s built inaft o’ the cab’n. It’s got two cylinders, an’ itworks fine. We buried the old one up ’side o’249Cal’s dog. It ’ad to be that er us. Bill, youkeep still w’en I’m talk’n!

“The mast an’ them halyards over the houseis to fly signals. W’en we’r’ up er down thebeach, er out buzz’n on the lake, Cookie runs upthe mess flag w’en it’s dinner time. He uses redwith w’ite edges fer chops an’ steaks, an’ the w’iteone with a round yellow splotch in the middlemeans aigs wot’s been poached. He flys that,an’ a square o’ calico under it, w’en we’r’ goin’ tohave corn beef hash an’ aigs on top of it. He runsup a big bunch o’ cotton cords w’en ’e’s madeoggrytong speggetties, an’ w’en the flag’s plainbrown, it means beans. There’s no knowin’ wotthat cookie’s goin’ to do next.”

A cool breeze came up in the evening and webuilt our usual fire on the beach, more for itssubtle cheer than its heat, and talked over reminiscencesof the big snow-storm, and things thathad happened since.

The old sailors were in a state of opulent bliss.All of their desires were satisfied, except, as Sipesexpressed it, “git’n even with two er three fellersI know of,” and happiness reigned in their simplehearts.250

Out of the tempests of many seas, their batteredship had come, and was anchored in ahaven of tranquillity. The languor that comeswith satiety and completion was stealing gentlyover them. Life presented no riddles, and theywere without illusions. So far as their capacityfor enjoyment extended, the fair earth and thefulness thereof was theirs. The great blue lake,the floating clouds, the jewelled fire of the sunsets,and the star-decked firmament belonged tothem, as much as to anybody else. Title deedsto the sands, vine-clad hills, woods, and to theopen fields, where suppliant petals drink the rain,could not add to their sense of possession.

Every comfort was around them that theirlimitations could require. They were spared theinanities and shallow snobbery of “society,” andthe many other ills that come with existence ina sphere of vanity and hypocrisy. The gates ofhigher knowledge were not opened to them. Art,science, and literature lay in garnered hoards farbeyond their ken, but after their lives are closed,who may judge of the futility, or award thelaurel?

Into this happy Arcady—this land of the251heart’s desire and hope’s fruition—softly prowledthe onion-skinner. Like an evil wind upon aflowery lea, he crept out of the north over thewide waters. He landed at the beach with aboat on the still morning of a day that had promisedto be bright and fair. Eveless though thisgarden was, Satan had entered.

Horatius T. Bascom was a man of perhapsforty-five. His closely cropped moustache wasslightly gray. Under it was a mouth like a slitin a letter-box. It seemed to have a certain steel-trapquality that savored of acquirement but notdisbursem*nt. His eyes had a shrewd, greedy expression,and, when he frowned, small wrinklesformed between them that somehow suggestedthe lines of the dollar sign—that sordid markthat disfigures great characters and destroyssmall ones.

He was the type of man who signs his businessletters with a rubber stamp facsimile signature,to facilitate legal evasion in the future. Suchletters, insulting to the recipient, are also oftenstamped with a small inscription to the effect thatthey were “dictated, but not read” by the cautioussender. Altogether his personality was such252as to prompt one to protect his watch pocketwith one hand and his scarf pin with the otherwhile talking with him.

“Hello, boys!” he called out glibly, as hewalked up to our group. “You seem quite cosyaround here. Have some cigars.” He produceda handful and passed them around. We all happenedto be smoking, and Sipes was the only onewho accepted the proffered weed. He put it inhis pocket, with the remark that he would “smokeit some other time”—a phrase that the giveralways inwardly resents, but the wily old manmay have intended it to offend.

We were not particularly enthusiastic over hisdescent into our little circle.

“You look pretty cosy yerself,” said Sipes;“how much did you git fer that big jool yougouged us out of?”

“I sold it at a loss. It had a small imperfectionthat I didn’t notice when I bought it. You certainlygot the best of that bargain.”

“They wasn’t no imperfection in yer buncho’ bunk w’en you was buyin’ it.”

We kept rather quiet and let our caller leadthe conversation, hoping that the object of his253visit would finally unravel from the tangle of hissmall talk. Coonie sniffed around him a fewtimes, and, with unerring instinct, retreated underthe house.

