Wherein the Angel Locates a Rare Tree and Dines with the Gang
From afar Freckles saw them coming. The Angel was standing, waving her
hat. He sprang on his wheel and raced, jolting and pounding, down the
corduroy to meet them. The Bird Woman stopped the horse and the Angel
gave him the bit of print paper. Freckles leaned the wheel against a
tree and took the proof with eager fingers. He never before had seen
a study from any of his chickens. He stood staring. When he turned his
face toward them it was transfigured with delight.
“You see!” he exclaimed, and began gazing again. “Oh, me Little
Chicken!” he cried. “Oh me ilegant Little Chicken! I'd be giving all me
money in the bank for you!”
Then he thought of the Angel's muff and Mrs. Duncan's hat, and added,
“or at least, all but what I'm needing bad for something else. Would you
mind stopping at the cabin a minute and showing this to Mother Duncan?”
he asked.
“Give me that little book in your pocket,” said the Bird Woman.
She folded the outer edges of the proof so that it would fit into the
book, explaining as she did so its perishable nature in that state.
Freckles went hurrying ahead, and they arrived in time to see Mrs.
Duncan gazing as if awestruck, and to hear her bewildered “Weel I be
drawed on!”
Freckles and the Angel helped the Bird Woman to establish herself for a
long day at the mouth of Sleepy Snake Creek. Then she sent them away and
waited what luck would bring to her.
“Now, what shall we do?” inquired the Angel, who was a bundle of nerves
and energy.
“Would you like to go to me room awhile?” asked Freckles.
“If you don't care to very much, I'd rather not,” said the Angel. “I'll
tell you. Let's go help Mrs. Duncan with dinner and play with the baby.
I love a nice, clean baby.”
They started toward the cabin. Every few minutes they stopped to
investigate something or to chatter over some natural history wonder.
The Angel had quick eyes; she seemed to see everything, but Freckles'
were even quicker; for life itself had depended on their sharpness ever
since the beginning of his work at the swamp. They saw it at the same
time.
“Someone has been making a flagpole,” said the Angel, running the toe of
her shoe around the stump, evidently made that season. “Freckles, what
would anyone cut a tree as small as that for?”
“I don't know,” said Freckles.
“Well, but I want to know!” said the Angel. “No one came away here and
cut it for fun. They've taken it away. Let's go back and see if we can
see it anywhere around there.”
She turned, retraced her footsteps, and began eagerly searching.
Freckles did the same.
“There it is!” he exclaimed at last, “leaning against the trunk of that
big maple.”
“Yes, and leaning there has killed a patch of dried bark,” said the
Angel. “See how dried it appears?”
Freckles stared at her.
“Angel!” he shouted, “I bet you it's a marked tree!”
“Course it is!” cried the Angel. “No one would cut that sapling and
carry it away there and lean it up for nothing. I'll tell you! This is
one of Jack's marked trees. He's climbed up there above anyone's head,
peeled the bark, and cut into the grain enough to be sure. Then he's
laid the bark back and fastened it with that pole to mark it. You see,
there're a lot of other big maples close around it. Can you climb to
that place?”
“Yes,” said Freckles; “if I take off my wading-boots I can.”
“Then take them off,” said the Angel, “and do hurry! Can't you see that
I am almost crazy to know if this tree is a marked one?”
When they pushed the sapling over, a piece of bark as big as the crown
of Freckles' hat fell away.
“I believe it looks kind of nubby,” encouraged the Angel, backing away,
with her face all screwed into a twist in an effort to intensify her
vision.
Freckles reached the opening, then slid rapidly to the ground. He was
almost breathless while his eyes were flashing.
“The bark's been cut clean with a knife, the sap scraped away, and a big
chip taken out deep. The trunk is the twistiest thing you ever saw. It's
full of eyes as a bird is of feathers!”
The Angel was dancing and shaking his hand.
“Oh, Freckles,” she cried, “I'm so delighted that you found it!”
“But I didn't,” said the astonished Freckles. “That tree isn't my find;
it's yours. I forgot it and was going on; you wouldn't give up, and kept
talking about it, and turned back. You found it!”
“You'd best be looking after your reputation for truth and veracity,”
said the Angel. “You know you saw that sapling first!”
“Yes, after you took me back and set me looking for it,” scoffed
Freckles.
The clear, ringing echo of strongly swung axes came crashing through the
Limberlost.
“'Tis the gang!” shouted Freckles. “They're clearing a place to make the
camp. Let's go help!”
