The Best of Gene Stratton-Porter

  He picked up the bag and returned to the dry-house, where he carefully washed the roots and spread them on the trays. Then he took the same bag and mattock and going through the woods in the opposite direction he came to a heavy growth in a cleared space of high ground. The bloom heads were forming and the plant was half matured. The Harvester dug a cylindrical, tapering root, wrinkling lengthwise, wiped it clean, broke and tasted it. He made a wry face. He stood examining the white wood with its brown-red bark and, deciding that it was in prime condition, he began digging the plants. It was common wayside “Bouncing Bet,” but the Harvester called it “soapwort.” He took every other plant in his way across the bed, and when he digged a heavy load he carried it home, stripped the leaves, and spread them on trays, while the roots he topped, washed, and put to dry also. Then he whistled for Belshazzar and went to lunch.

  As he passed down the road to the cabin his face was a study of conflicting emotions, and his eyes had a far away appearance of deep thought. Every tree of his stretch of forest was rustling fresh leaves to shelter him; dogwood, wild crab, and hawthorn offered their flowers; earth held up her tribute in painted trillium faces, spring beauties, and violets, blue, white, and yellow. Mosses, ferns, and lichen decorated the path; all the birds greeted him in friendship, and sang their purest melodies. The sky was blue, the sun bright, the air perfumed for him; Belshazzar, always true to his name, protected every footstep; Ajax, the shimmering green and gold wonder, came up the hill to meet him; the white doves circled above his head. Stumbling half blindly, the Harvester passed unheeding among them, and went into the cabin. When he came out he stood a long time in deep study, but at last he returned to the woods.

  “Perhaps they will have found her before night,” he said. “I’ll harvest the cranesbill yet, because it’s growing late for it, and then I’ll see how they are coming on. Maybe they’d know her if they met her, and maybe they wouldn’t. She may wear different clothing, and freshen up after her trip. She might have been car sick, as Doc suggested, and appear very different when she feels better.”

  He skirted the woods around the northeast end and stopped at a big bed of exquisite growth. Tall, wiry stems sprang upward almost two feet in height; leaves six inches across were cut in ragged lobes almost to the base, and here and there, enough to colour the entire bed a delicate rose or sometimes a violet purple, the first flowers were unfolding. The Harvester lifted a root and tasted it.

  “No doubt about you being astringent,” he muttered. “You have enough tannin in you to pucker a mushroom. By the way, those big, corn-cobby fellows should spring up with the next warm rain, and the hotels and restaurants always pay high prices. I must gather a few bushels.”

  He looked over the bed of beautiful wild alum and hesitated.

  “I vow I hate to touch you,” he said. “You are a picture right now, and in a week you will be a miracle. It seems a shame to tear up a plant for its roots, just at flowering time, and I can’t avoid breaking down half I don’t take, getting the ones I do. I wish you were not so pretty! You are one of the colours I love most. You remind me of red-bud, blazing star, and all those exquisite magenta shades that poets, painters, and the Almighty who made them love so much they hesitate about using them lavishly. You are so delicate and graceful and so modest. I wish she could see you! I got to stop this or I won’t be able to lift a root. I never would if the ten cents a pound I’ll get out of it were the only consideration.”

  The Harvester gripped the mattock and advanced to the bed. “What I must be thinking is that you are indispensable to the sick folks. The steady demand for you proves your value, and of course, humanity comes first, after all. If I remain in the woods alone much longer I’ll get to the place where I’m not so sure that it does. Seems as if animals, birds, flowers, trees, and insects as well, have their right to life also. But it’s for me to remember the sick folks! If I thought the Girl would get some of it now, I could overturn the bed with a stout heart. If any one ever needed a tonic, I think she does. Maybe some of this will reach her. If it does, I hope it will make her cheeks just the lovely pink of the bloom. Oh Lord! If only she hadn’t appeared so sick and frightened! What is there in all this world of sunshine to make a girl glance around her like that? I wish I knew! Maybe they will have found her by night.”

  The Harvester began work on the bed, but he knelt and among the damp leaves from the spongy black earth he lifted the roots with his fingers and carefully straightened and pressed down the plants he did not take. This required more time than usual, but his heart was so sore he could not be rough with anything, most of all a flower. So he harvested the wild alum by hand, and heaped large stacks of roots around the edges of the bed. Often he paused as he worked and on his knees stared through the forest as if he hoped perhaps she would realize his longing for her, and come to him in the wood as she had across the water. Over and over he repeated, “Perhaps they will find her by night!” and that so intensified the meaning that once he said it aloud. His face clouded and grew dark.

  “Dealish nice business!” he said. “I am here in the woods digging flower roots, and a gang of men in the city are searching for the girl I love. If ever a job seemed peculiarly a man’s own, it appears this would be. What business has any other man spying after my woman? Why am I not down there doing my own work, as I always have done it? Who’s more likely to find her than I am? It seems as if there would be an instinct that would lead me straight to her, if I’d go. And you can wager I’ll go fast enough.”

