The Best of Gene Stratton-Porter

  The Girl drew a deep breath.

  “Of course you know that was the most exquisite sight I ever saw,” she said. “I never shall forget it. I did not think there were that many different birds in the whole world. Of all the gaudy colours! And they came so close you could have reached out and touched them.”

  “Yes,” said the Harvester calmly. “Birds are never afraid of me. At Medicine Woods, when I call them like that, many, most of them, in fact, eat from my hand. If you ever have looked at me enough to notice bulgy pockets, they are full of wheat. These birds are strangers, but I’ll wager you that in a week I can make them take food from me. Of course, my own birds know me, because they are around every day. It is much easier to tame them in winter, when the snow has fallen and food is scarce, but it only takes a little while to win a bird’s confidence at any season.”

  “Birds don’t know what there is to be afraid of,” she said.

  “Your pardon,” said the Harvester, “but I am familiar with them, and that is not correct. They have more to fear than human beings. No one is going to kill you merely to see if he can shoot straight enough to hit. Your life is not in danger because you have magnificent hair that some woman would like for an ornament. You will not be stricken out in a flash because there are a few bits of meat on your frame some one wants to eat. No one will set a seductive trap for you, and, if you are tempted to enter it, shut you from freedom and natural diet, in a cage so small you can’t turn around without touching bars. You are in a secure and free position compared with the birds. I also have observed that they know guns, many forms of traps, and all of them decide by the mere manner of a man’s passing through the woods whether he is a friend or an enemy. Birds know more than many people realize. They do not always correctly estimate gun range, they are foolishly venturesome at times when they want food, but they know many more things than most people give them credit for understanding. The greatest trouble with the birds is they are too willing to trust us and be friendly, so they are often deceived.”

  “That sounds as if you were right,” said the Girl.

  “I am of the woods, so I know I am,” answered the Harvester.

  “Will you look at this now?”

  He examined the drawing closely.

  “Where did you learn?” he inquired.

  “My mother. She was educated to her finger tips. She drew, painted, played beautifully, sang well, and she had read almost all the best books. Besides what I learned at high school she taught me all I know. Her embroidery always brought higher prices than mine, try as I might. I never saw any one else make such a dainty, accurate little stitch as she could.”

  “If this is not perfect, I don’t know how to criticise it. I can and will use it in my work. But I have one luna cocoon remaining and I would give ten dollars for such a drawing of the moth before it flies. It may open to-night or not for several days. If your aunt should be worse and you cannot come to-morrow and the moth emerges, is there any way in which I could send it to you?”

  “What could I do with it?”

  “I thought perhaps you could take a piece of paper and the pencils with you, and secure an outline in your room. It need not be worked up with all the detail in this. Merely a skeleton sketch would do. Could I leave it at the house or send it with some one?”

  “No! Oh no!” she cried. “Leave it here. Put it in a box in the bushes where I hid the books. What are you going to do with these things?”

  “Hide them in the thicket and scatter leaves over them.”

  “What if it rains?”

  “I have thought of that. I brought a few yards of oilcloth to-day and they will be safe and dry if it pours.”

  “Good!” she said. “Then if the moth comes out you bring it, and if I am not here, put it under the cloth and I will run up some time in the afternoon. But if I were you, I would not spread the rug until you know if I can remain. I have to steal every minute I am away, and any day uncle takes a notion to stay at home I dare not come.”

  “Try to come to-morrow. I am going to bring some medicine for your aunt.”

  “Put it under the cloth if I am not here; but I will come if I can. I must go now; I have been away far too long.”

  The Harvester picked up one of the drug pamphlets, laid the drawing inside it, and placed it with his other books. Then he drew out his pocket book and laid a five-dollar bill on the table and began folding up the chair and putting away the things. The Girl looked at the money with eager eyes.

  “Is that honestly what you would pay at the arts and crafts place?”

  “It is the customary price for my patterns.”

