WHEREIN THE LIMBERLOST SINGS FOR PHILIP, AND THE TALKING TREES TELL
GREAT SECRETS
A few days later Philip handed Elnora a sheet of paper and she read:
“In your condition I should think the moth hunting and life at that
cabin would be very good for you, but for any sake keep away from that
Grosbeak person, and don’t come home with your head full of granger
ideas. No doubt he has a remarkable voice, but I can’t bear untrained
singers, and don’t you get the idea that a June song is perennial. You
are not hearing the music he will make when the four babies have the
scarlet fever and the measles, and the gadding wife leaves him at home
to care for them then. Poor soul, I pity her! How she exists where
rampant cows bellow at you, frogs croak, mosquitoes consume you, the
butter goes to oil in summer and bricks in winter, while the pump
freezes every day, and there is no earthly amusement, and no society!
Poor things! Can’t you influence him to move? No wonder she gads when
she has a chance! I should die. If you are thinking of settling in the
country, think also of a woman who is satisfied with white and brown to
accompany you! Brown! Of all deadly colours! I should go mad in brown.”
Elnora laughed while she read. Her face was dimpling, as she returned
the sheet. “Who’s ahead?” she asked.
“Who do you think?” he parried.
“She is,” said Elnora. “Are you going to tell her in your next that R.
B. Grosbeak is a bird, and that he probably will spend the winter in a
wild plum thicket in Tennessee?”
“No,” said Philip. “I shall tell her that I understand her ideas of
life perfectly, and, of course, I never shall ask her to deal with oily
butter and frozen pumps—”
“—and measley babies,” interpolated Elnora.
“Exactly!” said Philip. “At the same time I find so much to
counterbalance those things, that I should not object to bearing them
myself, in view of the recompense. Where do we go and what do we do
to-day?”
“We will have to hunt beside the roads and around the edge of the
Limberlost to-day,” said Elnora. “Mother is making strawberry
preserves, and she can’t come until she finishes. Suppose we go down to
the swamp and I’ll show you what is left of the flower-room that
Terence O’More, the big lumber man of Great Rapids, made when he was a
homeless boy here. Of course, you have heard the story?”
“Yes, and I’ve met the O’Mores who are frequently in Chicago society.
They have friends there. I think them one ideal couple.”
“That sounds as if they might be the only one,” said Elnora, “and,
indeed, they are not. I know dozens. Aunt Margaret and Uncle Wesley are
another, the Brownlees another, and my mathematics professor and his
wife. The world is full of happy people, but no one ever hears of them.
You must fight and make a scandal to get into the papers. No one knows
about all the happy people. I am happy myself, and look how perfectly
inconspicuous I am.”
“You only need go where you will be seen,” began Philip, when he
remembered and finished. “What do we take to-day?”
“Ourselves,” said Elnora. “I have a vagabond streak in my blood and
it’s in evidence. I am going to show you where real flowers grow, real
birds sing, and if I feel quite right about it, perhaps I shall raise a
note or two myself.”
“Oh, do you sing?” asked Philip politely.
“At times,” answered Elnora. “‘As do the birds; because I must,’ but
don’t be scared. The mood does not possess me often. Perhaps I shan’t
raise a note.”
They went down the road to the swamp, climbed the snake fence, followed
the path to the old trail and then turned south upon it. Elnora
indicated to Philip the trail with remnants of sagging barbed wire.
“It was ten years ago,” she said. “I was a little school girl, but I
wandered widely even then, and no one cared. I saw him often. He had
been in a city institution all his life, when he took the job of
keeping timber thieves out of this swamp, before many trees had been
cut. It was a strong man’s work, and he was a frail boy, but he grew
hardier as he lived out of doors. This trail we are on is the path his
feet first wore, in those days when he was insane with fear and eaten
up with loneliness, but he stuck to his work and won out. I used to
come down to the road and creep among the bushes as far as I dared, to
watch him pass. He walked mostly, at times he rode a wheel.
