Janet caught her breath and looked about her. It was the same shack on
a hillock, the same gully and sheep-pen and dog, likewise the same Mr.
Brown. Under the circumstances, it was natural for her to try to say
something, and she did the best she could. When he had gathered, from
her rather unexplanatory remarks, just what had happened, the first
thought that crossed his mind was that he had eaten the last piece of
fruit-cake which she left behind. If there is anything embarrassing to
a man, it is to have company come unexpectedly when there is not a
thing fit to eat in the house. He had finished up the cake a short
while before, together with the remainder of crackers and a dill pickle.
"I have eaten up all the good stuff," he explained. "Do you like
beans?"
"Yes, indeed," answered Janet, who was truly hungry.
He lifted the lid of the box and produced a small iron pot of boiled
beans. They were beans of the Mexican variety, a kind which look nice
and brown because they are that color before you cook them. When he
had put some bacon into the frying-pan and given it time to heat, he
scraped the beans in and stirred them up. He had made bread for supper
by the usual method of baking soft dough in a skillet with the lid on;
there was left of this a wedge big enough to split the stoutest
appetite; and when he had placed this where it would warm up, he turned
his attention to the coffee-pot.
"Oh, you do not need to do that. I can make my own coffee," offered
Janet.
"You had better let me get supper," he answered. "You 're tired."
Several times during the day she had pondered upon his high-handed way
of taking charge of her affairs. Submitting to this further dictation,
she spread her slicker before her place at table, as indicated by the
bare spot of ground, and sat down. Mr. Brown took a bucket and
disappeared in the gully. Evidently he had gone to get fresh water.
Janet now put her feet out farther toward the fire.
When he returned, he made some remarks upon the weather and put on the
coffee; then he turned about and went into the shack. As on the
previous evening, everything came tumbling pell-mell out of the door.
Janet, having nothing else to do, looked up and gave her attention to a
big sixteen-carat star.
Shep, the dog, came and planted himself at the very edge of the bare
spot. Without giving her so much as a glance, he sat there primly and
looked straight off the end of his nose at the sugar bowl in the
middle. Not till this moment had Janet realized what a beautiful,
intelligent-looking collie dog Mr. Brown had. His brown-buff coat, of
just the right shade, seemed slightly veiled with black; his full
out-arching front was pure white.
"Shep," said Janet.
His fine eyebrow rose as he gave her a look--a very short one, however.
When she addressed him again she could see his interest rising a
degree; finally he came and sat down beside her. Encouraged by this
show of friendship, Janet put her hand on him.
When her host had got through with the more violent exercises of
practical courtesy,--which sounded somewhat like trouble in a
barroom,--he came out bearing a jug marked MOLASSES; this he set down
before her, and then, finding the coffee done, he proceeded to serve up
the viands.
"That is n't much of a supper," he remarked, sitting down opposite.
"It tastes very good," said Janet.
It hardly did seem the right thing to set before such a guest. But
Janet, as good as her word, steadily made way with the _frijole_ beans
and did full justice to the hot bread; and soon, inspirited by his
powerful coffee, she continued the story of how she was frightened by
the steer and baffled by the brook, and how she was foolish enough to
think she was going straight forward all the time.
He had a way, whenever she came to a pause, of enticing her to go on.
Sometimes he primed the conversation by repeating the last thing she
had said; again, an apt word or two summed up the whole spirit of the
matter encouragingly; or there would be just a composed waiting for her
to resume.
Not that he had any difficulty in finding something to say. He
evidently liked to hear her talk, and so he rather deferred to her.
Whether it was that she now had a feeling of this, or that there was
something in the influence of his presence, his voice and manner, which
removed all constraint, Janet had not the least difficulty in talking.
