dear friend. You have had your task and it is ended. Your wish is
fulfilled. You have been of great use to the world, and it will bless
your name more and more as the years go by. Come, now, and rest.”
Tenderly she took him by the hand, aiding him to rise. He lifted
himself, feebly at first, but seeming to gain strength from her touch.
The Dryad wrapped her green mantle around his shoulders, leading him
towards the oak. And lo! When they reached the little door, he turned
and smiled at the company, waving his hand in a last farewell, but
speaking no word. And they looked at him amazed, such a change seemed
to have passed over him; but they could not say how, save that the
weight of years, the weariness, the sorrow, the yearning, seemed to
have slipped away. He smiled at them, and it was not the smile of a
simpleton, but of one who knew the meaning of strange things. Then the
Dryad drew him gently after her and they passed in through the little
door, into the heart of the great oak tree. Noiselessly it closed
behind them, leaving not a crack to show where it had been. And this
was the last ever seen of Karl and the Dryad.
But the people were left staring at one another, as folk do when they
have seen something that they cannot understand.
TREES
However little I may be,
At least I too can plant a tree.
And some day it will grow so high
That it can whisper to the sky,
And spread its leafy branches wide
To make a shade on every side.
Then on a sultry summer day,
The people resting there will say,--
“Oh, good and wise and great was he
Who thought to plant this blessed tree!”
THE INDIAN FAIRY
[Illustration]
THE INDIAN FAIRY
I
“Katie has been complaining again of the queer noises in the cellar,”
said Rob’s mother, as she passed the coffee cup to her husband across
the breakfast table.
“It must be rats,” said Rob’s papa. “We will get a trap.”
“It is very strange,” said Mamma again, “the girls declare that the
noises seem to come from the old well. That is what all our servants
have said for years. You know some of them have been so frightened that
they gave us notice, because of the noises in the well. They think it
is bewitched.”
“What is ‘bewitched,’ Mamma?” asked Rob.
“Pooh, pooh!” said Rob’s papa. “It is only rats, I know, and the noises
do not come from the well, but from the wall. There must be a rat’s
nest in the wall close by the well. I have heard about those noises
ever since I was a little boy. Sometimes I used to think that I heard
them myself, and I fancied all sorts of queer things. But of course it
was nothing but rats.”
Rob had been listening with round eyes, and now he cried eagerly, “O
Papa! I did not know that there was a well under the house. How did it
come there, and what is it for?”
“Oh, yes, there is an old well,” said his papa. “It has been down there
longer than I can remember, for it is even older than the house,--older
than the city, too, I daresay. It was an Indian spring, and my
great-grandfather built the house over it, so as to have fresh water
always conveniently at hand. It is covered now with a trapdoor, so that
no one can fall in by mistake. That is why you never saw it, Rob.”
“An old Indian spring!” cried Rob excitedly, “and we drink that very
same water every day! How splendid!” He sipped some water from his
glass and smacked his lips.
“Oh, no,” said his papa laughing. “This is ordinary spring water bought
at the store. Our old well has not been used for years and years. Since
the city has been built up so closely around our house, which was one
of the first ones here on the Hill, we have not dared to use the well
water, because it might not be clean. I daresay the well is quite dry
by this time. I have not looked into it for years.”
“O Papa! I want to look down into the well!” cried Rob.
“Well, you shall do so some time,” said his papa as they rose from the
table. “But I am in a hurry now. Good-by, Mamma. Good-by, Rob. I will
buy a trap on my way down town to-day, and we will put an end to the
noises in the cellar which trouble Katie.”
Now of course Rob was very anxious to see that well, for he loved
everything that had to do with Indians. He thought that he could not
wait for his father to show it to him. He ran into the kitchen and
began to bother Katie.
“Katie, Katie,” he begged. “Please come into the cellar and show me the
old well. I want to look down into it.”
“The Saints preserve us!” cried Katie, lifting up her hands in horror.
“What for do ye want to be lookin’ into the well? No, me b’y! It’s I
that will be kapin’ away from that same, and thank ye kindly. ’Tis
bewitched it is, what with the funny little noises a-comin’ out of it
day and night.”
“What funny little noises, Katie?” asked Rob. “Papa says it is rats. He
is going to buy a trap to catch them.”
“Rats! A trap!” sniffed Katie scornfully. “’Tis no rats at all do be
makin’ them quare little noises. ’Tis bewitched, I tell ye. ’Tis stark
bewitched, that well. And I wouldn’t go near it at all for the promise
of a new bonnet.”
