Felix, so far as my remembrance goes, never attained to success in the
Ordeal of Bitter Apples. He gave up trying after awhile; and he also
gave up praying about it, saying in bitterness of spirit that there was
no use in praying when other fellows prayed against you out of spite. He
and Peter remained on bad terms for some time, however.
We were all of us too tired those nights to do any special praying.
Sometimes I fear our “regular” prayers were slurred over, or mumbled in
anything but reverent haste. October was a busy month on the hill farms.
The apples had to be picked, and this work fell mainly to us children.
We stayed home from school to do it. It was pleasant work and there was
a great deal of fun in it; but it was hard, too, and our arms and backs
ached roundly at night. In the mornings it was very delightful; in the
afternoons tolerable; but in the evenings we lagged, and the laughter
and zest of fresher hours were lacking.
Some of the apples had to be picked very carefully. But with others it
did not matter; we boys would climb the trees and shake the apples down
until the girls shrieked for mercy. The days were crisp and mellow, with
warm sunshine and a tang of frost in the air, mingled with the woodsy
odours of the withering grasses. The hens and turkeys prowled about,
pecking at windfalls, and Pat made mad rushes at them amid the fallen
leaves. The world beyond the orchard was in a royal magnificence of
colouring, under the vivid blue autumn sky. The big willow by the gate
was a splendid golden dome, and the maples that were scattered through
the spruce grove waved blood-red banners over the sombre cone-bearers.
The Story Girl generally had her head garlanded with their leaves. They
became her vastly. Neither Felicity nor Cecily could have worn them.
Those two girls were of a domestic type that assorted ill with the
wildfire in Nature’s veins. But when the Story Girl wreathed her nut
brown tresses with crimson leaves it seemed, as Peter said, that they
grew on her--as if the gold and flame of her spirit had broken out in
a coronal, as much a part of her as the pale halo seems a part of the
Madonna it encircles.
What tales she told us on those far-away autumn days, peopling the
russet arcades with folk of an elder world. Many a princess rode by us
on her palfrey, many a swaggering gallant ruffled it bravely in velvet
and plume adown Uncle Stephen’s Walk, many a stately lady, silken clad,
walked in that opulent orchard!
When we had filled our baskets they had to be carried to the granary
loft, and the contents stored in bins or spread on the floor to ripen
further. We ate a good many, of course, feeling that the labourer was
worthy of his hire. The apples from our own birthday trees were stored
in separate barrels inscribed with our names. We might dispose of them
as we willed. Felicity sold hers to Uncle Alec’s hired man--and was
badly cheated to boot, for he levanted shortly afterwards, taking the
apples with him, having paid her only half her rightful due. Felicity
has not gotten over that to this day.
Cecily, dear heart, sent most of hers to the hospital in town, and no
doubt gathered in therefrom dividends of gratitude and satisfaction of
soul, such as can never be purchased by any mere process of bargain and
sale. The rest of us ate our apples, or carried them to school where
we bartered them for such treasures as our schoolmates possessed and we
coveted.
There was a dusky, little, pear-shaped apple--from one of Uncle
Stephen’s trees--which was our favourite; and next to it a delicious,
juicy yellow apple from Aunt Louisa’s tree. We were also fond of the big
sweet apples; we used to throw them up in the air and let them fall on
the ground until they were bruised and battered to the bursting point.
Then we sucked on the juice; sweeter was it than the nectar drunk by
blissful gods on the Thessalian hill.
