The Harvester finished his evening work and went to examine the cocoons.
Many of the moths had emerged and flown, but the luna cases remained
in the bottom of the box. As he stood looking at them one moved and he
smiled.
“I'd give something if you would come out and be ready to work on by
to-morrow afternoon,” he said. “Possibly you would so interest her that
she would forget her fear of me. I'd like mighty well to take you
along, because she might care for you, and I do need the pattern for my
candlestick. Believe I'll lay you in a warmer place.”
The first thing the next morning the Harvester looked and found the open
cocoon and the wet moth clinging by its feet to a twig he had placed for
it.
“Luck is with me!” he exulted. “I'll carry you to her and be mighty
careful what I say, and maybe she will forget about the fear.”
All the forenoon he cut and spread boneset, saffron, and hemlock on the
trays to dry. At noon he put on a fresh outfit, ate a hasty lunch, and
drove to Onabasha. He carried the moth in a box, and as he started he
picked up a rake. He went to an art store and bought the pencils and
paper she had ordered. He wanted to purchase everything he saw for her,
but he was fast learning a lesson of deep caution. If he took more than
she ordered, she would worry over paying, and if he refused to
accept money, she would put that everlasting “why” at him again. The
water-colour paper and paint he could not forego. He could make a desire
to have the moth coloured explain those, he thought.
Then he went to a furniture store and bought several articles, and
forgetting his law against haste, he drove Betsy full speed to the
river. He was rather heavily ladened as he went up the bank, and it
was only one o'clock. There was an hour. He rolled away the log, raked
together and removed the leaves to the ground. He tramped the earth
level and spread a large cheap porch rug. On this he opened and placed
a little folding table and chair. On the table he spread the pencils,
paper, colour box and brushes, and went to the river to fill the water
cup. Then he sat on the log he had rolled to one side and waited. After
two hours he arose and crept as close the house as he could through the
woods, but he could not secure a glimpse of the Girl. He went back and
waited an hour more, and then undid his work and removed it. When he
came to the moth his face was very grim as he lifted the twig and helped
the beautiful creature to climb on a limb. “You'll be ready to fly in
a few hours,” he said. “If I keep you in a box you will ruin your wings
and be no suitable subject, and put you in a cyanide jar I will not. I
am hurt too badly myself. I wonder if what Doc said was the right way!
It's certainly a temptation.”
Then he went home; and again Betsy veered at the hospital, and once more
the Harvester explained to her that he did not want to see the doctor.
That evening and the following forenoon were difficult, but the
Harvester lived through them, and in the afternoon went back to the
woods, spread his rug, and set up the table. Only one streak of luck
brightened the gloom in his heart. A yellow emperor had emerged in the
night, and now occupied the place of yesterday's luna. She never need
know it was not the one he wanted, and it would make an excuse for the
colour box.
He was watching intently and saw her coming a long way off. He noticed
that she looked neither right nor left, but came straight as if walking
a bridge. As she reached the place she glanced hastily around and then
at him. The Harvester forgave her everything as he saw the look of
relief with which she stepped upon the carpet. Then she turned to him.
“I won't have to ask 'why' this time,” she said. “I know that you did it
because I was baby enough to tell what a coward I am. I'm sure you
can't afford it, and I know you shouldn't have done it, but oh, what a
comfort! If you will promise never to do any such expensive, foolish,
kind thing again, I'll say thank you this time. I couldn't come
yesterday, because Aunt Molly was worse and Uncle Henry was at home all
day.”
“I supposed it was something like that,” said the Harvester.
She advanced and handed him the roll of bills.
“I had a feeling you would be reckless,” she said. “I saw it in your
face, so I came back as soon as I could steal away, and sure enough,
there lay your money and the books and everything. I hid them in the
thicket, so they will be all right. I've almost prayed it wouldn't rain.
I didn't dare carry them to the house. Please take the money. I haven't
time to argue about it or strength, but of course I can't possibly use
it unless I earn it. I'm so anxious to see the pencils and paper.”
The Harvester thrust the money into his pocket. The Girl went to the
table, opened and spread the paper, and took out the pencils.
“Is my subject in here?” she touched the colour box.
“No, the other.”
“Is it alive? May I open it?”