“What does ‘bewitched’ mean, Katie?” asked Rob again.
Katie wagged her head and mysteriously made the sign of the cross.
“Oh, who will be tellin’ ye that? If it was in the owld country I’d say
it was Fairies or maybe the Leprechaun himself. But I never heard tell
o’ Fairies in this land, at all. Maybe ’tis something worse. But oh!
The funny little noises!”
“_What_ noises, Katie?” begged Rob.
“Oh, the little whinin’ and sobbin’, like one wantin’ to get out. ’Tis
no rats live in the owld well. Would _rats_ be whimperin’ and beggin’
like?”
“Begging, Katie!” cried Rob. “Oh, what do they say? Please, please tell
me quickly.”
“La, no! Master Rob,” said Katie, looking sidewise at the little boy,
“your Mamma wouldn’t want me to be frightenin’ ye with tales the likes
o’ these.”
“But I’m not frightened, Katie,” said Rob eagerly. “I’m just
_interested_.”
“H’m,” said Katie doubtfully, glancing at the clock. “Whisht! Master
Rob! ’Tis a quarter to nine, and time for you to be startin’ for
school, or you’ll be late.”
And indeed, Rob had to run all the way, and reached school barely in
time.
Rob’s papa did not forget to bring home a rat-trap that night, and
after dinner he said,--
“Now, Rob, I am going down cellar to set the trap, and if you want to
come with me I will show you the old well.”
Of course Rob wanted to go. So Rob’s papa took a lighted candle in one
hand, and the rat-trap nicely baited with cheese in the other, and they
descended the steep cellar stairs together. It was very dark in the
cellar, and the candle made queer flares on the walls and ceiling, and
lighted up corners which Rob had never before seen. In the very darkest
and dimmest corner of all, away in the back cellar, Rob’s papa paused,
and then Rob saw that in the floor there was a trapdoor with an iron
ring, quite like the Arabian Nights!
“It is from somewhere hereabout that Katie says she hears the noises,”
said Papa. “We will set the trap on the floor, close beside the wall,
and I warrant we shall catch a big rat before many nights are over.” So
he set the trap with the spring ready to catch the first greedy rat who
should try to steal the cheese.
“Now let us look into the well,” said Rob’s papa. “I haven’t lifted
this cover for years. Ugh! It is heavy enough!” He tugged at the iron
ring and presently the cover flew back. Down below yawned a great black
hole, very deep and seemingly quite empty.
“Here, Rob, take hold of my hand,” said his papa, “and you can look
down.” Rob held tightly to his father’s hand, and bending over, peered
into the well. The candle which his father held flickered and flamed
and shot a shaft of light down into the strange hole.
“I can’t see anything,” said Rob, disappointed. “I don’t think there
is any water there. But--but I think I hear something! A queer little
noise like water trickling, or somebody whispering very softly.”
“The spring may be bubbling yet,” said his father. “Katie, O Katie!”
he called upstairs. “Please bring me a tin pail and a ball of stout
twine. We will see whether the Indian spring has run dry or not.”
“The Saints preserve us!” Rob heard Katie cry in the kitchen above, as
she went about to do as she was bid. And again Rob thought he heard a
murmuring in the well.
“There is the queer noise again, Papa!” he cried. “It sounds like some
one talking a long way off.”
“Pooh, pooh!” said Papa. (He was always saying, “Pooh, pooh” at Rob’s
queer notions.) “Run and get the pail and the cord, Sonny. Katie is
afraid to come near the well. Ah! Now we shall soon know.”
He tied the cord to the handle of the pail, while Rob held the
candle and they watched the pail descend. Down, down it went, until
it disappeared into the blackness. “Well, well!” said his father.
“Ten, twenty, I must have paid out thirty feet of cord already. I had
forgotten that the well was so deep. Hello! There was a splash; hear
it, Rob?”
Rob heard,--a quick splash, and again the queer little noise, a
tinkle, a trickle, a rustle, a whisper.
“O Papa,” he cried, “let me draw up the pail, please.”
“Well, be very careful, Son,” said his father. And Rob began to pull on
the cord, while his father held tightly to his jacket so that he should
not fall down into the deep, black hole. The pail was rather heavy. It
bumped against the sides of the well, tinkling and jingling as it came
up. Rob thought that it jerked and wobbled strangely. But perhaps his
hand was not quite steady, he was so excited. At last the pail came in
sight, full of water. They drew it over the edge, Rob stooping eagerly
to see. Filled to the brim it was, and running over.
