JONATHAN

He was so ugly,--outside, I mean: long and lank, flat-chested, shrunken,

round-shouldered, stooping when he walked; body like a plank, arms and

legs like split rails, feet immense, hands like paddles, head set on a

neck scrawny as a picked chicken's, hair badly put on and in patches, some

about his head, some around his jaws, some under his chin in a half

moon,--a good deal on the back of his hands and on his chest. Nature had

hewn him in the rough and had left him with every axe mark showing.

He wore big shoes tied with deer hide strings and nondescript breeches

that wrinkled along his knotted legs like old gun covers. These were

patched and repatched with various hues and textures,--parts of another

pair,--bits of a coat and fragments of tailor's cuttings. Sewed in their

seat was half of a cobbler's apron,--for greater safety in sliding over

ledges and logs, he would tell you. Next came a leather belt polished

with use, and then a woolen shirt,--any kind of a shirt,--cross-barred or

striped,--whatever the store had cheapest, and over that a waistcoat with

a cotton back and some kind of a front, looking like a state map, it had

so many colored patches. There was never any coat,--none that I remember.

When he wore a coat he was another kind of a Jonathan,--a store-dealing

Jonathan, or a church-going Jonathan, or a town-meeting Jonathan,--not the

"go-a-fishin'," or "bee-huntin'," or "deer-stalkin'" Jonathan whom I knew.

There was a wide straw hat, too, that crowned his head and canted with the

wind and flopped about his neck, and would have sailed away down many a

mountain brook but for a faithful leather strap that lay buried in the

half-moon whiskers and held on for dear life. And from under the rim of

this thatch, and half hidden in the matted masses of badly adjusted hair,

was a thin, peaked nose, bridged by a pair of big spectacles, and

somewhere below these, again, a pitfall of a mouth covered with twigs of

hair and an underbrush of beard, while deep-set in the whole tangle, like

still pools reflecting the blue and white of the sweet heavens above, lay

his eyes,--eyes that won you, kindly, twinkling, merry, trustful, and

trusting eyes. Beneath these pools of light, way down below, way down

where his heart beat warm, lived Jonathan.

I know a fruit in Mexico, delicious in flavor, called Timburici, covered

by a skin as rough and hairy as a cocoanut; and a flower that bristles

with thorns before it blooms into waxen beauty; and there are agates

encrusted with clay and pearls that lie hidden in oysters. All these

things, somehow, remind me of Jonathan.

His cabin was the last bit of shingle and brick chimney on that side of

the Franconia Notch. There were others, farther on in the forest, with

bark slants for shelter, and forked sticks for swinging kettles; but

civilization ended with Jonathan's store-stove and the square of oil-cloth

that covered his sitting-room floor. Upstairs, under the rafters, there

was a guest-chamber smelling of pine boards and drying herbs, and

sheltering a bed gridironed with bed-cord and softened by a thin layer of

feathers encased in a ticking and covered with a cotton quilt. This bed

always made a deep impression upon me mentally and bodily. Mentally,

because I always slept so soundly in it whenever I visited

Jonathan,--even with the rain pattering on the roof and the wind soughing

through the big pine-trees; and bodily, because--well, because of the

cords. Beside this bed was a chair for my candle, and on the floor a small

square plank, laid loosely over the stovepipe hole which, in winter, held

the pipe.

In summer mornings Jonathan made an alarm clock of this plank, flopping it

about with the end of a fishing-rod poked up from below, never stopping

until he saw my sleepy face peering down into his own. There was no

bureau, only a nail or so in the scantling, and no washstand, of course;

the tin basin at the well outside was better.

Then there was an old wife that lived in the cabin,--an old wife made of

sole leather, with yellow-white hair and a thin, pinched face and a body

all angles,--chest, arms, everywhere,--outlined through her straight up

and down calico dress. When she spoke, however, you stopped to listen,--it

was like a wood sound, low and far away,--soft as a bird call. People

living alone in the forests often have these voices.