“Some days his face was dreadfully sad, others it was so determined a
little child could see the force in it, and once he was radiant. That
day the Swamp Angel was with him. I can’t tell you what she was like. I
never saw any one who resembled her. He stopped close here to show her
a bird’s nest. Then they went on to a sort of flower-room he had made,
and he sang for her. By the time he left, I had gotten bold enough to
come out on the trail, and I met the big Scotchman Freckles lived with.
He saw me catching moths and butterflies, so he took me to the
flower-room and gave me everything there. I don’t dare come alone
often, so I can’t keep it up as he did, but you can see something of
how it was.”
Elnora led the way and Philip followed. The outlines of the room were
not distinct, because many of the trees were gone, but Elnora showed
how it had been as nearly as she could.
“The swamp is almost ruined now,” she said. “The maples, walnuts, and
cherries are all gone. The talking trees are the only things left worth
while.”
“The ‘talking trees!’ I don’t understand,” commented Philip.
“No wonder!” laughed Elnora. “They are my discovery. You know all trees
whisper and talk during the summer, but there are two that have so much
to say they keep on the whole winter, when the others are silent. The
beeches and oaks so love to talk, they cling to their dead, dry leaves.
In the winter the winds are stiffest and blow most, so these trees
whisper, chatter, sob, laugh, and at times roar until the sound is
deafening. They never cease until new leaves come out in the spring to
push off the old ones. I love to stand beneath them with my ear to the
trunks, interpreting what they say to fit my moods. The beeches branch
low, and their leaves are small so they only know common earthly
things; but the oaks run straight above almost all other trees before
they branch, their arms are mighty, their leaves large. They meet the
winds that travel around the globe, and from them learn the big
things.”
Philip studied the girls face. “What do the beeches tell you, Elnora?”
he asked gently.
“To be patient, to be unselfish, to do unto others as I would have them
do to me.”
“And the oaks?”
“They say ‘be true,’ ‘live a clean life,’ ‘send your soul up here and
the winds of the world will teach it what honour achieves.’”
“Wonderful secrets, those!” marvelled Philip. “Are they telling them
now? Could I hear?”
“No. They are only gossiping now. This is play-time. They tell the big
secrets to a white world, when the music inspires them.”
“The music?”
“All other trees are harps in the winter. Their trunks are the frames,
their branches the strings, the winds the musicians. When the air is
cold and clear, the world very white, and the harp music swelling, then
the talking trees tell the strengthening, uplifting things.”
“You wonderful girl!” cried Philip. “What a woman you will be!”
“If I am a woman at all worth while, it will be because I have had such
wonderful opportunities,” said Elnora. “Not every girl is driven to the
forest to learn what God has to say there. Here are the remains of
Freckles’s room. The time the Angel came here he sang to her, and I
listened. I never heard music like that. No wonder she loved him. Every
one who knew him did, and they do yet. Try that log, it makes a fairly
good seat. This old store box was his treasure house, just as it’s now
mine. I will show you my dearest possession. I do not dare take it home
because mother can’t overcome her dislike for it. It was my father’s,
and in some ways I am like him. This is the strongest.”
Elnora lifted the violin and began to play. She wore a school dress of
green gingham, with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. She seemed a part
of the setting all around her. Her head shone like a small dark sun,
and her face never had seemed so rose-flushed and fair. From the
instant she drew the bow, her lips parted and her eyes turned toward
something far away in the swamp, and never did she give more of that
impression of feeling for her notes and repeating something audible
only to her. Philip was too close to get the best effect. He arose and
stepped back several yards, leaning against a large tree, looking and
listening intently.
As he changed positions he saw that Mrs. Comstock had followed them,
and was standing on the trail, where she could not have helped hearing
everything Elnora had said.
So to Philip before her and the mother watching on the trail, Elnora
played the Song of the Limberlost. It seemed as if the swamp hushed all
its other voices and spoke only through her dancing bow. The mother out
on the trail had heard it all, once before from the girl, many times
from her father. To the man it was a revelation. He stood so stunned he
forgot Mrs. Comstock. He tried to realize what a city audience would
say to that music, from such a player, with a similar background, and
he could not imagine.
He was wondering what he dared say, how much he might express, when the
last note fell and the girl laid the violin in the case, closed the
door, locked it and hid the key in the rotting wood at the end of a
log. Then she came to him. Philip stood looking at her curiously.
