A MOUNTAIN CAMP.
“I should like to know,” said Pet breathlessly, as she clambered up the
steep slope of Saddleback, a day or two after her return to The Pines,
“whether there really is any top to this hill! Where was the birch you
set on fire, Bess?”
The party paused a minute beside the path, to rest and get breath.
“O, ever so far from here, away over on the Readville side of the
mountain.”
“It spiles the looks of the tree,” observed Ruel, leaning on his axe,
“or I’d start one for ye naow. Leaves ’em all black, an’ sometimes
kills ’em, right aout--not to say anything ’bout settin’ the rest o’
the woods on fire.”
“What sort of a birch is that, over by that rock, uncle Will?” asked
Randolph.
“That? That’s a black birch. Nice tasting bark. When we get to the top
and have lunch, we’ll talk about birches a little, if you like. Let me
see, whose favorite tree was it last year? Tom’s?”
“Bessie’s, of course. Tom’s was the oak, because it wore squirrels and
oak-leaf trimming!”
“Anyway,” said Tom, who, though a shade paler than in the old days,
seemed to have partially recovered his spirits, “oak trees are stronger
and tougher than pines or birches either; and I notice that uncle Will
has a white oak cane, this very minute!”
“Time’s up!” interrupted Ruel, who always assumed the place of guide,
not to say leader, in such tramps as these. “It’s eleven o’clock naow,
and we’ve got a good piece to go yet, ’fore we’re onto the top of old
Saddleback.”
The woods were very still, the air cool and fragrant, the moss deep and
soft under their feet, as they passed onward and upward.
Climbing, climbing,
Climbing up Zion’s hill!
sang the girls, over and over, till the rest caught the air and joined
in heartily, keeping step with the music. Now they turned an abrupt
corner, and from the summit of a high ledge could look far off over
the valley, with its piney woods and peaceful columns of smoke rising
here and there. Loon Pond glistened gayly in the full radiance of the
noon sun; now they attacked a rough natural stairway of bowlders and
fallen trees, the boys clambering up first, baskets on arm, and then
reaching down to give the others a helping hand. Pet, who was not used
to such rough travelling, had to stop and rest every few feet; but no
face was sunnier or laugh merrier than hers. Tom kept as near her side
as possible, and gave her many a helpful lift with his strong arm, over
the worst places. At one time she suddenly remembered that she had left
her handkerchief at the last halting-place; her cavalier was off before
she could stop him, racing down the steep path and returning with the
missing article in an incredibly short time.
Still upward. The bowlders were prettily draped with ferns, which had
sunbeams given them to play with. In the underbrush close by, a flock
of partridges walked demurely and fearlessly along beside the party,
clucking in soft tones their surprise and curiosity. Tiny brooks
crossed the path and ran off laughing down the hill. Now there arose a
rushing sound, louder and more steadily continuous than the wind-dreams
in the tree-tops.
It was a cataract, falling some eight feet into a black pool, covered
with little floating rafts of foam. And now they could see sky between
the trunks of trees ahead.
“Hurrah!” shouted Tom. “There’s the top!”
But the top was a good walk from there, and when at last they emerged
upon the little rocky plateau forming the summit, they were both tired
and hungry.
“Rest for thirty minutes,” proclaimed Mr. Percival. “Then we’ll take
the back track.”
“The back track! Oh-h-h!”
“How about dinner, uncle?”
“I’m just _starving_, sir!”
“What time is it? Who’s got a watch?”
Tom turned fiery red at this last question, and a sober look crossed
Pet’s face; but a moment later she was merry again.
“_Please_, uncle Will,” she pleaded, “mayn’t we have lunch before we go
down?”
“_Please_, Miss Pet, turn one of those brooks upside-down, and bring
up a few nice large birch trees--and this will be quite a comfortable
spot for dinner! No, dear, we’ll look all we want to at this beautiful
view, and then we’ll walk down a bit--only a few steps, and not just
the way we came--to a spot Ruel knows of, where shade, fuel and fresh
water are all at hand.”