“We will be very careful at first,” said the Harvester. “It only left
its case in the night and may fly. When the weather is so warm the wings
develop rapidly. Perhaps if I remove the lid----”
He took off the cover, exposing a big moth, its lovely, pale yellow
wings, flecked with heliotrope, outspread as it clung to a twig in the
box. The Girl leaned forward.
“What is it?” she asked.
“One of the big night moths that emerge and fly a few hours in June.”
“Is this what you want for your candlestick?”
“If I can't do better. There is one other I prefer, but it may not come
at a time that you can get it right.”
“What do you mean by 'right'?”
“So that you can copy it before it wants to fly.”
“Why don't you chloroform and pin it until I am ready?”
“I am not in the business of killing and impaling exquisite creatures
like that.”
“Do you mean that if I can't draw it when it is just right you will let
it go?”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“I told you why.”
“I know you said you were not in the business, but why wouldn't you take
only one you really wanted to use?”
“I would be afraid,” replied the Harvester.
“Afraid? You!”
“I must have a mighty good reason before I kill,” said the man. “I
cannot give life; I have no right to take it away. I will let my
statement stand. I am afraid.”
“Of what please?”
“An indefinable something that follows me and makes me suffer if I am
wantonly cruel.”
“Is there any particular pose in which you want this bird placed?”
“Allow me to present you to the yellow emperor, known in the books as
eagles imperialis,” he said. “I want him as he clings naturally and life
size.”
She took up a pencil.
“If you don't mind,” said the Harvester, “would you draw on this other
paper? I very much want the colour, also, and you can use it on this.
I brought a box along, and I'll get you water. I had it all ready
yesterday.”
“Did you have this same moth?”
“No, I had another.”
“Did you have the one you wanted most?”
“Yes----but it's no difference.”
“And you let it go because I was not here?”
“No. It went on account of exquisite beauty. If kept in confinement it
would struggle and break its wings. You see, that one was a delicate
green, where this is yellow, plain pale blue green, with a lavender rib
here, and long curled trailers edged with pale yellow, and eye spots
rimmed with red and black.”
As the Harvester talked he indicated the points of difference with a
pencil he had picked up; now he laid it down and retreated beyond the
limits of the rug.
“I see,” said the Girl. “And this is colour?”
She touched the box.
“A few colours, rather,” said the Harvester. “I selected enough to fill
the box, with the help of the clerk who sold them to me. If they are not
right, I have permission to return and exchange them for anything you
want.”
With eager fingers she opened the box, and bent over it a face filled
with interest.
“Oh how I've always wanted this! I scarcely can wait to try it. I do
hope I can have it for my very own. Was it quite expensive?”
“No. Very cheap!” said the Harvester. “The paper isn't worth mentioning.
The little, empty tin box was only a few cents, and the paints differ
according to colour. Some appear to be more than others. I was surprised
that the outfit was so inexpensive.”
A skeptical little smile wavered on the Girl's face as she drew her
slender fingers across the trays of bright colour.
“If one dared accept your word, you really would be a comfort,” she
said, as she resolutely closed the box, pushed it away, and picked up a
pencil.
“If you will take the trouble to inquire at the banks, post office,
express office, hospital or of any druggist in Onabasha, you will
find that my word is exactly as good as my money, and taken quite as
readily.”
“I didn't say I doubted you. I have no right to do that until I feel
you deceive me. What I said was 'dared accept,' which means I must not,
because I have no right. But you make one wonder what you would do if
you were coaxed and asked for things and led by insinuations.”
“I can tell you that,” said the Harvester. “It would depend altogether
on who wanted anything of me and what they asked. If you would undertake
to coax and insinuate, you never would get it done, because I'd see what
you needed and have it at hand before you had time.”
The Girl looked at him wonderingly.
“Now don't spring your recurrent 'why' on me,” said the Harvester. “I'll
tell you 'why' some of these days. Just now answer me this question: Do
you want me to remain here or leave until you finish? Which way would
you be least afraid?”
“I am not at all afraid on the rug and with my work,” she said. “If you
want to hunt ginseng go by all means.”
“I don't want to hunt anything,” said the Harvester. “But if you are
more comfortable with me away, I'll be glad to go. I'll leave the dog
with you.”
He gave a short whistle and Belshazzar came bounding to him. The
Harvester stepped to the Girl's side, and dropping on one knee, he drew
his hand across the rug close to her skirts.
“Right here, Belshazzar,” he said. “Watch! You are on guard, Bel.”
