"The Point?... Lizard Point?"
"Lizard P'int."
He evinced no surprise that I knew the name.
"Who do you know there?" I demanded.
"All on 'em. Granny, Granf'er, Lessie. They's my folks."
So her name was Lessie.
"Your folks! What do you mean?"
"Granny's my aunt."
That would make the Dryad and the Satyr cousins! Heavens! Could this be
true? I sank back on my elbow, and slowly dragged the pipe stem over my
lower lip into my mouth. Somehow I did not relish this news.
"Then you are some sort of cousin to Lessie," I murmured, confusedly,
and I doubt if he heard. At least, he did not reply, and I lay and
looked at the sky and the somber bulk of the forest below, pondering
this strange news which I could not comprehend. Was it possible that
bright creature's blood could flow in the veins of this derelict? The
idea did not suit me, and yet I had no reason to doubt it. My interest
flagged; I no longer felt the inclination to question, and a long
silence fell. I could not order my guest away, especially after he had
broken my bread, but I would not be sorry when he went. The minutes
passed; the fire sank low. My pipe burned out: I could feel it cooling
under my hand. A drowsiness stole over me. I must have been on the
borderland of sleep when I became dreamily conscious of a strange,
pervading harmony. Ethereal echoes seemed to wake within my brain, and
the hushed night was suddenly tuned for a fairies' dance.
In stupefied amazement I swung my head around, and my mouth fell ajar
and my brows knit when I saw from whence these heavenly strains
proceeded. Jeff Angel was back against the stump. His knees were
sticking up like the broken frame of a bicycle, and he had a violin
under his chin. The goat-tuft was spread thinly out over the tail of the
instrument. His peaked slouch hat was a dirt-colored cone on the ground
at his side, and by it lay a crumpled piece of oilcloth. His eyes were
closed, and there was an expression of deep peace upon his homely
countenance. His long, big-knuckled, claw-like fingers moved over the
strings with the apparent aimlessness of a daddy-long-legs in its
perambulations, and they thrilled to the caress of his frayed bow as the
lips of a chaste lover to the lips of his beloved. I did not speak, nor
move, for I was dumfounded, and the night had been transformed into an
elfin carnival of dulcet sounds. My imagination was aroused, and I could
almost see nymphs and naiads uprising from the dense growth all around,
crooning as they came of woodland delights, and chanting the stories the
low wind told them when the world was asleep. The quiet ravine was
peopled with a ghostly company which made sad, eerie, but entrancingly
sweet music, such as might have been heard in heaven when the morning
stars sang together. The notes were liquid, living, colorful. Sometimes
there were brief silences between them, which were filled with
palpitating echoes. Suddenly a trembling flood of impassioned sound
rushed forth on swallow wings into the star-filled night, and I sat up
with a gasp.
"_Jeff Angel!_"
A downward crash of the bow which set all the strings to jangling
horribly; then silence.
The man was abashed, confused, for he hastily reached for the cloth bag
and thrust both violin and bow therein. He spoke as he fumbled nervously
at the drawstring.
"I didn't know you'd keer!" he said, contritely.
He had misinterpreted my exclamation.
"Care? Care!" I burst forth, leaning forward with my palms on the
ground. "I never heard such music in all my life, and I have heard men
play who receive a thousand dollars a night! Where did you get it?...
How do you do it?"
The satyr secured his worn coat across his chest with one button, then
bent toward me and replied earnestly.
"I guess it's bornd with me. I've never ben no 'count frum a kid. Wuzn't
wuth shucks--never. Jis' wouldn't work--I couldn't. They's no work in
me. When they tried to make me I'd run off. I'd run fur off in th' woods
'n' lay 'roun' all day, a-lis'n'n'. I heerd thin's." He stretched out
one gaunt arm and waved it with an uncertain, twisty motion. "I heerd
thin's. More 'n' th' birds a-cheepin' 'n' a-twitt'r'n' 'n' th' squir'ls
a-barkin' 'n' a-yappin' 'n' th' bees a-junin' in th' flowers. They's
other thin's--lots o' thin's I heerd. Th' crick's got a song--it's
_sich_ a song--'bout th' purties' 't is' I reck'n, 'cus it's
changeabler. 'N' they ain't no en' to th' chune th' win' sings.
Sometimes it's lazy 'n' sleepy, 'n' yo' wan' to duck yo' head 'n'
snooze, 'n' ag'n it's pow'ful strong 'n' loud 'n' almos' skeers yo' with
its shoutin'. 'N' they's other thin's--thin's I can't tell yo' 'bout
'cus I don't know whut they air--but I hears 'em. I c'n jis' shet my
eyes any day out in th' deep woods whur they ain't nothin' but woods,
'n' fus' thin' I know I'm a-floatin' on a cloud with music ever-whurs.
When I's a kid I went hongry fur some 'n' to play on, so one day I foun'
me a big reed, 'n' I made me a w'is'le with holes in it. I jes' mus'
play."
He rose to his feet, put his pipe away without knocking the ashes out,
and carefully tucked his oilcloth bundle under his arm.
"Pow'ful good supper, 'n' I wuz hongry _right_! 'Blige' to yo', sho.
Good-by!"
He swung around and started across the plateau.