“We have reached the 'beginning of the end,' Ajax!” said the Harvester,
as the peacock ceased screaming and came to seek food from his hand.
“We have seen the Girl. Now we must locate her and convince her that
Medicine Woods is her happy home. I feel quite equal to the latter
proposition, Ajax, but how the nation to find her sticks me. I can't
make a search so open that she will know and resent it. She must have
all the consideration ever paid the most refined woman, but she also
has got to be found, and that speedily. When I remember that look on her
face, as if horrors were snatching at her skirts, it takes all the grit
out of me. I feel weak as a sapling. And she needs all my strength. I've
simply got to brace up. I'll work a while and then perhaps I can think.”
So the Harvester began the evening routine. He thought he did not want
anything to eat, but when he opened the cupboard and smelled the food he
learned that he was a hungry man and he cooked and ate a good supper. He
put away everything carefully, for even the kitchen was dainty and fresh
and he wanted to keep it so for her. When he finished he went into the
living-room, stood before the fireplace, and studied the collection of
half-finished candlesticks grouped upon it. He picked up several and
examined them closely, but realized that he could not bind himself to
the exactions of carving that evening. He took a key from his pocket and
unlocked her door. Every day he had been going there to improve upon his
work for her, and he loved the room, the outlook from its windows; he
was very proud of the furniture he had made. There was no paper-thin
covering on her chairs, bed, and dressing table. The tops, seats, and
posts were solid wood, worth hundreds of dollars for veneer.
To-night he folded his arms and stood on the sill hesitating. While
she was a dream, he had loved to linger in her room. Now that she was
reality, he paused. In one golden May day the place had become sacred.
Since he had seen the Girl that room was so hers that he was hesitating
about entering because of this fact. It was as if the tall, slender form
stood before the chest of drawers or sat at the dressing table and he
did not dare enter unless he were welcome. Softly he closed the door and
went away. He wandered to the dry-house and turned the bark and roots on
the trays, but the air stifled him and he hurried out. He tried to work
in the packing room, but walls smothered him and again he sought the
open.
He espied a bundle of osier-bound, moss-covered ferns that he had found
in the woods, and brought the shovel to transplant them; but the
work worried him, and he hurried through with it. Then he looked for
something else to do and saw an ax. He caught it up and with lusty
strokes began swinging it. When he had chopped wood until he was very
tired he went to bed. Sleep came to the strong, young frame and he awoke
in the morning refreshed and hopeful.
He wondered why he had bothered Doctor Carey. The Harvester felt able
that morning to find his Dream Girl without assistance before the day
was over. It was merely a matter of going to the city and locating a
woman. Yesterday, it had been a question of whether she really existed.
To-day, he knew. Yesterday, it had meant a search possibly as wide
as earth to find her. To-day, it was narrowed to only one location so
small, compared with Chicago, that the Harvester felt he could sift
its population with his fingers, and pick her from others at his first
attempt. If she were visiting there probably she would rest during the
night, and be on the streets to-day.
When he remembered her face he doubted it. He decided to spend part
of the time on the business streets and the remainder in the residence
portions of the city. Because it was uncertain when he would return,
everything was fed a double portion, and Betsy was left at a livery
stable with instructions to care for her until he came. He did not know
where the search would lead him. For several hours he slowly walked the
business district and then ranged farther, but not a sight of her. He
never had known that Onabasha was so large. On its crowded streets he
did not feel that he could sift the population through his fingers, nor
could he open doors and search houses without an excuse.
Some small boys passed him eating bananas, and the Harvester looked at
his watch and was amazed to find that the day had advanced until two
o'clock in the afternoon. He was tired and hungry. He went into a
restaurant and ordered lunch; as he waited a girl serving tables smiled
at him. Any other time the Harvester would have returned at least a
pleasant look, and gone his way. To-day he scowled at her, and ate in
hurried discomfort. On the streets again, he had no idea where to go and
so he went to the hospital.
“I expected you early this morning,” was the greeting of Doctor Carey.
“Where have you been and what have you done?”
“Nothing,” said the Harvester. “I was so sure she would be on the
streets I just watched, but I didn't see her.”