“Well of all names for a dog!” exclaimed the Girl. “Why did you select
that?”
“My mother named my first dog Belshazzar, and taught me why; so each of
the three I've owned since have been christened the same. It means 'to
protect' and that is the office all of them perform; this one especially
has filled it admirably. Once I failed him, but he never has gone back
on me. You see he is not a particle afraid of me. Every step I take, he
is at my heels.”
“So was Bill Sikes' dog, if I remember.”
The Harvester laughed.
“Bel,” he said, “if you could speak you'd say that was an ugly one,
wouldn't you?”
The dog sprang up and kissed the face of the man and rubbed a loving
head against his breast.
“Thank you!” said the Harvester. “Now lie down and protect this woman as
carefully as you ever watched in your life. And incidentally, Bel,
tell her that she can't exterminate me more than once a day, and the
performance is accomplished for the present. I refuse to be a willing
sacrifice. 'So was Bill Sikes' dog!' What do you think of that, Bel?”
The Harvester arose and turned to go.
“What if this thing attempts to fly?” she asked.
“Your pardon,” said the Harvester. “If the emperor moves, slide the lid
over the box a few seconds, until he settles and clings quietly again,
and then slowly draw it away. If you are careful not to jar the table
heavily he will not go for hours yet.”
Again he turned.
“If there is no danger, why do you leave the dog?”
“For company,” said the Harvester. “I thought you would prefer an animal
you are not afraid of to a man you are. But let me tell you there is no
necessity for either. I know a woman who goes alone and unafraid through
every foot of woods in this part of the country. She has climbed, crept,
and waded, and she tells me she never saw but two venomous snakes this
side of Michigan. Nothing ever dropped on her or sprang at her. She
feels as secure in the woods as she does at home.”
“Isn't she afraid of snakes?”
“She dislikes snakes, but she is not afraid or she would not risk
encountering them daily.”
“Do you ever find any?”
“Harmless little ones, often. That is, Bel does. He is always nosing for
them, because he understands that I work in the earth. I think I have
encountered three dangerous ones in my life. I will guarantee you will
not find one in these woods. They are too open and too much cleared.”
“Then why leave the dog?”
“I thought,” said the Harvester patiently, “that your uncle might have
turned in some of his cattle, or if pigs came here the dog could chase
them away.”
She looked at him with utter panic in her face.
“I am far more afraid of a cow than a snake!” she cried. “It is so much
bigger!”
“How did you ever come into these woods alone far enough to find the
ginseng?” asked the Harvester. “Answer me that!”
“I wore Uncle Henry's top boots and carried a rake, and I suffered
tortures,” she replied.
“But you hunted until you found what you wanted, and came again to keep
watch on it?”
“I was driven--simply forced. There's no use to discuss it!”
“Well thank the Lord for one thing,” said the Harvester. “You didn't
appear half so terrified at the sight of me as you did at the mere
mention of a cow. I have risen inestimably in my own self-respect.
Belshazzar, you may pursue the elusive chipmunk. I am going to guard
this woman myself, and please, kind fates, send a ferocious cow this
way, in order that I may prove my valour.”
The Girl's face flushed slightly, and she could not restrain a laugh.
That was all the Harvester hoped for and more. He went beyond the edge
of the rug and sat on the leaves under a tree. She bent over her work
and only bird and insect notes and occasionally Belshazzar's excited
bark broke the silence. The Harvester stretched on the ground, his eyes
feasting on the Girl. Intensely he watched every movement. If a squirrel
barked she gave a nervous start, so precipitate it seemed as if it must
hurt. If a windfall came rattling down she appeared ready to fly in
headlong terror in any direction. At last she dropped her pencil and
looked at him helplessly.
“What is it?” he asked.
“The silence and these awful crashes when one doesn't know what is
coming,” she said.
“Will it bother you if I talk? Perhaps the sound of my voice will help?”
“I am accustomed to working when people talk, and it will be a comfort.
I may be able to follow you, and that will prevent me from thinking.
There are dreadful things in my mind when they are not driven out.
Please talk! Tell me about the herbs you gathered this morning.”