The view was indeed lovely: lakes shining here and there in the
woods; far-away villages, with tiny white church spires; mossy green
acres--thousands on thousands--of forest; the dim blue of Katahdin, to
the northeast; overhead, the tenderest and bluest of midsummer skies.
“How beautiful that mountain looks!” said Pet slowly, from the turfy
couch where she had thrown herself down. “I wonder if there are strange
Indian stories and legends about it?”
“A good many, I expect,” replied Mr. Percival, baring his forehead
to the cool breeze. “The Indians have always had a great respect for
mountains, especially where there was some peculiar formation or
feature which impressed their imagination--the ‘Profile,’ for instance,
in the White Mountains.”
“I have heard the same about the Mount of the Holy Cross in Colorado,”
added Randolph. “That was one of the--” he paused and flushed a little,
as if uncertain whether to go on.
“Yes, yes,” laughed uncle Will, guessing from his manner what he was
about to say. “It’s that famous brother of yours again. You ought to
bring him up here sometime, to recite his own verses. However, you do
it very well, for him.”
“What has he written about that mountain, Randolph?” asked Kittie in a
respectful tone that made the rest laugh.
“O, only three or four verses,” said Randolph. “You know the Cross is
formed by two immense ravines near the summit of the mountain, where
the ice and snow lie all the year round. These are the verses.
THE MOUNT OF THE HOLY CROSS.
Down the rocky slopes and passes
Of the everlasting hills
Murmur low the crystal waters
Of a thousand tiny rills;
Bearing from a lofty glacier
To the valley far below
Health and strength to every creature,--
’Tis for them ‘He giveth snow.’
On thy streamlet’s brink the wild deer
Prints with timid foot the moss;
To thy side the sparrow nestles,--
Mountain of the Holy Cross!
Pure and white amid the heavens
God hath set His glorious sign:
Symbol of a world’s deliverance,
Promise of a life divine.”
[Illustration: THE MOUNT OF THE HOLY CROSS.]
A little pause followed the poem, which Randolph had repeated in low,
quiet tones. At length it was time to go, and with Ruel for guide once
more, they threaded their way over fallen trees, around stumps and
treacherous ledges, down the mountain side until, at a distance of
perhaps a furlong from the summit, the guide threw down his axe.
“I guess this’ll dew,” said he.
“This” was a small cleared spot, some fifty feet across, along the
further side of which ran the brook, forming half a dozen mimic
cataracts. The woods on all sides were composed of evergreens,
interspersed with clumps of white birch showing prettily here and there
among the darker shadows.
“Now,” said Mr. Percival briskly, “you and the girls can start a fire
and set the table, Randolph, while Tom helps Ruel and me to build a
camp.”
“O, a camp! Where shall we make the fire?”
“Over against that rock, on the lee side of the clearing, so the smoke
sha’n’t bother us.”
All hands were soon at work vigorously. Ruel cut two strong, crotched
uprights, and a cross-pole, which Tom carried to their position near
the brook, as directed by his uncle. A frame-work was soon erected, and
long, slender poles stretched from the cross-piece back to the ground.
Next, Ruel took his sharp axe, and calling for the rest to follow,
plunged into the woods. In two minutes they came to a halt in the midst
of a group of fine birches, whose boles shone like veritable silver.
The guide raised his axe, and laying the keen edge against the bark of
the nearest, as high as he could reach, drew it steadily downward. The
satiny bark parted on either side at the touch, asking for fingers to
pull it off. Ruel served a dozen other trees in the same way, and then
all set to work, separating bark from trunk. Tom found that his was
apt to split at every knot, but by watching his uncle he soon learned
to work more carefully, often using his whole arm to pry off the bark
instead of merely taking hold with his fingers.
In this way they soon had a lot of splendid sheets, averaging about
four feet wide by five or six long. These they rolled into three
bundles, each taking one, and bore them back in triumph to the camp.
