'Crombie came with me to Cedarton, engaged two light, serviceable wagons
to convey us and my effects, and then drove out here with me to help me
get settled. We reached Bald Knob just as the sun was setting yesterday
afternoon. The drive out from town was beautiful. Neither talked much on
the trip. I couldn't, and 'Crombie seemed to be thinking. The main
highway, which we traveled for a number of miles, was made of gravel,
brought from a considerable stream which, I learn, runs somewhere
nearabout. When we left the road, our way became quite rough. It was
merely a succession of knob paths, which had been broadened enough for
the passage of four-wheeled vehicles. As we went deeper and deeper into
the wood, the scenery became wilder and grander. We saw vast ravines,
where the earth shore straight down for many feet; tortuous channels
where the fierce rains had plowed a passage to lower ground; trees of
all description growing everywhere, while shrubs, creepers and vines
interlaced and fought silently for supremacy. Once we passed for nearly
half a mile along a broad, shallow stream with a slate bed, bordered on
one side by a gigantic, leaden, serrated slate cliff whereon some
patches of early moss gleamed greenly bright, fed by the moisture which
filtered through the overlapping strata. This cliff was somber; it was
almost like a shadow cast upon us. But when we had passed it the
sunshine came sweeping gloriously through a gap in the hills, and I felt
my spirit leap up gratefully to meet it.
We could see Bald Knob for miles before we reached it, and as we drove
along, each smoking, neither talking, I found that my eyes wandered time
and again to the bare, conical cap toward which we were creeping. I was
wondering with all the soul of me if I could meet the test, now that it
stared me in the face. It was one thing to sit in 'Crombie's leather
chair and decide comfortably upon this course, and another thing to see
myself approaching a hut in the midst of a primeval forest--and to think
that I was going to live alone there for a twelve-month! I know my face
would not have made a good model for a picture of Hope, as the two
wagons drew up in the ravine which partially circled the enormous hill
whereon 'Crombie had said a shack had at one time stood. At length we
found a sort of road--it was more an opening through the dense
undergrowth than anything else--and by dint of much urging from the
drivers, and frequent rests, we came at last to a little plateau,
perhaps a quarter of an acre in extent, not quite half way up the knob.
On the farther side of the plateau was a small building, resting at the
base of a sheer wall of stone and earth.
It was then 'Crombie shook off the quiet mood he had shared with me the
greater part of the journey, and became hilarious. He hallooed, laughed,
joked and capered about like a schoolboy on a frolic, and not to hurt
the dear fellow I pretended to fall in with his mood. I really felt as
if the world was rapidly drawing to an end.
Last night we could do nothing but make ourselves comfortable as
possible, and go to bed early. To-day we have worked hard, and obtained
results. I couldn't have got settled without 'Crombie. He has tact,
ingenuity, invention, and did most of the hard work. He said it would be
better for me not to exert myself too much, which sounds silly,
considering that my bodily measurements would have almost equaled his
own.
Now he and the drivers and the horses and the wagons are gone. A
half-hour ago I caught my last glimpse of him between a scrub oak and a
cedar. He was looking back, saw me, waved his arm prodigiously, sent up
a hearty hail, and disappeared. I stood for thirty minutes without
stirring from my tracks. Then from afar off, through the wonderfully
still twilight air, I heard a voice singing. The words were lost because
of the distance, but the tune was familiar. It was a rollicking, foolish
thing we had sung at college. 'Crombie was sending it to me as a last
message, to cheer me up. I inclined my ear desperately to the welcome
sound. I held my breath as it fell fainter and fainter, now broken, now
barely audible. At length, strain my ears as I would, it was lost.
But another sound had taken its place. The sun was down, and now, at
twilight, the Harpist of the Wood awoke and touched his multitudinous
strings. He was in gentle mood to-day; a mood of dreams and revery. The
melody was barely audible; just a stirring, a breath. But it stole upon
my ears as something wonderful, and sweet, and holy. I had never heard
anything at all similar. I stood entranced, listening to the ghostly
gamut lightly plucked from the bare limbs and twigs of the hardy trees
which had not yet responded to the season's call; from the slender green
needles of the pine and the denser plumes which clothed the cedar, and
offered to me. As I hearkened to the elfin harmony I became conscious of
a certain peace. The boundless solitudes which stretched unbroken in
every direction did not seem forbidding and oppressive as I had sensed
them when traveling. A subtle kinship with the wind, and the trees, and
the earth awoke in my mind, and in some vague way which brought a thrill
with it I felt that I had come home. All these things which I had feared
grew quite close at this twilight hour, and I imagined they came with
pleading, welcoming hands, as to a long lost son or brother who was much
beloved. Then as I raised my head a cool, soft breeze smote my face and
rushed up my nostrils, and I smelt the elusive, invigorating tang of the
evergreens. I smiled, and drew repeated draughts of the pure essence
deep into my lungs, filling every cranny and corner again and again.