She told him how the teacher at the school "boarded round," what an
unnecessary number of classes Miss Porter had for so small a number of
pupils,--although it was difficult to remedy the matter by "setting
back" certain children, because their proud mothers would object to
such a leveling,--and how the Blodgett children, four of them, all came
to school on the back of one buckskin pony, the youngest having to hold
on tight to keep from slipping off at the tail. "Buckskin,"; it
seemed, had won quite a place in Janet's affections, although he was
the worst behaved horse that came to school. He used to graze in the
yard till school was out,--the other horses being staked out on the
prairie,--and he had become so familiar that he would sometimes go so
far as to put his head in at the window in hope of being fed. And
Janet could not see, considering that Texas horses were used to being
staked out, what reason there had been for building a fence around a
school that stood out on open prairie, unless it was, perchance, that
the Texans thought they ought to have a corral to herd the children in.
While she was thus going on, there came from the corral a bleat in the
awe-inspiring tone of _Fa_, and this was followed by a succession of
bleats which reminded her of nothing so much as a child getting its
hands on the keyboard of an organ. Steve, as if suddenly admonished of
something, rose to his feet, excused himself, and disappeared in the
direction of the corral.
With the place before her temporarily vacant, and unable to see out of
her circle of light except by looking upward, Janet instinctively
lifted her eyes to the scene above. Thousands and thousands of stars
made the night big and beautiful. They were so clear and so lively, as
if they took joy in their shining. A mild southern breeze gave the
night motion and perfume. Janet took a deep breath which was hardly a
sigh; it was rather a big drink of air and the final suspiration of all
her worries. As she took in more deeply the constellated heavens and
the free fresh spirit of the roaming air, she began to feel that she
would rather like to be a sheep-herder herself. From looking at so
many, her mind turned back to her selected star, the "captain jewel" of
them all, and her eye sought its whereabouts again. In others she
could see tremulous tinges of red and blue; but this seemed to be the
pure spirit of light. Unconsciously she had put her arm around the
dog, as if to hold on to this earth, and Shep, whose affection had been
steadily growing, nudged up closer and gave her a sense of warm
companionship.
When Steve returned from his mysterious errand, he looked at her a
moment and then fetched an armful of wood. The fire, to serve better
the purposes of cooking, had been allowed to burn down to coals, and
the smouldering embers now gave so little light that the face and
figure of his guest were losing themselves in obscurity. As this state
of affairs hardly suited him, he piled on the dry mesquite brush and
fanned it with his hat into leaping flames. When Janet was lit up to
his satisfaction, he put down the hat and resumed his earthen lounge.
As he stretched himself out before her, lithe-limbed and big-chested,
the atmosphere of that firelit place seemed filled with a sense of
safety. His deliberate manner of speech, quite different from the
slowness of a drawl, was the natural voice of that big starry world so
generous of time. Occasionally he made a remark which ought to have
been flattery, but which, coming from him, was so quiet and true that
one might float on it to topics of unknown depth. He was so evidently
interested in everything she said, and his attention was so
single-minded and sincere, that Janet was soon chatting again upon the
subject of her recent circumnavigation of the prairie, which, as she
now saw it in the light of the present, seemed more and more a sea of
flowers--as the Past always does. Indeed, the whole recent course of
her experience was such a novelty--the trip to Texas was her first real
adventure in the world--that she saw things with the new vision of a
traveler; and the present situation, turning out so happily, put the
cap-sheaf on that dream which is truly Life. Janet, recently delivered
from all danger, and yet sitting right in the middle of her adventures,
had a double advantage; she was living in the present as well as the
past, breathing the sweetness of the air, looking up at the big flock
of stars and seeing in them all nothing less than the divine
shepherding.
"But, of all the wonderful things I ever saw," she exclaimed. "Why, it
was worth walking all day to see it."
"What was it?" he asked.
"Sensitive plants. And when I came they all lowered their branches to
their sides like--well, slowly, like this--"
She held her right arm out straight and lowered it slowly and steadily
to her side. And a most graceful and shapely arm it was.
"I would n't have been so much surprised," she continued, "to just see
leaves fold together, like clover. You know clover leaves all shut up
at night and go to sleep. But these plants were quite large and they
actually _moved_. And of course the leaves shut together, too; they
were long like little tender locust leaves, and each one folded itself
right in the middle."
She placed her hands edge to edge and closed them together to show him.