“We will go to the depot,” said the doctor. “The first thing is to keep
her from leaving town.”
They arranged with the ticket agents, expressmen, telegraphers, and, as
they left, the Harvester stopped and tipped the train caller, offering
further reward worth while if he would find the Girl.
“Now we will go to the police station,” said the doctor.
“I'll see the chief and have him issue a general order to his men to
watch for her, but if I were you I'd select a half dozen in the down
town district, and give them a little tip with a big promise!”
“Good Lord! How I hate this,” groaned the Harvester.
“Want to find her by yourself?” questioned his friend.
“Yes,” said the Harvester, “I do! And I would, if it hadn't been for
her ghastly face. That drives me to resort to any measures. The
probabilities are that she is lying sick somewhere, and if her comfort
depends on the purse that dressed her, she will suffer. Doc, do you know
how awful this is?”
“I know that you've got a great imagination. If the woods make all men
as sensitive as you are, those who have business to transact should stay
out of them. Take a common-sense view. Look at this as I do. If she was
strong enough to travel in a day coach from Chicago; she can't be so
very ill to-day. Leaving life by the inch isn't that easy. She will be
alive this time next year, whether you find her or not. The chances are
that her stress was mental anyway, and trouble almost never overcomes
any one.”
“You, a doctor and say that!”
“Oh, I mean instantaneously----in a day! Of course if it grinds away
for years! But youth doesn't allow it to do that. It throws it off, and
grows hopeful and happy again. She won't die; put that out of your
mind. If I were you I would go home now and go straight on with my work,
trusting to the machinery you have set in motion. I know most of the
men with whom we have talked. They will locate her in a week or less.
It's their business. It isn't yours. It's your job to be ready for her,
and have enough ahead to support her when they find her. Try to realize
that there are now a dozen men on hunt for her, and trust them. Go back
to your work, and I will come full speed in the motor when the first man
sights her. That ought to satisfy you. I've told all of them to call me
at the hospital, and I will tell my assistant what to do in case a call
comes while I am away. Straighten your face! Go back to Medicine Woods
and harvest your crops, and before you know it she will be located. Then
you can put on your Sunday clothes and show yourself, and see if you can
make her take notice.”
“Idiot!” exclaimed the Harvester, but he started home. When he arrived
he attended to his work and then sat down to think.
“Doc is right,” was his ultimate conclusion. “She can't leave the city,
she can't move around in it, she can't go anywhere, without being seen.
There's one more point: I must tell Carey to post all the doctors to
report if they have such a call. That's all I can think of. I'll
go to-night, and then I'll look over the ginseng for parasites, and
to-morrow I'll dive into the late spring growth and work until I haven't
time to think. I've let cranesbill get a week past me now, and it can't
be dispensed with.”
So the following morning, when the Harvester had completed his work at
the cabin and barn and breakfasted, he took a mattock and a big hempen
bag, and followed the path to the top of the hill. As it ran along the
lake bank he descended on the other side to several acres of cleared
land, where he raised corn for his stock, potatoes, and coarser garden
truck, for which there was not space in the smaller enclosure close the
cabin. Around the edges of these fields, and where one of them sloped
toward the lake, he began grubbing a variety of grass having tall stems
already over a foot in height at half growth. From each stem waved four
or five leaves of six or eight inches length and the top showed forming
clusters of tiny spikelets.
“I am none too early for you,” he muttered to himself as he ran the
mattock through the rich earth, lifting the long, tough, jointed root
stalks of pale yellow, from every section of which broke sprays of fine
rootlets. “None too early for you, and as you are worth only seven cents
a pound, you couldn't be considered a 'get-rich-quick' expedient, so
I'll only stop long enough with you to gather what I think my customers
will order, and amass a fortune a little later picking mullein flowers
at seventy-five cents a pound. What a crop I've got coming!”
The Harvester glanced ahead, where in the cleared soil of the bank grew
large plants with leaves like yellow-green felt and tall bloom stems
rising. Close them flourished other species requiring dry sandy soil,
that gradually changed as it approached the water until it became
covered with rank abundance of short, wiry grass, half the blades of
which appeared red. Numerous everywhere he could see the grayish-white
leaves of Parnassus grass. As the season advanced it would lift
heart-shaped velvet higher, and before fall the stretch of emerald would
be starred with white-faced, green-striped flowers.
