The Best of Gene Stratton-Porter

  At the next house he had learned a lesson. He carpeted a basket with leaves and counted out a dozen and a half into it, leaving the remainder in the wagon. Three blocks on one side of the street exhausted his store and he was showered with orders. He had not seen any one that even resembled a dark-eyed girl. As he came from the last house a big, red motor shot past and then suddenly slowed and backed beside his wagon.

  “What in the name of sense are you doing?” demanded Doctor Carey.

  “Invading the residence district of Onabasha,” said the Harvester. “Madam, would you like some nice, fresh, country mushrooms? I guarantee that there are no poisonous ones among them, and they were gathered this morning. Considering their rarity and the difficult work of collecting, they are exceedingly low at my price. I am offering these for five dollars a dozen, madam, and for mercy sake don’t take them or I’ll have no excuse to go to the next house.”

  The doctor stared, then understood, and began to laugh. When at last he could speak he said, “David, I’ll bet you started with three bushels and began at the head of this street, and they are all gone.”

  “Put up a good one!” said the Harvester. “You win. The first house I tried they ordered me to the back door, took a market basket full away from me by force, tried to buy the load, and I didn’t see any one save a maid.”

  The doctor lay on the steering gear and faintly groaned.

  The Harvester regarded him sympathetically. “Isn’t it a crime?” he questioned. “Mushrooms are no go. I can see that!—or rather they are entirely too much of a go. I never saw anything in such demand. I must seek a less popular article for my purpose. To-morrow look out for me. I shall begin where I left off to-day, but I will have changed my product.”

  “David, for pity sake,” peeped the doctor.

  “What do I care how I do it, so I locate her?” superbly inquired the Harvester.

  “But you won’t find her!” gasped the doctor.

  “I’ve come as close it as you so far, anyway,” said the Harvester. “Your mushrooms are on the desk in your office.”

  He drove slowly up and down the streets until Betsy wabbled on her legs. Then he left her to rest and walked until he wabbled; and by that time it was dark, so he went home.

  At the first hint of dawn he was at work the following morning. With loaded baskets closely covered, he started to Onabasha, and began where he had quit the day before. This time he carried a small, crudely fashioned bark basket, leaf-covered, and he rang at the front door with confidence.

  Every one seemed to have a maid in that part of the city, for a freshly capped and aproned girl opened the door.

  “Are there any young women living here?” blandly inquired the Harvester.

  “What’s that of your business?” demanded the maid.

  The Harvester flushed, but continued, “I am offering something especially intended for young women. If there are none, I will not trouble you.”

  “There are several.”

  “Will you please ask them if they would care for bouquets of violets, fresh from the woods?”

  “How much are they, and how large are the bunches?”

  “Prices differ, and they are the right size to appear well. They had better see for themselves.”

  The maid reached for the basket, but the Harvester drew back.

  “I keep them in my possession,” he said. “You may take a sample.”

  He lifted the leaves and drew forth a medium-sized bunch of long-stemmed blue violets with their leaves. The flowers were fresh, crisp, and strong odours of the woods arose from them.

  “Oh!” cried the maid. “Oh, how lovely!”

  She hurried away with them and returned carrying a purse.

  “I want two more bunches,” she said. “How much are they?”

  “Are the girls who want them dark or fair?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “I have blue violets for blondes, yellow for brunettes, and white for the others.”

  “Well I never! One is fair, and two have brown hair and blue eyes.”

  “One blue and two whites,” said the Harvester calmly, as if matching women’s hair and eyes with flowers were an inherited vocation. “They are twenty cents a bunch.”

  “Aha!” he chortled to himself as he whistled to Betsy. “At last we have it. There are no dark-eyed girls here. Now we are making headway.”

  Down the street he went, with varying fortune, but with patience and persistence at every house he at last managed to learn whether there was a dark-eyed girl. There did not seem to be many. Long before his store of yellow violets was gone the last blue and white had disappeared. But he calmly went on asking for dark-eyed girls, and explaining that all the blue and white were taken, because fair women were most numerous.

