THE GALLERY OF THE GODS
There was a frightened look on the faces of the children for a moment or
so, and then Sheila cried in a distressed tone, “But, Miss Natty, I
don’t know how to pray that way.”
Danny immediately flung about and flashed an annihilating look upon the
little girl, but Nathalie, drawing the child close, explained what a
silent prayer meant. Then, as she solemnly bowed her head, every little
head went down, and for the space of a moment or so, up there on that
high mountain,—that Nathalie always felt must be very close to
God,—there was a reverent silence, a sacred moment, as from each
child-heart went up a prayer. Perhaps it was only a dumbly spoken word,
or a reverent desire, but surely God heard.
As Nathalie raised her head, and the children followed her
example,—evidently there had been some peeping eyes,—all but Jean, who
still kept his head down, his pale lips slowly moving, there was a
moment’s quiet, and then Nathalie exclaimed, “Oh, boys, what do you say
to calling these rocks a fort?”
“Crackie! that will be dandy!” responded Danny quickly. “And, Miss
Nathalie,” he added, his face lighting with sudden thought, “why can’t
we call it Liberty Fort?”
And so the round ledge of cobble-stones was named Liberty Fort, and
then, before Nathalie realized what the suggestion carried, Tony
proposed that the path at the foot of the terrace on which the fort
stood, on the summit of the lower slope leading down to the meadow, be a
trench.
Other suggestions followed, which culminated in a lengthy discussion,
leading the children the following afternoon to the woods, where they
gathered dried leaves, and little pebbles and twigs, to fill some bags,
which Janet and Nathalie had made out of some old potato-sacks, to
represent sand-bags to pile on top of the trench. The two girls
meanwhile sat in the fort and not only made epaulettes for the young
soldiers’ shoulders, but also gas-masks, which these Sons of Liberty
vociferously declared that they must have, or they would be gassed.
After the Stars and Stripes, with the various flags of the Allies, had
been fastened to a pole and mounted on the fort, the battle of the Marne
took place, represented by these small soldiers, with guns held high,
leaping over the sand-bags and rushing madly down the slope to the
meadow below, which had been named “No Man’s Land.” Here, with eyes
aflame and hair all tousled, they fought frenziedly with the imaginary
gray uniforms of the German soldiery, who were supposed to have rushed
towards them from their entrenchments, the stone wall by the road just
beyond the meadow.
It was great sport, notwithstanding that their helmets—old tin
pails—would insist upon falling over their faces just when some very
wonderful capture was about to be made. But they soon learned not to
mind a little thing like that, as Danny observed with officer-like
brusqueness—he was the general-in-chief of these liberty forces—that
only slackers or mollycoddles would stop fighting for a hat. So they
fought most furiously, imitating in every way possible the maneuvers and
tactics of the soldiers in France.
They took possession of a rustic seat on the ridge near the woods for an
outpost, and here Sheila, with a big paper soldier’s cap on her head,
was posted to parade with military precision before it as a sentry.
Danny, meanwhile would climb a tree, to watch a make-believe enemy’s
aëroplane, or to play the rôle of a bird-man, getting ready to fly in a
patrol over the enemy’s entrenchments.
The parts the little girl played were numerous, sometimes acting as a
canteen girl, selling lemonade and make-believe “smokes,”—twigs trimmed
to represent cigarettes,—or again, playing the part of a captured
Boche, always insisting that she was a prince, or some high German
official. She entered into the playing of holding up her hands in token
of surrender, while calling “Kamerad” with dramatic fervor. Then, as if
suddenly reminded that she was a scion of royalty, she would take to
fighting and kicking furiously to be released, bringing her teeth into
action, and inflicting sundry bites on her captor with such energy that
Nathalie, or Janet, tricked out with a white head-gear, starred with a
red cross, would hurry to the scene, and bind up with soft rags the
wounds of the afflicted one.
Jean, who had begun to prove that his real self was only lying dormant
beneath a shroud of sorrow, was triumphantly happy as the bugler, and
one day suggested that they have a tank,—he had seen one on a
battle-field. An old tin can was then procured from Sam, which had done
duty in holding chicken-feed. It was now made to roll, in a horribly
queer way, down the slope and over No Man’s Land, maneuvered by Jean,
who was inside of it, and who proved that he was a keen trailer of the
Boches, as the lad always called the Germans.
The boy frightened Nathalie, sometimes, by the intense hatred he
displayed whenever the Germans were mentioned, as his face would grow
tense and a sudden fire would flame up in his eyes, while his one hand
would clench rigidly and his little form trembled with the force of the
passion within his breast.