They found the table set, fire crackling, and company waiting with
sharpened appetites. Ruel declared, however, that he must “git the
bark onto the camp afore he eat a crumb;” and the rest helping with a
will, the task was soon accomplished. If Ruel had taken a quiet look
at the sky, and had his own reasons for finishing the hut--he kept his
forebodings to himself, and worked on in silence. The sheets of bark
were laid upon the rafters, lapping over each other like shingles,
while other poles were placed on top, to keep the bark in place. By the
aid of stout cord, side sheets were lashed on roughly, but well enough
for a temporary shelter on a summer day; and the camp was complete.
“What shall we name it?” asked Kittie.
“‘Camp Ruel’!” cried Pet, clapping her hands. “Three cheers for Camp
Ruel!” And they were given lustily, with many additional “tigers” and
cat-calls by the boys.
After the more serious part of lunch was disposed of, the party were
comfortably seated in front of the camp, on rocks and mossy trunks.
Close at hand ran the brook, talking and laughing busily to itself.
“I wish, Uncle,” said Bess, taking her favorite position by his side,
“you’d tell us a story about this brook. If you don’t know any, you can
make it up.”
“I suppose,” said Mr. Percival reflectively, “I could tell you about
Midget. Only Midget was such a little fellow, and you boys and girls
are so exceedingly mature nowadays!”
“O, do!”
“Well, Midget, you see, is an odd little fellow. He has long, light
hair, which the other boys on the street would make fun of if they were
not so fond of him; a rather pale face, though it is browner now, after
half a summer in the country; and big blue eyes, that seem like bits of
sky that baby Midget caught on his way down from heaven, ten years ago,
and never lost.
“Last September, Midget was at Crawford’s, in the White Mountains:
and one bright morning he took a walk, all alone, in a path that runs
beside a little brook leaping down the mountain-side near the hotel.
Now there is this curious thing about Midget--and that’s why I began by
calling him odd--namely, that when he is alone, all sorts of things
about him begin to talk; at least, he says they do, with a funny
twinkle and a sweet look in his blue eyes, which make me half believe
that the talk he hears comes from heaven too. At any rate, Midget had a
wonderful report to make of his walk that morning; and, as nearly as I
can remember, this was his account:
“He said he had not gone far into the forest when he was startled, for
a moment, by hearing a group of children, somewhere in the woods, all
laughing and talking together, and having the merriest time possible.
Through the tumult of their happy cries he could distinguish a woman’s
voice, so deep and musical and tender that it filled him with delight.
He hurried up the path, turned the corner where he expected to find
them, and behold! it was the brook itself talking and laughing.
“Every separate tiny waterfall had its own special voice, as different
from the rest as could be, but all chiming together musically and
joining with the grander undertone of what most people suppose to be
merely a larger cataract, but which Midget plainly perceived was a
tall, lovely lady, with flowing, fluttering robes of white.
“And now she was singing to him. How he listened! Her song, he says,
was something like this:
Down from the mosses that grow in the clouds
My children come dancing and laughing in crowds;
They dance to the valleys and meadows below,
And make the grass greener wherever they go.
“‘But they have to go always just in one place,’ said Midget,
addressing the waterfall Lady.
“‘That’s true,’ said the Lady.
“‘It can’t be much fun,’ said Midget.
“‘Oh, yes!’ said the Lady, merrily, letting a cool scarf of spray drift
over the boy’s puzzled face.
“‘But I like to go wherever I like,’ said Midget.
“‘So do my children. They like to go wherever they’re sent. They know
they’re doing right, so long as they do that, and doing right makes
them like it.’
“‘H’m,’ said Midget.
“‘Besides,’ added the Lady, ‘once in a while, in the spring, they’re
allowed to take a run off into the woods a bit, just for fun.’
“‘I should like that,’ said Midget decisively. ‘But who--who sends
them, ma’am?’