Sometimes we worked until the cold yellow sunsets faded out over the
darkening distances, and the hunter’s moon looked down on us through the
sparkling air. The constellations of autumn scintillated above us. Peter
and the Story Girl knew all about them, and imparted their knowledge to
us generously. I recall Peter standing on the Pulpit Stone, one night
ere moonrise, and pointing them out to us, occasionally having a
difference of opinion with the Story Girl over the name of some
particular star. Job’s Coffin and the Northern Cross were to the west of
us; south of us flamed Fomalhaut. The Great Square of Pegasus was
over our heads. Cassiopeia sat enthroned in her beautiful chair in the
north-east; and north of us the Dippers swung untiringly around the
Pole Star. Cecily and Felix were the only ones who could distinguish the
double star in the handle of the Big Dipper, and greatly did they plume
themselves thereon. The Story Girl told us the myths and legends woven
around these immemorial clusters, her very voice taking on a clear,
remote, starry sound as she talked of them. When she ceased, we came
back to earth, feeling as if we had been millions of miles away in the
blue ether, and that all our old familiar surroundings were momentarily
forgotten and strange.
That night when he pointed out the stars to us from the Pulpit Stone was
the last time for several weeks that Peter shared our toil and pastime.
The next day he complained of headache and sore throat, and seemed to
prefer lying on Aunt Olivia’s kitchen sofa to doing any work. As it was
not in Peter to be a malingerer he was left in peace, while we picked
apples. Felix alone, must unjustly and spitefully, declared that Peter
was simply shirking.
“He’s just lazy, that’s what’s the matter with him,” he said.
“Why don’t you talk sense, if you must talk?” said Felicity. “There’s no
sense in calling Peter lazy. You might as well say I had black hair. Of
course, Peter, being a Craig, has his faults, but he’s a smart boy. His
father was lazy but his mother hasn’t a lazy bone in her body, and Peter
takes after her.”
“Uncle Roger says Peter’s father wasn’t exactly lazy,” said the Story
Girl. “The trouble was, there were so many other things he liked better
than work.”
“I wonder if he’ll ever come back to his family,” said Cecily. “Just
think how dreadful it would be if OUR father had left us like that!”
“Our father is a King,” said Felicity loftily, “and Peter’s father was
only a Craig. A member of our family COULDN’T behave like that.”
“They say there must be a black sheep in every family,” said the Story
Girl.
“There isn’t any in ours,” said Cecily loyally.
“Why do white sheep eat more than black?” asked Felix.
“Is that a conundrum?” asked Cecily cautiously. “If it is I won’t try to
guess the reason. I never can guess conundrums.”
“It isn’t a conundrum,” said Felix. “It’s a fact. They do--and there’s a
good reason for it.”
We stopped picking apples, sat down on the grass, and tried to reason
it out--with the exception of Dan, who declared that he knew there was
a catch somewhere and he wasn’t going to be caught. The rest of us could
not see where any catch could exist, since Felix solemnly vowed, ‘cross
his heart, white sheep did eat more than black. We argued over it
seriously, but finally had to give it up.
“Well, what is the reason?” asked Felicity.
“Because there’s more of them,” said Felix, grinning.
I forget what we did to Felix.
A shower came up in the evening and we had to stop picking. After the
shower there was a magnificent double rainbow. We watched it from the
granary window, and the Story Girl told us an old legend, culled from
one of Aunt Olivia’s many scrapbooks.
“Long, long ago, in the Golden Age, when the gods used to visit the
earth so often that it was nothing uncommon to see them, Odin made a
pilgrimage over the world. Odin was the great god of the northland,
you know. And wherever he went among men he taught them love and
brotherhood, and skilful arts; and great cities sprang up where he had
trodden, and every land through which he passed was blessed because one
of the gods had come down to men. But many men and women followed Odin
himself, giving up all their worldly possessions and ambitions; and to
these he promised the gift of eternal life. All these people were good
and noble and unselfish and kind; but the best and noblest of them all
was a youth named Ving; and this youth was beloved by Odin above all
others, for his beauty and strength and goodness. Always he walked on
Odin’s right hand, and always the first light of Odin’s smile fell on
him. Tall and straight was he as a young pine, and his long hair was
the colour of ripe wheat in the sun; and his blue eyes were like the
northland heavens on a starry night.