But the children did not always play at war in France, for sometimes
they were Indians, and would wriggle over the grass snake-fashion. They
were all sachems, or big chiefs, named after some red-skinned hero of
some Indian tale Nathalie had told them, each one intent on scalping
some white man. Sometimes Jean would teach the boys how to play some of
the games played in Belgium, as _jet_, a game which seemed to be played
with a stick on a stone, and which they all seemed to enjoy. Then again
they would play hopscotch in Jean’s way, and which he called “Kalinker.”
But always at the end of their play they would line up in the circling
ledge of stones, and, as if inspired by Nathalie’s suggestion on the day
of their first visit to the fort, stand very still as they again bowed
their heads in a silent prayer for the boys who were fighting “over
there.”
Then, one morning, a telephone message came from Mr. Banker that he
would be up that afternoon and take the children to the Flume. Whereupon
they all became so exuberantly happy that Nathalie had rather a hard
time pinning them down to their usual duties.
After a delightful drive, in which Nathalie and Mr. Banker were kept
busy answering the many queries propounded by the sightseers, as they
gazed in awed wonder at the strange rock formations with their purple
and green tints, the silvery waterfalls, and the many natural beauties
of the Notch, they arrived at the Flume.
Here, opposite the Flume House, they climbed a zigzagging path up a hill
backed by two massive mountains, and then went through a belt of
woodland to inspect the Pool. This was a mountain freak, a great basin
over a hundred feet wide and forty deep, hollowed out by the
Pemigewasset River’s age-old tools, sand and water, as they flowed over
its rocky bed.
The lustrous green of its waters rippling between lichen-covered cliffs,
and canopied by overhanging trees—that looked as if they would fall
from age—was so transparent that the children could see the shiny
pebbles at the bottom of the Pool.
On returning to the road they started for the Flume, passing over a
wooden bridge, and then up an incline, a sort of up-hill-and-down-dale
road, as it followed the mountain brook flowing from the cascade that
dashed over the rocks at the head of the gorge. The wild picturesque
beauty of this “Gallery of the Gods,” as Mr. Banker called it, not only
elicited many exclamations from the children, but brought forth more
weird fancies from Sheila, which challenged the humorous gleam in that
gentleman’s eyes many times.
The child’s mind was so rich in imagery, that every hooded mountain or
queer-shaped cliff, every passing cloud or glint of sunlight as it
filtered down through the leaves in the forest, and the soft patter of
the raindrops as they danced on the window-pane in a storm, were sources
of constant delight. In childish prattle she would tell Nathalie what
the wind said as it swept through the trees, or came with a soft rustle
around the corner of the veranda on a breezy day. The soft twirl of a
leaf, the trill of a bird in the silent forest, were all pixie-whispers.
She would pick up a leaf from the road, beautiful to her in its satiny
greenness, or some gay-petaled flower, and talk to it as if it were her
dolly, or some tricksy creature from fairy-land, always giving it some
fanciful name that was keenly suggestive of its nature. Animals she
caressed and fondled with the fearless confidence and love of trusting
childhood.
They finally reached the remarkable rock gallery in the very heart of
the mountain, which Nathalie now introduced to them as Liberty Mountain.
She explained that it was cut in two by the deep gorge, or fissure,
known as The Flume, whose walls reached to a perpendicular height of
fifty or seventy feet, while at its farther end a mountain-brook came
dashing down with great splashes of white foam.
The children were hushed to profound wonder at the frowning gloom of the
great wall that reached so high and dark above their heads, with its
patches of green moss, and where, from its many crevices, young birches
had fastened their roots, and ferns and vines clung to soften its harsh
gray. Every now and then a tiny white mountain-flower could be seen
peeping down at them, like a fairy, Sheila declared, from a mossy bed of
green.
They climbed up and up, stepping from rock to rock, to clamber at last
over the slippery smoothness of the granite ledges. Here the cascade had
simmered to a lazy flow, to eddy with a silver tinkling into the many
hollows that perforated the rocks, making tiny glistening pools, which
gave the children unfeigned delight as they dipped their hands in its
soft trickle.
But when they reached the narrow foot-bridge, sometimes only railed by a
single birch pole, or a rope that clung tremblingly to one side of the
steep wall, and looked down into the gorge below, they came to a sudden
halt. With a haunting fascination they watched the brook as it now
dashed with a mad plunge, splashed with patches of snowy foam, over the
masses of green-embossed boulders, that looked as if they had been
tossed, helter-skelter fashion, into the narrow slit of rock, in angry
mood, by old Father Time.
With strange awe they glanced up the gorge, through the weird gloom of
the scene, at the pearly glitter of the falling water, with its blur of
green background, that appeared as if some miraculous hand had suddenly
wrenched the earth apart to send forth its flashing spray. And then they
grew curiously still as they spied the eerie shadows on the high black
wall, where the sunlight, as it glinted down into the glen in wanton
sport, played hide-and-seek with golden glimmer.