The atmosphere of hostility that enveloped hiscoming gradually dissipated during the forenoon,and he was invited to join us when Narcissusannounced lunch.

“Now what you fellows ought to do,” he declared,“is to go up the river again and drag itmore thoroughly. I think you’d find some morepearls there that would put you well on your feetfinancially. You could buy some land on thebluff and along the shore and have a larger place.This property will all be much more valuablesome day. You could have an automobile, andkeep more servants. If you had a bigger andbetter boat you could put a small crew on itand go anywhere in the world you wanted to.”

He outlined methods of using money that dazzledimagination. Like Moses of old, Sipes andSaunders were shown a land of allurement, fromwhat seemed to them a towering height. It couldbe theirs, if they had the price, and the price wasin the lily-margined channel of the Winding River.254

Like most of the rest of humanity, the onion-skinnercraved “unearned increment,” and hehoped to inveigle his hearers into procuring itfor him. The echo of the coin’s ring—a soundthat encircles the world—was in the voice ofthe tempter, and the old mariners listened as toa siren’s song.

“I’ll go with you, if you’d like to have me,” hedeclared, “and I’ll pay you a good price for yourpearls, as I did before.”

“I’ll tell ye wot we’ll do,” said Sipes. “Weain’t busy now, an’ we’ll take the Crawfish up toour ol’ camp. We’ll take Cookie ’long an’ keepthings up. You c’n go out with the flatboat an’fish fer jools. We’ll stick ’round an’ watch youwork, if we don’t git too tired, and we’ll giveyou a fifth o’ wot you git. We’ll sell our joolsto somebody else, an’ w’en you sell your shareyou c’n fix up with us fer our time. If you don’tfind nothin’ you won’t have to pay us much anyway,so it’ll be a good thing fer you.”

While the proposition might have excited theonion-skinner’s admiration, from a professionalpoint of view, he failed to see its advantages tohim. He suggested that it might be well to think255matters over for a few days, and that he “mightdrop around again the latter part of the week.”

We helped him push his boat into the lake, andhe rowed away, leaving a writhing serpent of discontentat Shipmates’ Rest.

“They’s a good deal in wot that feller says,”declared Sipes. “I don’t think nothin’ o’ him, butjest think wot we c’d do if we had two bar’ls o’cash-money instid o’ one! We c’d branch out an’buy this whole cusséd shore. We’d stick up signsand nobody’d dast come on it!”

Saunders was virulent and profane in his commenton “fellers that ain’t satisfied with wot theygot, w’en they got all they need, er ever oughtahave,” but finally admitted that “they’s a lotmore things we might do if we c’d find some moreo’ them big pearls.”

That evening the old cronies departed into themoonlight for consultation. John and I soughtour couches early. Narcissus took his new mouthorgan and ukelele, and strolled off up the beachwith Coonie. They had evidently returned sometimebefore midnight, for I heard loud imprecationsbeing bestowed on the pup by Saunders,who had found him chewing up a deck of cards256on the floor, when he and Sipes had come in later.Doubtless Coonie had been ennuied and distrait,and had longed for occupation. With all his sins,he was a lovable little dog, and his good natureand affection made him irresistible. He was fullyforgiven in the morning.

“Bill an’ me’s talked this thing all over,” announcedSipes at the breakfast table. “This damnonion-skinner’s got sump’n else in ’is head ’sidesjools. He wouldn’t want to go up there an’ stick’round jest to watch us clam-fish’n’. We’ll findout wot’s bit’n’ ’im. We’r’ goin’ to tell ’im to comeon with us, an’ we want you to go too. We’ll goup there an’ start the camp an’ do some jool-fish’n’,an’ have a good time, an’ mebbe we’ll gitsome. That cuss bilked us on that deal last year,an’ you bet we’r’ goin’ to git square somehow.We’r’ goin’ to give ’im the third degree, an’ youjest watch us fondle ’im. All such fellers as himoughta be exported.”