  “And are you sure this is as good?”

  “I can bring you some I have paid that for, and let you see for yourself that it is better.”

  “I wish you would!” she cried eagerly. “I need that money, and I would like to have it dearly, if I really have earned it, but I can’t touch it if I have not.”

  “Won’t you accept my word?”

  “No. I will see the other drawings first, and if I think mine are as good, I will be glad to take the money to-morrow.”

  “What if you can’t come?”

  “Put them under the oilcloth. I watch all the time and I think Uncle Henry has trained even the boys so they don’t play in the river on his land. I never see a soul here; the woods, house, and everything is desolate until he comes home and then it is like—” she paused.

  “I’ll say it for you,” said the Harvester promptly. “Then it is like hell.”

  “At its worst,” supplemented the Girl. Taking pencils and a sheet of paper she went swiftly through the woods. Before she left the shelter of the trees, the Harvester saw her busy her hands with the front of her dress, and he knew that she was concealing the drawing material. The colour box was left, and he said things as he put it with the chair and table, covered them with the rug and oilcloth, and heaped on a layer of leaves.

  Then he drove to the city and Betsy turned at the hospital corner with no interference. He could face his friend that day. Despite all discouragements he felt reassured. He was progressing. Means of communication had been established. If she did not come, he could leave a note and tell her if the moth had not emerged and how sorry he was to have missed seeing her.

  “Hello, lover!” cried Doctor Carey as the Harvester entered the office. “Are you married yet?”

  “No. But I’m going to be,” said the Harvester with confidence.

  “Have you asked her?”

  “No. We are getting acquainted. She is too close to trouble, too ill, and too worried over a sick relative for me to intrude myself; it would be brutal, but it’s a temptation. Doc, is there any way to compel a man to provide medical care for his wife?”

  “Can he afford it?”

  “Amply. Anything! Worth thousands in land and nobody knows what in money. It’s Henry Jameson.”

  “The meanest man I ever knew. If he has a wife it’s a marvel she has survived this long. Won’t he provide for her?”

  “I suppose he thinks he has when she has a bed to lie on and a roof to cover her. He won’t supply food she can eat and medicine. He says she is lazy.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I quote Miss Jameson. She says her aunt is slowly dying from overwork and neglect.”

  “David, doesn’t it seem pretty good, when you say ‘Miss Jameson’?”

  “Loveliest sound on earth, except the remainder of it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Ruth!”

  “Jove! That is a beautiful name. Ruth Langston. It will go well, won’t it?”

  “Music that the birds, insects, Singing Water, the trees, and the breeze can’t ever equal. I’m holding on with all my might, but it’s tough, Doc. She’s in such a dreadful place and position, and she needs so much. She is sick. Can’t you give me a prescription for each of them?”

  “You just bet I can,” said the doctor, “if you can engineer their taking them.
”

  “I suppose you’d hold their noses and pour stuff down them.”

  “I would if necessary.”

  “Well, it is.”

  “All right—I’ll fix something, and you see that they use it.”

  “I can try,” said the Harvester.

  “Try! Pah! You aren’t half a man!”

  “That’s a half more than being a woman, anyway.”

  “She called you feminine, did she?” cried the doctor, dancing and laughing. “She ought to see you harvesting skunk cabbage and blue flag or when you are angry enough.”

  The doctor left the room and it was a half hour before he returned.

  “Try that on them according to directions,” he said, handing over a couple of bottles.

  “Thank you!” said the Harvester. “I will!”

  “That sounds manly enough.”

  “Oh pother! It’s not that I’m not a man, or a laggard in love; but I’d like to know what you’d do to a girl dumb with grief over the recent loss of her mother, who was her only relative worth counting, sick from God knows what exposure and privation, and now a dying relative on her hands. What could you do?”

  “I’d marry her and pick her out of it!”

  “I wouldn’t have her, if she’d leave a sick woman for me!”