“In Odin’s band was a beautiful maiden named Alin. She was as fair and
delicate as a young birch tree in spring among the dark old pines and
firs, and Ving loved her with all his heart. His soul thrilled with
rapture at the thought that he and she together should drink from the
fountain of immortality, as Odin had promised, and be one thereafter in
eternal youth.
“At last they came to the very place where the rainbow touched the
earth. And the rainbow was a great bridge, built of living colours, so
dazzling and wonderful that beyond it the eye could see nothing, only
far away a great, blinding, sparkling glory, where the fountain of life
sprang up in a shower of diamond fire. But under the Rainbow Bridge
rolled a terrible flood, deep and wide and violent, full of rocks and
rapids and whirlpools.
“There was a Warder of the bridge, a god, dark and stern and sorrowful.
And to him Odin gave command that he should open the gate and allow
his followers to cross the Rainbow Bridge, that they might drink of the
fountain of life beyond. And the Warder set open the gate.
“‘Pass on and drink of the fountain,’ he said. ‘To all who taste of it
shall immortality be given. But only to that one who shall drink of it
first shall be permitted to walk at Odin’s right hand forever.’
“Then the company passed through in great haste, all fired with a desire
to be the first to drink of the fountain and win so marvellous a boon.
Last of all came Ving. He had lingered behind to pluck a thorn from the
foot of a beggar child he had met on the highway, and he had not heard
the Warder’s words. But when, eager, joyous, radiant, he set his foot
on the rainbow, the stern, sorrowful Warder took him by the arm and drew
him back.
“‘Ving, strong, noble, and valiant,’ he said, ‘Rainbow Bridge is not for
thee.’
“Very dark grew Ving’s face. Hot rebellion rose in his heart and rushed
over his pale lips.
“‘Why dost thou keep back the draught of immortality from me?’ he
demanded passionately.
“The Warder pointed to the dark flood that rolled under the bridge.
“‘The path of the rainbow is not for thee,’ he said, ‘but yonder way is
open. Ford that flood. On the furthest bank is the fountain of life.’
“‘Thou mockest me,’ muttered Ving sullenly. ‘No mortal could cross that
flood. Oh, Master,’ he prayed, turning beseechingly to Odin, ‘thou didst
promise to me eternal life as to the others. Wilt thou not keep that
promise? Command the Warder to let me pass. He must obey thee.’
“But Odin stood silent, with his face turned from his beloved, and
Ving’s heart was filled with unspeakable bitterness and despair.
“‘Thou mayest return to earth if thou fearest to essay the flood,’ said
the Warder.
“‘Nay,’ said Ving wildly, ‘earthly life without Alin is more dreadful
than the death which awaits me in yon dark river.’
“And he plunged fiercely in. He swam, and struggled, he buffetted the
turmoil. The waves went over his head again and again, the whirlpools
caught him and flung him on the cruel rocks. The wild, cold spray beat
on his eyes and blinded him, so that he could see nothing, and the roar
of the river deafened him so that he could hear nothing; but he felt
keenly the wounds and bruises of the cruel rocks, and many a time he
would have given up the struggle had not the thought of sweet Alin’s
loving eyes brought him the strength and desire to struggle as long
as it was possible. Long, long, long, to him seemed that bitter and
perilous passage; but at last he won through to the furthest side.
Breathless and reeling, his vesture torn, his great wounds bleeding, he
found himself on the shore where the fountain of immortality sprang up.
He staggered to its brink and drank of its clear stream. Then all pain
and weariness fell away from him, and he rose up, a god, beautiful with
immortality. And as he did there came rushing over the Rainbow Bridge a
great company--the band of fellow travellers. But all were too late to
win the double boon. Ving had won to it through the danger and suffering
of the dark river.”
The rainbow had faded out, and the darkness of the October dusk was
falling.
“I wonder,” said Dan meditatively, as we went away from that redolent
spot, “what it would be like to live for ever in this world.”
“I expect we’d get tired of it after awhile,” said the Story Girl.
“But,” she added, “I think it would be a goodly while before I would.”