“Not a prettier sight on earth,” commented the Harvester, “than just
swale wire grass in September making a fine, thick background to set off
those delicate starry flowers on their slender stems. I must remember to
bring her to see that.”
His eyes followed the growth to the water. As the grass drew closer
moisture it changed to the rank, sweet, swamp variety, then came
bulrushes, cat-tails, water smartweed, docks, and in the water blue flag
lifted folded buds; at its feet arose yellow lily leaves and farther out
spread the white. As the light struck the surface the Harvester imagined
he could see the little green buds several inches below. Above all arose
wild rice he had planted for the birds. The red wings swayed on the
willows and tilted on every stem that would bear their weight, singing
their melodious half-chanted notes, “O-ka-lee!”
Beneath them the ducks gobbled, splashed, and chattered; grebe and coot
voices could be distinguished; king rails at times flashed into sight
and out again; marsh wrens scolded and chattered; occasionally a
kingfisher darted around the lake shore, rolling his rattling cry and
flashing his azure coat and gleaming white collar. On a hollow tree
in the woods a yellow hammer proved why he was named, because he
carpentered industriously to enlarge the entrance to the home he was
excavating in a dead tree; and sailing over the lake and above the woods
in grace scarcely surpassed by any, a lonesome turkey buzzard awaited
his mate's decision as to which hollow log was most suitable for their
home.
The Harvester stuffed the grass roots in the bag until it would hold no
more and stood erect to wipe his face, for the sun was growing warm. As
he drew his handkerchief across his brow, the south wind struck him with
enough intensity to attract attention. Instantly the Harvester removed
his hat, rolled it up, and put it into his pocket. He stood an instant
delighting in the wind and then spoke.
“Allow me to express my most fervent thanks for your kindness,” he said.
“I thought probably you would take that message, since it couldn't mean
much to you, and it meant all the world to me. I thought you would carry
it, but, I confess, I scarcely expected the answer so soon. The only
thing that could make me more grateful to you would be to know exactly
where she is: but you must understand that it's like a peep into Heaven
to have her existence narrowed to one place. I'm bound to be able to
say inside a few days, she lives at number----I don't know yet, on
street----I'll find out soon, in the closest city, Onabasha. And I know
why you brought her, South Wind. If ever a girl's cheeks need fanning
with your breezes, and painting with sun kisses, I wouldn't mind, since
this is strictly private, adding a few of mine; if ever any one needed
flowers, birds, fresh air, water, and rest! Good Lord, South Wind, did
you ever reach her before you carried that message? I think not! But
Onabasha isn't so large. You and the sun should get your innings there.
I do hope she is not trying to work! I can attend to that; and so there
will be more time when she is found, I'd better hustle now.”
He picked up the bag and returned to the dry-house, where he carefully
washed the roots and spread them on the trays. Then he took the same
bag and mattock and going through the woods in the opposite direction
he came to a heavy growth in a cleared space of high ground. The bloom
heads were forming and the plant was half matured. The Harvester dug a
cylindrical, tapering root, wrinkling lengthwise, wiped it clean, broke
and tasted it. He made a wry face. He stood examining the white wood
with its brown-red bark and, deciding that it was in prime condition, he
began digging the plants. It was common wayside “Bouncing Bet,” but the
Harvester called it “soapwort.” He took every other plant in his way
across the bed, and when he digged a heavy load he carried it home,
stripped the leaves, and spread them on trays, while the roots he
topped, washed, and put to dry also. Then he whistled for Belshazzar and
went to lunch.
As he passed down the road to the cabin his face was a study of
conflicting emotions, and his eyes had a far away appearance of deep
thought. Every tree of his stretch of forest was rustling fresh leaves
to shelter him; dogwood, wild crab, and hawthorn offered their flowers;
earth held up her tribute in painted trillium faces, spring beauties,
and violets, blue, white, and yellow. Mosses, ferns, and lichen
decorated the path; all the birds greeted him in friendship, and
sang their purest melodies. The sky was blue, the sun bright, the air
perfumed for him; Belshazzar, always true to his name, protected every
footstep; Ajax, the shimmering green and gold wonder, came up the hill
to meet him; the white doves circled above his head. Stumbling half
blindly, the Harvester passed unheeding among them, and went into the
cabin. When he came out he stood a long time in deep study, but at last
he returned to the woods.
