I find that we have an infidel in this community. I don't know that I
should set down the fact here on good white paper; the walls, they say,
have eyes, the stones have ears. But consider these words written in
bated breath! The worst of it is--I gather from common report--this
infidel is a Cheerful Infidel, whereas a true infidel should bear upon
his face the living mark of his infamy. We are all tolerant enough of
those who do not agree with us, provided only they are sufficiently
miserable! I confess when I first heard of him--through Mrs. Horace
(with shudders)--I was possessed of a consuming secret desire to see
him. I even thought of climbing a tree somewhere along the public
road--like Zaccheus, wasn't it?--and watching him go by. If by any
chance he should look my way I could easily avoid discovery by crouching
among the leaves. It shows how pleasant must be the paths of
unrighteousness that we are tempted to climb trees to see those who walk
therein. My imagination busied itself with the infidel. I pictured him
as a sort of Moloch treading our pleasant countryside, flames and smoke
proceeding from his nostrils, his feet striking fire, his voice like the
sound of a great wind. At least that was the picture I formed of him
from common report.
And yesterday afternoon I met the infidel and I must here set down a
true account of the adventure. It is, surely, a little new door opened
in the house of my understanding. I might travel a whole year in a city,
brushing men's elbows, and not once have such an experience. In country
spaces men develop sensitive surfaces, not calloused by too frequent
contact, accepting the new impression vividly and keeping it bright to
think upon.
I met the infidel as the result of a rather unexpected series of
incidents. I don't think I have said before that we have for some time
been expecting a great event on this farm. We have raised corn and
buckwheat, we have a fertile asparagus bed and onions and pie-plant
(enough to supply the entire population of this community) and I can't
tell how many other vegetables. We have had plenty of chickens hatched
out (I don't like chickens, especially hens, especially a certain gaunt
and predatory hen named [so Harriet says] Evangeline, who belongs to a
neighbour of ours) and we have had two litters of pigs, but until this
bright moment of expectancy we never have had a calf.
Upon the advice of Horace, which I often lean upon as upon a staff, I
have been keeping my young heifer shut up in the cow-yard now for a week
or two. But yesterday, toward the middle of the afternoon, I found the
fence broken down and the cow-yard empty. From what Harriet said, the
brown cow must have been gone since early morning. I knew, of course,
what that meant, and straightway I took a stout stick and set off over
the hill, tracing the brown cow as far as I could by her tracks. She had
made way toward a clump of trees near Horace's wood lot, where I
confidently expected to find her. But as fate would have it, the pasture
gate, which is rarely used, stood open and the tracks led outward into
an old road. I followed rapidly, half pleased that I had not found her
within the wood. It was a promise of new adventure which I came to with
downright enjoyment (confidentially--I should have been cultivating
corn!). I peered into every thicket as I passed: once I climbed an old
fence and, standing on the top rail, intently surveyed my neighbour's
pasture. No brown cow was to be seen. At the crossing of the brook I
shouldered my way from the road down a path among the alders, thinking
the brown cow might have gone that way to obscurity.
It is curious how, in spite of domestication and training, Nature in her
great moments returns to the primitive and instinctive! My brown cow,
never having had anything but the kindest treatment, is as gentle an
animal as could be imagined, but she had followed the nameless,
ages-old law of her breed: she had escaped in her great moment to the
most secret place she knew. It did not matter that she would have been
safer in my yard--both she and her calf--that she would have been surer
of her food; she could only obey the old wild law. So turkeys will hide
their nests. So the tame duck, tame for unnumbered generations, hearing
from afar the shrill cry of the wild drake, will desert her quiet
surroundings, spread her little-used wings and become for a time the
wildest of the wild.
So we think--you and I--that we are civilised! But how often, how often,
have we felt that old wildness which is our common heritage, scarce
shackled, clamouring in our blood!
I stood listening among the alders, in the deep cool shade. Here and
there a ray of sunshine came through the thick foliage: I could see it
where it silvered the cobweb ladders of those moist spaces. Somewhere in
the thicket I heard an unalarmed catbird trilling her exquisite song, a
startled frog leaped with a splash into the water; faint odours of some
blossoming growth, not distinguishable, filled the still air. It was
one of those rare moments when one seems to have caught Nature unaware.
I lingered a full minute, listening, looking; but my brown cow had not
gone that way. So I turned and went up rapidly to the road, and there I
found myself almost face to face with a ruddy little man whose
countenance bore a look of round astonishment. We were both surprised. I
recovered first.
"Have you seen a brown cow?" I asked.
He was still so astonished that he began to look around him; he thrust
his hands nervously into his coat pockets and pulled them out again.
"I think you won't find her in there," I said, seeking to relieve his
embarrassment.
But I didn't know, then, how very serious a person I had encountered.
"No--no," he stammered, "I haven't seen your cow."
So I explained to him with sobriety, and at some length, the problem I
had to solve. He was greatly interested and inasmuch as he was going my
way he offered at once to assist me in my search. So we set off
together. He was rather stocky of build, and decidedly short of breath,
so that I regulated my customary stride to suit his deliberation. At
first, being filled with the spirit of my adventure, I was not
altogether pleased with this arrangement. Our conversation ran something
like this:
STRANGER: Has she any spots or marks on her?
MYSELF: No, she is plain brown.