“Hadn't we better mark that tree again?” cautioned the Angel. “It's away
in here. There's such a lot of them, and all so much alike. We'd feel
good and green to find it and then lose it.”
Freckles lifted the sapling to replace it, but the Angel motioned him
away.
“Use your hatchet,” she said. “I predict this is the most valuable tree
in the swamp. You found it. I'm going to play that you're my knight.
Now, you nail my colors on it.”
She reached up, and pulling a blue bow from her hair, untied and doubled
it against the tree. Freckles turned his eyes from her and managed the
fastening with shaking fingers. The Angel had called him her knight!
Dear Lord, how he loved her! She must not see his face, or surely her
quick eyes would read what he was fighting to hide. He did not dare lay
his lips on that ribbon then, but that night he would return to it. When
they had gone a little distance, they both looked back, and the morning
breeze set the bit of blue waving them a farewell.
They walked at a rapid pace.
“I am sorry about scaring the birds,” said the Angel, “but it's almost
time for them to go anyway. I feel dreadfully over having the swamp
ruined, but isn't it a delight to hear the good, honest ring of those
axes, instead of straining your ears for stealthy sounds? Isn't it
fine to go openly and freely, with nothing worse than a snake or a
poison-vine to fear?”
“Ah!” said Freckles, with a long breath, “it's better than you can
dream, Angel. Nobody will ever be guessing some of the things I've been
through trying to keep me promise to the Boss, and to hold out until
this day. That it's come with only one fresh stump, and the log from
that saved, and this new tree to report, isn't it grand? Maybe Mr.
McLean will be forgetting that stump when he sees this tree, Angel!”
“He can't forget it,” said the Angel; and in answer to Freckles'
startled eyes she added, “because he never had any reason to remember
it. He couldn't have done a whit better himself. My father says so.
You're all right, Freckles!”
She reached him her hand, and as two children, they broke into a run
when they came closer the gang. They left the swamp by the west road
and followed the trail until they found the men. To the Angel it seemed
complete charm. In the shadiest spot on the west side of the line, at
the edge of the swamp and very close Freckles' room, they were
cutting bushes and clearing space for a big tent for the men's
sleeping-quarters, another for a dining-hall, and a board shack for the
cook. The teamsters were unloading, the horses were cropping leaves from
the bushes, while each man was doing his part toward the construction of
the new Limberlost quarters.
Freckles helped the Angel climb on a wagonload of canvas in the shade.
She removed her leggings, wiped her heated face, and glowed with
happiness and interest.
The gang had been sifted carefully. McLean now felt that there was not a
man in it who was not trustworthy.
They all had heard of the Angel's plucky ride for Freckles' relief;
several of them had been in the rescue party. Others, new since that
time, had heard the tale rehearsed in its every aspect around the
smudge-fires at night. Almost all of them knew the Angel by sight from
her trips with the Bird Woman to their leases. They all knew her father,
her position, and the luxuries of her home. Whatever course she had
chosen with them they scarcely would have resented it, but the Angel
never had been known to choose a course. Her spirit of friendliness was
inborn and inbred. She loved everyone, so she sympathized with everyone.
Her generosity was only limited by what was in her power to give.
She came down the trail, hand in hand with the red-haired, freckled
timber guard whom she had worn herself past the limit of endurance to
save only a few weeks before, racing in her eagerness to reach them,
and laughing her “Good morning, gentlemen,” right and left. When she was
ensconced on the wagonload of tenting, she sat on a roll of canvas as a
queen on her throne. There was not a man of the gang who did not respect
her. She was a living exponent of universal brotherhood. There was no
man among them who needed her exquisite face or dainty clothing to teach
him that the deference due a gentlewoman should be paid her. That the
spirit of good fellowship she radiated levied an especial tribute of its
own, and it became their delight to honor and please her.
As they raced toward the wagon--“Let me tell about the tree, please?”
she begged Freckles.
“Why, sure!” said Freckles.
He probably would have said the same to anything she suggested. When
McLean came, he found the Angel flushed and glowing, sitting on the
wagon, her hands already filled. One of the men, who was cutting a
scrub-oak, had carried to her a handful of crimson leaves. Another had
gathered a bunch of delicate marsh-grass heads for her. Someone else,
in taking out a bush, had found a daintily built and lined little nest,
fresh as when made.
She held up her treasures and greeted McLean, “Good morning, Mr. Boss of
the Limberlost!”
The gang shouted, while he bowed profoundly before her.
