Two weeks have passed since I talked with the dryad in the glade.
I am getting along splendidly. That is, my appetite is good, I sleep the
night through, and my trouble remains at a standstill. I'm not expecting
this to leave me at once. I read some every night. The days I force
myself to spend outdoors. If I do not go on a tramp, I prowl around my
hill of refuge. Yesterday I found a creditable cave some score of rods
from the Lodge, in about the same latitude. There is an irregular,
outjutting ledge of rock here, and it was beneath a moss-splotched
bowlder I found a hole leading into the knob, its entrance large enough
for me to stand erect in. I am not averse to a mild adventure, so I
began a tentative exploration. I had proceeded but a few steps, however,
when I stopped. I heard something. I had my revolver with me--I make a
habit of taking it with me wherever I go--so I drew this and advanced a
little further. The sound was repeated, louder and more menacing. I
would have thought it the hiss of a serpent, but for its remarkable
volume. I looked, but could see nothing. The passage ended in darkness.
The floor was littered with small stones, and pebbles mixed with fine
sand. I picked up one of the stones and tossed it sharply into the
darkness ahead. The response was instantaneous. The hissing was renewed,
but now it was accompanied by a scuffling sound, and I became aware that
some formless thing was approaching me. I could see the bulk of it
making for me--but that was enough! I turned and ran, ignominiously,
forgetting my weapon in my fright. As I made my exit from the cave at
full speed I grasped a near-by sapling desperately, described an erratic
and ungraceful arc, thus saving myself from tumbling down the steep
declivity which faced me, and finally brought up some score of feet
away. I turned to see if I was pursued, but there was only an anxious
and solicitous mother buzzard in the cave-mouth, her ugly neck
outstretched toward me, and her broad wings bowed in anger. I laughed.
It was a little late for their nesting season, but this one doubtless
had a pair of miserable little yellow goslings back in that hole.
I give this incident to show how quiet my life was up to this time, and
how such a trifling occurrence really caused me much excitement.
I began my chronicle to-night by saying it had been two weeks since I
talked with the dryad in the glade. Why should I reckon time from that?
I wrote the sentence unconsciously. Now, when I come to think about it,
I realize that the dryad has been in my mind a very great deal during
the last fortnight. You must know there is to be no concealment in this
narrative. It is to be a record of absolute truth. Not only what I do,
but what I think and feel, shall be faithfully set down. She--I don't
even know her name! I can't see why I should have parted from her
without asking her name, since I shall in all likelihood see her many
times during the coming year. Perhaps it was her eyes which made me
forget such an important question. I have never seen eyes like
hers--never. They are the Irish gray. That's a different gray from all
others, as I suppose you know. Don't ask me how they are different, for
I don't propose to attempt an explanation. But they are, and especially
is this true in women's eyes. A woman with Irish gray eyes can be
dangerous if she wants to. In addition to their remarkable color, the
dryad's eyes have very white lids which droop the least bit, perpetually
shading the iris. She is something of a paradox. She has small feet,
smooth hands and carefully kept nails, but her language, while spoken in
a peculiarly pleasing voice, is so ungrammatical and colloquial that it
makes rigors creep over me. I told her that I was coming to see her and
her granny, but I haven't gone. Why haven't I? I told her I was coming
to see her because I got lonely. Have I been lonely? Yes; very. Three
days ago I bravely started for the glade where I had found her,
intending to follow the guiding creek on to Lizard Point. I turned off
before I reached the creek and went ten miles in another direction. Why
did I do that? I want to see the dryad again. She interests me; I feel
that we shall be good friends. She has a bright and ready mind, and is
absolutely natural. She says what she wants to, laughs when she wants
to, does what she wants to. I verily think she would be incapable of
deception or guile, but I may be wrong in this. I suspect I am. Such
things are not conditions resultant from culture and refinement; they
belong to the human organism, and so, by virtue of her being, the dryad
must possess them.
To-morrow I am going to Lizard Point.