"But, you know, while they were doing that, they were folding back
against their long stems, and the stems were folding back against the
branches, and the straight branches were all folding downwards against
the main stalk. What I mean is that everything worked together, like
this--"
Janet extended both arms with her fingers widely spread; then, as her
arms gradually lowered, her fingers closed together.
"It was something like that," she added, "but not exactly; it was ten
times as much--something like the ribs of an umbrella going down all
around, with stems and rows of locust leaves all along them closing
together. And every little leaf was like a rabbit laying back its
ears."
"Yes; I know what you mean," said Steve. "They are a kind of mimosa.
Some people call them that."
"Well," said Janet, "I sat and watched one. I just touched it with a
hatpin and it did that. A person would almost think it had
intelligence. And after a while--when it thought I was gone, I
suppose--it began to open its leaves and stems and put its arms out
again."
She raised her arms slowly, spreading her fingers. Steve was a most
attentive listener and spectator. He rather wished there were other
plants to imitate.
"But that wasn't really what I started to tell about," she went on.
"As I was walking along I came to a--well, you might say a whole
_crowd_ of them. There was quite a growth like a patch of ferns. I
had n't got to them yet, or even taken particular notice of them,--I
must have been ten or twelve feet away,--when they all began to close
up. I stopped perfectly still; and pretty soon the green leaves were
gone and the place was all changed. Now, how do you suppose those
plants ever _knew_ I was coming? I would give anything to know how
such things can be."
"How much would you give?" inquired Steve.
For a moment, the spirit of this question hung in the balance. He felt
the spell of her inquiring eyes as her hand dropped idly on Shep's back.
"Why--do you know?" she asked doubtfully.
"I think I do," he answered. "You see, that kind of plants have very
long roots; they run away out. You stepped on their toes."
"Well, I declare," said Janet, enthusiastic again. "And what a way of
saying it."
"It looks simple enough, does n't it?" he remarked.
"And I never thought of it. Why, it was enough to make a person
superstitious. Isn't nature wonderful!"
As she took up the coffee, too long neglected, Steve got an imaginary
taste of it, and finding it neither hot nor cold, he arose and took her
cup. Having refilled it and offered her more of the beans, which to
his surprise and gratification she accepted, he made another trip to
the corral. In a little while he returned and promptly took his place.
"You were saying this morning," he began, "that you were going to the
county-seat. Were you sure that you could find your way all alone?"
"Oh, yes," answered Janet. "I was there before. You see, I took an
examination a couple of months ago, when I first came."
"Oh; that's it. What sort of a certificate did that
little--examiner--give you?"
There was something in the sound of this question which conveyed to her
that he regarded her standing in an examination largely as a matter of
luck. Janet felt an instant approval of this philosophy of the matter.
"Third-class," she answered.
"Well, that's better than fourth-class," he remarked.
"Oh--but there _is_ no fourth-class," exclaimed Janet.
Her eyes widened as she waited to hear what his reply to this might be.
He entirely ignored the matter.
"That examiner is a kind of a cocky little rooster, is n't he?" he
commented.
"Did you ever have any trouble with him?" inquired Janet.
"Me!" He was evidently surprised that she should think so. "Why, no.
I don't know him. I just saw him a few times. He is a sort of a
dried-up little party. You know I get up to the court-house once in a
while to have a brand registered or something like that."
"He _is_ rather important--for his size," mused Janet. "And very
particular about his looks."
"They have a man teacher at a school near my house," remarked Steve, in
no seeming connection.
"I suppose he has a first-class certificate," said Janet. "Until
lately it was easy to get a school in Texas. But the country school
boards rate you by your certificate more and more. This time I am
going to get first-class, or at least second. If I don't I 'll have to
go back North."
"What kind of questions does that fellow ask when he examines people?"
Steve inquired.
"Well--for instance--'Give the source and course of the Orizaba.'"
"Huh!" remarked Steve.
"To tell the truth," said Janet, "I would n't have got even third-class
if it had n't been for the way I pulled through in geography."
"Are you good in geography?"
"Hardly. I just passed. He asked a great many questions about
climate, and every time he asked that I wrote that it was salubrious.
You see," she explained, with a sly little air, "in the children's
geographies the climate of a country is nearly always salubrious. So I
took a chance on every country. That brought my average up."