The Harvester gave the Girl one long look as she bent over her work. He
was vividly conscious of the graceful curves of her little figure, the
coil of dark, silky hair, softly waving around her temples and neck,
and when her eyes turned in his direction he knew that it was only the
white, drawn face that restrained him. He was almost forced to tell her
how he loved and longed for her; about the home he had prepared; of
a thousand personal interests. Instead, he took a firm grip and said
casually, “Foxglove harvest is over. This plant has to be taken when the
leaves are in second year growth and at bloom time. I have stripped my
mullein beds of both leaves and flowers. I finished a week ago. Beyond
lies a stretch of Parnassus grass that made me think of you, it was so
white and delicate. I want you to see it. It will be lovely in a few
weeks more.”
“You never had seen me a week ago.”
“Oh hadn't I?” said the Harvester. “Well maybe I dreamed about you then.
I am a great dreamer. Once I had a dream that may interest you some
day, after you've overcome your fear of me. Now this bed of which I was
speaking is a picture in September. You must arrange to drive home with
me and see it then.”
“For what do you sell foxglove and mullein?”
“Foxglove for heart trouble, and mullein for catarrh. I get ten cents a
pound for foxglove leaves and five for mullein and from seventy-five to
a dollar for flowers of the latter, depending on how well I preserve the
colour in drying them. They must be sealed in bottles and handled with
extreme care.”
“Then if I wasn't too childish to be out picking them, I could be
earning seventy-five cents a pound for mullein blooms?”
“Yes,” said the Harvester, “but until you learned the trick of stripping
them rapidly you scarcely could gather what would weigh two pounds a
day, when dried. Not to mention the fact that you would have to stand
and work mostly in hot sunshine, because mullein likes open roads and
fields and sunny hills. Now you can sit securely in the shade, and in
two hours you can make me a pattern of that moth, for which I would pay
a designer of the arts and crafts shop five dollars, so of course you
shall have the same.”
“Oh no!” she cried in swift panic. “You were charged too much! It isn't
worth a dollar, even!”
“On the contrary the candlestick on which I shall use it will be
invaluable when I finish it, and five is very little for the cream of my
design. I paid just right. You can earn the same for all you can do.
If you can embroider linen, they pay good prices for that, too and wood
carving, metal work, or leather things. May I see how you are coming
on?”
“Please do,” she said.
The Harvester sprang up and looked over the Girl's shoulder. He could
not suppress an exclamation of delight.
“Perfect!” he cried. “You can surpass their best drafting at the shop!
Your fortune is made. Any time you want to go to Onabasha you can make
enough to pay your board, dress you well, and save something every week.
You must leave here as soon as you can manage it. When can you go?”
“I don't know,” she said wearily. “I'd hate to tell you how full
of aches I am. I could not work much just now, if I had the best
opportunities in the world. I must grow stronger.”
“You should not work at anything until you are well,” he said. “It is a
crime against nature to drive yourself. Why will you not allow----”
“Do you really think, with a little practice, I can draw designs that
will sell?”
The Harvester picked up the sheet. The work was delicate and exact. He
could see no way to improve it.
“You know it will sell,” he said gently, “because you already have sold
such work.”
“But not for the prices you offer.”
“The prices I name are going to be for NEW, ORIGINAL DESIGNS. I've got a
thousand in my head, that old Mother Nature shows me in the woods and on
the water every day.”
“But those are yours; I can't take them.”
“You must,” said the Harvester. “I only see and recognize studies; I
can't materialize them, and until they are drawn, no one can profit by
them. In this partnership we revolutionize decorative art. There are
actually birds besides fat robins and nondescript swallows. The crane
and heron do not monopolize the water. Wild rose and golden-rod are not
the only flowers. The other day I was gathering lobelia. The seeds
are used in tonic preparations. It has an upright stem with flowers
scattered along it. In itself it is not much, but close beside it always
grows its cousin, tall bell-flower. As the name indicates, the flowers
are bell shape and I can't begin to describe their grace, beauty, and
delicate blue colour. They ring my strongest call to worship. My work
keeps me in the woods so much I remain there for my religion also.
Whenever I find these flowers I always pause for a little service of my
own that begins by reciting these lines:
“'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth
And tolls its perfume on the passing air,
Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth
A call to prayer.”
“Beautiful!” said the Girl.
“It's mighty convenient,” explained the Harvester. “By my method, you
see, you don't have to wait for your day and hour of worship. Anywhere
the blue bell rings its call it is Sunday in the woods and in your
heart. After I recite that, I pray my prayer.”
“Go on!” said the Girl. “This is no place to stop.”