Bascom was received with faultless urbanitywhen he came again. It was agreed that heshould be simply a guest, and that operationsshould be resumed on the old basis. Sipes assuredhim that he would be made comfortable.257

“You’ll have a fine time up there in themwoods. You c’n fish an’ loaf ’round an’ pickposy flowers, an’ us fellers’ll find out wot’s leftin the river. Cookie’s goin’ to fix up a lot o’stuff, an’ we’ll have a fine trip. You go an’fetch wot you want to take ’long, an’ come earlytomorrer.”

The necessary preparations were made. Mikewound the Crawfish into the lake. Bascom hadbrought some seedy old clothes, a soft gray hat,and some high boots. His baggage was light andhe appeared quite well prepared for an outing.He had some interesting maps with him, whichhe said would enable us to keep posted as toexactly where we were. He brought a pocketcompass, some light fishing tackle, a leather guncase, and I noticed, when his coat was off, thatthe handle of a small revolver protruded fromhis left hip pocket.

John was to remain in charge of the place.

“Now don’t you take in no bad money, an’don’t you pay out none o’ no kind w’ile we’r’gone,” cautioned Sipes, as we climbed into theboat. “You take care o’ yerself, an’ don’t fallin the water.” He bestowed a solemn wink on258the old man as the motor began to hum, and wedeparted, waving farewells to our faithful custodian.

The voyage to the mouth of the river was uneventful.We tied up at the old pier, and Sipesand Narcissus left us for an hour to do someerrands in the village. A former experience ofNarcissus in that town was disastrous, and theold man thought “somebody’d better be ’long tohelp Cookie carry things, fer ’e got overloaded’ere once’t.”

Saunders and I found my small boat and tentwhere they had been stored during the winter,and got them out to take with us.

“That feller that Sipes is talk’n’ to up there onthe hill’s the game warden,” remarked Saunders.“Wot d’ye s’pose ’e wants with ’im?”

We reëmbarked, made our way up through themarsh, and saw our old camping ground in thedistance.

Out in the middle of the river we beheld CaptainPeppers on the flatboat, which we had left onthe bank the year before. He had been draggingthe stream, but had stopped work when he heardour motor in the marsh.259

“Look at that ol’ puss*foot up there fish’n ferjools!” exclaimed Sipes. “He looks like a bugfloat’n on a chip. You c’n see ’is ol’ beak from’ere! Listen at me josh ’im w’en we git up to’im. He gives me pains. I’d like to know wot ’ewas ever cap’n of. It’s prob’ly one o’ them demijohntitles. They’s slews of ’em. Fellers thatdrinks a lot gits to be called Colonel an’ Majoran’ Cap’n, that ain’t never c’mmanded nothin’ erfit nothin’ but demijohns all their lives, an’ I bet’e’s one of ’em. The redder their noses gits thehigher up their titles goes, an’ some of ’em gitsto be gen’rals ’fore they’r laid away, an’ they’ssome s’loon jedges over to the county seat thatain’t never been in no court ’cept to be fined ferbein’ drunk. Don’t you start nothin’ ’bout thatol’ motor, Bill, ’cause it won’t do now.”

“Hello, Cap’n!” shouted the old man, as wecame up. “Fine day, ain’t it? Cetchin’ anymudturkles?”

The Captain, ill at ease, began poling the flatboattoward the bank.

“I didn’t know you expected to use this outfitagain, an’ I thought I’d see if they was any loosepearls layin’ ’round ’ere. Of course now you’re260here you c’n go ahead. I don’t want to interferewith you in no way.”

“You won’t,” replied Sipes. “We didn’t knowyou was clam-fish’n w’en we fust seen you. Wethought you’d mosied up ’ere so’s to be near thatspring, an’ was jest out cruisin’ on the river ferfun.”

The Captain’s nose was a little redder thanwhen we last saw him, but otherwise he appearedunchanged. He was invited to land and havelunch with us. Saunders introduced him to theonion-skinner, liquid cheer was produced, and anentente cordiale soon prevailed.

The big sail was again rigged as a shelter tentin its old place, and my tent was put where itwas before. The Captain kindly helped to getour camp in order. He showed us a few pearlsof moderate value, that he had found during thetwo weeks he had been at work on the river, andthey were purchased by Bascom, at what seemedto be a fair price. Late in the afternoon he partookof more liquid cheer, and rowed away down theriver in his little boat.