  At one house the owner, who reminded the Harvester of his mother, came to the door. He uncovered and in his suavest tones inquired if a brunette young woman lived there and if she would like a nosegay of yellow violets.

  “Well bless my soul!” cried she. “What is this world coming to? Do you mean to tell me that there are now able-bodied men offering at our doors, flowers to match our girls’ complexions?”

  “Yes madam,” said the Harvester gravely, “and also selling them as fast as he can show them, at prices that make a profit very well worth while. I had an equal number of blue and white, but I see the dark girls are very much in the minority. The others were gone long ago, and I now have flowers to offer brunettes only.”

  “Well forever more! And you don’t call that fiddlin’ business for a big, healthy, young man?”

  The Harvester’s gay laugh was infectious.

  “I do not,” he said. “I have to start as soon as I can see, tramp long distances in wet woods and gather the violets on my knees, make them into bunches, and bring them here in water to keep them fresh. I have another occupation. I only kill time on these, but I would be ashamed to tell you what I have gotten for them this morning.”

  “Humph! I’m glad to hear it!” said the woman. “Shame in some form is a sign of grace. I have no use for a human being without a generous supply of it. There is a very beautiful dark-eyed girl in the house, and I will take two bunches for her. How much are they?”

  “I have only three remaining,” said the Harvester. “Would you like to allow her to make her own selection?”

  “When I’m giving things I usually take my choice. I want that, and that one.”

  “As my stock is so nearly out, I’ll make the two for twenty,” said the Harvester. “Won’t you accept the last one from me, because you remind me just a little of my mother?”

  “I will indeed,” said she. “Thank you very much! I shall love to have them as dearly as any of the girls. I used to gather them when I was a child, but I almost never see the blue ones any more, and I don’t know as I ever expected to see a yellow violet again as long as I live. Where did you get them?”

  “In my woods,” said the Harvester. “You see I grow several members of the viola pedata family, bird’s foot, snake, and wood violet, and three of the odorata, English, marsh, and sweet, for our big drug houses. They use the flowers in making delicate tests for acids and alkalies. The entire plant, flower, seed, leaf, and root, goes into different remedies. The beds seed themselves and spread, so I have more than I need for the chemists, and I sell a few. I don’t use the white and yellow in my business; I just grow them for their beauty. I also sell my surplus lilies of the valley. Would you like to order some of them for your house or more violets for to-morrow?”

  “Well bless my soul! Do you mean to tell me that lilies of the valley are medicine?”

  The Harvester laughed.

  “I grow immense beds of them in the woods on the banks of Loon Lake,” he said. “They are the convallaris majallis of the drug houses and I scarcely know what the weak-hearted people would do without them. I use large quantities in trade, and this season I am selling a few because people so love them.??
?

  “Lilies in medicine; well dear me! Are roses good for our innards too?”

  Then the Harvester did laugh.

  “I imagine the roses you know go into perfumes mostly,” he answered. “They do make medicine of Canadian rock rose and rose bay, laurel, and willow. I grow the bushes, but they are not what you would consider roses.”

  “I wonder now,” said the woman studying the Harvester closely, “if you are not that queer genius I’ve heard of, who spends his time hunting and growing stuff in the woods and people call him the Medicine Man.”

  “I strongly suspect madam, I am that man,” said the Harvester.

  “Well bless me!” cried she. “I’ve always wanted to see you and here when I do, you look just like anybody else. I thought you’d have long hair, and be wild-eyed and ferocious. And your talk sounds like out of a book. Well that beats me!”

  “Me too!” said the Harvester, lifting his hat. “You don’t want any lilies to-morrow, then?”

  “Yes I do. Medicine or no medicine, I’ve always liked ’em, and I’m going to keep on liking them. If you can bring me a good-sized bunch after the weak-kneed—”

  “Weak-hearted,” corrected the Harvester.

  “Well ‘weak-hearted,’ then; it’s all the same thing. If you’ve got any left, as I was saying, you can fetch them to me for the smell.”