Last there was a dog,--a mean, sniveling, stump-tailed dog, of no

particular breed or kidney. One of those dogs whose ancestry went to the

bad many generations before he was born. A dog part fox,--he got all his

slyness here; and part wolf, this made him ravenous; and part

bull-terrier, this made him ill-tempered; and all the rest poodle, that

made him too lazy to move.

The wife knew this dog, and hung the bacon on a high nail out of his

reach, and covered with a big dish the pies cooling on the bench; and the

neighbors down the road knew him and chased him out of their dairy-cellars

when he nosed into the milk-pans and cheese-pots; and even the little

children found out what a coward he was, and sent him howling home to his

hole under the porch, where he grumbled and pouted all day like a spoiled

child that had been half whipped. Everybody knew him, and everybody

despised him for a low-down, thieving, lazy cur,--everybody except

Jonathan. Jonathan loved him,--loved his weepy, smeary eyes, and his

rough, black hair, and his fat round body, short stumpy legs, and shorter

stumpy tail,--especially the tail. Everything else that the dog lacked

could be traced back to the peccadillos of his ancestors,--Jonathan was

responsible for the tail.

"Ketched in a b'ar-trap I hed sot up back in thet green timber on Loon

Pond Maountin' six year ago last fall, when he wuz a pup," he would say,

holding the dog in his lap,--his favorite seat. "I swan, ef it warn't too

bad! Thinks I, when I sot it, I'll tell the leetle cuss whar it wuz;

then--I must hev forgot it. It warn't a week afore he wuz runnin' a rabbet

and run right into it. Wall, sir, them iron jaws took thet tail er his'n

off julluk a knife. He's allus been kinder sore ag'in me sence, and I

dunno but he's right, fur it wuz mighty keerless in me. Wall, sir, he come

yowlin' hum, and when he see me he did look saour,--no use talkin',--jest

ez ef he wuz a-sayin', 'Yer think you're paowerful cunnin' with yer

b'ar-traps, don't ye? Jest see what it's done to my tail. It's kinder

sp'ilt me for a dog.' All my fault, warn't it, George?" patting his head.

(Only Jonathan would call a dog George.)

Here the dog would look up out of one eye as he spoke,--he hadn't

forgotten the bear-trap, and never intended to let Jonathan forget it

either. Then Jonathan would admire ruefully the end of the stump, stroking

the dog all the while with his big, hairy, paddle-like hands, George

rooting his head under the flap of the party-colored waistcoat.

One night, I remember, we had waited supper,--the wife and I,--we were

obliged to wait, the trout being in Jonathan's creel,--when Jonathan

walked in, looking tired and worried.

"Hez George come home, Marthy?" he asked, resting his long bamboo rod

against the porch rail and handing the creel of trout to the wife. "No?

Wall, I'm beat ef thet ain't cur'us. Guess I got ter look him up." And he

disappeared hurriedly into the darkening forest, his anxious, whistling

call growing fainter and fainter as he was lost in its depths. Marthy was

not uneasy,--not about the dog; it was the supper that troubled her. She

knew Jonathan's ways, and she knew George. This was a favorite trick of

the dog's,--this of losing Jonathan.

The trout were about burnt to a crisp and the corn-bread stone cold when

Jonathan came trudging back, George in his arms,--a limp, soggy, half-dead

dog, apparently. Marthy said nothing. It was an old story. Half the time

Jonathan carried him home.

"Supper's ready," she said quietly, and we went in.

George slid out of Jonathan's arms, smelt about for a soft plank, and fell

in a heap on the porch, his chin on his paws, his mean little eyes

watching lazily,--speaking to nobody, noticing nobody, sulking all to

himself. There he stayed until he caught a whiff of the fragrant, pungent

odor of fried trout. Then he cocked one eye and lifted an ear. He must not

carry things too far. Next, I heard a single thump of his six-inch tail.

George was beginning to get pleased; he always did when there were things

to eat.