  The Harvester appeared as if he would start that instant, but with lips closely shut he finally forced himself to go on with his work. When he had rifled the bed, and uprooted all he cared to take during one season, he carried the roots to the lake shore below the curing house, and spread them on a platform he had built. He stepped into his boat and began dashing pails of water over them and using a brush. As he worked he washed away the woody scars of last year’s growth, and the tiny buds appearing for the coming season.

  Belshazzar sat on the opposite bank and watched the operation; and Ajax came down and, flying to a dead stump, erected and slowly waved his train to attract the sober-faced man who paid no heed. He left the roots to drain while he prepared supper, then placed them on the trays, now filled to overflowing, and was glad he had finished. He could not cure anything else at present if he wanted to. He was as far advanced as he had been at the same time the previous year. Then he dressed neatly and locking the Girl’s room, and leaving Belshazzar to protect it, he went to Onabasha.

  “Bravo!” cried Doctor Carey as the Harvester entered his office. “You are heroic to wait all day for news. How much stuff have you gathered?”

  “Three crops. How many missing women have you located?”

  The doctor laughed. There was no sign of a smile on the face of the Harvester.

  “You didn’t really expect her to come to light the first day? That would be too easy! We can’t find her in a minute.”

  “It will be no surprise to me if you can’t find her at all. I am not expecting another man to do what I don’t myself.”

  “You are not hunting her. You are harvesting the woods. The men you employ are to find her.”

  “Maybe I am, and maybe I am not,” said the Harvester slowly. “To me it appears to be a poor stick of a man who coolly proceeds with money making, and trusts to men who haven’t even seen her to search for the girl he loves. I think a few hours of this is about all my patience will endure.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” said the Harvester. “But you can bank on one thing sure—I’m going to do something! I’ve had my fill of this. Thank you for all you’ve done, and all you are going to do. My head is not clear enough yet to decide anything with any sense, but maybe I’ll hit on something soon. I’m for the streets for a while.”

  “Better go home and go to bed. You seem very tired.”

  “I am,” said the Harvester. “The only way to endure this
is to work myself down. I’m all right, and I’ll be careful, but I rather think I’ll find her myself.”

  “Better go on with your work as we planned.”

  “I’ll think about it,” said the Harvester as he went out.

  Until he was too tired to walk farther he slowly paced the streets of the city, and then followed the home road through the valley and up the hill to Medicine Woods. When he came to Singing Water, Belshazzar heard his steps on the bridge, and came bounding to meet him. The Harvester stretched himself on a seat and turned his face to the sky. It was a deep, dark-blue bowl, closely set with stars, and a bright moon shed a soft May radiance on the young earth. The lake was flooded with light, and the big trees of the forest crowning the hill were silver coroneted. The unfolding leaves had hidden the new cabin from the bridge, but the driveway shone white, and already the upspringing bushes hedged it in. Insects were humming lazily in the perfumed night air, and across the lake a courting whip-poor-will was explaining to his sweetheart just how much and why he loved her. A few bats were wavering in air hunting insects, and occasionally an owl or a nighthawk crossed the lake. Killdeer were glorying in the moonlight and night flight, and cried in pure, clear notes as they sailed over the water. The Harvester was tired and filled with unrest as he stretched on the bridge, but the longer he lay the more the enfolding voices comforted him. All of them were waiting and working out their lives to the legitimate end; there was nothing else for him to do. He need not follow instinct or profit by chance. He was a man; he could plan and reason.

  The air grew balmy and some big, soft clouds swept across the moon. The Harvester felt the dampness of rising dew, and went to the cabin. He looked at it long in the moonlight and told himself that he could see how much the plants, vines, and ferns had grown since the previous night. Without making a light, he threw himself on the bed in the outdoor room, and lay looking through the screening at the lake and sky. He was working his brain to think of some manner in which to start a search for the Dream Girl that would have some probability of success to recommend it, but he could settle on no feasible plan. At last he fell asleep, and in the night soft rain wet his face. He pulled an oilcloth sheet over the bed, and lay breathing deeply of the damp, perfumed air as he again slept. In the morning brilliant sunshine awoke him and he arose to find the earth steaming.

  “If ever there was a perfect mushroom day!” he said to Belshazzar. “We must hurry and feed the stock and ourselves and gather some. They mean real money.”

  Chapter 7

  The Quest of the Dream Girl

  The Harvester breakfasted, fed the stock, hitched Betsy to the spring wagon, and went into the dripping, steamy woods. If anyone had asked him that morning concerning his idea of Heaven, he never would have dreamed of describing a place of gold-paved streets, crystal pillars, jewelled gates, and thrones of ivory. These things were beyond the man’s comprehension and he would not have admired or felt at home in such magnificence if it had been materialized for him. He would have told you that a floor of last year’s brown leaves, studded with myriad flower faces, big, bark-encased pillars of a thousand years, jewels on every bush, shrub, and tree, and tilting thrones on which gaudy birds almost burst themselves to voice the joy of life, while their bright-eyed little mates peered questioningly at him over nest rims—he would have told you that Medicine Woods on a damp, sunny May morning was Heaven. And he would have added that only one angel, tall and slender, with the pink of health on her cheeks and the dew of happiness in her dark eyes, was necessary to enter and establish glory. Everything spoke to him that morning, but the Harvester was silent. It had been his habit to talk constantly to Belshazzar, Ajax, his work, even the winds and perfumes; it had been his method of dissipating solitude, but to-day he had no words, even for these dear friends. He only opened his soul to beauty, and steadily climbed the hill to the crest, and then down the other side to the rich, half-shaded, half-open spaces, where big, rough mushrooms sprang in a night similar to the one just passed.

