The day of the concert smilingly dawned.
At breakfast, Uncle Reuben surprised them by saying, “I’m going over
the river to-day, Mean. Don’t you want to go ’long, and stop to
George’s?”
Aunt Mean hesitated.
“You kin wear your best bunnet, so’s to stop to the concert on the way
back.”
“Reuben Whittaker! you’re not going to blow in a single cent on any
concert, and you know it. If Gertrude is foolish ’nough to go and take
Chee, that ain’t none of my business.” Aunt Mean looked toward her
nieces as she spoke, but the cousins’ eyes were fixed upon their plates.
“Why, Mean,” said Uncle Reuben, mildly, “the minister says the hull
town is going to turn out. Even--”
“When did you see the minister?” interrupted his sister.
“Even Miss Flanigin sent for her sister to take keer of the young’ns,”
continued Uncle Reuben, without notice of any question. “I never
reckoned on our being behind the Flanigins.”
“Humph! those Flanigins,” was Aunt Mean’s only comment. But Gertrude
noticed, as they drove away, a bonnet with a purple poppy had won the
day.
“What could have possessed Uncle Reuben to take her off to-day, of all
days?” gleefully questioned Chee.
“Everything is turning out just right, that’s a fact,” replied her
cousin.
A thought of half suspicion came to Chee. “You don’t suppose--” she
began, impressively, when Gertrude gave a little cry of pleasure,
saying, “If here doesn’t come Herman, the old dear, and the house all
to ourselves.”
What a day of it they had! With only her two good friends to watch
her, Chee forgot her usual reserve, and quite surprised them with her
happy chatter. Without the restraint of Aunt Mean’s practical presence,
some of the child’s queer fancies and odd expressions crept into her
talk. Until then, Gertrude had but half realized how truly the little
cousin’s nature was made up of the sensitive perceptions and legendary
instincts of her mother’s people.
Toward evening a thunder-storm threatened. The three were sitting in
Aunt Mean’s plant-room at the time.
“Grandfather is speaking,” said Chee, pleasantly, as the first distant
mutterings of thunder were heard. Cousin Herman looked up questioningly.
“Who?” asked Gertrude.
“Grandfather--don’t you hear him?”
Just then a sharp clap rang through the air. Gertrude held her fingers
to her ears.
“That was M’dessun,” said Chee. Then noticing her companions’
bewildered glances, added, “It’s very easy to know his voice from
grandfather’s other sons’--he talks so angrily.”
The thunder still roared. Mr. Farrar closed the plant-room door. “I
guess we hadn’t better sit out here for awhile,” he said, gathering up
Gertrude’s books. “We can come back, it won’t last long, I think.”
“Don’t go! What made you shut the door? I love to hear them,” and Chee
stepped out into the rising storm fearlessly, as though the sky had
been all sunshine.
“Come in, Chee. Oh, do come in!” cried Gertrude, pale with alarm.
The child ran quickly, and throwing her arms around her cousin, asked,
“Why, are you sick? What is the matter? Don’t you like Thunder? He is
our grandfather, you know.”
“Is the girl crazy?” asked Mr. Farrar.
“I think she refers to some legend,” answered Gertrude. Chee had always
been interesting; her personality was felt, even when she was her
usual, reserved little self; to-day, all embarrassment cast away, she
was fascinating.
“We don’t know about it, Birdie; can’t you tell us?”
“I forgot you didn’t know,” replied Chee. Then as if in penitence, she
added, “I’ll close the door again, if you’d rather, Cousin Gertrude.”
“No, leave it open. The storm is going around us. It will be pleasanter
soon. Now tell us what you meant by ‘Grandfather.’”
So Chee began,--the rain dripping from the roof, and the fresh,
purified air blowing in at the wide-swung door,--“Why, as I said,
Thunder is our grandfather. He has three boys. That loud, sharp sound
that hurt Cousin Gertrude’s ears was the baby; he is cross and cruel.
But grandfather will never allow him to harm us. Grandfather lets him
kill animals sometimes.
“His other sons are kind, gentle boys; they never do any harm, but cool
the air instead, and make the earth fresh again. Thunder that just
threatens and mutters is grandfather’s voice.”
