THE LIGHT AND THE LIGHTHOUSE
To reach the Lighthouse from Stumpy’s dwelling, you might either follow
Jenny Lind’s car-track a long way around, or scramble up a rocky
path, broken here and there by a flight of whitewashed steps, till
you arrived at the top of the mighty heap of rocks that formed the
island. Should a high wind be blowing, you crushed your hat far down on
your head, gripped the handrail hard when you reached the steps, and
often sat down flat until some sudden gust had passed by. As this was
Margaret McLean’s only fashionable promenade, you can imagine that she
seldom ventured on it, preferring to stroll about the patch of green
in front of the Lighthouse, or to walk up and down between the scanty
rows of vegetables behind. She and her husband, however, were well
accustomed to seeing the children scramble over the rocks like their
own goats and were never anxious about Ronald, if Lesley were with him,
for alone he was apt to venture too far and attempt heights which he
might reach, but never be able to descend.
He had been only a tiny tot of two or three years, running about the
kitchen, when, sitting on the floor in front of the sink one day,
he had amused himself by slipping the various cooking-pots over his
head and laughing out at Lesley with a “Peep bo!” from beneath them.
His mother, hearing the clatter, was hurrying from another room to
inquire into its cause when a series of loud cries and calls for help
were heard. She found the baby completely extinguished by a large
kettle which Lesley was trying to pull off his head, while the more he
struggled and screamed, the tighter grew the kettle.
Mrs. McLean pulled, Lesley pulled, Ronnie beat his hands and kicked and
roared until the mother was thoroughly frightened. “Get your father,
quick!” she cried to Lesley, and the child climbed, panting, to the
tower where Malcolm was trimming the Light. She was too breathless
to speak when she reached him, but he saw that something was wrong
below and half-leaped, half-tumbled down the stairs to the kitchen. He
took the baby in his arms and succeeded with his big sailor voice in
reaching the ears under the kettle.
“Be quiet, Ronnie!” he ordered. “Stop crying at once! Father’s here.
Father’ll help you.”
The screams stopped, the beating hands grew quiet, and the Lightkeeper
walked to and fro patting the small shoulders till they grew still
enough to allow him to lay the child in his mother’s arms. Then, while
Lesley watched him with astonished eyes he seized a lump of lard from
the shelf, greased the inside of the kettle and Ronnie’s head as far as
his hand could reach, saying all the time, “Quiet, sonny, quiet, sonny;
Father’s here!” This done, with one swift jerk the kettle came off and
the small boy was restored to the world.
Oh, what a wonderful father, Lesley thought; there was nothing that
he couldn’t do and nothing that he didn’t know, and I believe that
everybody on the island, including Jenny Lind, the rabbits, and the
sea-birds, thought much the same thing.
The wonderful father was waiting in the doorway to-day as the
children’s feet were heard on the rocky pathway, and after a little
washing of grimy paws and smoothing of rough locks they all sat down
at table. Six times a year the Lighthouse tender called at the island
with stores for its inhabitants, so tea and sugar and coffee, flour and
meal, spices and cereals were always on hand, but for the rest they
depended on goats’ milk, fresh fish, eggs, chickens, rabbits, and
such vegetables as they could raise on their wind-swept height, three
hundred feet above the sea.
Margaret McLean boasted, when she could find any one to hear her boast,
that she could prepare rabbit in fifteen different ways, but which one
of the fifteen she followed that day will probably never be known. At
all events, it seemed to please the children who jumped down from the
table when grace had been said, quite refreshed and ready to dry the
dishes and help to set the room in order.
The apartment in question--a large one, fortunately--might have been
called one of general utility, for it was kitchen, dining-room,
sitting-room, and study, according to the time of day. There was
a grand parlor on the other side of the passage, into which the
Lighthouse Inspector was ushered when he made his semi-annual calls,
but the children never entered it except on cleaning-days when they
were allowed to dust the haircloth sofa, the straight-backed chairs,
and the round center-table with its big Bible and tall lamp, hung with
tinkling glass prisms.
The bedrooms and the playroom were on the next story, and above that
ran the flight of narrow steps that led to the tower, and then above
them again the corkscrew stairs that wound about and about till they
reached the Light.
In solitary splendor, like the Prince of Coolavin, lived the Light, and
Father waited upon it like a slave, filling it with oil, trimming its
wicks and polishing and re-polishing and re-re-polishing the speckless
glass that sheltered it and through which its beams streamed far, far
across the waters.