“I wonder,” he said, “what people would say to that?”
“I played that in public once,” said Elnora. “I think they liked it,
fairly well. I had a note yesterday offering me the leadership of the
high school orchestra in Onabasha. I can take it as well as not. None
of my talks to the grades come the first thing in the morning. I can
play a few minutes in the orchestra and reach the rooms in plenty of
time. It will be more work that I love, and like finding the money. I
would gladly play for nothing, merely to be able to express myself.”
“With some people it makes a regular battlefield of the human
heart—this struggle for self-expression,” said Philip. “You are going
to do beautiful work in the world, and do it well. When I realize that
your violin belonged to your father, that he played it before you were
born, and it no doubt affected your mother strongly, and then couple
with that the years you have roamed these fields and swamps finding in
nature all you had to lavish your heart upon, I can see how you
evolved. I understand what you mean by self-expression. I know
something of what you have to express. The world never so wanted your
message as it does now. It is hungry for the things you know. I can see
easily how your position came to you. What you have to give is taught
in no college, and I am not sure but you would spoil yourself if you
tried to run your mind through a set groove with hundreds of others. I
never thought I should say such a thing to any one, but I do say to
you, and I honestly believe it; give up the college idea. Your mind
does not need that sort of development. Stick close to your work in the
woods. You are becoming so infinitely greater on it, than the best
college girl I ever knew, that there is no comparison. When you have
money to spend, take that violin and go to one of the world’s great
masters and let the Limberlost sing to him; if he thinks he can improve
it, very well. I have my doubts.”
“Do you really mean that you would give up all idea of going to
college, in my place?”
“I really mean it,” said Philip. “If I now held the money in my hands
to send you, and could give it to you in some way you would accept I
would not. I do not know why it is the fate of the world always to want
something different from what life gives them. If you only could
realize it, my girl, you are in college, and have been always. You are
in the school of experience, and it has taught you to think, and given
you a heart. God knows I envy the man who wins it! You have been in the
college of the Limberlost all your life, and I never met a graduate
from any other institution who could begin to compare with you in
sanity, clarity, and interesting knowledge. I wouldn’t even advise you
to read too many books on your lines. You acquire your material first
hand, and you know that you are right. What you should do is to begin
early to practise self-expression. Don’t wait too long to tell us about
the woods as you know them.”
“Follow the course of the Bird Woman, you mean?” asked Elnora.
“In your own way; with your own light. She won’t live forever. You are
younger, and you will be ready to begin where she ends. The swamp has
given you all you need so far; now you give it to the world in payment.
College be confounded! Go to work and show people what there is in
you!”
Not until then did he remember Mrs. Comstock.
“Should we go out to the trail and see if your mother is coming?” he
asked.
“Here she is now,” said Elnora. “Gracious, it’s a mercy I got that
violin put away in time! I didn’t expect her so soon,” whispered the
girl as she turned and went toward her mother. Mrs. Comstock’s
expression was peculiar as she looked at Elnora.
“I forgot that you were making sun-preserves and they didn’t require
much cooking,” she said. “We should have waited for you.”
“Not at all!” answered Mrs. Comstock. “Have you found anything yet?”
“Nothing that I can show you,” said Elnora. “I am almost sure I have
found an idea that will revolutionize the whole course of my work,
thought, and ambitions.”
“‘Ambitions!’ My, what a hefty word!” laughed Mrs. Comstock. “Now who
would suspect a little red-haired country girl of harbouring such a
deadly germ in her body? Can you tell mother about it?”
“Not if you talk to me that way, I can’t,” said Elnora.
“Well, I guess we better let ambition lie. I’ve always heard it was
safest asleep. If you ever get a bona fide attack, it will be time to
attend it. Let’s hunt specimens. It is June. Philip and I are in the
grades. You have an hour to put an idea into our heads that will stick
for a lifetime, and grow for good. That’s the way I look at your job.
