Wherein the Butterflies Go on a Spree and Freckles Informs the Bird
Woman
“I wish,” said Freckles at breakfast one morning, “that I had some way
to be sending a message to the Bird Woman. I've something at the swamp
that I'm believing never happened before, and surely she'll be wanting
it.”
“What now, Freckles?” asked Mrs. Duncan.
“Why, the oddest thing you ever heard of,” said Freckles; “the whole
insect tribe gone on a spree. I'm supposing it's my doings, but it all
happened by accident, like. You see, on the swale side of the line,
right against me trail, there's one of these scrub wild crabtrees. Where
the grass grows thick around it, is the finest place you ever conceived
of for snakes. Having women about has set me trying to clean out those
fellows a bit, and yesterday I noticed that tree in passing. It struck
me that it would be a good idea to be taking it out. First I thought I'd
take me hatchet and cut it down, for it ain't thicker than me upper arm.
Then I remembered how it was blooming in the spring and filling all the
air with sweetness. The coloring of the blossoms is beautiful, and I
hated to be killing it. I just cut the grass short all around it. Then
I started at the ground, trimmed up the trunk near the height of
me shoulder, and left the top spreading. That made it look so truly
ornamental that, idle like, I chips off the rough places neat, and this
morning, on me soul, it's a sight! You see, cutting off the limbs and
trimming up the trunk sets the sap running. In this hot sun it ferments
in a few hours. There isn't much room for more things to crowd on that
tree than there are, and to get drunker isn't noways possible.”
“Weel, I be drawed on!” exclaimed Mrs. Duncan. “What kind of things do
ye mean, Freckles?”
“Why, just an army of black ants. Some of them are sucking away like
old topers. Some of them are setting up on their tails and hind legs,
fiddling with their fore-feet and wiping their eyes. Some are rolling
around on the ground, contented. There are quantities of big blue-bottle
flies over the bark and hanging on the grasses around, too drunk to
steer a course flying; so they just buzz away like flying, and all
the time sitting still. The snake-feeders are too full to feed
anything--even more sap to themselves. There's a lot of hard-backed
bugs--beetles, I guess--colored like the brown, blue, and black of a
peacock's tail. They hang on until the legs of them are so wake they
can't stick a minute longer, and then they break away and fall to the
ground. They just lay there on their backs, fably clawing air. When it
wears off a bit, up they get, and go crawling back for more, and they so
full they bump into each other and roll over. Sometimes they can't climb
the tree until they wait to sober up a little. There's a lot of big
black-and-gold bumblebees, done for entire, stumbling over the bark and
rolling on the ground. They just lay there on their backs, rocking from
side to side, singing to themselves like fat, happy babies. The wild
bees keep up a steady buzzing with the beating of their wings.
“The butterflies are the worst old topers of them all. They're just a
circus! You never saw the like of the beauties! They come every color
you could be naming, and every shape you could be thinking up. They
drink and drink until, if I'm driving them away, they stagger as they
fly and turn somersaults in the air. If I lave them alone, they cling to
the grasses, shivering happy like; and I'm blest, Mother Duncan, if
the best of them could be unlocking the front door with a lead pencil,
even.”
“I never heard of anything sae surprising,” said Mrs. Duncan.
“It's a rare sight to watch them, and no one ever made a picture of a
thing like that before, I'm for thinking,” said Freckles earnestly.
“Na,” said Mrs. Duncan. “Ye can be pretty sure there didna. The Bird
Woman must have word in some way, if ye walk the line and I walk to town
and tell her. If ye think ye can wait until after supper, I am most
sure ye can gang yoursel', for Duncan is coming home and he'd be glad to
watch for ye. If he does na come, and na ane passes that I can send
word with today, I really will gang early in the morning and tell her
mysel'.”
Freckles took his lunch and went to the swamp. He walked and watched
eagerly. He could find no trace of anything, yet he felt a tense
nervousness, as if trouble might be brooding. He examined every section
of the wire, and kept watchful eyes on the grasses of the swale, in
an effort to discover if anyone had passed through them; but he could
discover no trace of anything to justify his fears.
He tilted his hat brim to shade his face and looked for his chickens.
They were hanging almost beyond sight in the sky.
“Gee!” he said. “If I only had your sharp eyes and convenient location
now, I wouldn't need be troubling so.”
He reached his room and cautiously scanned the entrance before he
stepped in. Then he pushed the bushes apart with his right arm and
entered, his left hand on the butt of his favorite revolver. Instantly
he knew that someone had been there. He stepped to the center of the
room, closely scanning each wall and the floor. He could find no trace
of a clue to confirm his belief, yet so intimate was he with the spirit
of the place that he knew.