All this time Jonathan, tired out, sat in his big splint chair at the

supper-table. He had been thrashing the brook since daylight,--over his

knees sometimes. I could still see the high-water mark on his patched

trousers. Another whiff of the frying-pan, and George got up. He dared not

poke his nose into Marthy's lap,--there were too many chunks of wood

within easy reach of her hand. So he sidled up to Jonathan, rubbing his

nose against his big knees, whining hungrily, looking up into his face.

"I tell ye," said Jonathan, smiling at me, patting the dog as he spoke,

"this yere George hez got more sense'n most men. He knows what's become of

them trout we ketched. I guess he's gittin' over the way I treated him

to-day. Ye see, we wuz up the East Branch when he run a fox south. Thinks

I, the fox'll take a whirl back and cross the big runway; and, sure

enough, it warn't long afore I heard George a-comin' back, yippin' along

up through Hank Simons' holler. So I whistled to him and steered off up

onto the maountin' to take a look at Bog-eddy and try and git a pickerel.

When I come daown ag'in, I see George warn't whar I left him, so I

hollered and whistled ag'in. Then, thinks I, you're mad 'cause I left ye,

an' won't let on ye _kin_ hear; so I come along hum without him. When I

went back a while ago a-lookin' for him, would yer believe it, thar he wuz

a-layin' in the road, about forty rod this side of Hank Simons' sugar

maples, flat onto his stummick an' disgusted an' put out awful. It wuz

about all I could do ter git him hum. I knowed the minute I come in fust

time an' see he warn't here thet his feelin's wuz hurt 'cause I left him.

I presaume mebbe I oughter hollered ag'in afore I got so fer off. Then I

thought, of course, he knowed I'd gone to Bog-eddy. Beats all, what sense

some dogs hez."

I never knew Jonathan to lose patience with George but once: that was when

the dog tried to burrow into the hole of a pair of chipmunks whom Jonathan

loved. They lived in a tree blanketed with moss and lying across the wood

road. George had tried to scrape an acquaintance by crawling in

uninvited, nearly scaring the little fellows to death, and Jonathan had

flattened him into the dry leaves with his big, paddle-like hands. That

was before the bear-trap had nipped his tail, but George never forgot it.

He was particularly polite to chipmunks after that. He would lie still by

the hour and hear Jonathan talk to them without even a whine of

discontent. I watched the old man one morning up beneath the ledges,

groping, on his hands and knees, filling his pockets with nuts, and when

he reached the wood road, emptying them in a pile near the chipmunk's

tree, George looking on good-naturedly.

"Guess you leetle cunnin's better hurry up," he said, while he poured out

the nuts on the ground, his knees sticking up as he sat, like some huge

grasshopper's. "Guess ye ain't got more 'n time to fill yer

cubbud,--winter's a-comin'! Them leetle birches on Bog-eddy is turnin'

yeller,--that's the fust sign. 'Fore ye knows it snow'll be flyin'. Then

whar'll ye be with everything froze tighter'n Sampson bound the heathen,

you cunnin' leetle skitterin' pups. Then I presaume likely ye'll come

a-drulin' raound an' want me an' George should gin ye suthin to git

through th' winter on,--won't they, George?"

"Beats all," he said to me that night, "how thoughtful some dogs is.

Hadn't been fer George to-day, I'd clean forgot them leetle folks. I see

him scratching raound in the leaves an' I knowed right away what he wuz

thinkin' of."

Often when I was sketching in the dense forest, Jonathan would lie down

beside me, the old flop of a hat under his head, his talk rambling on.