"Good for you," exclaimed Steve. "Nothing like beating them at their
own game. Won't you have some more coffee?"
"No, thank you," said Janet. "Two cups is really more than I ought to
drink at night."
Having risen in expectation of getting the coffee, he gave the fire
another armful of mesquite.
"You take a good deal of notice of flowers, don't you!" he said,
sitting down again.
"A person could hardly help it in Texas. Lilies and trumpet-flowers
and lobelias and asters and dahlias and wax-plants--they all grow wild
here. And in spring it is just wonderful. There is scarcely room for
grass."
"Texas won't be like that long, if it keeps on."
"No?"
"These plants all grow from seed. And when the land is heavily grazed
they don't have a chance to plant themselves. They become--what do you
call it--extinguished?"
"Extinct," prompted Janet.
"On my ranch, about twelve miles from here, it is n't what it used to
be in springtime. We've got it pretty heavily stocked; we 're working
it over into shorthorn. This place that we're on now has a fence all
around it; the country is becoming crowded. And they are breaking
farms all the time, too. It won't last long."
"Won't that be a shame!" said Janet. "People spoil everything, don't
they? I am glad I came down here just to see the Texas prairie in
spring. Even if I do have to go back again. Just look at that!"
She reached out, and, grasping a handful, she bent the still rooted
bouquet so that the light shone full upon its countenance.
"How did you come to know the names of them all?" he asked.
"Why, we grow them in gardens up North. I know their names in that
way. They are old acquaintances."
"Oh, that's it. Well, it is n't hard to grow them here. Us fellows
out on the prairie make all our flower-beds round."
Janet paused.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "You mean the _horizon_. Is n't that an idea! I
am going to tell that to Ruth Ferguson the first time I write."
Steve made no reply. Janet gave her attention for a space to the
beans. Then, suddenly reminded, she put down her fork.
"Mr. Brown! If you were teaching just ten or twelve children, would
n't it strike you as rather foolish to call the roll every morning?
You know there were only fourteen pupils in the school where I was
substituting; so of course I got acquainted with them all right away.
Well, one morning when the weather was bad there were only six present;
so when the hour came I just began to teach. But a little boy who is
in the first reader held up his hand and told me I had to call the roll
first. I could hardly keep from smiling. As if I could n't see the
six that were there. Then I made inquiry and I found that Miss Porter
called the roll when there were only four there. Does n't it seem
funny for a person to go through a formality like that just
because--well, just because?"
"That's because you 've got sense," said Steve.
She dropped her eyes and ate. When this remark had had time to pass
over, Janet's sociable spirit, never self-conscious for long, began to
unfold its leaves and raise its stems and lift up its branches again.
In this juncture, the dog profited. Shep had been giving her such
unremitting attention, his wistful brown eyes following each forkful as
it went from plate to mouth, that Janet's consciousness of her selfish
situation kept bearing in upon her till now every bean carried reproach
with it. Thinking to convince him that it was only beans, and not
desirable, she put him down a forkful from her own too generous
allowance. She was surprised at the suddenness with which it
disappeared. Beans were his staff of life also, a discovery which made
her smile. And as one good turn deserves another--at least Shep seemed
to think so--she was expected to do it again; thus supper, with his
assistance, was soon over. And now Janet, with nothing whatever to do,
sat face to face with her situation.
"Have you got a dishpan?" she inquired.
"Oh, you don't need to mind that. I have n't got anything you are used
to. I just take them down to the stream and swab them off with a bunch
of dry grass."
"Oh!" remarked Janet.
She felt, however, that it would be easier to be doing something. She
gathered things together and made general unrest among the dishes. Mr.
Brown, instead of being stirred by this operation of cleaning up,
stretched himself out more contentedly, moved up a little closer, and
took still fuller possession of her presence; and as he did so he poked
up the fire and struck her a light on a new topic. But this time the
train of conversation did not catch. Janet was thinking. And like
most of us she could not talk well while thinking.
Mr. Brown seemed quite contented, then, with silence and peace.