“It is always one and the same prayer, and there are only two lines of
it,” said the Harvester. “It runs this way---- Let me take your pencil
and I will write it for you.”
He bent over her shoulder, and traced these lines on a scrap of the
wrapping paper:
“Almighty Evolver of the Universe:
Help me to keep my soul and body clean,
And at all times to do unto others as I would be done by.
Amen.”
The Girl took the slip and sat studying it; then she raised her eyes to
his face curiously, but with a tinge of awe in them.
“I can see you standing over a blue, bell-shaped flower reciting those
exquisite lines and praying this wonderful prayer,” she said. “Yesterday
you allowed the moth you were willing to pay five dollars for a drawing
of, to go, because you wouldn't risk breaking its wings. Why you are
more like a woman!”
A red stream crimsoned the Harvester's face.
“Well heretofore I have been considered strictly masculine,” he said.
“To appreciate beauty or to try to be just commonly decent is not
exclusively feminine. You must remember there are painters, poets,
musicians, workers in art along almost any line you could mention, and
no one calls them feminine, but there is one good thing if I am. You
need no longer fear me. If you should see me, muck covered, grubbing in
the earth or on a raft washing roots in the lake, you would not consider
me like a woman.”
“Would it be any discredit if I did? I think not. I merely meant that
most men would not see or hear the blue bell at all----and as for the
poem and prayer! If the woods make a man with such fibre in his soul, I
must learn them if they half kill me.”
“You harp on death. Try to forget the word.”
“I have faced it for months, and seen it do its grinding worst very
recently to the only thing on earth I loved or that loved me. I have no
desire to forget! Tell me more about the plants.”
“Forgive me,” said the Harvester gently. “Just now I am collecting
catnip for the infant and nervous people, hoarhound for colds and
dyspepsia, boneset heads and flowers for the same purpose. There is a
heavy head of white bloom with wonderful lacy leaves, called yarrow. I
take the entire plant for a tonic and blessed thistle leaves and flowers
for the same purpose.”
“That must be what I need,” interrupted the Girl. “Half the time I
believe I have a little fever, but I couldn't have dyspepsia, because I
never want anything to eat; perhaps the tonic would make me hungry.”
“Promise me you will tell that to the doctor who comes to see your aunt,
and take what he gives you.”
“No doctor comes to see my aunt. She is merely playing lazy to get out
of work. There is nothing the matter with her.”
“Then why----”
“My uncle says that. Really, she could not stand and walk across a room
alone. She is simply worn out.”
“I shall report the case,” said the Harvester instantly.
“You better not!” said the Girl. “There must be a mistake about you
knowing my uncle. Tell me more of the flowers.”
The Harvester drew a deep breath and continued:
“These I just have named I take at bloom time; next month come purple
thorn apple, jimson weed, and hemlock.”
“Isn't that poison?”
“Half the stuff I handle is.”
“Aren't you afraid?”
“Terribly,” said the Harvester in laughing voice. “But I want the money,
the sick folk need the medicine, and I drink water.”
The Girl laughed also.
“Look here!” said the Harvester. “Why not tell me just as closely as
you can about your aunt, and let me fix something for her; or if you are
afraid to trust me, let me have my friend of whom I spoke yesterday.”
“Perhaps I am not so much afraid as I was,” said the Girl. “I wish I
could! How could I explain where I got it and I wonder if she would take
it.”
“Give it to her without any explanation,” said the Harvester. “Tell her
it will make her stronger and she must use it. Tell me exactly how she
is, and I will fix up some harmless remedies that may help, and can do
no harm.”
“She simply has been neglected, overworked, and abused until she has
lain down, turned her face to the wall, and given up hope. I think it is
too late. I think the end will come soon. But I wish you would try. I'll
gladly pay----”
“Don't!” said the Harvester. “Not for things that grow in the woods and
that I prepare. Don't think of money every minute.”
“I must,” she said with forced restraint. “It is the price of life.
Without it one suffers----horribly----as I know. What other plants do
you gather?”
“Saffron,” answered the Harvester. “A beautiful thing! You must see it.
Tall, round stems, lacy, delicate leaves, big heads of bright yellow
bloom, touched with colour so dark it appears black--one of the
loveliest plants that grows. You should see my big bed of it in a week
or two more. It makes a picture.”
The words recalled him to the Girl. He turned to study her. He forgot
his commission and chafed at conventions that prevented his doing what
he saw was required so urgently. Fearing she would notice, he gazed away
through the forest and tried to think, to plan.