“Perhaps they will have found her before night,” he said. “I'll harvest
the cranesbill yet, because it's growing late for it, and then I'll see
how they are coming on. Maybe they'd know her if they met her, and maybe
they wouldn't. She may wear different clothing, and freshen up after her
trip. She might have been car sick, as Doc suggested, and appear very
different when she feels better.”
He skirted the woods around the northeast end and stopped at a big bed
of exquisite growth. Tall, wiry stems sprang upward almost two feet in
height; leaves six inches across were cut in ragged lobes almost to the
base, and here and there, enough to colour the entire bed a delicate
rose or sometimes a violet purple, the first flowers were unfolding. The
Harvester lifted a root and tasted it.
“No doubt about you being astringent,” he muttered. “You have enough
tannin in you to pucker a mushroom. By the way, those big, corn-cobby
fellows should spring up with the next warm rain, and the hotels and
restaurants always pay high prices. I must gather a few bushels.”
He looked over the bed of beautiful wild alum and hesitated.
“I vow I hate to touch you,” he said. “You are a picture right now, and
in a week you will be a miracle. It seems a shame to tear up a plant for
its roots, just at flowering time, and I can't avoid breaking down half
I don't take, getting the ones I do. I wish you were not so pretty! You
are one of the colours I love most. You remind me of red-bud, blazing
star, and all those exquisite magenta shades that poets, painters, and
the Almighty who made them love so much they hesitate about using them
lavishly. You are so delicate and graceful and so modest. I wish she
could see you! I got to stop this or I won't be able to lift a root. I
never would if the ten cents a pound I'll get out of it were the only
consideration.”
The Harvester gripped the mattock and advanced to the bed. “What I must
be thinking is that you are indispensable to the sick folks. The steady
demand for you proves your value, and of course, humanity comes first,
after all. If I remain in the woods alone much longer I'll get to the
place where I'm not so sure that it does. Seems as if animals, birds,
flowers, trees, and insects as well, have their right to life also. But
it's for me to remember the sick folks! If I thought the Girl would get
some of it now, I could overturn the bed with a stout heart. If any one
ever needed a tonic, I think she does. Maybe some of this will reach
her. If it does, I hope it will make her cheeks just the lovely pink of
the bloom. Oh Lord! If only she hadn't appeared so sick and frightened!
What is there in all this world of sunshine to make a girl glance around
her like that? I wish I knew! Maybe they will have found her by night.”
The Harvester began work on the bed, but he knelt and among the damp
leaves from the spongy black earth he lifted the roots with his fingers
and carefully straightened and pressed down the plants he did not take.
This required more time than usual, but his heart was so sore he could
not be rough with anything, most of all a flower. So he harvested the
wild alum by hand, and heaped large stacks of roots around the edges of
the bed. Often he paused as he worked and on his knees stared through
the forest as if he hoped perhaps she would realize his longing for her,
and come to him in the wood as she had across the water. Over and
over he repeated, “Perhaps they will find her by night!” and that so
intensified the meaning that once he said it aloud. His face clouded and
grew dark.
“Dealish nice business!” he said. “I am here in the woods digging flower
roots, and a gang of men in the city are searching for the girl I love.
If ever a job seemed peculiarly a man's own, it appears this would be.
What business has any other man spying after my woman? Why am I not down
there doing my own work, as I always have done it? Who's more likely to
find her than I am? It seems as if there would be an instinct that
would lead me straight to her, if I'd go. And you can wager I'll go fast
enough.”
The Harvester appeared as if he would start that instant, but with lips
closely shut he finally forced himself to go on with his work. When he
had rifled the bed, and uprooted all he cared to take during one season,
he carried the roots to the lake shore below the curing house, and
spread them on a platform he had built. He stepped into his boat and
began dashing pails of water over them and using a brush. As he worked
he washed away the woody scars of last year's growth, and the tiny buds
appearing for the coming season.