Evidently he too was thinking. After a little time he sat up and
reached into an inside pocket. He drew forth a large leather wallet
which, upon being opened, disclosed two compartments well filled with
bank-notes and documentary-looking papers. There was another
compartment with a flap on it and a separate fastening, opening which
he took out an object wrapped in tissue paper. Having carefully
unwrapped it, he folded the paper again and placed it where it would
not blow away.
"That's my mother's picture," he said, handing it over formally to his
guest.
Janet received it rather vaguely and sat looking at it, saying nothing.
"She died just last winter," he added, in his usual deliberate way.
"Oh, did she?"
What else to say, she hardly knew. Turning it to the light she studied
it more closely and noted each resemblance to his own features, looking
up at him in an impersonal sort of way and with a soberness of
countenance which was a reflection of his own entirely serious mood.
"She had a very kind-looking face," she said.
To this there was no reply. Janet, about to hand it back, was
momentarily in doubt as to how long a proper respect should prompt her
to retain it; this, however, settled itself when she observed that he
had ready to offer her a long newspaper clipping.
"I had the editor put some of that in myself," he said, reaching the
long ribbon of paper over to her.
It was an obituary of Mrs. Stephen P. Brown, who passed to "the realms
beyond" on the eighteenth of November. With this Janet found no
difficulty.
"But," he added suddenly as it occurred to him, "I did n't have him
print that part at the bottom. He just put that in himself. I mean
that stuff about me."
Janet at once turned her attention to the bottom. He sat silently with
the wallet in hand, his countenance a shade more solemn than usual. In
the midst of this waiting there came a wail from the corral and he left
suddenly upon one of his unexplained errands, this time without
excusing himself. He got back while Janet was still engaged upon the
article. When she looked up he was standing beside the fire looking
down at her. There was something new in his face, a look half
lugubrious, semi-humorous, apologetic.
"We've got another lamb," he announced.
"Oh!--another little lamb?" she exclaimed.
"There are only three so far. Three lambs and two mothers. It has n't
really got started yet, but I 'm afraid it will. My herder ought to
have got back yesterday and brought help along."
"Then you have a great deal to do?" queried Janet.
"Yes; after it once gets really started. Then it never rains but it
pours. I have been hoping it would hold off a day or two longer; but
you can't tell exactly."
He put more wood on the fire and took his place again.
"You mustn't let me interfere with your work," she suggested.
"Oh, that is n't it at all. I was just explaining. I'll get through
somehow; it won't amount to anything."
With a characteristic sweep of his arm he waved the whole subject aside
as if he did not want to have it interfere with her reading of the
newspaper clipping. Janet had dropped it absent-mindedly in her lap;
she now took it up again. Besides the tribute to Mrs. Brown's
character, who was not a native of Texas but had come to the state in
her girlhood from West Virginia, there was a considerable memoir of
Stephen Brown, senior, relating his activities and adventures as a
Texas patriot. He had "crossed the Great Divide" six years before.
Finally, there was a paragraph of sympathy with the only son, "one of
our most valued citizens."
"Your father knew Houston, did n't he?" remarked Janet.
"Oh, yes; he knew a lot about him."
"How interesting that must have been. Your father was a pioneer, was
n't he?"
"Oh, no. You 've got to go back pretty far in history to be a Texas
pioneer. He was just a Texan."
She gave another perusal to certain parts and offered it back.
"There is another piece on the other side," he said.
She turned it over and found a shorter clipping carefully pasted to the
back. This also she read.
AN ARTISTIC MONUMENT
Mr. Stephen Brown yesterday received from Austin the monument which he
had made for the grave of his mother, Mrs. Stephen P. Brown, who died
last November. It is a most beautiful work of art and was much admired
by those who saw it. It is a massive block of imported gray granite
skillfully carved with clusters of grapes in high relief. Mr. Brown
ordered it from the leading marble-cutters in Austin. The reverse side
of the stone was cut after his own design, and consists simply of a
Lone Star. On the base is the word Mother. Many of our citizens were
enabled to inspect it as it went up Main Street, Mr. Jonas Hicks
stopping his three yoke of oxen to accommodate those who wished to look
it over. It will be by far the most beautiful work of art in our local
cemetery.
