Silas Strong 14
"Ah-h-h-h-h!" croaked the little crow, in a warning cry, as if he had
seen at once the peril of it.
She had begun to move slowly, almost timidly, towards the children. She
knelt before them and took the little hand of Sue in hers and looked
upon it with wonder. She touched it with her lips; she pressed it
against her cheek; she trembled beneath its power. The touch of the
child's hand was, for her, it would almost seem, like that of One on the
eyes of Bartimeus. Suddenly, as by a miracle, Edith Dunmore rose out
of childhood. The veil of the nun was rent away. She was a woman fast
coming into riches of unsuspected inheritance. She put her arms about
the two and gently drew them towards her and held them close. Her
embrace and the touch of her breast upon theirs were grateful to them,
and they kissed her. Her eyes were wet, her sweet voice full of familiar
but uncomprehended longing when she said, "Dear little children!"
"Tut, _tut!_" said the tame crow, who had crept to the end of his
branch, where he stood looking down at them. In a moment he began to
break the green twigs and let them fall on the head of his mistress.
Sue felt the hair and looked into the face and eyes of the maiden with
wondering curiosity. Socky ran his fingers over the beaded belt. Both
had a suspicion which they dared not express that here was an angel in
some way related to their mother.
"You are a beautiful lady," said the boy, with childish frankness.
Master has often tried to describe the scene. He confesses that words,
even though vivid and well spoken, cannot make one to understand the
something which lay beneath all said and done, and which went to his
heart so that for a time he turned and walked away from them.
"Do you remember when you were fairies?" the girl asked of the children.
The latter shook their heads.
"Tell us about the fairies," Sue proposed, timidly.
"They are old, old people--so my father has told me," said the beautiful
lady. "They came into this world thousands of years ago riding in a
great cloud that was drawn by wild geese. The fairies came down, each on
a big flake of snow, and got off in the tree-tops and never went away.
At first they were the teentiest folks--so little that a hundred of them
could stand on a maple leaf--and very, very old. My father says they
were never young in their lives, and I guess they have always lived.
They rode around on the backs of the birds and saw everything in the
world and had such a good time they all began to grow young. Now, as
they grew young they grew bigger and bigger, and every spring a lot more
of the little old people came out of the sky and began to grow young
like the others. And by-and-by some of them were as big as your thumb
and bigger."
"How big do they grow?" the boy asked.
"As they grow young they keep growing bigger. By-and-by the birds cannot
carry them. Then they have to walk, and for the first time in their
lives they begin to get hungry and learn to cry and nobody knows what
is the matter with them. The fairies complain about the noise they make,
and one night a little old woman takes them down into the woods to get
them out of the way. And violets grow wherever their feet touch the
ground, and they sit in a huckleberry bush and make a noise like the cry
of a spotted fawn. The fawns hear them and know very well what they are
crying for. The fawns have always loved them. When the fairies come down
out of the tree-tops they always ride on the fawns, and where they have
sat you can see a little white spot about as big as a flake of snow.
That's why the fawns are spotted, and you know how shy they are--they
mustn't let anybody see the fairies. Well, the young ones sit there in
a huckleberry bush crying. The little animals come and lick their faces
and tell them of a wonderful spring where milk flows out of a little
hill and has a magic power in it, for even if one were crying and tasted
the milk he always became happy. The young fairies climb on the backs of
the fawns and ride away. By-and-by the fawns come to their mothers and
their mothers tell them that no one who has teeth in his head can drink
at the spring. So they wonder what to do. By-and-by they go to the
woodpecker, for he has a pair of forceps and can pull anything, and the
woodpecker pulls their teeth. Then the young fairies do nothing but ride
around--each on a spotted fawn--and drink at the wonderful spring and
grow fat and lazy, and the birds pull every hair out of their heads to
build nests with. They live down in the woods, for they cannot climb
the trees any more, and one day they fall asleep for the first time and
tumble off the fawns and lie on the ground dreaming.