But the silence was broken as Mr. Banker pointed out a huge tree-trunk
that had fallen across the stream, reaching from side to side of the
gorge, making an aërial pathway high above their heads. When the
gentleman said it was called “The Devil’s Bridge,” and that sometimes
people had walked on it across the gorge, their tongues began to
clatter.
Fired by curiosity, the boys regained their nerve and pushed manfully up
the foot-bridge, barred with slats, like a horse’s plank, while Mr.
Banker, holding little Sheila by the hand, followed close behind.
Nathalie, with a strange timidity, hesitatingly followed, always being
oppressed by an odd, queer feeling when ascending any great height, a
feeling that she wanted to cling to something more tangible than space.
But there was nothing to cling to but that shaky old railing, and little
Jean was hanging to it fearsomely with his one hand, his little form
shaking tremulously, and his eyes black with an odd fear.
Stirred to pity, Nathalie drew the child to the other side of her, near
the high wall, away from that gaping rut in the earth beneath, and then
caught him firmly by the shoulder. Then suddenly, perhaps it was a quick
glance down into the depths below, she felt a strange, indefinable
sensation pass through her. A deathly faintness seized her; she closed
her eyes, and then she felt herself falling, falling——
But a pitiful cry from the boy, “Oh, Mademoiselle Natty! No, you not
fall! Jean will hold you,” aroused her, and she opened her eyes to see
the white face of the boy, as he stared up at her while clutching her
frantically with his one hand.
“Oh, no, Jean; I’m all right now,” but even as she spoke that same old
sensation again thrilled her. She felt sick and faint again, and
then——
“Rather steep just here, isn’t it? But cling to that rail, and you’ll be
all right; you can’t fall.”
The girl turned quickly, once more roused from the sudden fear that had
assailed her, and found herself gazing into the sun-tanned face of a
young man in khaki. He had slipped his arm back of her, against the
railing, as if to prevent her from falling, while from under the shadow
of his wide-brimmed hat two dark-blue eyes, heavily lashed, smiled down
at her reassuringly.
Nathalie heaved a deep sigh. Oh, it was such a relief to see that
strong, brown hand grasping the rail. And then, with a quick little
smile, in sudden realization of her foolish fancy that she was slipping
down into the gorge below, she cried, “Oh, I don’t suppose I could fall,
but something—— O dear! I know I am very foolish, but I always feel so
queer when I stand on any great height, especially when I look down.”
“That is a sensation that is shared by many people when they get up in
the air, I guess,” was the kindly response. And then, as if to give the
girl time to regain her poise, he turned to Jean. “Do you see that place
between the walls?” directing the child’s gaze to a place midway between
the top of the gorge and the brook below. “Well, ever since the Flume
has been known to white men,” he continued, “a great rock, or boulder,
was wedged, or suspended, between the two walls. It was like a nut in a
cracker, a most curious sight.
“I remember it as a child, when up in the mountains,” he related, “and
always had a strange fear that it would tumble down. But every one
asserted that it was an impossibility, for it would take an earthquake,
or some great convulsion of nature, to dislodge it. Nevertheless I
always fought shy of it, and would scurry by as if a witch was after me.
But, strange to say,” continued the young man, smiling, and showing his
even white teeth, “the prophets were away off, for it fell just a few
years ago, and without the aid of an earthquake.”
“Oh, did it fall on any one?” gasped the girl quickly.
“No, luckily for the wise-alls; for it fell in the middle of the night,
and no one was hurt.”
Nathalie drew a relieved sigh. “What an escape! Oh, suppose it had
fallen when some one was passing beneath it!”
[Illustration: The girl found herself gazing into the sun-tanned face of
a young man in khaki.—_Page 231._]
“Well, they would have been pulverized,” laughed the young man. “I beg
your pardon, Miss, but would you not like to have me help you to the
top? For I see you have the little boy with you, and, as you are timid,
I do not think I would risk it alone.”
“Oh, thank you; you are very kind,” replied the girl hastily, her face
dimpling, for she had begun to feel like her old self. “But no; I don’t
think I will venture any farther. I guess I am too timid. I will go
back.” She glanced down at Jean, who was gazing up at the young soldier
with worshipful awe in his eyes.
“Let me assist you down, then, to where you will not be affected by the
height.” And Nathalie, glad to think that she did not have to turn back
and go down that plank alone, allowed the young man to pilot her down,
firmly grasping her by the arm, until she stood where she asserted she
felt no fear. She would wait there on the rocks, until the rest of her
party came down, she said, after thanking her rescuer.
The young man bowed silently, lifted his hat, and turned to ascend the
foot-bridge again, while Nathalie sought a rock where she and Jean could
sit down. But in a moment he was back at her side, crying, “I beg your
pardon,” Nathalie noticed that he had a pleasant voice that somehow had
a familiar ring to it, “but perhaps the little boy would like to go up
to the top, as every one likes to see the cascade as it plunges over the
rocks. I will take good care of him if he would like to go,” glancing at
the little empty sleeve with a compassionate expression in his eyes.