“‘Ah!’ said the Lady, softly, ‘that’s the best part of all. It is our
Father, who loves us, and often walks beside his brooks and through the
meadows.’
“As she spoke, the end of the white scarf floated out into the
sunshine, and instantly glistened with fair colors. And at the same
moment the Lady began to sing:
Down from the mountain-top
Flows the clear rill,
Dance, little Never-stop,
Doing His will;
Through the dark shadow-land,
Down from the hill,
To the bright meadow-land,
Doing His will,
Loving and serving and praising Him still.
“Just then a low rumble was heard, far off on the slopes of Mt.
Washington, across the valley.
“‘There!’ exclaimed Midget, ‘I must be going. Good-by, dear Lady-fall!’
“‘Good-by, good-by!’ sang the brook, as Midget hurried away down the
path toward the hotel.
“He arrived just in time to escape a wetting. How it did rain! The
lightning glittered and the thunder rolled until the people huddled
about the big fire in the parlor were fairly scared into silence.
“But Midget, with wide-open eyes, was not a bit frightened, and kept
right on telling me this story.”
“Ah,” said Pet, “that’s lovely. But I suspect it was a dear old
gentleman, and not a small boy, who heard the waterfall lady sing.”
“She is there, anyway,” said uncle Will, “and I can show her to you at
Crawford’s, within two minutes’ walk of the hotel, the very next time
we go there.”
Pet looked puzzled, but said nothing.
“Uncle,” said Kittie, throwing a few strips of bark on the fire, “you
said something about having a talk on birches.”
“Well, dear--it must be a short one--how many kinds of birches do you
suppose there are in our woods?”
“O, two--no, let me see--three. White, and Black--”
“And Yellow,” put in Tom with an air of wisdom.
“And Red and Canoe,” added Mr. Percival, with a smile.
“So many! What are they good for?”
“Canoes, tents and--nurses.”
“Nurses!”
“The growth of birches is so rapid that they are excellent for planting
beside other trees which are less hardy, so that the birches, or
‘nurses,’ as the gardeners call them, may shelter the babies from
extreme heat or cold.”
“How funny! I knew, of course, that a garden of young trees was called
a nursery!”
“Then the real Canoe Birch, which isn’t common hereabouts, was formerly
much used by the Indians for canoes and wigwams.”
“How did they make the pieces stay?”
“Sewed them.”
“Thread?”
“The slender roots of spruces. See!” And pulling up a tiny spruce that
grew by the rock on which he sat, he showed them the delicate, tough
rootlets. “Then,” he added, “of course the bark is very useful for
kindling, in the woods. The White Birch is almost always found with or
near the White Pine.”
“I like to think of their being ‘princes,’ in ‘silver rags’,” said
Pet. “I should think there ought to be a legend about that, among the
Indians.”
Something in their uncle’s expression made them all shout at once,
“There is! There is! O, please tell it!”
“Well, well,” laughed Mr. Percival, “fortunately for all of us, it
isn’t very long. Tom, keep the fire going, while you listen. The rest
of you may interrupt and ask questions, whenever you wish.
“A great, great many years ago, centuries before Columbus dreamed of
America, the Indians say the country was ruled by a king whose like was
never known before nor since. In an encampment high up on the slopes of
the Rocky Mountains he lived, and held his royal court. No one knew his
age, but though his beard fell in white waves over his aged breast, his
eye was as bright as an eagle’s and his voice strong and wise in every
council of the chiefs.”
“What was his name?” asked Randolph.
“He was called Manitou the Mighty. In his reign the Indian people grew
prosperous and happy. So deeply did they love and revere him that it
was quite as common to speak of him as ‘father,’ as to address him as
‘king.’
“‘Yes,’ said the monarch, when he heard of this, ‘yes, truly they are
my children. They are all princes, are they not?--my forest children!’
“So the years sped by. The king showed his age not a whit, save by his
snowy locks; and peace ruled throughout the land.
“At last Manitou the Mighty called his chiefs, his ‘children,’ together
in council.