That night we assembled around the fire, butthe circle was not as of old. Something was missing261and something had been added. The atmospherewas unsympathetic. There is a certainpsychology that pervades gatherings, both greatand small, that is subtly sensitive to influencesthat are often indefinable. In this instance the“repellent aura” was obviously the onion-skinner.He exerted himself to be agreeable, but his bonhomiewas about as infectious as that of a crocodiletrying to be playful. His personality did notharmonize with the little amenities of life, andhe was a misfit anywhere but in a financialtransaction.

Sipes’s habitual effervescence seemed to havea false note. Saunders and I kept rather quiet,and the melodies that dwelt in the volatile soulof Narcissus were hushed.

The arboreal katydids were abroad in thewoods. These insects are exquisitely beautiful intheir green gowns. Like many human creatures,they would be fascinating if they kept still, butthey stridulate boisterously and persistently.Their scientific name—Cyrtophyllus perspicillatus—isonly one of the things against them.The insects seldom move after they have establishedthemselves in a tree for the night, and they262often stay in one spot from early August, whenthey usually mature, until the fall frosts silencetheir penetrating clamor. The green foliage providesa camouflage that renders them practicallyundiscoverable, except by accident. We huntedfor one particular offender with an electric flashlightand murderous intent nearly half of onenight, without finding him. We hurled manysticks and clods of earth into the tree, but failedeven to disturb his meter.

It is the male katydid that proclaims thetroubles of his kind to the forest world. Hebegins soon after dark, and continues hiswork until morning. Curiously, the female issilent.

The loud dissonant sounds are produced byfriction of the wings, which have hard, drumlikemembranes and edges like curved files. Heshuffles them with a continuity that is nerve-racking.Often I would suddenly start fromsound sleep, with an indistinct apprehension ofsome impending peril.

One morning, after a haunted and vexatiousnight in the little tent, I found that the followingimpressions had crept over white paper during263the hours of darkness, and lay beside the burned-outcandle. They are the lines of one who sufferedand should be read with reverence.

A DIABOLIC CADENCE

Into the choirs of the trees there has come a rasping,strident, and unholy sound. A fiend in greenis mocking the transient year with mad threnodyfrom his eyrie among the boughs.

In that suspended half consciousness that hoversalong the margin of a dream, there seems to echo,out of some vast and awful chasm, a rumbling roarof rocks—from some abysmal smithy of the godswithin the hidden caverns of the earth where hugeboulders are being fashioned by giant hands, to behurled up into space, to descend with frightful crash,and extinguish the life upon the globe.

In the agonized recoil of frenzied fancy from theborders of the dream, the demonic ceaseless sawing,of the arboreal fiend in green, arrests the fleetingphantoms of the brain, and, like a doleful tunelesstolling of a fractured funeral bell—like a barbaricsong of sorrow over fallen warriors—the ripping,rasping, resonant notes mingle with the night wind,and drown the harmonious hum of drowsy insects,that kindly nature has sent into the world to lullsomnolent fancy into paths of dreams.

After the gentle prelude of the crickets—and thelullabies of forest folk—like a mad discordantpiper, he starts a strain of dismal dole, and filesaway the seconds from the onward hours. Mercilesslyacross the tender human nerves, that seem264to span the taut bridge of a swaying violin, hesweeps a berosined and excruciating bow.

Prolonged wailing for a “lost or stolen” lovemay have disintegrated his vocal chords. His agonizedand shattered heart may have sunk into hopelessdepths, and all his articulate forces may havebeen transmitted to his foliated wings, when hisbelovéd was lured away by some unknown marauder—mayhapof darker green or lovely pink.

The errant pair may be hidden in a distant glade—ordingly dell—gazing upward through theleaves, wondering “what star should be their homewhen love becomes immortal,” and listening to him,as he scrapes the melodies out of the night with thatinfernal, insistent, and slang-infected song:

Intermittently he seems to muffle the raggedrhyme, and merge into virulent vers libre—imagisticmuse and amputated prose—containing soundprojectiles, of low trajectory, that winnow the aislesof the forest for an erring spouse who has fled beyondthe range of common rhyme.