“Clear water, as cold as ice,” said Rob’s Papa, dipping in his finger.
“Let us take it upstairs and see it in a better light. I would not have
believed that the old spring was still bubbling.”
Very carefully Rob carried the pail of water up the cellar stairs.
“Katie, O Katie!” he called. “See the water from the old well! From
thirty feet down in the darkness it came.”
“The Saints preserve us!” cried Katie. (She was always saying that.) “I
wouldn’t touch water from the witch-well for any money ye could offer.”
“It is clear and bright as glass,” said Rob’s papa.
“O Papa! Let me drink some,” cried Rob. “I should so love to taste
water from a real Indian spring.”
“O Mr. Evans! Don’t let the b’y taste it!” begged Katie, clasping her
hands. “It will kill him, the p’isen water!”
“No, Rob,” said Mr. Evans, “I think Katie is right. It might be
dangerous to drink the water. But it looks delicious. What a pity that
we cannot use spring water from our own ancestral well, instead of
buying it at the store as every one else must!”
“Please, Papa--just one little sip?” begged Rob.
“No, not one little sip, Son. Here, Katie, empty the pail of water
into the sink,” said Mr. Evans firmly.
Tremblingly Katie took the pail and went with it to the sink. But she
had not turned half the water away when she gave a scream.
“Ow! The whimperin’ and cryin’! Hark till it!” she shrieked. And
indeed, it seemed to Rob that the water sobbed and moaned as it ran
down the sink spout. Suddenly he had an idea.
“It is too bad to let the beautiful fresh Indian spring water run into
the horrid old sewer,” he said. “Please, Papa, come with me and let me
pour it back into the well.”
“Pooh, pooh!” laughed Mr. Evans. “What an idea! You are as silly as
Katie, Rob. I don’t want you to get strange ideas into your head.
But--well, come along, since you are so anxious that the famous water
should not be wasted. I want to cover up the well tightly, so that no
one can fall in.”
Downstairs they went once more, Rob carrying the pail half full of
water, which he poured back into the well. With a glad _splash_ it
joined the hidden spring far, far below, and again Rob felt sure
that he caught the sound of a whispering voice, tinkling, trickling,
sighing, sobbing, as if it were trying to say something to him, perhaps
to thank him. He bent over the well, listening eagerly. But his father
pulled him back by the hand.
“Come, Rob,” he said. “I want to put the cover in place, and then we
must go upstairs. It is time that you were in bed.”
So they let down the cover with a _bang!_ and Rob went away with his
father out of the dark cellar and into the gaslight. But the sound of
those queer little noises followed after him, upstairs and upstairs,
and even after he was in bed.
II
The queer little sounds followed Rob upstairs, and even after he was in
bed he could hear them echoing from far below in the cellar. At first
they were only little trickly sounds, like water _seekling_ afar off.
But by and by, when the house was very still, because everybody except
Rob had fallen sound asleep, the noises grew louder and plainer. They
grew into a soft murmur, sometimes a sob, sometimes the whisper of a
little silver voice. And at the same time there was a gentle knocking.
Rob listened and listened as hard as ever he could, and he said to
himself,--
“Surely, Katie is right. There is something strange about the cellar,
and I think it comes from the old well. What can it be?”
Finally the voice sounded so loud and so plain that Rob could hear
distinctly what it was saying, and it seemed to be talking to him.
“Let me out; ah, let me out!” cried the silvery, trickly voice, and
again Rob heard the knocking. “Good little boy, you who would not let
the water of the Indian spring be wasted, come and free me from my
prison of so many years.”
A prisoner! Some one was shut up in the old well! Rob sat up in bed.
He must set the prisoner free. He was not a bit frightened at the
thought of going down all alone into the cellar, for he knew that there
was nothing more to be afraid of in the dark than in the daylight.
He got up and thrust his feet into a pair of slippers and put on his
bath robe. Then very softly, so as not to waken anybody in the house,
he crept downstairs: down to the floor where his father and mother
slept,--he could hear them breathing as he passed the door; down past
the library where the books lived and all night long told silent
stories to one another in the moonlight; down to the empty dining-room,
and through to the kitchen. Here Rob found a candle on a shelf and
lighted it. Then, taking this in one hand and holding up his trailing
bath robe with the other, he stole down the cellar stairs. The voice
was calling now louder than ever, and with it sounded the knocking,
which certainly came from the old well.
