ALOIS, LADYBIRD AND POET
The sun was risen high above the tops of the beech-trees when
Maya awoke in her woodland retreat. In the first moments, the
moonlight, the chirping of the cricket, the midsummer night
meadow, the lovely sprite, the boy and the girl in the arbor,
all seemed the perishing fancies of a delicious dream. Yet here
it was almost midday; and she remembered slipping back into her
chamber in the chill of dawn. So it had all been real, she _had_
spent the night with the flower-sprite and _had_ seen the two
human beings, with their arms round each other, in the arbor of
woodbine and jasmine.
The sun outside was glowing hot on the leaves, a warm wind was
stirring, and Maya heard the mixed chorus of thousands of
insects. Ah, what these knew, and what _she_ knew! So proud was
she of the great thing that had happened to her that she
couldn't get out to the others fast enough; she thought they
must read it in her very looks.
But in the sunlight everything was the same as ever. Nothing was
changed; nothing recalled the blue moonlit night. The insects
came, said how-do-you-do, and left; yonder, the meadow was a
scene of bustling activity; the insects, birds and butterflies
hopped, flew and flitted in the hot flickering air around the
tall, gay midsummer flowers.
Sadness fell upon Maya. There was no one in the world to share
her joys and sorrows. She couldn't make up her mind to fly over
and join the others in the meadow. No, she would go to the
woods. The woods were serious and solemn. They suited her mood.
How many mysteries and marvels lie hidden in the dim depths
of the woods, no one suspects who hurries unobservant along
the beaten tracks. You must bend aside the branches of the
underbrush, or lean down and peep between the blackberry briars
through the tall grasses and across the thick moss. Under the
shaded leaves of the plants, in holes in the ground and
tree-trunks, in the decaying bark of stumps, in the curl and
twist of the roots that coil on the ground like serpents, there
is an active, multiform life by day and by night, full of joys
and dangers, struggles and sorrows and pleasures.
Maya divined only a little of this as she flew low between the
dark-brown trunks under the leafy roof of green. She followed a
narrow trail in the grass, which made a clear path through
thicket and clearing. Now and then the sun seemed to disappear
behind clouds, so deep was the shade under the high foliage and
in the close shrubbery; but soon she was flying again through a
bright shimmer of gold and green above the broad-leaved
miniature forests of bracken and blackberry.
After a long stretch the woods opened their columned and
over-arched portals; before Maya's eyes lay a wide field of
grain in the golden sunshine. Butterfly-weed flamed on the
grassy borders. She alighted on the branch of a birch-tree at
the edge of the field and gazed upon the sea of gold that spread
out endlessly in the tranquillity of the placid day. It rippled
softly under the shy summer breeze, which blew gently so as not
to disturb the peace of the lovely world.
Under the birch-tree a few small brown butterflies, using the
butterfly-weed for corners, were playing puss-in-the-corner,
a favorite game with butterfly-children. Maya watched them a
while.
"It must be lots of fun," she thought, "and the children in the
hive might be taught to play it, too. The cells would do for
corners.-- But Cassandra, I suppose, wouldn't permit it. She's
so strict."
Ah, now Maya felt sad again. Because she had thought of home.
And she was about to drift off into homesick revery when she
heard someone beside her say:
"Good morning. You're a beast, it seems to me."
Maya turned with a start.
"No," she said, "decidedly not."
There sitting on her leaf was a little polished terra-cotta
half-sphere with seven black dots on its cupola of a back,
a minute black head and bright little eyes. Peeping from under
the dotted dome and supporting it as best they could Maya
detected thin legs fine as threads. In spite of his queer
figure, she somehow took a great liking to the stout little
fellow; he had distinct charm.
"May I ask who you are? I myself am Maya of the nation of bees."
"Do you mean to insult me? You have no reason to."
"But why should I? I don't know you, really I don't." Maya was
quite upset.
"It's easy to _say_ you don't know me.-- Well, I'll jog your
memory. Count." And the little rotundity began to wheel round
slowly.
"You mean I'm to count your dots?"
"Yes, if you please."
"Seven," said Maya.
"Well?-- Well? You still don't know. All right then, I'll tell
you. I'm called exactly according to what you counted. The
scientific name of our family is Septempunctata. _Septem_ is
Latin for seven, _punctata_ is Latin for dots, points, you see.
Our common name is ladybird, my own name is Alois, I am a poet
by profession. You know our common name, of course."
Maya, afraid of hurting Alois' feelings, didn't dare to say no.
"Oh," said he, "I live by the sunshine, by the peace of the day,
and by the love of mankind."
"But don't you eat, too?" asked Maya, quite astonished.
"Of course. Plant-lice. Don't you?"
"No. That would be--that is...."
"Is what? Is what?"
"Not--usual," said Maya shyly.
"Of course, of course!" cried Alois, trying to raise one
shoulder, but not succeeding, on account of the firm set of his
dome. "As a bourgeoise you would, of course, do only what is
usual. We poets would not get very far that way.-- Have you
time?"
"Why, yes," said Maya.
"Then I'll recite you one of my poems. Sit real still and close
your eyes, so that nothing distracts your attention. The poem is
called _Man's Finger_, and is about a personal experience. Are
you listening?"
"Yes, to every word."
"Well, then:
"'Since you did not do me wrong,
That you found me, doesn't matter.
You are rounded, you are long;
Up above you wear a flatter,
Pointed, polished sheath or platter
Which you move as swift as light,
But below you're fastened tight!'"
"Well?" asked Alois after a short pause. There were tears in his
eyes and a quaver in his voice.
"_Man's Finger_ gripped me very hard," replied Maya in some
embarrassment. She really knew much lovelier poems.
"How do you find the form?" Alois questioned with a smile of
fine melancholy. He seemed to be overwhelmed by the effect he
had produced.
"Long and round. You yourself said so in the poem."
"I mean the artistic form, the form of my verse."
"Oh--oh, yes. Yes, I thought it was very good."
"It is, isn't it!" cried Alois. "What you mean to say is that
_Man's Finger_ may be ranked among the best poems you know of,
and one must go way back in literature before one comes across
anything like it. The prime requisite in art is that it should
contain something new, which is what most poets forget. And
bigness, too. Don't you agree with me?"
"Certainly," said Maya, "I think...."
"The firm belief you express in my importance as a poet really
overwhelms me. I thank you.-- But I must be going now, for
solitude is the poet's pride. Farewell."
"Farewell," echoed Maya, who really didn't know just what the
little fellow had been after.
"Well," she thought, "_he_ knows. Perhaps he's not full grown
yet; he certainly isn't large." She looked after him, as he
hastened up the branch. His wee legs were scarcely visible;
he looked as though he were moving on low rollers.
Maya turned her gaze away, back to the golden field of grain
over which the butterflies were playing. The field and the
butterflies gave her ever so much more pleasure than the poetry
of Alois, ladybird and poet.
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