  The Harvester laughed all the way down town. There he went to Doctor Carey’s office, examined a directory, and got the names of all the numbers where he had sold yellow violets. A few questions when the doctor came in settled all of them, but the flower scheme was better. Because the yellow were not so plentiful as the white and blue, next day he added buttercups and cowslips to his store for the dark girls. When he had rifled his beds for the last time, after three weeks of almost daily trips to town, and had paid high prices to small boys he set searching the adjoining woods until no more flowers could be found, he drove from the outskirts of the city one day toward the hospital, and as he stopped, down the street came Doctor Carey frantically waving to him. As the big car slackened, “Come on David, quick! I’ve seen her!” cried the doctor.

  The Harvester jumped from the wagon, threw the lines to Belshazzar, and landed in the panting car.

  “For Heaven’s sake where? Are you sure?”

  The car went speeding down the street. A policeman beckoned and cried after it.

  “It won’t do any good to get arrested, Doc,” cautioned the Harvester.

  “Now right along here,” panted Doctor Carey. “Watch both sides sharply. If I stop you jump out, and tell the blame policemen to get at their job. The party they are hired to find is right under their noses.”

  The Harvester began to perspire. “Doc, don’t you think you should tell me? Maybe she is in some store. Maybe I could do better on foot.”

  “Shut up!” growled the doctor. “I am doing the best I know.”

  He hurried up the street for blocks and back again, and at last stopped before a large store and went in. When he returned he drove to the hospital and together they entered the office. There he turned to the Harvester.

  “It isn’t so hard to understand you now, my boy,” he said. “Shades of Diana, but she’ll be a beauty when she gets a little more flesh and colour. She came out of Whitlaw’s and walked right to the crossing. I almost could have touched her, but I didn’t notice. Two girls passed before me, and in hurrying, a tall, dark one knocked off one of your bunches of yellow violets. She glanced at it and laughed, but let it lay. Then your girl hesitated, stooped and picked it up. The crazy policeman yelled at me to clear the crossing and it didn’t hit me for a half block how tall and white she was and how dark her eyes were. I was just thinking about her picking up the flowers, and that it was queer for her to do it, when like a brick it hit me, That’s David’s girl! I tried to turn around, but you know what Main Street is in the middle of the day. And those idiots of policemen! They ordered me on, and I couldn’t turn for a street car coming, so I called to one of them that the girl we wanted was down the street, and he looked at me like an addle-pate and said, ‘What girl? Move on or you’ll get in a jam here.’ You can use me for a football if I don’t go back and smash him. Paid him five dollars myself less than two weeks ago to keep his eyes open. ‘TO KEEP HIS EYES OPEN!’” panted the doctor, shaking his fist at David. “Yes sir! ‘To keep his eyes open!’ And he motioned for things to come along, and so I lost her too.”

  “I think we had better go back to the street,” said the Harvester.

  “Oh, I’d been back and forth along that street for nearly an hour before I gave up and came here to see if I could find you, and we’ve hunted it an hour more! What’s the use? She’s gone for this time, but by gum, I saw her! And she was worth seeing!”

  “Did she appear ill to you?”

  The doctor dropped on a chair and threw out his hands hopelessly.

  “This was awful sudden, David,” he said. “I was going along as I told you, and I noticed her stop and thought she had a good head to wait a second instead of running in before me, and there came those two girls right under the car from the other side. I only had a glimpse of her as she stooped for the flowers. I saw a big braid of hair, but I was half a block away before I got it all connected, and then came the crush in the street, and I was blocked.”

  The doctor broke down and wiped his face and expressed his feelings unrestrainedly.

  “Don’t!” said the Harvester patiently. “It’s no use to feel so badly, Doc. I know what you would give to have found her for me. I know you did all you could. I let her escape me. We will find her yet. It’s glorious news that she’s in the city. It gives me heart to hear that. Can’t you just remember if she seemed ill?”

