CHARMED DAYS
For Florence, the days that followed were filled with glorious adventure.
The wind, the sun, the forest and the water of that north country have
moods for every hour. Florence, the strong, healthy, joyous child of
nature, had a mood to match each change.
There were days when sky and water were gray, and the forest full of
shadows. At such times Florence wandered far into the forest’s depths to
sit and wonder about many things. What was this world she lived in? Who
had created it? What were these creatures called human beings that had
been allowed to wander for a time upon its surface? Why were they not
like horses and dogs and monkeys? Or were they very different from these,
after all?
“Yes, yes!” she would cry out to the trees that appeared to ask the
questions. “They are different! They think! Think! Do you think, you
trees? Do you think?” she would demand of a whisking chipmunk. The answer
never came except in that still small voice that was never far away. That
voice whispered, “Only men think.”
When the sky cleared and the waters sparkled, she was another person. No
problems came to her then. Enough that she was alive; that all the world
lay spread out before her. Then all her being called for action.
And to Florence, as long as water was near, action meant oars and a boat.
To her the very touch of an oar, the lift and fall of a tossing wave,
imparted a magic charm. Her splendid muscles responded to the touch of
water on the tips of her oars as the robin responds to the first beam of
the morning sun.
Oars, a boat, and away. Sometimes they entered little land-locked bays
where spotted perch lay fanning the water among the pike weed. Again,
they sought out a great submerged rock, beneath whose shadows the black
bass lurked.
Often, too, they left rod and reel untouched to watch a mother duck and
her young busy themselves at the task of gathering the day’s supply of
young frogs, bugs and snails.
There were wild, windy days, too, that seemed to shout at the wanton
spirit of youth that was hers. This seemed always a challenge. Leaving
Petite Jeanne to sit by the fire and dream of her beloved France, she
would push her frail craft off from the shore to battle winds, waves and
foam for hours on end.
As the wind rose and screamed at her, she would turn her face to it, let
her hair fly wildly out, and scream back in wild defiance.
At such times as these, it seemed to her that she must have lived before,
that for years on end she had battled winds and waves.
There are those who believe that we live our lives many times; that in
some new form we return to earth to face life’s problems anew. Florence
knew of this belief. As she battled the elements, it pleased her to
assume the role of a Norseman’s bride. In fancy, riding at the head of
some sturdy crew, she faced the battling waves of the fierce Atlantic and
entered dark caves at night, to sit by a great roaring fire munching hard
bread and venison roasted over the coals.
Florence Huyler’s love of nature amounted almost to a religion. And who
will say that she might not have found a less desirable subject for
devotion?
What is sweeter and finer than the heart of the forest, what purer than
the soul of a crested wave?
For Petite Jeanne, too, woods and water held a great charm. Only her
manner of responding to it differed. She lay for hours on the warm, sandy
beach beneath a great umbrella, half asleep, dreaming. She, too, wandered
in the forest. From these wanderings she returned in a pensive mood.
These trees, these winding paths, reminded her of the forests of France.
They whispered all too loudly of many happy days spent on the edge of
those forests with the gypsies.
On a certain day Florence learned in a forceful manner just what the
little French girl’s feelings were toward the strange people of her
adoption. They were rowing past the end of a private dock which extended
some distance into the waters of the bay, when Petite Jeanne suddenly
cried out:
“Oh look! Look! Stop! Let me read it!”
Florence looked in the direction indicated, then stared at her in
astonishment. She saw before her only a large post, part of the dock,
which rose some three feet above the water. On the post was no note, sign
or any other manner of writing that might be read.
Yet Petite Jeanne seized an oar to turn them about and bring their boat
up close to the post.
Then for the first time Florence saw what had attracted her companion’s
attention—three twigs pinned together by a small nail and fastened
securely to the post.
To the uninitiated this would have seemed the work of a playful child. To
Jeanne it spoke volumes. Even Florence understood enough of its meaning
to cause her worry.
“Now she will know,” she whispered to herself.
The three sticks were a gypsy “patteran,” a part of the sign language
left by these wandering people at every crossroad.
“See!” exclaimed Jeanne. “There are gypsies about. And oh! they are
French gypsies!” She clapped her hands. “Only in France do they make a
patteran like that.
“See! I will read it. They say they are three; a man, a woman and a
little girl. They have gone up the bay and will stay to-night at a small
island.”
Florence marveled that so much could be told by three crossed sticks.
Still, she did not doubt the French girl’s reading.
Yet more astonishing was Jeanne’s attitude toward the whole matter. She
appeared bubbling over with joy. Such a smile illumined her face as had
not been there for weeks.
“But, Jeanne,” said Florence, “do you not fear the gypsies? Once you were
kidnapped and nearly killed by them.”
“Oh—” Jeanne spread her hands, then pretended to blow a feather from her
fingers. “That is all long ago. In spirit I am still a gypsy. And the
gypsies live, not for the past, not for to-morrow, but for this day only.
This day is quite enough.
“Besides,” she added after a moment, “I do not know fear as many do.
Gypsies are not afraid. They love life so much that danger, even death
itself, is forgotten. See! I must tell you a story; then you will
understand.”