  He could see them awaiting him from afar. He began work with rapid fingers, being careful to break off the heads, but not to pull up the roots. When four heaping baskets were filled he cut heavily leaved branches to spread over them, and started to Onabasha. As usual, Belshazzar rode beside him and questioned the Harvester when he politely suggested to Betsy that she make a little haste.

  “Have you forgotten that mushrooms are perishable?” he asked. “If we don’t get these to the city all woodsy and fresh we can’t sell them. Wonder where we can do the best? The hotels pay well. Really, the biggest prices could be had by—”

  Then the Harvester threw back his head and began to laugh, and he laughed, and he laughed. A crow on the fence Joined him, and a kingfisher, heading for Loon Lake, and then Belshazzar caught the infection.

  “Begorry! The very idea!” cried the Harvester. “‘Heaven helps them that help themselves.’ Now you just watch us manoeuvre for assistance, Belshazzar, old boy! Here we go!”

  Then the laugh began again. It continued all the way to Onabasha and even into the city. The Harvester drove through the most prosperous street until he reached the residence district. At the first home he stopped, gave the lines to Belshazzar, and, taking a basket of mushrooms, went up the walk and rang the bell.

  “All groceries should be delivered at the back door,” snapped a pert maid, before he had time to say a word.

  The Harvester lifted his hat.

  “Will you kindly tell the lady of the house that I wish to speak with her?”

  “What name, please?”

  “I want to show her some fine mushrooms, freshly gathered,” he answered.

  How she did it the Harvester never knew. The first thing he realized was that the door had closed before his face, and the basket had been picked deftly from his fingers and was on the other side. After a short time the maid returned.

  “What do you want for them, please?”

  The last thing on earth the Harvester wanted to do was to part with those mushrooms, so he took one long, speculative look down the hall and named a price he thought would be prohibitive.

  “One dollar a dozen.”

  “How many are there?”

  “I count them as I sell them. I do not know.”

  The door closed again. Presently it opened and the maid knelt on the floor before him and counted the mushrooms one by one into a dish pan and in a few minutes brought back seven dollars and fifty cents. The chagrined Harvester, feeling like a thief, put the money in his pocket, and turned away.

  “I was to tell you,” said she, “that you are to bring all you have to sell here, and the next time please go to the kitchen door.”

  “Must be fond of mushrooms,” said the disgruntled Harvester.

  “They are a great delicacy, and there are visitors.” The Harvester ached to set the girl to one side and walk through the house, but he did not dare; so he returned to the street, whistled to Betsy to come, and went to the next gate. Here he hesitated. Should he risk further snubbing at the front door or go back at once. If he did, he only would see a maid. As he stood an instant debating, the door of the house he just had left opened and the girl ran after him. “If you have more, we will take them,” she called.

  The Harvester gasped for breath.

  “They have to be used at once,” he suggested.

  “She knows that. She wants to treat her friends.”

  “Well she has got enough for a banquet,” he said. “I—I don’t usually sell more than a dozen or two in one place.”

  “I don’t see why you can’t let her have them if you have more.”

  “Perhaps I have orders to fill for regular customers,” suggested the Harvester.

  “And perhaps you haven’t,” said the maid. “You ought to be ashamed not to let people who are willing to pay your outrageous prices have them. It’s regular highway robbery.”

  “Possibly that’s the reason I decline to hold up one party twice,” said the Harve
ster as he entered the gate and went up the walk to the front door.

  “You should be taught your place,” called the maid after him.

  The Harvester again rang the bell. Another maid opened the door, and once more he asked to speak with the lady of the house. As the girl turned, a handsome old woman in cap and morning gown came down the stairs.

  “What have you there?” she asked.

  The Harvester lifted the leaves and exposed the musky, crimpled, big mushrooms.

  “Oh!” she cried in delight. “Indeed, yes! We are very fond of them. I will take the basket, and divide with my sons. You are sure you have no poisonous ones among them?”

  “Quite sure,” said the Harvester faintly.

  “How much do you want for the basket?”

  “They are a dollar a dozen; I haven’t counted them.”

  “Dear me! Isn’t that rather expensive?”

  “It is. Very!” said the Harvester. “So expensive that most people don’t think of taking over a dozen. They are large and very rich, so they go a long way.”

  “I suppose you have to spend a great deal of time hunting them? It does seem expensive, but they are fresh, and the boys are so fond of them. I’m not often extravagant, I’ll just take the lot. Sarah, bring a pan.”

  Again the Harvester stood and watched an entire basket counted over and carried away, and he felt the robber he had been called as he took the money.