Perhaps it’s all wrong—about this insect havingloved—for love is a holy thing, and it may be thatit abides not among the things that have wings andstings. It would seem that he who could trill thisnerve-destroying song could know no love, or thatit was ever in the world.265

It may be that this emerald villain has been outlawedby his kind, and he’s filing, up there in thedark, on some terrible iron thing, that he’s sharpeningto annihilate the tribe that banned him. He maybe sawing of a branch, and, if so, I hope he’s straddlingthe part that’ll fall off when he’s through.Maybe he’s got some ex-friend up there, pinioned tothe bark, and he’s boring him to death, by telling himthe same thing—the same thing—the same thing—o’erand o’er and o’er.

I wish that some gliding fluffy owl, or otherrover of the darkened woods, would only pause amoment, and divest the bough of this green-mantledwretch, and then that some mighty ravenous birdwould collect the people we know, who come andscrape on something that’s inside of them—lay asound barrage before us—fret the air with piffle,and with sorrows all their own—and chant a woefulceaseless cadence, like the green arboreal fiend,whose sonorous and satanic notes assail us fromthe bough. Miscreated, malignant, and hellishthough they and the fiend may be, they all revel inthat rare joy that comes only to him who has foundhis life work.

For our sins must we be scourged, else, why arethese people?

And,

After listening patiently to the reading of theproduction, my unfeeling prosaic friend Sipes remarked,266“Gosh, we gotta git that insect ’fore itgits dark ag’in!”

The Ancient called the third day after ourarrival, and spent the afternoon with us. Bascomseemed much interested in helping to entertainhim, and got out his maps. On one of themwas indicated the names of the owners of thedifferent tracts of land, and we were surprisedto learn that the old man was the possessor ofthe woods we were in, practically all of the landaround the marsh, and a long strip of frontageon the lake. Captain Peppers was also a largeowner of property along the lake.

The veiled motive of Bascom’s trip with us wasnow apparent. He wanted options for a yearon a large part of these holdings, and was willingto pay what he considered a good price. Itseemed that on the day we came, he had hadsome talk with the Captain on the subject, andthey were to take the matter up again.

He wanted options only on the tracts withmarsh and lake frontage, and argued that if theywere improved the rest of the land would be mademuch more valuable. He had skilfully arrangedhis stage setting for the object of his trip, and267claimed that the idea had just occurred to himwhile he was taking this little outing. He saidthat he accidentally happened to have the maps,and had brought them along to familiarize himselfwith the country he was in.

He made the Ancient a substantial offer foran option on most of his holdings, at a price thatthe old man did not seem inclined to consider,but he was open to negotiation.

“I been livin’ ’ere most all my life, an’ I’veranged ’round this ol’ marsh an’ them sand-hillsso much that I wouldn’t know how to act if theywasn’t mine, but if you’ll git yer figgers up wharI c’n see ’em, mebbe we’ll talk about it somemore.”

“You see,” said Bascom to Saunders, after theold settler had left, “this land idea is a sort of aside issue with me. I think that perhaps a littlemoney might be made here, but I would have totake some big chances. You and Sipes talk withthose fellows a little, and see if you can’t bringthem around to business, and I’ll pay you somethingfor it if they sign up. You might havesome influence with them. Tell them that Imentioned to you that it was just a gamble with268me, and probably there isn’t a chance in a hundredthat I will exercise the options at all, andthey will be ahead whatever they get out of menow.”

The old shipmates agreed to do what they couldand the subject was dropped for the time being.

The accidental exposure of the contents of along fat wallet that Bascom carried inside hisvest revealed the fact that he had a large amountof money with him, much larger than could possiblybe required for ordinary use. Evidentlyhe was prepared to close the business with theowners of the land the moment their minds met.

“Holy Mike! Did ye see that wad?” whisperedSipes, who was awed by the magic of thegold certificates. “I’d like to know some wayto git that wad,” he remarked later. “I’d playsome seven-up with ’im fer some of it, but they’ssump’n ’bout ’im that makes me think it wouldn’tdo.”