"I don't wonder ye like to paint 'em. Thar hain't nothin' so human as

trees. Take thet big hemlock right in front er yer. Hain't he led a pretty

decent life? See how praoud an' tall he's growed, with them arms of his'n

straight aout an' them leetle chillen of his'n spraouting up raound him. I

tell ye them hemlocks is pretty decent people. Now take a look at them two

white birches down by thet big rock. Ain't it a shame the way them fellers

hez been goin' on sence they wuz leetle saplin's, makin' it so nothin'

could grow raound 'em,--with their jackets all ragged an' tore like

tramps, an' their toes all out of their shoes whar ther roots is stickin'

clear of the bark,--ain't they a-ketchin' it in their ole age? An' then

foller on daown whar thet leetle bunch er silver maples is dancin' in the

sunlight, so slender an' cunnin',--all aout in their summer dresses,

julluk a bevy er young gals,--ain't they human like? I tell ye, trees is

the humanest things thet is."

These talks with me made George restless. He was never happy unless

Jonathan had _him_ on his mind.

But it was a cluster of daisies that first lifted the inner lid of

Jonathan's heart for me. I was away up the side of the Notch overlooking

the valley, my easel and canvas lashed to a tree, the wind blew so, when

Jonathan came toiling up the slope, a precipice in fact, with a tin can

strapped to his back, filled with hot corn and some doughnuts, and threw

himself beside me, the sweat running down his weather-tanned neck.

"So long ez we know whar you're settin' at work it ain't nat'ral to let ye

starve, be it?" throwing himself beside me. George had started ahead of

him and had been picked up and carried as usual.

When Jonathan sat upright, after a breathing spell, his eye fell on a tuft

of limp, bruised daisies, flattened to the earth by the heel of his clumsy

shoe. There were acres of others in sight.

"Gosh hang!" he said, catching his breath suddenly, as if something had

stung him, and reaching down with his horny, bent fingers, "ef thet ain't

too bad." Then to himself in a tone barely audible,--he had entirely

forgotten my presence,--"You never had no sense, Jonathan, nohow,

stumblin' raound like er bull calf tramplin' everything. Jes' see what

ye've gone an' done with them big feet er yourn," bending over the bruised

plant and tenderly adjusting the leaves. "Them daisies hez got jest ez

good a right ter live ez you hev."

* * * * *

I was almost sure when I began that I had a story to tell. I had thought

of that one about Luke Pollard,--the day Luke broke his leg behind Loon

Mountain, and Jonathan carried him down the gorge on his back, crossing

ledges that would have scared a goat. It was snowing at the time, they

said, and blowing a gale. When they got half way down White Face,

Jonathan's foot slipped and he fell into the ravine, breaking his wrist.

Only the drifts saved his life. Luke caught a sapling and held on. The

doctor set Jonathan's wrist last, and Luke never knew it had been broken

until the next day. It is one of the stories they tell you around the

stove winter evenings.

"Julluk the night Jonathan carried aout Luke," they say, listening to the

wind howling over the ledges.

And then I thought of that other story that Hank Simons told me,--the one

about the mill back of Woodstock caving in from the freshet and burying

the miller's girl. No one dared lift the timbers until Jonathan crawled

in. The child was pinned down between the beams, and the water rose so

fast they feared the wreckage would sweep the mill. Jonathan clung to the

sills waist-deep in the torrent, crept under the floor timbers, and then

bracing his back held the beam until he dragged her clear. It happened a

good many years ago, but Hank always claimed it had bent Jonathan's back.

But, after all, they are not the things I love best to remember of

Jonathan.

It is always the old man's voice, crooning his tuneless song as he trudges

home in the twilight, his well-filled creel at his side,--the

good-for-nothing dog in his arms; or it is that look of sweet contentment

on his face,--the deep and thoughtful eyes, filled with the calm serenity

of his soul. And then the ease and freedom of his life! Plenty of air and

space, and plenty of time to breathe and move! Having nothing, possessing

all things! No bonds to guard,--no cares to stifle,--no trains to

catch,--no appointments to keep,--no fashions to follow,--no follies to

shun! Only the old wife and worthless, lazy dog, and the rod and the

creel! Only the blessed sunshine and fresh, sweet air, and the cool touch

of deep woods.

No, there is no story--only Jonathan.