“What about lightning?” asked Cousin Herman, with a twinkle in his eye.
“Is that kind and good?”
Chee laughed. “Lightning? She’s--well, she’s his wife.” They all
laughed at her answer, and Mr. Farrar mischievously glanced at
Gertrude. Chee noticed that she blushed, but took courage and added,
“There’s an old story about grandfather; would you like to hear it?”
Of course they were only too glad to keep her talking, so, clasping her
hands around one knee, she commenced the story--her low, dreamy voice
fitting well with the tale.
“Well, once, years and years ago,[2] there were two Indian homes.
In each home there was a beautiful daughter; they were lovely, good
friends, but they couldn’t see each other very often, for their wigwams
were such a long ways apart. But one awful hot day, one of them asked
her mother if she couldn’t go and see the other girl, and her mother
said ‘no,’ ’cause she was so pretty. But the girl teased so hard she
had to let her go.
“She hadn’t gone very far before a tall man came and walked beside her,
and said such nice things to her she forgot all about where she was
going, until she found right in front of them a big rock with a hole in
it. The man said, ‘This is where I live. Won’t you come in?’
“She was afraid of the dark, so she wouldn’t go. But he coaxed, and
finally she said she’d go in if he’d go first. So he went, but just the
minute he got inside, he turned right into an ugly old Wi-will-mecq,
and she was scared most to pieces.”
“May we ask what a ‘Wi-will-mecq’ is?” asked Mr. Farrar.
[Illustration: “‘I’VE SAVED YOU FROM THE GREAT WI-WILL-MECQ’”]
“It’s a great, horrid worm, and the girl tried to run away from it,
but just then an awful loud thundering was heard, and she didn’t know
anything more until she opened her eyes in a great big room with an old
man in it.
“He said, ‘I’m your grandfather. I’ve saved you from the great
Wi-will-mecq.’ Then he showed it to her, out-doors, all chopped up in a
hundred little pieces. He told the girl she must give him a smoke when
he asked for it, to show she was grateful. Then he sent her home safe
and sound. Do you like that story?”
“Very much,” answered Cousin Herman. “But I can see from her face that
Gertie is wondering how in the world the girl could give old Thunder a
smoke.”
“The Indians used always to do that after grandfather was so good to
one of their people. They build a fire out-doors every time grandfather
calls for it, and put some tobacco in it; it goes up in the smoke, and
so he gets it.[3] Now you see I couldn’t be afraid, could I?”
Cousin Gertrude patted Chee’s braids. Mr. Farrar whistled softly to
himself. Chee noticed that neither answered her question.
“Well, anyway,” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing, “you can ask just as
many people as you like, and every one will tell you that there never
was an Indian or anything he owned killed in a thunder-storm.[4] My
daddy asked lots of wise people, and none ever could tell of a single
one.”
Mr. Farrar could no longer whistle, his lips were trying to smile. With
a smothered “Ha, ha,” he hurried out to feed his horse.
Chee was very much displeased. She went to the open door, and leaning
her head against the casement, looked over the freshened fields. Before
long, Gertrude joined her. Drawing the little girl to her, she too
stood watching the landscape.
“Birdie,” she asked, at length, then hesitated, as though loath to go
on, “do you honestly believe that pretty little story?”
Chee turned her face toward her questioner, all resentment gone--that
soft light in her eyes, only there when she was deeply moved.
“Cousin Gertrude, dear,” she answered, looking clearly into the
other’s face, “don’t worry. I know what you mean. Yes, and no. For the
time I was telling it I believed it. But now when you ask me, I know
quite well that Our Father sends the thunder, just as He sends the rain
when we need it. Daddy told me so. But anyway, I shouldn’t be afraid
because it’s just the same. He won’t let anything hurt me. Daddy told
me that, and I think I should know it, anyway. Sometimes when the
breeze blows softly against my cheek, it tells me so, and if ever I
forget, the stars at night tell me how wrong it is to fear Our Father
who loves us so.”
Cousin Gertrude made no reply, she only held the little one closer.
Chee was not a heathen, but she was certainly a strange child.