I realized that the despoiler was at the gates ofthe Dune Country. The foot of the Philistinewas on holy ground. This man with a witheredsoul was an invader of sanctuary. He wouldtear the dream temples down that the centuries269had builded. With steam shovels and freightcars he would level the undulating hills, and haulaway their shining sands to a world of greed,where man does not discriminate. The wild lifewould flee from steam whistles that shriekedthrough the forests, and from smoke that defiledthe quiet places. Belching chimneys and unsightlysigns would befoul and deface the fairdomain. With the beauty of the dunes he wouldfeed a Moloch in the sordid town.

The peaceful marsh, and the river with itschannel of silver light, would be invaded withdredges. Abbatoirs, tanneries, factories, and blastfurnaces might come. The Winding River, withits halo of memories, would flow away with recedingyears, and a foul stream would carry thestain of desecration and filth out to pollute thecrystal depths of the lake.

“Improvements” were contemplated in Duneland,and the spectre of hopeless ugliness hoveredalong its borders. The altar of Mammon awaiteda sacrifice, for “money might be made here” ifcertain manufacturing interests, to which Bascomvaguely alluded, “could be induced to utilizethese now practically worthless wastes of sand.”270

In years to come the wild geese may look downfrom their paths through the soiled skies, to theearth carpet below them, and wonder at thecreatures that have changed it from a fabric ofbeauty to a source of evil odors and terrifyingsounds.

The clam-fishing was unsatisfactory. The mollusksseemed to be about exhausted. Sipes andSaunders worked faithfully for several days, butonly found a dozen or so, and none of them containedpearls.

“We gotta wait fer a new crop,” declared Saunders,who was disgusted with the whole trip andwanted to go home.

Bascom persuaded the old sailors to remain afew days, to give the Ancient a chance to comeback, and to impress the Captain at the villagewith the idea that he was in no hurry to see him.They had no love for that red-nosed worthy andacquiesced.

The flatboat was restored to its berth on thebank, and in the early morning Sipes and Saundersmade a trip to the village in the Crawfish.On their return at lunch time they reported thatthey had seen nothing of the Captain.271

I spent the afternoon up the river and hearda great many shots echoing through the woods.When I returned to camp I found that Bascomhad been out shooting robins. There were thirty-sevenof the innocent little redbreasts in hisbloody bag, and the game warden was with himwhen he returned from his shameful expedition.

It seemed that Sipes, when he arrived fromthe village, had pictured to Bascom the gloriesof a certain robin pie, “with little dumplins,”that he said Narcissus had once compounded,and the fascinated onion-skinner, although knowingthat it was illegal to kill songsters, had takenthe risk of going out with his gun to obtainmaterial for another one. He was mad all theway through, but was a much subdued man.

“Them robins is song birds, an’ it’s ag’in thelaw to kill ’em at any time,” said the warden.“They’re wuth ten dollars apiece an’ costs tothe state, an’ you’ve got to go to the county seatwith me. Mebbe you’ll be jugged too, fer they’repretty severe with fellers that shoot little birds.”

Bascom offered to fix up the matter privately,on a liberal financial basis, but the minion of thelaw was inexorable. The culprit must have regarded272that part of the country as most peculiarand inhospitable.

Erskine Douglas Potts, the game warden, was alengthy loose-jointed individual. One eye droopedin a peculiar way, and seemed to rove independentlyof the other. Sipes declared that “Doug’c’n look up in a tree with one eye, an’ down ahole with the other lamp at the same time.” Oddhumor radiated from him and he had a deep senseof his dignity as an upholder of the “revised stat-toots.”Two printed copies of the state gamelaws protruded from the top of his trousers, wherethey were secured by a safety pin. “Casey,” hissmall yellow dog, was his inseparable companion.They were a devoted pair of chums and Pottsrefused to allow a “pitcher” to be made of himunless the dog was included.

Casey was an animal of rare acumen. He hadonce taken the prize at a village dog-show, whereintelligence and not breeding was considered, andhis laurels were regarded as imperishable by hisproud master.

“They didn’t put me up, but if they had I’d ’a’lost out ’side o’ him,” he remarked. “The dogsis the smartest things in that town, an’ they273couldn’t be no kind of a brain show thar without’em. This dog’s a wonder. He knows thetime o’ day, an’ all the short cuts through thewoods an’ sand-hills. We ain’t neither of us gotno pedigrees, but we seem to navigate ’roundpretty well without ’em.