“You are not making noise enough,” she said.
So absorbed was the Harvester he scarcely heard her. In an attempt to
obey he began to whistle softly. A tiny goldfinch in a nest of thistle
down and plant fibre in the branching of a bush ten feet above him stuck
her head over the brim and inquired, “P'tseet?” “Pt'see!” answer the
Harvester. That began the duet. Before the question had been asked and
answered a half dozen times a catbird intruded its voice and hearing a
reply came through the bushes to investigate. A wren followed and became
very saucy. From----one could not see where, came a vireo, and almost at
the same time a chewink had something to say.
Instantly the Harvester answered. Then a blue jay came chattering to
ascertain what all the fuss was about, and the Harvester carried on
a conversation that called up the remainder of the feathered tribe. A
brilliant cardinal came tearing through the thicket, his beady black
eyes snapping, and demanded to know if any one were harming his mate,
brooding under a wild grape leaf in a scrub elm on the river embankment.
A brown thrush silently slipped like a snake between shrubs and trees,
and catching the universal excitement, began to flirt his tail and utter
a weird, whistling cry.
With one eye on the bird, and the other on the Girl sitting in amazed
silence, the Harvester began working for effect. He lay quietly, but in
turn he answered a dozen birds so accurately they thought their mates
were calling, and closer and closer they came. An oriole in orange and
black heard his challenge, and flew up the river bank, answering
at steady intervals for quite a time before it was visible, and in
resorting to the last notes he could think of a quail whistled “Bob
White” and a shitepoke, skulking along the river bank, stopped and
cried, “Cowk, cowk!”
At his limit of calls the Harvester changed his notes and whistled and
cried bits of bird talk in tone with every mellow accent and inflection
he could manage. Gradually the excitement subsided, the birds flew and
tilted closer, turned their sleek heads, peered with bright eyes, and
ventured on and on until the very bravest, the wren and the jay, were
almost in touch. Then, tired of hunting, Belshazzar came racing and the
little feathered people scattered in precipitate flight.
“How do you like that kind of a noise?” inquired the Harvester.
The Girl drew a deep breath.
“Of course you know that was the most exquisite sight I ever saw,” she
said. “I never shall forget it. I did not think there were that many
different birds in the whole world. Of all the gaudy colours! And they
came so close you could have reached out and touched them.”
“Yes,” said the Harvester calmly. “Birds are never afraid of me. At
Medicine Woods, when I call them like that, many, most of them, in fact,
eat from my hand. If you ever have looked at me enough to notice bulgy
pockets, they are full of wheat. These birds are strangers, but I'll
wager you that in a week I can make them take food from me. Of course,
my own birds know me, because they are around every day. It is much
easier to tame them in winter, when the snow has fallen and food is
scarce, but it only takes a little while to win a bird's confidence at
any season.”
“Birds don't know what there is to be afraid of,” she said.
“Your pardon,” said the Harvester, “but I am familiar with them, and
that is not correct. They have more to fear than human beings. No one is
going to kill you merely to see if he can shoot straight enough to hit.
Your life is not in danger because you have magnificent hair that some
woman would like for an ornament. You will not be stricken out in a
flash because there are a few bits of meat on your frame some one
wants to eat. No one will set a seductive trap for you, and, if you are
tempted to enter it, shut you from freedom and natural diet, in a cage
so small you can't turn around without touching bars. You are in a
secure and free position compared with the birds. I also have observed
that they know guns, many forms of traps, and all of them decide by the
mere manner of a man's passing through the woods whether he is a friend
or an enemy. Birds know more than many people realize. They do not
always correctly estimate gun range, they are foolishly venturesome
at times when they want food, but they know many more things than most
people give them credit for understanding. The greatest trouble with the
birds is they are too willing to trust us and be friendly, so they are
often deceived.”
“That sounds as if you were right,” said the Girl.
“I am of the woods, so I know I am,” answered the Harvester.
“Will you look at this now?”
He examined the drawing closely.
“Where did you learn?” he inquired.
“My mother. She was educated to her finger tips. She drew, painted,
played beautifully, sang well, and she had read almost all the best
books. Besides what I learned at high school she taught me all I know.
Her embroidery always brought higher prices than mine, try as I might. I
never saw any one else make such a dainty, accurate little stitch as she
could.”