"They dream of the fairy-heaven where they shall grow old again and each
shall have a mother and his own wonderful spring of milk. Now that day
trees begin to grow in the ground beneath them. The trees grow fast, and
all in a night they lift the sleeping fairies far above the ground. The
wind rocks them and they lie dreaming in the tree-tops until a crane, as
he is crossing over the sky, looks down and sees them and goes and takes
them away. You know the cranes have to go through the sky every day and
pick up the young fairies."
She paused and sat holding the hands of little Sue and looking at them
as if their beauty were a great wonder.
"Where do they take them?"
Master was returning, and the girl rose like one afraid and whispered to
the children, "I will tell you if--if you will come again."
"I shall ask your father if I may come and see you," said Master as he
came near.
"Ha! ha! ha!" the bird croaked, fluttering in the air and lighting on
the shoulder of his mistress.
The children stepped aside quickly, as if in fear of it.
She took the crow on her finger and held him at arm's-length. He turned
and tried to catch an end of the scarlet ribbon. She was a picture then
to remind one of the days of falconry. She ran a few paces up a green
aisle in the thicket. She stopped where the young man was unable to see
her.
"Could--could you bring the children again, sir?" she asked.
"On Thursday, at the same hour," he answered.
He heard again the warning of the little crow and her footsteps growing
fainter in the dark trail of the deer.
XII.
MASTER paddled slowly to the landing where he had left Strong, and
gathered lilies while they waited. He pushed up to the shore as soon
as the Emperor had arrived. "Sp'ilt," said the latter, pointing in the
direction of Robin Lake.
"You mean that we cannot use the camp over there?"
"Ay-ah," Strong almost whispered, with a face in which perspiration was
mingled with regret and geniality.
"S-see 'er?"
"Yes," Master answered. "The children were a great help. She fell in
love with them. We are to meet her again Thursday."
"Uh-huh!" Strong exclaimed, in a tone which seemed to say, "I told you
so."
"S-sociable?" he inquired, after a little pause.
"No, but interested."
"Uh-huh, says I!" the Emperor exclaimed again, with playful conceit.
When he was in the mood of self-congratulation he had an odd way of
bringing out those two words--"says I."
"She was afraid of me. I backed away and said very little," Master
explained.
"Th-they'll t-tame her," the Emperor assured him.
"She has a wonderful crow with her," said the young man.
"Her g-guide," Strong explained. "Alwus knows the n-nighest way home."
"If you'll help me, I'll make my camp here," said Master.
"Ay-ah," the Emperor answered.
His manner and his odd remark were full of approval and almost
affectionate admiration. In half a moment his tongue lazily added,
"L-lean her 'gin th-that air rock." In his conversation he conferred the
feminine gender upon all inanimate things--a kind of compliment to the
sex he revered so highly.
"How long will it take?"
"Day," said Strong, surveying the ground.
"I have to speak in Hillsborough on the Fourth. Suppose we tackle it on
my return?"
Strong agreed, and while he and the children set out for camp Master
remained to fish.
Two "sports" had arrived in the absence of the Emperor and were shooting
at a mark--a pastime so utterly foolish in the view of Silas Strong that
he would rarely permit any one at Lost River camp to indulge in it.
He who discharged his rifle without sufficient provocation was roughly
classed with that breed of hounds which had learned no better than to
bark at a squirrel.
"Paunchers!" he muttered, as he came up the trail.
It should be explained here that he divided all "would-be sportsmen"
into three classes--namely, swishers, pouters, and paunchers. A swisher
was one who filled the air within reach of his cast, catching trees and
bushes, but no fish; a pouter, one who baited and hauled his fish as if
it were no better than a bull-pout; a pauncher was wont to hit his deer
"in the middle" and never saw him again.
The Emperor stopped suddenly. He had seen a twig fall near him and heard
the whiz of a bullet.
"Whoa!" he called, his voice ringing in the timber. "H-hold on!"
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