Now, what are you going to give us? We don’t want any old silly stuff
that has been hashed over and over, we want a big new idea to plant in
our hearts. Come on, Miss Teacher, what is the boiled-down,
double-distilled essence of June? Give it to us strong. We are large
enough to furnish it developing ground. Hurry up! Time is short and we
are waiting. What is the miracle of June? What one thing epitomizes the
whole month, and makes it just a little different from any other?”
“The birth of these big night moths,” said Elnora promptly.
Philip clapped his hands. The tears started to Mrs. Comstock’s eyes.
She took Elnora in her arms, and kissed her forehead.
“You’ll do!” she said. “June is June, not because it has bloom, bird,
fruit, or flower, exclusive to it alone.
“It’s half May and half July in all of them. But to me, it’s just June,
when it comes to these great, velvet-winged night moths which sweep its
moonlit skies, consummating their scheme of creation, and dropping like
a bloomed-out flower. Give them moths for June. Then make that the
basis of your year’s work. Find the distinctive feature of each month,
the one thing which marks it a time apart, and hit them squarely
between the eyes with it. Even the babies of the lowest grades can
comprehend moths when they see a few emerge, and learn their history,
as it can be lived before them. You should show your specimens in
pairs, then their eggs, the growing caterpillars, and then the cocoons.
You want to dig out the red heart of every month in the year, and hold
it pulsing before them.
“I can’t name all of them off-hand, but I think of one more right now.
February belongs to our winter birds. It is then the great horned owl
of the swamp courts his mate, the big hawks pair, and even the crows
begin to take notice. These are truly our birds. Like the poor we have
them always with us. You should hear the musicians of this swamp in
February, Philip, on a mellow night. Oh, but they are in earnest! For
twenty-one years I’ve listened by night to the great owls, all the
smaller sizes, the foxes, coons, and every resident left in these
woods, and by day to the hawks, yellow-hammers, sap-suckers, titmice,
crows, and other winter birds. Only just now it’s come to me that the
distinctive feature of February is not linen bleaching, nor sugar
making; it’s the love month of our very own birds. Give them hawks and
owls for February, Elnora.”
With flashing eyes the girl looked at Philip. “How’s that?” she said.
“Don’t you think I will succeed, with such help? You should hear the
concert she is talking about! It is simply indescribable when the
ground is covered with snow, and the moonlight white.”
“It’s about the best music we have,” said Mrs. Comstock. “I wonder if
you couldn’t copy that and make a strong, original piece out of it for
your violin, Elnora?”
There was one tense breath, then—— “I could try,” said Elnora simply.
Philip rushed to the rescue. “We must go to work,” he said, and began
examining a walnut branch for Luna moth eggs. Elnora joined him while
Mrs. Comstock drew her embroidery from her pocket and sat on a log. She
said she was tired, they could come for her when they were ready to go.
She could hear their voices around her until she called them at supper
time. When they came to her she stood waiting on the trail, the sewing
in one hand, the violin in the other. Elnora became very white, but
followed the trail without a word. Philip, unable to see a woman carry
a heavier load than he, reached for the instrument. Mrs. Comstock shook
her head. She carried the violin home, took it into her room and closed
the door. Elnora turned to Philip.
“If she destroys that, I shall die!” cried the girl.
“She won’t!” said Philip. “You misunderstand her. She wouldn’t have
said what she did about the owls, if she had meant to. She is your
mother. No one loves you as she does. Trust her! Myself—I think she’s
simply great!”
Mrs. Comstock returned with serene face, and all of them helped with
the supper. When it was over Philip and Elnora sorted and classified
the afternoon’s specimens, and made a trip to the woods to paint and
light several trees for moths. When they came back Mrs. Comstock sat in
the arbour, and they joined her. The moonlight was so intense, print
could have been read by it. The damp night air held odours near to
earth, making flower and tree perfume strong. A thousand insects were
serenading, and in the maple the grosbeak occasionally said a
reassuring word to his wife, while she answered that all was well. A
whip-poor-will wailed in the swamp and beside the blue-bordered pool a
chat complained disconsolately. Mrs. Comstock went into the cabin, but
she returned immediately, laying the violin and bow across Elnora’s
lap. “I wish you would give us a little music,” she said.