Nathalie was on the verge of saying, “Oh, no; I think Jean would rather
stay with me,” when she caught a sudden expression in the boy’s eyes
that caused her to say, “Jean, would you like to go to the top with this
gentleman? Mr. Banker and the boys are up there, you know.”
There was no doubt as to the child wanting to see and to do as the other
children, or his evident trust in the young soldier, and a minute later
the young man, with Jean’s hand held firmly in his, was guiding the
child’s steps up the foot-bridge.
Some time later, as the car glided along the road on its homeward
journey, a short distance from the Flume House, Mr. Banker showed the
party a singular rock-formation, caused by the undulations of the
topmost ridge of Liberty Mountain. The outlines were those of a huge
recumbent figure, wrapped in a cloak or shroud, and bore such a close
resemblance, especially the contour of the forehead and nose, to those
of General Washington, as after his death he lay in state, on view to
the public, that it had been called “Washington in State.” Many people,
he asserted, claimed that the great American’s body should lie at rest
on this mountain ridge, named for what the great man had striven so hard
to maintain, liberty, and thus be his everlasting mausoleum.
A six-mile ride and they descended from the car, to walk to the shores
of Profile Lake, a few feet from the road. But it was not to look at the
sunlit sheen of silver water, embedded like a gem in a green and purple
forest setting, but to gaze with awesome wonder at a huge stone face. It
was the Old Man of the Mountain that gazed forth with a stony stare from
a steep and craggy setting, twelve hundred feet high above the lake, on
the battlemented spires of Profile, or Cannon Mountain.
It was another weird formation created by Father Time, that Mr. Banker
claimed looked as if it had been stuck on the huge mountain-cliff, like
the head of some criminal of medieval days, when spiked on the stone
gateway of some kingly stronghold for some dastardly deed.
“But this face is not that of a felon, for note the calm majesty, the
beautiful benignity of its expression. To me,” commented the gentleman,
“it is an unchangeable token and an everlasting confirmation that there
is a Creator, and bears witness to the account in Genesis where it says
that God created man in His own image, ‘in the image of God created he
him.’”
Mr. Banker explained that the face was composed of three masses of rock,
one forming the forehead and helmet, another the nose and upper lip, and
the third the chin, and that the whole length of the rock-face was
eighty feet from the top to the bottom. When viewed at a close range it
lost its contour, and seemed but a few huge rocks tumbled one upon
another, with no regularity of form or feature.
After the boys had studied the gigantic “face in air,” as Sheila called
it, and deciphered many oddities upon it, evoked by her imagination,
Nathalie told them the story of “The Great Stone Face.”
They were all greatly interested in Hawthorne’s tale, and readily
grasped its meaning, that, after all, it was goodness and greatness
gained by studying the great and good in others, the giving of our best
to our fellows as Sons of Liberty, Nathalie tried to explain, that
helped one to become godlike.
Mr. Banker then told the legend called Christus Judex, which told of an
artist, who had resolved to paint a picture of Christ sitting in
judgment, and how he wandered up and down the world from one place to
another, seeking in art galleries, palaces, or churches, a face that
would serve him as a model for his great masterpiece. But alas, it was
not to be found, not even among the paintings of the old masters, and
finally, lured by some wayfarer’s tale, he crossed the sea, and in this
great stone face found the countenance that embodied the features and
the expression that satisfied his ideal.
After walking a short distance around the lake, to view its beauties,
and picking out the stone cannon on the top of the mountain, they drove
to the Basin, another rock-wonder, a miniature edition of the great
Pool. Giant’s Heel, a rock-formation of a human leg and foot, seemed to
possess a luring charm to the children, and after they had studied it,
and then discussed it with curious wonder and awe, the little party
started on their homeward drive.
On the way Mr. Banker pointed out various stone formations, among them
the Elephant’s Head and the head of a dog, while Echo Lake, alight with
the calm glow of a setting sun, revealed so many tempting bits of
lake-wonders that the children begged that they might spend a day there,
as it was not far from Franconia village.
Nathalie was unusually quiet on the homeward ride, not only feeling
almost too tired to talk, but pondering with a puzzled air over the
young soldier-boy. She had a vague feeling that she had seen his face
before, but where? She finally determined to push the matter from her
mind, when a sudden smile leaped to her eyes. Oh, what a ninny she was,
for he was one of the soldier-boys she had met at Camp Mills, to whom
she had proffered the cherries! And he had not only helped to gather
them up from the dust of the road, but _he_ was the boy who had waved
his hat to them in a parting salute as the car whirled out of sight!