“W’en we hear any shoot’n off in the woods wego out on a still-hunt. Casey finds the foot trailsan’ follers ’em up. ’Tain’t long ’fore we spot thefeller with the gun. Then we foregather with ’iman’ ask fer ’is shoot’n license, an’ inspect wot ’e’sgot. If it’s song birds, er game out o’ season, weform in line an’ perceed to whar the scales o’ justicehang, an’ the feller has to loosen up.

“Casey hikes down to the depot w’en they’sanybody that with baggage er packages, an’ sniffs’em over. If ’e scents any birds ’e alw’ys lets meknow. I git half o’ the fines that’s levied, an’ this’ere bag we’ve jest brought in looks like prettygood pickin’. It’s durn poor shoot’n that don’tshake down sump’n fer somebody. Casey an’ melives alone, an’ we have lots o’ long talks together.He knows more’n most lawyers. He’s my depity,an’ I couldn’t git along without ’im. A feller thatowns a nice new breech loadin’ gun offered to trade274me a horse fer ’im last week, but they was nothin’doin’.

“Me an’ Casey don’t miss much that goes on’round ’ere. After them robins is took off o’ the baro’ justice, we’ll fetch ’em back, if the jedge don’tcop ’em, an’ we’ll let yer dark-spot cook ’em, an’we’ll have a pie that’s all our own. Yer moneyedfriend c’n think about it while ’e’s in the countyjail countin’ the change ’e’s got left.”

It was arranged that the prisoner and hismarble-hearted captor should be taken to thevillage that night in the Crawfish, and the journeyto the county seat made the next day.

The evening meal was far from festive. Theboat was poled out into the current and startedaway down stream in the moonlight, with Saundersat the helm. Sipes and the warden smokedcomplacently on the roof of the cabin, and themoody Bascom sat between them. Casey was incharge of the evidence near the bow, where hejealously guarded the bag of robins and kepthis eye on the evil doer.

Sipes had remarked to me before they left that“things has been pretty dull ’round this ’erecamp, but now they’s sump’n doin’.”275

“Ah tole Mr. Bascom that ’e bettah not goshoot’n’ much ’round heah,” said Narcissus, witha quiet chuckle, after the party had left, “but ’esaid ’e wanted one o’ them robin pies that Mr.Sipes tole ’im ’bout. Ah don’t remembah ’boutno robin pie, but it might be awful good. Thewa’den has ’fiscated all them robins, an’ Ah guesswe got to fix up sump’n else fo’ dinnah tomorrow.”

I asked no questions when the old shipmatesreturned, and they volunteered no informationas to any part that they might or might not haveplayed in the little drama of the afternoon, butI suspected that the “third degree” that Sipeshad mentioned before we started was now inprocess of application.

Justice was dealt out to Bascom with unsparinghand when he reached the county seat, andhe was compelled to pay the full penalty of hiswrongdoing. After liquidating his fines, and incidentallyhimself, in a moderate way, to drownhis troubles, he had spent an hour or so abouttown, and was just taking the train, when he wasagain arrested for carrying a concealed weapon.He had neglected to leave his revolver at thecamp, and was assessed accordingly.276

He came back to us after three days, with acrestfallen air, and said that he was ready tobreak camp if we were. Nothing had been seenof the Ancient or the Captain, and he regardedit as poor strategy to stay longer, with no particularexcuse for doing so. He would devisesome other way of getting at the coy landowners.

We packed up our things and departed. Theengine stopped just before we reached the village,and we found that our gasoline was exhausted.Unfortunately the oars had been forgotten whenwe left Shipmates’ Rest, but as the new motorhad worked perfectly, there had been no occasionfor them. We poled the Crawfish to the old pier,landed, and stowed my little boat and tent wherewe had found them. We then took the gasolinecan and walked up to the village, leaving Bascomin charge of the Crawfish.

He was anxious for us to run across the Captainaccidentally, and if possible get him down to theboat on some pretence. In effect, we were toshoo the wary Captain to the ambush, wherethe onion-skinner lay in wait with his temptingyellowbacks. We did not look very hard forhim, but I happened to see him down the road277talking to a man in a buggy. I was not inclinedto do any shooing, and did not disturb him.