Janet folded up the clipping carefully, according to the creases in it,
and passed it back. When he had returned it to its compartment in the
wallet,--an operation which was somewhat delayed by his difficulties
with the tissue paper around the picture,--she questioned him further
about the Comanche Indians and his father's adventures in the war with
Mexico. Now the conversational situation was turned about, Janet
becoming the interlocutor; and as she had the advantage of so copious a
source of information, there was no end to her questioning. And as the
stream of talk broadened, it began to include his own experiences and
adventures, most interesting of which, to Janet, was a short account of
the fight of a sheriff's posse with the train-robbers intrenched near
the Post Oaks, a most determined encounter in which the sheriff was
among those killed while Steve Brown received only a blunted thumb, for
the clumsy appearance of which his story was rather an apology.
"That's all I got," he said. "And it works as good as ever."
To demonstrate which fact, he held it up and made it work.
Now that she had material by which to lead the conversation, she found
him not nearly so taciturn as she had at first thought him. Indeed, he
talked on without remembering to fix the fire. And when it had nearly
faded out he continued on, unconscious of the fact that the real Janet
was no longer in sight except as she was partially lit by the moon
which now hove upon the scene.
"But I am keeping you up too late," she said, suddenly rising.
Steve gathered himself together and stood up, hat in hand.
"Oh, I am used to all hours," he said. "Anyway, I 've got to keep an
eye on things."
"And I am sorry to put you out," she added.
"Don't mention it. I put myself out. I could let you have a lantern
if you need it. There 's a piece of candle and some matches on the top
bunk. It's down near the foot."
"Oh, that will be all the light I need. Good-night."
"Good-night, Miss Janet,"--saluting her by raising his hat to the side
of his head and then bringing it down with a large sweep.
When the door had closed upon her and the shack showed light at all its
cracks, he turned and went to the corral, closely followed by Shep. He
took a look at the two sheep, each confined in one of the narrow little
prison-pens along with the lamb whose property it was. The lambs were
evidently full of milk; they were sleeping. Seeing that all was well,
he got an old discarded saddle out of the shed, threw it on his
shoulder, and descended to the general level to find himself a
buffalo-wallow. Having picked one out he kicked a longhorn skull away
from its vicinity, threw the saddle down at its edge, and lined the
grassy interior with his slicker. Then he sat down in the middle,
crushing the slicker deep into the spring bloom. Here he sat a while.
It is not easy for the human mind, constituted as it is, to pick out a
bed on a prairie. It offers such a large field of choice, and no
grounds for preference. Steve had long ago formed the habit of
sleeping in a wallow, always to be found within a short distance, and,
when found, possessing the advantage of being a "place." Such a
place--a bowl-like depression--was made by the bison who pawed away the
tough sward to get at mother earth, and then wore it deep and circular
as he tried to roll on his unwieldy hump. Steve Brown, anywhere
between Texas and Montana, had often slept in the "same old place,"
though in a different locality, and for some reason he was never so
content--either because it was really a "place," or because he liked a
bed that sagged in the middle, or because (which is more likely) he
found a certain atmosphere of sleep in one of these places so long ago
dedicated to rest and comfort. Which hollow is all that is now left of
the buffalo--a vacancy.
He sat down in the middle, his attention fixed upon the shack, which
now existed as a sort of picture of itself drawn in lines of light.
When suddenly it was erased from the night, he pressed the slicker down
and lay back with his head in the saddle. He folded his hands and
waited, looking straight up. In a little while the world receded and
he was only conscious of sundry stars. Thus, looking heaven in the
eye, his hands clasped across his chest, Steve Brown sunk to sleep, his
head and feet sticking up at the ends. Again Eternity held sway; and
only Shep was left.
Shep turned round and round till he had trampled a place among the
flowers, his usual way of winding up the day. He lay down in it with
his chin on his paws. But soon he got up and went at it again. He
milled round and round, with several pauses as if he were not quite
satisfied; then he dropped down with a decisiveness that settled the
matter for good. With his chin on the brink of the wallow he went to
sleep; or rather he went as near asleep as a dog with such great
responsibilities allows himself to do.