This afternoon I came in before sunset from a very leisurely tramp of
about four hours. Whenever I stir abroad my pint Mason jar full of fresh
water goes with me, for I have banished all doubt, and believe
steadfastly in the life-plant. You may be sure I am always looking,
always watching. That is my sole object in life just now. I feel that I
will find the thing if it grows in this part of the world, for my search
is to be most thorough. Thus far I have discovered nothing whatever to
arouse hope or anticipation.
I came home early to-day because I am to have a garden. I decided upon
this last night after I was abed. Just before I toppled over into sleep
I remembered that the ground to the left of the Lodge was loamy, with
few rocks, and not many stumps. So to-day I despatched an early supper,
took a rake and began to clear the ground. It was nice, easy work, and I
soon discovered that my garden would run sixty feet one way by
forty-five or fifty the other. There was a heavy layer of decaying
leaves to scrape away, a number of loose stones, and quantities of
sticks fallen or blown from trees. I stopped in about fifteen minutes to
refill my pipe, found that I had left my tobacco on one of the benches,
and went and helped myself. As I touched match to bowl I heard a high,
harsh voice singing in the most dolorous key imaginable the following
doggerel couplet:
"Rabbit in th' log.
Ain't got no rabbit dog."
I stopped drawing on the stem, and turned my head in the direction of
the sound. The burning splinter of pine nipped my fingers, and I dropped
it. The crazy tune came from down the road, which curved not a great
distance away. Again, louder, and in a more positive tone, some one
declared:
"Rabbit in th' log,
Ain't got no rabbit dog.
Chick'n on my back,
Houn' on my track,
I'm a-makin' fur my shanty--
God knows!"
The last word was carried through fluctuations which would almost have
stood for a cadenza in a music score, and as it trailed off into silence
the singer appeared from around the bend.
In the half light he presented a strange, almost a grotesque figure, as
he toiled up the road repeating over and over his peculiar lines. I
stood perfectly quiet, and watched his approach. There was a certain
limp to his gait, coupled with a decided unsteadiness, which made his
seeming yet more uncouth as he drew nearer and nearer through the
gloaming. His head was bent, and he was unaware of my presence until he
reached the plateau, and advanced some distance across it. Then he
looked up, saw me, and came to a standstill with a jerky motion. He was
perhaps twenty feet from me, as we stood and exchanged stares.
An exceedingly tall, loose-jointed individual faced me. His clothing was
nondescript, mostly rags and tatters. His trousers, frayed at the ends,
came to an abrupt stop several inches above the tops of his run-down,
rusty shoes, and the spaces between showed a dust-begrimed skin. He wore
a coat of the Prince Albert pattern, much too small. Beneath this was
some sort of shirt which would not admit of description. His face was
gaunt and hairy. I will not say he wore a beard; the term would be
incorrect. The hair grew in patches; sickly, stringy strands, with an
extra tuft on the chin which curved sideways. I was forcibly reminded of
a goat when I saw this chin-tuft. He wore a colorless, conical felt hat,
broad-brimmed and bandless. The brim continued the slope of the crown in
an unbroken line, producing a startling effect. There came to my mind
the headgear of Hendrik Hudson's crew as depicted in the play of Rip Van
Winkle. This specter-like apparition might well have been a ghost, but
for the recent evidence of a strong pair of lungs. Beneath one arm,
hugged to his side, the figure carried a bundle covered with oilcloth.
For the length of a half-dozen breaths we stood motionless and
speechless. Then the figure began to nod its head at me, slowly,
soberly, up and down, up and down, and with each movement the curved
chin-tuft would shake. This senseless action irritated me. I don't know
why, for it might just as well have caused amusement. But for some
reason I felt anger rising within me; not violent, but enough to barb my
tongue.
"Who are you, and what do you want?"
My words were sharp, but that they did not cut I knew from the sprightly
reply.
"I'm a fiddler, 'n' I don't want nothin'!"
Still the head bobbed, and the goat-tuft shook.
"You're nothing of the sort," I retorted; "you're a satyr, and you want
a drink of whiskey!"