“If this is not perfect, I don't know how to criticise it. I can and
will use it in my work. But I have one luna cocoon remaining and I would
give ten dollars for such a drawing of the moth before it flies. It may
open to-night or not for several days. If your aunt should be worse
and you cannot come to-morrow and the moth emerges, is there any way in
which I could send it to you?”
“What could I do with it?”
“I thought perhaps you could take a piece of paper and the pencils with
you, and secure an outline in your room. It need not be worked up with
all the detail in this. Merely a skeleton sketch would do. Could I leave
it at the house or send it with some one?”
“No! Oh no!” she cried. “Leave it here. Put it in a box in the bushes
where I hid the books. What are you going to do with these things?”
“Hide them in the thicket and scatter leaves over them.”
“What if it rains?”
“I have thought of that. I brought a few yards of oilcloth to-day and
they will be safe and dry if it pours.”
“Good!” she said. “Then if the moth comes out you bring it, and if I
am not here, put it under the cloth and I will run up some time in the
afternoon. But if I were you, I would not spread the rug until you know
if I can remain. I have to steal every minute I am away, and any day
uncle takes a notion to stay at home I dare not come.”
“Try to come to-morrow. I am going to bring some medicine for your
aunt.”
“Put it under the cloth if I am not here; but I will come if I can. I
must go now; I have been away far too long.”
The Harvester picked up one of the drug pamphlets, laid the drawing
inside it, and placed it with his other books. Then he drew out his
pocket book and laid a five-dollar bill on the table and began folding
up the chair and putting away the things. The Girl looked at the money
with eager eyes.
“Is that honestly what you would pay at the arts and crafts place?”
“It is the customary price for my patterns.”
“And are you sure this is as good?”
“I can bring you some I have paid that for, and let you see for yourself
that it is better.”
“I wish you would!” she cried eagerly. “I need that money, and I would
like to have it dearly, if I really have earned it, but I can't touch it
if I have not.”
“Won't you accept my word?”
“No. I will see the other drawings first, and if I think mine are as
good, I will be glad to take the money to-morrow.”
“What if you can't come?”
“Put them under the oilcloth. I watch all the time and I think Uncle
Henry has trained even the boys so they don't play in the river on
his land. I never see a soul here; the woods, house, and everything is
desolate until he comes home and then it is like----” she paused.
“I'll say it for you,” said the Harvester promptly. “Then it is like
hell.”
“At its worst,” supplemented the Girl. Taking pencils and a sheet of
paper she went swiftly through the woods. Before she left the shelter
of the trees, the Harvester saw her busy her hands with the front of
her dress, and he knew that she was concealing the drawing material. The
colour box was left, and he said things as he put it with the chair and
table, covered them with the rug and oilcloth, and heaped on a layer of
leaves.
Then he drove to the city and Betsy turned at the hospital corner
with no interference. He could face his friend that day. Despite
all discouragements he felt reassured. He was progressing. Means of
communication had been established. If she did not come, he could leave
a note and tell her if the moth had not emerged and how sorry he was to
have missed seeing her.
“Hello, lover!” cried Doctor Carey as the Harvester entered the office.
“Are you married yet?”
“No. But I'm going to be,” said the Harvester with confidence.
“Have you asked her?”
“No. We are getting acquainted. She is too close to trouble, too ill,
and too worried over a sick relative for me to intrude myself; it would
be brutal, but it's a temptation. Doc, is there any way to compel a man
to provide medical care for his wife?”
“Can he afford it?”
“Amply. Anything! Worth thousands in land and nobody knows what in
money. It's Henry Jameson.”
“The meanest man I ever knew. If he has a wife it's a marvel she has
survived this long. Won't he provide for her?”
“I suppose he thinks he has when she has a bed to lie on and a roof to
cover her. He won't supply food she can eat and medicine. He says she is
lazy.”
“What do you think?”
“I quote Miss Jameson. She says her aunt is slowly dying from overwork
and neglect.”
“David, doesn't it seem pretty good, when you say 'Miss Jameson'?”
“Loveliest sound on earth, except the remainder of it.”
“What's that?”
“Ruth!”
“Jove! That is a beautiful name. Ruth Langston. It will go well, won't
it?”
“Music that the birds, insects, Singing Water, the trees, and the breeze
can't ever equal. I'm holding on with all my might, but it's tough, Doc.