“Let me out, O kind boy!” sobbed the silvery, tinkling voice. “Let me
out. Oh! I thought I was free to-day, but alas! Here I remain yet a
prisoner, for how many more long years? O kind little boy, the first
one to do me a good turn, let me out, let me out!”
Rob hastened to the corner in which was the old well. And as he drew
near, the voice became plainer and plainer, and the knockings louder
and louder. He set the candle down on the floor beside the rat-trap
which his father had baited that afternoon, and his heart beat fast as
he bent over the cover of the well and seized the iron ring in both
hands. Should he be able to lift it?
One--two--three! Rob strained hard, but the cover would not budge.
One--two--three, again! It was so heavy for a little boy to lift.
One--two--three! Once more! Rob felt the cover move a tiny bit. The
noises down in the well had ceased suddenly. It was very still. Rob
could hear his heart thumping like the screw of a steamboat. Now,
for one last time! One--two--_three_! The cover came up suddenly, so
suddenly that Rob nearly went over backward. There below yawned the
great black hole of the well.
“Oh!” said Rob, drawing a long breath.
“_Oh!_” Was it an echo, or a soft little voice, far, far below?
Rob took up the candle and peered down into the well. But he could
see nothing. “Is any one down there?” he asked. At first there was
no answer, and then there came a tinkly, trickly sound like water
bubbling, which turned at last into a whispered “_Yes!_” There
certainly was some one in the old well!
“Who are you?” said Rob, tingling all over with excitement.
“Oh, little friend, kind boy,” said the voice, “I am the Fairy of the
Indian spring, shut up here for years and years, unable to get out. I
have called and called, but you are the first who has come to aid me.”
“What can I do to help you?” asked Rob eagerly.
“Let down the bucket as you did this afternoon,” said the voice. “Let
down the bucket and draw me up.”
The pail with the ball of twine lay close beside the well, where Rob’s
papa had forgotten it that afternoon. Rob set the candle down on the
floor and began to lower the pail into the well. Yard after yard after
yard the hungry throat swallowed the cord. Finally he heard the pail
splash as it reached the water. He waited a moment. The pail bobbed
about and then grew heavy on the cord. Then the silver voice cried,
“Draw up, draw up, kind boy!”
Rob pulled on the cord eagerly,--pulled and pulled without looking
down into the well, until the pail tinkled against the bricks of the
cellar floor. In the flare of the candle-light Rob saw that it was full
of water. But that was not all! Standing with feet braced across the
top of the pail, clinging to the cord, was the strangest little figure
about six inches high; a little figure dressed all in brown, with black
hair and bright eyes. When the pail rested on the cellar floor he
leaped off and stood before Rob, bowing, with one hand laid upon his
head.
And then Rob saw that it was a tiny Indian. His brown dress was soft
like deerskin, and his leggings were fringed. His limp black hair fell
over a face of red-bronze, with high cheek-bones and pouting lips. In
his hair he wore a tiny blue feather, perhaps from a blue jay’s wing,
and in his hands he carried the sweetest little toy bow, while a quiver
of inch-long arrows hung on his shoulders. His feet were covered with
moccasins, and he was the exact copy of a Wild West Indian; only he
looked like one seen through the wrong end of an opera-glass.
“Oh--you must be an Indian Fairy,” cried Rob, with his eyes bulging.
“Yes, Friend,” said the tiny one. “I am an Indian Fairy, the Fairy
of the Indian spring. And you have brought me up for the second time
this day, though you did not see me the first time. This is the second
time during fifty years that I have left the well. Ah, must I go back
again?” Despite the warlike appearance of the little man his silvery
voice began to tremble.
“Tell me all about it,” said Rob soothingly.
“I am the Fairy who lived by the spring years, and years, and years
ago, before the White Men came to Shawmut,” said the Fairy.
“What is Shawmut?” asked Rob, wondering.
“Shawmut is the Indian name of this place,” said the Fairy. “It means
the Place of Springs, and it was so named because of the many bubbling
springs on the hillside above the river. Oh! there were many, many of
us. I had dozens of brothers. But my spring was in the fairest spot.
This water was the sweetest and clearest of any. Heigho! How often the
great braves used to kneel here for a refreshing draught when they
returned from the hunt or from war! They never saw me, for I hid in the
moss about the spring. But I loved to look at them, they were so big
and wonderful.”
“Oh, what did they look like?” asked Rob eagerly, for Rob loved to hear
about Indians.