How he knew he could not have told, yet he did know that someone had
entered his room, sat on his benches, and walked over his floor. He was
surest around the case. Nothing was disturbed, yet it seemed to Freckles
that he could see where prying fingers had tried the lock. He stepped
behind the case, carefully examining the ground all around it, and close
beside the tree to which it was nailed he found a deep, fresh footprint
in the spongy soil--a long, narrow print, that was never made by the
foot of Wessner. His heart tugged in his breast as he mentally measured
the print, but he did not linger, for now the feeling arose that he
was being watched. It seemed to him that he could feel the eyes of some
intruder at his back. He knew he was examining things too closely: if
anyone were watching, he did not want him to know that he felt it.
He took the most open way, and carried water for his flowers and moss
as usual; but he put himself into no position in which he was fully
exposed, and his hand was close his revolver constantly. Growing restive
at last under the strain, he plunged boldly into the swamp and searched
minutely all around his room, but he could not discover the least thing
to give him further cause for alarm. He unlocked his case, took out his
wheel, and for the remainder of the day he rode and watched as he never
had before. Several times he locked the wheel and crossed the swamp on
foot, zigzagging to cover all the space possible. Every rod he traveled
he used the caution that sprang from knowledge of danger and the
direction from which it probably would come. Several times he thought of
sending for McLean, but for his life he could not make up his mind to do
it with nothing more tangible than one footprint to justify him.
He waited until he was sure Duncan would be at home, if he were coming
for the night, before he went to supper. The first thing he saw as he
crossed the swale was the big bays in the yard.
There had been no one passing that day, and Duncan readily agreed to
watch until Freckles rode to town. He told Duncan of the footprint, and
urged him to guard closely. Duncan said he might rest easy, and filling
his pipe and taking a good revolver, the big man went to the Limberlost.
Freckles made himself clean and neat, and raced to town, but it was
night and the stars were shining before he reached the home of the Bird
Woman. From afar he could see that the house was ablaze with lights. The
lawn and veranda were strung with fancy lanterns and alive with people.
He thought his errand important, so to turn back never occurred to
Freckles. This was all the time or opportunity he would have. He must
see the Bird Woman, and see her at once. He leaned his wheel inside the
fence and walked up the broad front entrance. As he neared the steps, he
saw that the place was swarming with young people, and the Angel, with
an excuse to a group that surrounded her, came hurrying to him.
“Oh Freckles!” she cried delightedly. “So you could come? We were so
afraid you could not! I'm as glad as I can be!”
“I don't understand,” said Freckles. “Were you expecting me?”
“Why of course!” exclaimed the Angel. “Haven't you come to my party?
Didn't you get my invitation? I sent you one.”
“By mail?” asked Freckles.
“Yes,” said the Angel. “I had to help with the preparations, and I
couldn't find time to drive out; but I wrote you a letter, and told
you that the Bird Woman was giving a party for me, and we wanted you
to come, surely. I told them at the office to put it with Mr. Duncan's
mail.”
“Then that's likely where it is at present,” said Freckles. “Duncan
comes to town only once a week, and at times not that. He's home tonight
for the first in a week. He's watching an hour for me until I come to
the Bird Woman with a bit of work I thought she'd be caring to hear
about bad. Is she where I can see her?”
The Angel's face clouded.
“What a disappointment!” she cried. “I did so want all my friends to
know you. Can't you stay anyway?”
Freckles glanced from his wading-boots to the patent leathers of some of
the Angel's friends, and smiled whimsically, but there was no danger of
his ever misjudging her again.
“You know I cannot, Angel,” he said.
“I am afraid I do,” she said ruefully. “It's too bad! But there is a
thing I want for you more than to come to my party, and that is to hang
on and win with your work. I think of you every day, and I just pray
that those thieves are not getting ahead of you. Oh, Freckles, do watch
closely!”
She was so lovely a picture as she stood before him, ardent in his
cause, that Freckles could not take his eyes from her to notice what her
friends were thinking. If she did not mind, why should he? Anyway,
if they really were the Angel's friends, probably they were better
accustomed to her ways than he.
Her face and bared neck and arms were like the wild rose bloom. Her
soft frock of white tulle lifted and stirred around her with the gentle
evening air. The beautiful golden hair, that crept around her temples
and ears as if it loved to cling there, was caught back and bound with
broad blue satin ribbon. There was a sash of blue at her waist, and
knots of it catching up her draperies.
“Must I go after the Bird Woman?” she pleaded.
“Indade, you must,” answered Freckles firmly.
The Angel went away, but returned to say that the Bird Woman was telling
a story to those inside and she could not come for a short time.
“You won't come in?” she pleaded.
“I must not,” said Freckles. “I am not dressed to be among your friends,
and I might be forgetting meself and stay too long.”