When I finally turned and went back to the shack, I felt as if I had
taken wine.
I lit a lamp, made a fire in my kitchen stove, prepared a frugal meal
and ate it. Later I took a chair outside the door and sat for two hours,
thinking. One very important thought came to me during that time. My
book of fiction did not sell; perhaps a book of facts would. So I have
decided to write a history of my exile. To-night it promises to be very
prosy and uneventful. I cannot see how anything could possibly transpire
which would interest a reader. But the task will provide employment for
me, at least. So every night before I go to bed I shall make a record of
anything which happened that day. If nothing occurs, I shall wait for
the incident worth relating. To-night I shall tell of my new home, and
its surroundings.
I have named my place the Wilderness Lodge, thinking how the ill-starred
Byron would have joyed in just such a spot. We found it much as 'Crombie
said it would be: a substantial, square room built of oak logs, with a
floor of undressed planks. It is covered with clapboards, and the roof
is rain-proof. The front door is heavy, and may be secured on the inside
with a large beam which drops into iron brackets. There is a second door
in the rear which leads into the kitchen, a room highly meriting the
proverbial expression--"Not big enough to whip a cat in." There are two
opposing windows, which are small. Each is provided with a shutter,
hinged at the top. They are propped up with sticks slant-wise to admit
light and air, and to keep rain out. A nice arrangement, I think. Facing
the front door is the fireplace; a huge, rough stone affair, large
enough to sleep in if one were so inclined. It has a broad stone hearth,
and is fitted with black, squat andirons. Already I am planning the joy
I shall derive from this fireplace when next winter comes. To-night I
have built a brisk fire for cheer, company, and precaution, for the
place has been uninhabited for years, and last night's warming did not
drive out all the damp. It is wonderful how satisfying the dancing
flames are; they seem to impart their glow and warmth to me.
My furniture is very simple, but enough. I have a cot with plenty of
bedding; a table, several chairs, including a rocker; two trunks and
some grass rugs for the floor. Of course, there are hundreds of lesser
things which I could not get along without, but while they have their
places, they are not worth cataloguing. It is also needless to say that
one of the trunks is half full of books. Some of these have already
found their way to the table; Stevenson, Hearn, Rabelais, Villon, Borrow
and some others.
When I come to tell of my demesne I don't know where to draw the line,
for there are no boundary marks, and I can easily fancy "I am monarch of
all I survey." I suppose I have a yard, for I shall think of the plateau
in that way. Whoever built the Lodge cleared the level place in front,
and around, of all trees and bushes. It is dry and barren now, and
covered with dead leaves, but soon there will be a prying and a pushing
of little green heads and I shall be kept busy if I don't want to be
overrun and driven out. Beginning a short distance back of the Lodge,
and continuing upward for perhaps a hundred feet, a thick band of pines
and cedars belt the hill with a zone of perpetual green. Beyond this the
vegetation dwindles, becomes scarcer, and finally ceases, leaving the
apex of the knob absolutely bare. Below my plateau, and around,
everywhere, as far as I can see, are trees, trees, trees. Trees of every
size and every kind indigenous to the climate. Evergreens predominate.
There are millions of them, but there are also wide expanses of oak,
ash, beech, sycamore, elm, walnut, dogwood. Most of these have as yet
not put forth the tiniest shoot. But here and there in the dun, brown
stretches a dogwood has joyously flung out a thousand gleaming stars
which shine, white and radiant, a pledge and a promise of the general
resurrection nearhand.
A moment gone I laid down my pen and stepped outside. How vast! How
still! How illimitable! I had never felt my insignificance so keenly
before. I seemed a tiny atom of dust. But as I stood and heard again
those muffled chords from the mighty Harp, and saw the patient planets
overhead again on guard, I suddenly knew that I was truly part and
parcel of the Whole, and in my heart Hope gave birth to prayer.
Now to bed, tired, but at peace, with both windows flung wide--it is
'Crombie's orders.