  “I wouldn’t either. She’s got to stick it out until her aunt grows better, and then I’ll go out there and show you how to court a girl.”

  “I guess not! You keep the girl you did court, courted, and you’ll have your hands full. How does that appear to you?”

  The Harvester opened the pamphlet he carried and held up the drawing of the moth.

  The doctor turned to the light.

  “Good work!” he cried. “Did she do that?”

  “She did. In a little over an hour.”

  “Fine! She should have a chance.”

  “She is going to. She is going to have all the opportunity that is coming to her.”

  “Good for you, David! Any time I can help!”

  The Harvester replaced the sketch and went to the wagon; but he left Belshazzar in charge, and visited the largest dry goods store in Onabasha, where he held a conference with the floor walker. When he came out he carried a heaping load of boxes of every size and shape, with a label on each. He drove to Medicine Woods singing and whistling.

  “She didn’t want me to go, Belshazzar!” he chuckled to the dog. “She was more afraid of a cow than she was of me. I made some headway to-day, old boy. She doesn’t seem to have a ray of an idea what I am there for, but she is going to trust me soon now; that is written in the books. Oh I hope she will be there to-morrow, and the luna will be out. Got half a notion to take the case and lay it in the warmest place I can find. But if it comes out and she isn’t there, I’ll be sorry. Better trust to luck.”

  The Harvester stabled Betsy, fed the stock, and visited with the birds. After supper he took his purchases and entered her room. He opened the drawers of the chest he had made, and selecting the labelled boxes he laid them in. But not a package did he open. Then he arose and radiated conceit of himself.

  “I’ll wager she will like those,” he commented proudly, “because Kane promised me fairly that he would have the right things put up for a girl the size of the clerk I selected for him, and exactly what Ruth should have. That girl was slenderer and not quite so tall, but he said everything was made long on purpose. Now what else should I get?”

  He turned to the dressing table and taking a notebook from his pocket made this list:

  Rugs for bed and bath room.

  Mattresses, pillows and bedding.

  Dresses for all occasions.

  All kinds of shoes and overshoes.

  “There are gloves, too!” exclaimed the Harvester. “She has to have some, but how am I going to know what is right? Oh, but she needs shoes! High, low, slippers, everything! I wonder what that clerk wears. I don’t believe shoes would be comfortable without being fitted, or at least the proper size. I wonder what kind of dresses she likes. I hope she’s fond of white. A woman always appears loveliest in that. Maybe I’d better buy what I’m sure of and let her select the dresses. But I’d love to have this room crammed with girl-fixings when she comes. Doesn’t seem as if she ever has had any little luxuries. I can’t miss it on anything a woman uses. Let me think!”

  Slowly he wrote again:

  Parasols.

  Fans.

  Veils.

  Hats.

  “I never can get them! I think that will keep me busy for a few days,” said the Harvester as he closed the door softly, and went to look at the pupae cases. Then he carved on the vine of the candlestick for her dressing table; with one arm around Belshazzar, re-read the story of John Muir’s dog, went into the lake, and to bed. Just as he was becoming unconscious the beast lifted an inquiring head and gazed at the man.

  “More ’fraid of cow,” the Harvester was muttering in a sleepy chuckle.

  Chapter 11

  Demonstrated Courtship

  When the Harvester saw the Girl coming toward the woods, he spread the rug, opened and placed the table and chair, laid out the colour box, and another containing the last luna.

  “Did the green one come out?” she asked, touching the box lightly.

  “It did!” said the Harvester proudly, as if he were responsible for the performance. “It is an omen! It means that I am to have my long-coveted pattern for my best candlestick. It also clearly indicates that the gods of luck are with me for the day, and I get my way about everything. There won’t be the least use in your asking ‘why’ or interposing objections. This is my clean sweep. I shall be fearfully dictatorial and you must submit, because the fates have pointed out that they favour me to-day, and if you go contrary to their decrees you will have a bad time.”