“Then,” said the Angel, “we mustn't go through the house, because it
would disturb the story; but I want you to come the outside way to the
conservatory and have some of my birthday lunch and some cake to take to
Mrs. Duncan and the babies. Won't that be fun?”
Freckles thought that it would be more than fun, and followed
delightedly.
The Angel gave him a big glass, brimming with some icy, sparkling liquid
that struck his palate as it never had been touched before, because a
combination of frosty fruit juices had not been a frequent beverage with
him. The night was warm, and the Angel most beautiful and kind. A triple
delirium of spirit, mind, and body seized upon him and developed a
boldness all unnatural. He slightly parted the heavy curtains that
separated the conservatory from the company and looked between. He
almost stopped breathing. He had read of things like that, but he never
had seen them.
The open space seemed to stretch through half a dozen rooms, all ablaze
with lights, perfumed with flowers, and filled with elegantly dressed
people. There were glimpses of polished floors, sparkling glass, and
fine furnishings. From somewhere, the voice of his beloved Bird Woman
arose and fell.
The Angel crowded beside him and was watching also.
“Doesn't it look pretty?” she whispered.
“Do you suppose Heaven is any finer than that?” asked Freckles.
The Angel began to laugh.
“Do you want to be laughing harder than that?” queried Freckles.
“A laugh is always good,” said the Angel. “A little more avoirdupois
won't hurt me. Go ahead.”
“Well then,” said Freckles, “it's only that I feel all over as if I
belonged there. I could wear fine clothes, and move over those floors,
and hold me own against the best of them.”
“But where does my laugh come in?” demanded the Angel, as if she had
been defrauded.
“And you ask me where the laugh comes in, looking me in the face after
that,” marveled Freckles.
“I wouldn't be so foolish as to laugh at such a manifest truth as that,”
said the Angel. “Anyone who knows you even half as well as I do, knows
that you are never guilty of a discourtesy, and you move with twice the
grace of any man here. Why shouldn't you feel as if you belonged where
people are graceful and courteous?”
“On me soul!” said Freckles, “you are kind to be thinking it. You are
doubly kind to be saying it.”
The curtains parted and a woman came toward them. Her silks and laces
trailed across the polished floors. The lights gleamed on her neck and
arms, and flashed from rare jewels. She was smiling brightly; and until
she spoke, Freckles had not realized fully that it was his loved Bird
Woman.
Noticing his bewilderment, she cried: “Why, Freckles! Don't you know me
in my war clothes?”
“I do in the uniform in which you fight the Limberlost,” said Freckles.
The Bird Woman laughed. Then he told her why he had come, but she
scarcely could believe him. She could not say exactly when she would go,
but she would make it as soon as possible, for she was most anxious for
the study.
While they talked, the Angel was busy packing a box of sandwiches,
cake, fruit, and flowers. She gave him a last frosty glass, thanked him
repeatedly for bringing news of new material; then Freckles went into
the night. He rode toward the Limberlost with his eyes on the stars.
Presently he removed his hat, hung it to his belt, and ruffled his
hair to the sweep of the night wind. He filled the air all the way with
snatches of oratorios, gospel hymns, and dialect and coon songs, in a
startlingly varied programme. The one thing Freckles knew that he could
do was to sing. The Duncans heard him coming a mile up the corduroy and
could not believe their senses. Freckles unfastened the box from
his belt, and gave Mrs. Duncan and the children all the eatables
it contained, except one big piece of cake that he carried to the
sweet-loving Duncan. He put the flowers back in the box and set it among
his books. He did not say anything, but they understood it was not to be
touched.
“Thae's Freckles' flow'rs,” said a tiny Scotsman, “but,” he added
cheerfully, “it's oor sweeties!”
Freckles' face slowly flushed as he took Duncan's cake and started
toward the swamp. While Duncan ate, Freckles told him something about
the evening, as well as he could find words to express himself, and the
big man was so amazed he kept forgetting the treat in his hands.
Then Freckles mounted his wheel and began a spin that terminated only
when the biggest Plymouth Rock in Duncan's coop saluted a new day, and
long lines of light reddened the east. As he rode he sang, while he
sang he worshiped, but the god he tried to glorify was a dim and faraway
mystery. The Angel was warm flesh and blood.
Every time he passed the little bark-covered imprint on the trail he
dismounted, removed his hat, solemnly knelt and laid his lips on the
impression. Because he kept no account himself, only the laughing-faced
old man of the moon knew how often it happened; and as from the
beginning, to the follies of earth that gentleman has ever been kind.
With the near approach of dawn Freckles tuned his last note. Wearied
almost to falling, he turned from the trail into the path leading to the
cabin for a few hours' rest.