Belshazzar sat on the opposite bank and watched the operation; and Ajax
came down and, flying to a dead stump, erected and slowly waved his
train to attract the sober-faced man who paid no heed. He left the roots
to drain while he prepared supper, then placed them on the trays, now
filled to overflowing, and was glad he had finished. He could not cure
anything else at present if he wanted to. He was as far advanced as he
had been at the same time the previous year. Then he dressed neatly and
locking the Girl's room, and leaving Belshazzar to protect it, he went
to Onabasha.
“Bravo!” cried Doctor Carey as the Harvester entered his office. “You
are heroic to wait all day for news. How much stuff have you gathered?”
“Three crops. How many missing women have you located?”
The doctor laughed. There was no sign of a smile on the face of the
Harvester.
“You didn't really expect her to come to light the first day? That would
be too easy! We can't find her in a minute.”
“It will be no surprise to me if you can't find her at all. I am not
expecting another man to do what I don't myself.”
“You are not hunting her. You are harvesting the woods. The men you
employ are to find her.”
“Maybe I am, and maybe I am not,” said the Harvester slowly. “To me
it appears to be a poor stick of a man who coolly proceeds with money
making, and trusts to men who haven't even seen her to search for the
girl he loves. I think a few hours of this is about all my patience will
endure.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don't know,” said the Harvester. “But you can bank on one thing
sure----I'm going to do something! I've had my fill of this. Thank you
for all you've done, and all you are going to do. My head is not clear
enough yet to decide anything with any sense, but maybe I'll hit on
something soon. I'm for the streets for a while.”
“Better go home and go to bed. You seem very tired.”
“I am,” said the Harvester. “The only way to endure this is to work
myself down. I'm all right, and I'll be careful, but I rather think I'll
find her myself.”
“Better go on with your work as we planned.”
“I'll think about it,” said the Harvester as he went out.
Until he was too tired to walk farther he slowly paced the streets of
the city, and then followed the home road through the valley and up the
hill to Medicine Woods. When he came to Singing Water, Belshazzar heard
his steps on the bridge, and came bounding to meet him. The Harvester
stretched himself on a seat and turned his face to the sky. It was a
deep, dark-blue bowl, closely set with stars, and a bright moon shed a
soft May radiance on the young earth. The lake was flooded with light,
and the big trees of the forest crowning the hill were silver coroneted.
The unfolding leaves had hidden the new cabin from the bridge, but the
driveway shone white, and already the upspringing bushes hedged it in.
Insects were humming lazily in the perfumed night air, and across the
lake a courting whip-poor-will was explaining to his sweetheart just
how much and why he loved her. A few bats were wavering in air hunting
insects, and occasionally an owl or a nighthawk crossed the lake.
Killdeer were glorying in the moonlight and night flight, and cried in
pure, clear notes as they sailed over the water. The Harvester was tired
and filled with unrest as he stretched on the bridge, but the longer
he lay the more the enfolding voices comforted him. All of them were
waiting and working out their lives to the legitimate end; there was
nothing else for him to do. He need not follow instinct or profit by
chance. He was a man; he could plan and reason.
The air grew balmy and some big, soft clouds swept across the moon. The
Harvester felt the dampness of rising dew, and went to the cabin. He
looked at it long in the moonlight and told himself that he could see
how much the plants, vines, and ferns had grown since the previous
night. Without making a light, he threw himself on the bed in the
outdoor room, and lay looking through the screening at the lake and sky.
He was working his brain to think of some manner in which to start a
search for the Dream Girl that would have some probability of success to
recommend it, but he could settle on no feasible plan. At last he fell
asleep, and in the night soft rain wet his face. He pulled an oilcloth
sheet over the bed, and lay breathing deeply of the damp, perfumed air
as he again slept. In the morning brilliant sunshine awoke him and he
arose to find the earth steaming.
“If ever there was a perfect mushroom day!” he said to Belshazzar. “We
must hurry and feed the stock and ourselves and gather some. They mean
real money.”