“They dressed as I do,” said the Fairy. “But sometimes their faces
were painted green or red or blue. And I could see no good in that.
Sometimes they wore tassels of hair at their belts. Ugh! I did not like
that fashion. Sometimes their hands were red, and when they went away
the waters of my spring were stained. Ugh! Neither did I like that.
But they were brave and strong and noble. I loved the Red Men, for
they lived out of doors in the sweet sunlight, as I did. They loved
the fresh air and the blue sky and the green grass. They would have no
stifling roof over their heads to shut out the sky; no four walls to
keep off the fresh air. Ugh! I cannot breathe in a house. I stifle! I
choke!”
“Then how did you come to be shut up in this house?” asked Rob,
wondering very much.
“Listen. The White Men came to Shawmut; White Men with cows and dogs,
women and children. They built houses on the Hill, near the bubbling
springs, and planted corn. They drove away the Red Men, and I loved
them not, for they were different. They wore ugly dark garments, hats
and short cropped hair. They lived in close wigwams, and cared nothing
for fresh air and blue sky. Neither did they love the trees, but cut
them down to burn, and mowed the flowers for their ugly ploughed
fields. The woods and the streams meant nothing to them but places
wherein they might hunt and fish, which they did gloomily. For they
were solemn folk and sad. They thought it wicked to laugh merrily,
as the brook laughs, or to smile like the flowers. Even the little
children dared not be too gay, but were afraid of their fathers!”
“That must have been a horrid time for children,” said Rob.
“Alas! It was indeed a sad time for everybody,” went on the Fairy. “The
brave Red Men were gone. Even the rabbits and squirrels were gone. The
Hill was peopled with solemn and ugly folk, who dared not be happy,
and it was no longer beautiful as before. Yet I could not go away and
leave my spring, my dear spring, which ran sweet and clear as ever. It
was the favorite fountain of the Puritans, and crouching down under
the moss and ferns I watched them come and go, gloomily, filling their
buckets and pitchers. But I loved them not, and I hoped that the Red
Men would come back and drive them away. But the Red Men never came
again.”
“And what happened next?” asked Rob, much interested.
“Years went by, and the Hill became crowded with the White Men’s ugly
wigwams. The springs still bubbled, but it was a sad song that they
sang, for everything was changed. But that was not the worst. Came
a day when a man built a house over my very spring! He shut in the
bubbling water under a roof, between four ugly walls, where the blue
sky could no longer shine upon it nor the fresh air visit it freely!
Alas! Would that I had escaped before then. I might have gone earlier,
though it would have been sorrowful to desert my lonely spring. But I
had not guessed what was about to happen until it was too late. I had
not thought that even a White Man could be so cruel as to wall up a
living spring. I was asleep under the moss and ferns when they raised
the roof over me. Alas! I did not even waken at the sound of their
wicked hammers. But when I opened my eyes it was too late. There was a
screen between me and the sky!”
“Why did you not run away?” asked Rob sympathetically.
“Oh, you do not understand,” answered the Fairy with a sad little
smile. “I might have escaped at any time before the roof covered me.
But as soon as there was a roof above my head, and four walls rose
around me, I was under the magic spell of the White Men. I could not go
away, even though the doors and windows were yet yawning holes. I must
remain, even as the well must remain, until some one should take pity
on me and set me free.”
“And could you find no one to do that in all those years?” cried Rob.
“Alas! No. The people who lived in the house were dull folk who did not
believe in Fairies. For many years and many years I have remained shut
up in the darkness of this cellar, pining in the deserted well. It is
quite useless and forgotten. Long ago the ferns and mosses died, and I
have no green thing left to love, nothing beautiful to see.”
“Poor Fairy!” said Rob, and the tears stood in his eyes.
“I have cried, I have called, I have knocked on the walls of the well,”
said the Fairy, “but no one has seemed to hear my voice. Or if folk
heard they have not understood. Years ago some one who stepped as you
step, whose voice sounded like yours--I never saw his face--used to
come sometimes and listen at the well, and I heard him wish and wonder.
But that was all.”
“It must have been my father!” exclaimed Rob, remembering what had been
said at the breakfast table.
“But he could not understand what I tried to tell him,” went on the
Fairy. “He wondered and walked about, but he always went away without
doing anything. It was as if I spoke a foreign language. But you see I
do not. You understand me quite well, is it not so?”
“Oh, yes!” cried Rob. “And yet it is very strange. It is not language
such as others speak. It is like trickling water that makes words.”