“‘I am going away,’ he said, ‘to far-off countries, perhaps never to
return. But I shall know of my subjects, and shall leave them a book of
laws and directions, and they shall still be my children, and I shall
be their father and king.’
“Then the chiefs hid their faces and went out to the people with the
sorrowful tidings. And when the next morn broke, the Manitou had
vanished.
“A week passed; and now began jealousies, hatred, avarice, tumults.”
“Why didn’t they obey the laws in that book?” asked Kittie.
“Well, in the first place, some professed to believe that the chiefs
made up the story about the book altogether, and had written the laws
themselves; though a child might have known that no other than Manitou
could possibly have thought and written out such glorious and gentle
words as the law book contained. Others pretended to live by the book,
but so twisted the meaning of its words that the result was worse than
if they had openly transgressed the law.
“So matters went on, from bad to worse. Messages arrived now and then
from the king, with pleading and warning words, but in vain.
“There came a day, in the dead of winter, when the chiefs met in stormy
conclave. Each one would be king. ‘Manitou,’ cried one and another,
‘called me his child, said I was a prince! Who shall rule over me!’
“The sound of a far-off avalanche, high up among the ice-fields of
the mountains, interrupted the assembly. Clouds gathered, black and
ominous. Rain-drops fell, hissing, upon the pine-tops and the wigwams
of Manitou’s wayward children. A hurricane arose, and swept away into
the roaring flood of the rapidly rising river all the wealth they had
been so eager to gain. The rumbling of avalanche upon avalanche grew
more terrible, nearer, nearer. The people turned to fly, with one
accord, but it was too late. Behold, the Manitou stood in their midst,
his long white beard tossed in the storm, his terrible eyes flashing
not with rage, but with grieved love.
“‘Children, children!’ he cried, in a voice that, with its sad and
awful sweetness, broke their very hearts for shame and remorse, ‘Is it
thus that the princes of our race obey their father and fit themselves
to rule with him in the land beyond the great waters!’
“Then the people bowed their heads and moaned and threw up their arms
wildly, and swayed to and fro in the storm, and wailed, until--until--”
The girls leaned forward breathlessly. Tom forgot to heap bark upon the
fire. Ruel had slipped away to the summit, some minutes before.
“Until there was no longer a prince to be seen, but only a vast
assembly of writhing, tossing, quivering forest trees, the rain
dropping from their trembling leaves, their branches swaying helplessly
in the wind which moaned sadly through the forest. Only one trace
remained of their former greatness. Their bark, unlike that of every
other tree, was silvery white, and hung in tatters about them--as you
have seen them to-day, along this mountain side. For since that hour
the beggared princes have wandered far and wide, still wearing their
silver rags, still weeping and moaning when the storms are at their
highest, and they recall that awful day.”
Pet drew a long breath. “And Manitou, what became of him?”
“He still reigns, the legend goes, in the bright land beyond the great
waters.”
“And must the princes always be birches?”
“Ah, Pet, that is the most beautiful part of the tradition. By patient
continuance in well-doing, by self-sacrifice, by living for others, the
poor trees may at last make themselves worthy to see the king once more
as his children, leaving the withered tree-house behind. But not until
life is done, and well done.
“So you see, every white birch is eager to give its bark for fuel and
protection, which is nearly all it can do, save to watch over the young
trees of the forest, as I have told you, to shield them from harm.
“It is a long time for a birch to wait, sometimes many, many years
before even a little child will strip off one of its tattered shreds
and laugh for delight at the pretty bit of silver in its hand, little
dreaming of the prince whose garment it is; but the tree quivers with
joy at the thought that it has made one of these little ones happy for
even a moment, for so it has become more worthy to meet the king.”
As Mr. Percival finished, Ruel returned from the summit of Saddleback.
“You’d better get the things into camp, and foller ’em yourselves.
There’s a storm comin’. The wind’s jest haowlin’, over in the birches
on the west side of the maounting.”