She's in such a dreadful place and position, and she needs so much. She
is sick. Can't you give me a prescription for each of them?”
“You just bet I can,” said the doctor, “if you can engineer their taking
them.”
“I suppose you'd hold their noses and pour stuff down them.”
“I would if necessary.”
“Well, it is.”
“All right----I'll fix something, and you see that they use it.”
“I can try,” said the Harvester.
“Try! Pah! You aren't half a man!”
“That's a half more than being a woman, anyway.”
“She called you feminine, did she?” cried the doctor, dancing and
laughing. “She ought to see you harvesting skunk cabbage and blue flag
or when you are angry enough.”
The doctor left the room and it was a half hour before he returned.
“Try that on them according to directions,” he said, handing over a
couple of bottles.
“Thank you!” said the Harvester, “I will!”
“That sounds manly enough.”
“Oh pother! It's not that I'm not a man, or a laggard in love; but I'd
like to know what you'd do to a girl dumb with grief over the recent
loss of her mother, who was her only relative worth counting, sick from
God knows what exposure and privation, and now a dying relative on her
hands. What could you do?”
“I'd marry her and pick her out of it!”
“I wouldn't have her, if she'd leave a sick woman for me!”
“I wouldn't either. She's got to stick it out until her aunt grows
better, and then I'll go out there and show you how to court a girl.”
“I guess not! You keep the girl you did court, courted, and you'll have
your hands full. How does that appear to you?”
The Harvester opened the pamphlet he carried and held up the drawing of
the moth.
The doctor turned to the light.
“Good work!” he cried. “Did she do that?”
“She did. In a little over an hour.”
“Fine! She should have a chance.”
“She is going to. She is going to have all the opportunity that is
coming to her.”
“Good for you, David! Any time I can help!”
The Harvester replaced the sketch and went to the wagon; but he left
Belshazzar in charge, and visited the largest dry goods store in
Onabasha, where he held a conference with the floor walker. When he came
out he carried a heaping load of boxes of every size and shape, with a
label on each. He drove to Medicine Woods singing and whistling.
“She didn't want me to go, Belshazzar!” he chuckled to the dog. “She was
more afraid of a cow than she was of me. I made some headway to-day, old
boy. She doesn't seem to have a ray of an idea what I am there for, but
she is going to trust me soon now; that is written in the books. Oh I
hope she will be there to-morrow, and the luna will be out. Got half a
notion to take the case and lay it in the warmest place I can find.
But if it comes out and she isn't there, I'll be sorry. Better trust to
luck.”
The Harvester stabled Betsy, fed the stock, and visited with the birds.
After supper he took his purchases and entered her room. He opened the
drawers of the chest he had made, and selecting the labelled boxes he
laid them in. But not a package did he open. Then he arose and radiated
conceit of himself.
“I'll wager she will like those,” he commented proudly, “because Kane
promised me fairly that he would have the right things put up for a girl
the size of the clerk I selected for him, and exactly what Ruth should
have. That girl was slenderer and not quite so tall, but he said
everything was made long on purpose. Now what else should I get?”
He turned to the dressing table and taking a notebook from his pocket
made this list:
Rugs for bed and bath room.
Mattresses, pillows and bedding,
Dresses for all occasions.
All kinds of shoes and overshoes.
“There are gloves, too!” exclaimed the Harvester. “She has to have some,
but how am I going to know what is right? Oh, but she needs shoes!
High, low, slippers, everything! I wonder what that clerk wears. I don't
believe shoes would be comfortable without being fitted, or at least the
proper size. I wonder what kind of dresses she likes. I hope she's fond
of white. A woman always appears loveliest in that. Maybe I'd better buy
what I'm sure of and let her select the dresses. But I'd love to have
this room crammed with girl-fixings when she comes. Doesn't seem as
if she ever has had any little luxuries. I can't miss it on anything a
woman uses. Let me think!”
Slowly he wrote again:
Parasols.
Fans.
Veils.
Hats.
“I never can get them! I think that will keep me busy for a few days,”
said the Harvester as he closed the door softly, and went to look at
the pupae cases. Then he carved on the vine of the candlestick for her
dressing table; with one arm around Belshazzar, re-read the story of
John Muir's dog, went into the lake, and to bed. Just as he was becoming
unconscious the beast lifted an inquiring head and gazed at the man.
“More 'fraid of cow,” the Harvester was muttering in a sleepy chuckle.