Silas Strong 11

Silas Strong 11

"Some years," Gordon answered, as he took the hand of Dunmore.

 

"W-welcome!" said Silas Strong.

 

"Boneka!" Dunmore exclaimed, gruffly, but with a faint smile. For years

it had been his customary word of greeting.

 

"The Emperor and his court!" he went on, as he looked about him. "Who

are these?" He surveyed the sleeping children.

 

"The Duke and Duchess of Hillsborough--nephew and niece of the Emperor,"

Master answered, giving them titles which clung to Socky and Sue for a

twelvemonth.

 

"The first children I've ever seen in the woods except my own," said the

white-haired man.

 

Zeb ran around the chair of the Emperor, growling and leaping playfully

at Socky and Sue.

 

"The court jester!" said Dunmore, looking down at the dog.

 

He stood a moment with his back to the blazing logs.

 

Then he went to the chair of the Emperor, and put his hand under the

chin of little Sue and looked into her face. In half a moment he took

her in his arms and sat down by the fireside. The child was yawning

wearily.

 

"Heigh-ho!" he exclaimed; "let's away to the Isles of Rest."

 

He rocked back and forth as he held her against his breast and sang this

lullaby:

 

"Jack Tot was as big as a baby's thumb,

 

And his belly could hold but a drop and a crumb,

 

And a wee little sailor was he--Heigh-ho!

 

A very fine sailor was he.

 

 

'He made his boat of a cocoa-nut shell,

 

He sails her at night and he steers her well

 

With the wing of a bumble-bee--Heigh-ho!

 

With the wing of a bumble-bee.

 

 

'She is rigged with the hair of a lady's curl,

 

And her lantern is made of a gleaming pearl,

 

And it never goes out in a gale--Heigh-ho!

 

It never goes out in a gale.

 

 

'Her mast is made of a very long thorn,

 

She calls her crew with a cricket's horn,

 

And a spider spun her sail--Heigh-ho!

 

A spider he spun her sail.

 

 

'She carries a cargo of baby souls,

 

And she crosses the terrible nightmare shoals

 

On her way to the Isles of Rest--Heigh-ho!

 

We're off for the Isles of Rest.

 

 

'And often they smile as the good ship sails--

 

Then the skipper is telling incredible tales

 

With many a merry jest--Heigh-ho!

 

He's fond of a merry jest.

 

 

'When the little folks yawn they are ready to go,

 

And Jack Tot is lifting his sail--Hee-hoo!

 

In the swell how the little folks nod--He-hoo!

 

Just see how the little folks nod.

 

 

'And some have sailed off when the sky was black,

 

And the poor little sailors have never come back,

 

But have steered for the City of God--Heigh-ho!

 

The beautiful City of God!"

 

The white-haired man closed his eyes and his voice sank low, and the

last words fell softly in a solemn silence that lasted for a long

moment after the lullaby was finished. Presently Sinth came to take the

sleeping child.

 

"These little folks will take our peace away from us," said he, in a

warning tone.

 

"Why?"

 

"The call of the sown land is in their voices," said he. "They give me

sad thoughts."

 

Sinth smiled and introduced the young man to Dunmore.

 

"Boneka!" said the latter as they shook hands.

 

The curiosity of Master was aroused by the strange greeting. He smiled,

and answered, modestly, "I don't understand you."

 

The stranger sat silent, gazing into the fire, until Silas, who was

evidently in the secret, said to his guest, "Tell 'em."

 

"There was once a very wise and honored chief," began Dunmore, after

a pause, and looking into the eyes of the young man. "Long before the

lumber hunter had begun to shear the hills, he dwelt among them, with

his good people. He was a great law-giver, and his law was all in two

words--'_Be kind._' Kindness begat kindness, and peace reigned, to be

broken only by some far-come invader. But as time went on quarrels arose

and the law was forgotten. Thereupon the chief invited a great council

and organized the Society of the Magic Word. Every member promised that

whenever the greeting 'Boneka' were given him, he would smile and bow

and answer, 'Ranokoli.' The greeting meant 'Peace,' and the answer, 'I

forgive.'

 

"Then, one by one, the law-giver called his councillors before him, and

to each he said: 'The Great Spirit is in this greeting. I defy you to

hear it and keep a sober face.'

 

"Then he said 'Boneka,' and the man would try to resist the influence

of the spirit, but soon smiled in spite of himself, amid the laughter of

the tribe, and said 'Ranokoli.' Thereafter, when a quarrel arose between

two people, an outsider, approaching, would greet them with the magic

word, and immediately they would bow and smile, and answer, 'I forgive.'

But, nevertheless, if one had wronged another he was justly punished by

the chief. So it was that a great ruler made an end of quarrels among

his people."

 

"A grand idea!" said young Master. "Let's all join that society."

 

"Those in favor of the suggestion will please say ay." It was Dunmore

who put the question, and, after a vote in its favor, dictated the

pledge, as follows:

 

_"For value received from my Loving Father, I promise to give to any of

His children, on demand, a smile and full forgiveness."_

 

All signed it, and so half in play the old Society of the Magic Word was

revived at Lost River camp.

 

The white-haired man rose and walked to the trail and turned suddenly.

 

"Strong," said he, "I'm leaving the woods for a week. If they need your

help at home they'll send word to you."

 

With that he disappeared in the dark trail.

 

The three other men still sat by the camp-fire.

 

"Who is Dunmore?" Master inquired, turning to Gordon.

 

The latter lighted his pipe and began the story.

 

"An odd man who's spent the most of his life in the woods," said Gordon.

"Came in here for his health long ago from I don't know where; grew

strong, and has always stuck to the woods. Had to work, like the rest of

us, when I knew him. Thirty years ago he began work in this part of the

country as a boom rat--so they tell me. It was on a big drive way down

the Oswegatchie.

 

"Before we bought the Bear Mountain and Lost River tracts we were looking

for a good cruiser--some one to go through here and estimate the timber

for us. Well, Dunmore was recommended for the job, and we hired him. He

and I travelled over some thirty thousand acres, camping wherever night

overtook us. It did not take me long to discover that he was a gifted

man. Many an evening, as we sat by our lonely fire in the woods, I have

wept and laughed over his poems."

 

"Poems!" Master exclaimed.

 

"That's the only word for it," Gordon went on. "The man is a woods

lover and a poet. One night he told me part of his life story. Sile,

you remember when the old iron company shut down their works at Tifton.

Well, everybody left the place except Tom Muir, the postmaster. He was a

widower, and lived with one child--a girl about nineteen years old

when the forest village died. Dunmore married that girl. He told me

how beautiful she was and how he loved her. Well, they didn't get along

together. He was fond of the woods and she was not.