  The doctor meditated.

  “She wasn’t the tallest girl I ever saw,” he said slowly, “but she was the tallest girl to be pretty. She had on a white waist and a gray skirt and black hat. Her eyes and hair were like you said, and she was plain, white faced, with a hue that might possibly be natural, and it might be confinement in bad light and air and poor food. She didn’t seem sick, but she isn’t well. There is something the matter with her, but it’s not immediate or dangerous. She appeared like a flower that had got a little moisture and sprouted in a cellar.”

  “You saw her all right!” said the Harvester. “And I think your diagnosis is correct too. That’s the way she seemed to me. I’ve thought she needed sun and air. I told the South Wind so the other day.”

  “Why you blame fool!” cried the doctor. “Is this thing going to your head? Say, I forgot! There is something else. I traced her in the store. She was at the embroidery counter and she bought some silk. If she ever comes again the clerk is going to hold her and telephone me or get her address if she has to steal it. Oh, we are getting there! We will have her pretty soon now. You ought to feel better just to know that she is in town and that I’ve seen her.”

  “I do!” said the Harvester. “Indeed I do!”

  “It can’t be much longer,” said the doctor. “She’s got to be located soon. But those policemen! I wouldn’t give a nickel for the lot! I’ll bet she’s walked over them for two weeks. If I were you I’d discharge the bunch. They’d be peacefully asleep if she passed them. If they’d let me alone, I’d have had her. I could have turned around easily. I’ve been in dozens of closer places.”

  “Don’t worry! This can’t last much longer. She’s of and in the city or she wouldn’t have picked up the flowers. Doc, are you sure they were mine?”

  “Yes. Half the girls have been tricked out in yours the past two weeks. I can spot them as far as I can see.”

  “Dear Lord, that’s getting close!” said the Harvester intensely. “Seems as if the violets would tell her.”

  “Now cut out flowers talking and the South Wind!” ordered the doctor. “This is business. The violets prove something all right, though. If she was in the country, she could gather plenty herself. She is working at sewing in some room in town
, either over a store or in a house. If she hadn’t been starved for flowers she never would have stopped for them on the street. I could see just a flash of hesitation, but she wanted them too much. David, one bouquet will go in water and be cared for a week. Man, it’s getting close! This does seem like a link.”

  “Since you say it, possibly I dare agree with you,” said the Harvester.

  “How near are you through with that canvass of yours?”

  “About three fourths.”

  “Well I’d go on with it. After all we have got to find her ourselves. Those senile policemen!”

  “I am going on with it; you needn’t worry about that. But I’ve got to change to other flowers. I’ve stripped the violet beds. There’s quite a crop of berries coming, but they are not ripe yet, and a tragedy to pick. The pond lilies are just beginning to open by the thousand. The lake border is blue with sweet-flag that is lovely and the marsh pale gold with cowslips. The ferns are prime and the woods solid sheets of every colour of bloom. I believe I’ll go ahead with the wild flowers.”

  “I would too! David, you do feel better, don’t you?”

  “I certainly do, Doctor. Surely it won’t be long now!”

  The Harvester was so hopeful that he whistled and sang on the return to Medicine Woods, and that night for the first time in many days he sat long over a candlestick, and took a farewell peep into her room before he went to bed.

  The next day he worked with all his might harvesting the last remnants of early spring herbs, in the dry-room and store-house, and on furniture and candlesticks.

  Then he went back to flower gathering and every day offered bunches of exquisite wood and field flowers and white and gold water lilies from door to door.

  Three weeks later the Harvester, perceptibly thin, pale, and worried entered the office. He sank into a chair and groaned wearily.

  “Isn’t this the bitterest luck!” he cried. “I’ve finished the town. I’ve almost walked off my legs. I’ve sold flowers by the million, but I’ve not had a sight of her.”

  “It’s been almost a tragedy with me,” said the doctor gloomily. “I’ve killed two dogs and grazed a baby, because I was watching the sidewalks instead of the street. What are you going to do now?”