Every night, as they sang the “Mariner’s Hymn” together in the
whitewashed sitting-room, with the ceaseless roar and dash of the
breakers as their accompaniment, the children thought of the friendly
Light in the tower and the gladness of the sailors when they saw it
shine.
“Eternal Father! strong to save,
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave;
Who bidst the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep:
O hear us when we cry to Thee
For those in peril on the sea!”
So ran the words of the “Mariner’s Hymn,” and Ronald, who always wanted
to know the reason of things, said thoughtfully one night when they
had finished singing: “Why do we cry to God to help those in peril on
the sea, Daddy? It’s the Light that helps them, isn’t it?”
“Hush! Ronnie, you’re not thinking,” cried his mother. “Who made the
sea and the sailors? Who gave his brains to the man who thought of the
Light and set it here? The Light is but a senseless thing and needs
some one to tend it, as well you know your father does both night and
day.”
“Oh--h!” murmured Ronald, “I see!”
“You’re a funny boy!” commented Lesley, as usual.
“Sleep-ery, head-ery,
Better go to bed-ery!”
“Oh-ery, no-ery,
Don’t want to go-ery,”
cried Ronald, at which his father lifted his head from the “Lighthouse
Journal,” saying, “‘Gude bairnies cuddle doon at nicht’--you know the
poetry your mother tells you.”
The children were often allowed to climb the corkscrew stairs with
their parents to see the Light and even to open the little door in the
masonry and go out on the iron-railed gallery that ran around the
tower, holding tight to Father’s or Mother’s hand while they gazed
at the blue waters of the Pacific and counted the white sails on the
horizon.
The Light was not of the first order, although it seemed so wonderful
to the children and required more attention than the newer and more
expensive ones. It was lighted at dusk, filled again at midnight, and
put out at dawn, Margaret McLean always taking the last duty and then
hurrying down to kindle the kitchen fire, set the porridge on to heat,
and milk the goats.
She was a busy wife and mother; so busy that she had the less time to
be lonely, for not only did she wash and iron, sew and knit, scrub and
cook, milk the goats, feed the hens, and weed the garden, but she gave
the children their daily lessons, making these so pleasant that both
could already read with ease and had some knowledge of figures, while
Lesley could write a very respectable letter to Grandmother in “Bonnie
Scotland.”
Mr. and Mrs. McLean knew very well that the children would never be
likely to have any playmates, save each other, while they were growing
up, for the work on the island was not more than enough for one man,
with Stumpy’s assistance, and so there could be no other families in
residence. They had done everything they could, therefore, to provide
amusement and occupation for them, indoors as well as out. Outdoors was
very simple, with Jenny Lind, “Jim Crow,” and a host of young animals
as playmates, the beloved Stumpy as story-teller-in-chief and fishing,
hunting sea-birds’ eggs, playing on the shore and gathering seaweed and
shells as their games of never-ending delight.
Indoors a playroom had been fitted up the previous year, which was a
continual source of pleasure and a blessing, too, to Mrs. McLean, who
could always feel that her bairns were safe and happy when they were in
“Humpty Dumpty Land,” as Lesley had christened it.
It was nothing more or less than the large attic which ran the whole
length of the Lighthouse. It was not finished off, but the slanting
sides and floor had been stained a pretty green, and numerous
shelves had been fitted between the uprights for all the many
collections--birds’ eggs, seashells, sea-moss, shining pebbles, bright
beads, buttons, and those other treasures dear to children, which
would have been greatly in the way downstairs.
[Illustration: “JIM CROW,” A PRIVILEGED VISITOR, ADDING AN OCCASIONAL
LOW CROAK TO THE CONVERSATION]
In one corner was a sand-bin, with little tins and patty-pans for
making cakes, and a dolls’ house occupied another corner where Lesley
passed many hours. A rocking-horse, a stable, and a carpenters’ bench
were Ronald’s possessions, and several small chairs and tables were
among the other furnishings.
Tacked to the ceiling were a few gay Japanese parasols and lanterns,
while straw mats, a contribution from Stumpy’s Indian collection, were
scattered about the floor. Turkey-red curtains were at the windows, and
altogether a more cheerful place could hardly be imagined, especially
when both children were talking at once and “Jim Crow,” a privileged
visitor, adding an occasional low croak to the conversation.