STRANGER: How old a cow is she?
MYSELF: This is her first calf.
STRANGER: Valuable animal?
MYSELF: _(fencing):_ I have never put a price on her; she is a promising
young heifer.
STRANGER: Pure blood?
MYSELF: No, grade.
After a pause:
STRANGER: Live around here?
MYSELF: Yes, half a mile below here. Do you?
STRANGER: Yes, three miles above here. My name's Purdy.
MYSELF: Mine is Grayson.
He turned to me solemnly and held out his hand. "_I'm_ glad to meet you,
Mr. Grayson," he said. "And I'm glad," I said, "to meet you, Mr. Purdy."
I will not attempt to put down all we said: I couldn't. But by such
devices is the truth in the country made manifest.
So we continued to walk and look. Occasionally I would unconsciously
increase my pace until I was warned to desist by the puffing of Mr.
Purdy. He gave an essential impression of genial timidity: and how he
_did_ love to talk!
We came at last to a rough bit of land grown up to scrubby oaks and
hazel brush.
"This," said Mr. Purdy, "looks hopeful."
We followed the old road, examining every bare spot of earth for some
evidence of the cow's tracks, but without finding so much as a sign. I
was for pushing onward but Mr. Purdy insisted that this clump of woods
was exactly such a place as a cow would like. He developed such a
capacity for argumentation and seemed so sure of what he was talking
about that I yielded, and we entered the wood.
"We'll part here," he said: "you keep over there about fifty yards and
I'll go straight ahead. In that way we'll cover the ground. Keep
a-shoutin'."
So we started and I kept a-shoutin'. He would answer from time to time:
"Hulloo hulloo!"
It was a wild and beautiful bit of forest. The ground under the trees
was thickly covered with enormous ferns or bracken, with here and there
patches of light where the sun came through the foliage. The low spots
were filled with the coarse green verdure of skunk cabbage. I was so
sceptical about finding the cow in a wood where concealment was so easy
that I confess I rather idled and enjoyed the surroundings. Suddenly,
however, I heard Mr. Purdy's voice, with a new note in it:
"Hulloo, hulloo----"
"What luck?"
"Hulloo, hulloo----"
"I'm coming--" and I turned and ran as rapidly as I could through the
trees, jumping over logs and dodging low branches, wondering what new
thing my friend had discovered. So I came to his side.
"Have you got trace of her?" I questioned eagerly.
"Sh!" he said, "over there. Don't you see her?"
"Where, where?"
He pointed, but for a moment I could see nothing but the trees and the
bracken. Then all at once, like the puzzle in a picture, I saw her
plainly. She was standing perfectly motionless, her head lowered, and in
such a peculiar clump of bushes and ferns that she was all but
indistinguishable. It was wonderful, the perfection with which her
instinct had led her to conceal herself.
All excitement, I started toward her at once. But Mr. Purdy put his hand
on my arm.
"Wait," he said, "don't frighten her. She has her calf there."
"No!" I exclaimed, for I could see nothing of it.
We went, cautiously, a few steps nearer. She threw up her head and
looked at us so wildly for a moment that I should hardly have known her
for my cow. She was, indeed, for the time being, a wild creature of the
wood. She made a low sound and advanced a step threateningly.
"Steady," said Mr. Purdy, "this is her first calf. Stop a minute and
keep quiet. She'll soon get used to us."
Moving to one side cautiously, we sat down on an old log. The brown
heifer paused, every muscle tense, her eyes literally blazing, We sat
perfectly still. After a minute or two she lowered her head, and with
curious guttural sounds she began to lick her calf, which lay quite
hidden in the bracken.
"She has chosen a perfect spot," I thought to myself, for it was the
wildest bit of forest I had seen anywhere in this neighbourhood. At one
side, not far off, rose a huge gray rock, partly covered on one side
with moss, and round about were oaks and a few ash trees of a poor
scrubby sort (else they would long ago have been cut out). The earth
underneath was soft and springy with leaf mould.--
Mr. Purdy was one to whom silence was painful; he fidgeted about,
evidently bursting with talk, and yet feeling compelled to follow his
own injunction of silence. Presently he reached into his capacious
pocket and handed me a little paper-covered booklet. I took it, curious,
and read the title:
"Is There a Hell?"
It struck me humorously. In the country we are always--at least some of
us are--more or less in a religious ferment, The city may distract
itself to the point where faith is unnecessary; but in the country we
must, perforce, have something to believe in. And we talk about it, too!
I read the title aloud, but in a low voice:
"Is There a Hell?" Then I asked: "Do you really want to know?"
"The argument is all there," he replied.
"Well," I said, "I can tell you off-hand, out of my own experience, that
there certainly is a hell----"
He turned toward me with evident astonishment, but I proceeded with
tranquillity:
"Yes, sir, there's no doubt about it. I've been near enough myself
several times to smell the smoke. It isn't around here," I said.
As he looked at me his china-blue eyes grew larger, if that were
possible, and his serious, gentle face took on a look of pained
surprise.
"Before you say such things," he said, "I beg you to read my book."
He took the tract from my hands and opened it on his knee.
"The Bible tells us," he said, "that in the beginning God created the
heavens and the earth, He made the firmament and divided the waters.
But does the Bible say that He created a hell or a devil? Does it?"