We spent some time in the village store. Whenwe came out, the sky, which had looked threateningall the morning, was overcast with darkangry clouds. A big storm was brewing, and wedecided not to start for Shipmates’ Rest untilit was over. There was a high off-shore wind.The waves were rising rapidly out on the lake, butthe protected water along the bluffs was stillcomparatively calm. As the wind increased wewent down to the pier, intending to tie the boatup in a more sheltered place, and remain at thevillage all night. We found to our dismay thatthe Crawfish was adrift far out on the water.Under the strain of the wind and the river current,the line had parted that had held it to thepier.

Bascom was gesticulating wildly for help, butthere was no means of getting to him. Therehappened to be no boats around the mouth ofthe river large enough to be of use in the wavesthat were now breaking over the Crawfish. Therewas no gasoline on the boat, and if there hadbeen oars Bascom could not have got the boat278back with them after he got into the current.Evidently he had not realized his danger untilit was too late to jump overboard and swimashore, or it may not have occurred to him.

“That poor feller ain’t got no more chance’an a fish worm on a red-hot stove,” shoutedSipes above the roar of the wind, as we watchedthe helpless craft being tossed and borne away.To do the old man justice, he forgot the boat,and our belongings on it, in the face of Bascom’speril, as we all did.

There was a faint hope that some steamer onthe lake might rescue him, but there was nonein sight, and we doubted if the boat would stayafloat more than a few minutes more in such awind and sea. Rain began to come in torrents,and the distant object, that we had watched soanxiously, was obliterated by the storm.

We made our way back to the village storewith difficulty, and telephoned to the lifesavingstation about thirty miles away on the coast,but there was no possible hope of help fromthere. There was much excitement among a fewvillagers who came out into the storm, but nobodycould suggest any means of relief.279

We spent a gloomy and sleepless night in thelittle town, where we were hospitably providedfor.

Somewhere far out on the wind-lashed lake theturbulent seas and the storm played with a thingthat had become a part of the waste and débrisof the wide waters. Bascom’s god was in hisleather wallet, but it was powerless, except withmen. The winds and the waves knew it not.Greed, that dominates the greater part of mankind,becomes ghastly illusion, as the frail creatureit disfigures blends into the elements whenfinality comes.

Mother Nature, with her invincible forces,sometimes chastens her erring children who donot understand. She had guarded her treasuresin Duneland through the countless years, andnow, with a breath from the skies, a destroyerhad been wafted from its portals.

Poor Bascom had indeed received the “thirddegree” and had been “exported” in a way thatwas not contemplated by the sorrowful oldsailors.

The storm subsided the next day and we madethe journey along the beach on foot to Shipmates’280Rest, where we found everything in goodorder. We related our doleful experience toJohn, and there was a cloud over our little partyfor several days. Like most of the troubles inthis world, particularly when they are those ofothers, the sadness of Bascom’s fate soon lost itspoignancy.

“I’m sorry fer Bascom,” remarked Sipes, “an’I hate to lose the boat an’ all the stuff wot’s on it,but Gosh, I wish I had that wad! He made alot o’ money in ’is business, an’ money’s all ’eever wanted to git, an’ ’e’s got plenty of it rightwith ’im, so he ain’t got no kick comin’. He wasa hard citizen. All they was that was good about’im was ’is cash-money, an’ it’s like that with alot o’ people. I don’t s’pose ’e’ll ever git anywheresnear the New Jerus’lum that Zeke tellsabout, but if ’e does, I bet ’e’ll want to skin someo’ them pearls wot’s on the gate.”

I arranged to leave for home, and promised towrite to Sipes if I ever saw anything in the newspapersrelating to the finding of Bascom’s body.

“By the way, Sipes, I never knew your firstname. What is it?”

“My fust name? It’s Willie, but don’t you281never put that on no letter. Me an’ you an’Bill’s the only ones wot knows it.”

I departed out of Duneland, and one coldafternoon during the winter I opened the doorof my city studio, after a short absence, andunder it was a card that had been left during thepast hour. On it was engraved,

I mailed it to “Mr. W. Sipes” with a trite allusionto bad pennies, and such other comment asseemed befitting.