  The Girl’s smile was a little wan. She sank on a chair and picked up a pencil.

  “Lay that down!” cried the Harvester. “You haven’t had permission from the Dictator to begin drawing. You are to sit and rest a long time.”

  “Please may I speak?” asked the Girl.

  The Harvester grew foolishly happy. Was she really going to play the game? Of course he had hoped, but it was a hope without any foundation.

  “You may,” he said soberly.

  “I am afraid that if you don’t allow me to draw the moth at once, I’ll never get it done. I dislike to mention it on your good day, but Aunt Molly is very restless. I got a neighbour’s little girl to watch her and call me if I’m wanted. It’s quite certain that I must go soon, so if you would like the moth—”

  “When luck is coming your way, never hurry it! You always upset the bowl if you grow greedy and crowd. If it is a gamble whether I get this moth, I’ll take the chance; but I won’t change my foreordained programme for this afternoon. First, you are to sit still ten minutes, shut your eyes, and rest. I can’t sing, but I can whistle, and I’m going to entertain you so you won’t feel alone. Ready now!”

  The Girl leaned her elbows on the table, closed her eyes, and pressed her slender white hands over them.

  “Please don’t call the birds,” she said. “I can’t rest if you do. It was so exciting trying to see all of them and guess what they were saying.”

  “No,” said the Harvester gently. “This ten minutes is for relaxation, you know. You ease every muscle, sink limply on your chair, lean on the table, let go all over, and don’t think. Just listen to me. I assure you it’s going to be perfectly lovely.”

  Watching intently he saw the strained muscles relaxing at his suggestion and caught the smile over the last words as he slid into a soft whistle. It was an easy, slow, old-fashioned tune, carrying along gently, with neither heights nor depths, just monotonous, sleepy, soothing notes, that went on and on with a little ripple of change at times, only to return to the theme, until at last the Girl lifted her head.

  “It’s away past ten minutes,” she said, “but that was a real rest. Truly, I am better prepared
for work.”

  “Broke the rule, too!” said the Harvester. “It was, for me to say when time was up. Can’t you allow me to have my way for ten minutes?”

  “I am so anxious to see and draw this moth,” she answered. “And first of all you promised to bring the drawings you have been using.”

  “Now where does my programme come in?” inquired the Harvester. “You are spoiling everything, and I refuse to have my lucky day interfered with; therefore we will ignore the suggestion until we arrive at the place where it is proper. Next thing is refreshments.”

  He arose and coming over cleared the table. Then he spread on it a paper tray cloth with a gay border, and going into the thicket brought out a box and a big bucket containing a jug packed in ice. The Girl’s eyes widened. She reached down, caught up a piece, and holding it to drip a second started to put it in her mouth.

  “Drop that!” commanded the Harvester. “That’s a very unhealthful proceeding. Wait a minute.”

  From one end of the box he produced a tin of wafers and from the other a plate. Then he dug into the ice and lifted several different varieties of chilled fruit. From the jug he poured a combination that he made of the juices of oranges, pineapples, and lemons. He set the glass, rapidly frosting in the heat, and the fruit before the Girl.

  “Now!” he said.

  For one instant she stared at the table. Then she looked at him and in the depths of her dark eyes was an appeal he never forgot.

  “I made that drink myself, so it’s all right,” he assured her. “There’s a pretty stiff touch of pineapple in it, and it cuts the cobwebs on a hot day. Please try it!”

  “I can’t!” cried the Girl with a half-sob. “Think of Aunt Molly!”

  “Are you fond of her?”

  “No. I never saw her until a few weeks ago. Since then I’ve seen nothing save her poor, tired back. She lies in a heap facing the wall. But if she could have things like these, she needn’t suffer. And if my mother could have had them she would be living to-day. Oh Man, I can’t touch this.”

  “I see,” said the Harvester.