“Everyone listen!” cried the Angel, climbing a roll of canvas. “I have
something to say! Freckles has been guarding here over a year now, and
he presents the Limberlost to you, with every tree in it saved; for good
measure he has this morning located the rarest one of them all: the one
in from the east line, that Wessner spoke of the first day--nearest the
one you took out. All together! Everyone! Hurrah for Freckles!”
With flushing cheeks and gleaming eyes, gaily waving the grass above
her head, she led in three cheers and a tiger. Freckles slipped into the
swamp and hid himself, for fear he could not conceal his pride and his
great surging, throbbing love for her.
The Angel subsided on the canvas and explained to McLean about the
maple. The Boss was mightily pleased. He took Freckles and set out to
re-locate and examine the tree. The Angel was interested in the making
of the camp, so she preferred to remain with the men. With her sharp
eyes she was watching every detail of construction; but when it came to
the stretching of the dining-hall canvas she proceeded to take command.
The men were driving the rope-pins, when the Angel arose on the wagon
and, leaning forward, spoke to Duncan, who was directing the work.
“I believe if you will swing that around a few feet farther, you will
find it better, Mr. Duncan,” she said. “That way will let the hot sun in
at noon, while the sides will cut off the best breeze.”
“That's a fact,” said Duncan, studying the conditions.
So, by shifting the pins a little, they obtained comfort for which they
blessed the Angel every day. When they came to the sleeping-tent, they
consulted her about that. She explained the general direction of the
night breeze and indicated the best position for the tent. Before anyone
knew how it happened, the Angel was standing on the wagon, directing
the location and construction of the cooking-shack, the erection of the
crane for the big boiling-pots, and the building of the store-room. She
superintended the laying of the floor of the sleeping-tent lengthwise,
So that it would be easier to sweep, and suggested a new arrangement of
the cots that would afford all the men an equal share of night breeze.
She left the wagon, and climbing on the newly erected dining-table,
advised with the cook in placing his stove, table, and kitchen utensils.
When Freckles returned from the tree to join in the work around the
camp, he caught glimpses of her enthroned on a soapbox, cleaning beans.
She called to him that they were invited for dinner, and that they had
accepted the invitation.
When the beans were steaming in the pot, the Angel advised the cook to
soak them overnight the next time, so that they would cook more quickly
and not burst. She was sure their cook at home did that way, and the
CHEF of the gang thought it would be a good idea. The next Freckles saw
of her she was paring potatoes. A little later she arranged the table.
She swept it with a broom, instead of laying a cloth; took the hatchet
and hammered the deepest dents from the tin plates, and nearly skinned
her fingers scouring the tinware with rushes. She set the plates an even
distance apart, and laid the forks and spoons beside them. When the cook
threw away half a dozen fruit-cans, she gathered them up and melted off
the tops, although she almost blistered her face and quite blistered her
fingers doing it. Then she neatly covered these improvised vases with
the Manila paper from the groceries, tying it with wisps of marshgrass.
These she filled with fringed gentians, blazing-star, asters, goldenrod,
and ferns, placing them the length of the dining-table. In one of the
end cans she arranged her red leaves, and in the other the fancy grass.
Two men, watching her, went away proud of themselves and said that she
was “a born lady.” She laughingly caught up a paper bag and fitted it
jauntily to her head in imitation of a cook's cap. Then she ground the
coffee, and beat a couple of eggs to put in, “because there is company,”
she gravely explained to the cook. She asked that delighted individual
if he did not like it best that way, and he said he did not know,
because he never had a chance to taste it. The Angel said that was
her case exactly--she never had, either; she was not allowed anything
stronger than milk. Then they laughed together.
She told the cook about camping with her father, and explained that
he made his coffee that way. When the steam began to rise from the big
boiler, she stuffed the spout tightly with clean marshgrass, to keep the
aroma in, placed the boiler where it would only simmer, and explained
why. The influence of the Angel's visit lingered with the cook through
the remainder of his life, while the men prayed for her frequent return.
She was having a happy time, when McLean came back jubilant, from his
trip to the tree. How jubilant he told only the Angel, for he had been
obliged to lose faith in some trusted men of late, and had learned
discretion by what he suffered. He planned to begin clearing out a road
to the tree that same afternoon, and to set two guards every night, for
it promised to be a rare treasure, so he was eager to see it on the way
to the mills.
“I am coming to see it felled,” cried the Angel. “I feel a sort of
motherly interest in that tree.”
McLean was highly amused. He would have staked his life on the honesty
of either the Angel or Freckles; yet their versions of the finding of
the tree differed widely.
“Tell me, Angel,” the Boss said jestingly. “I think I have a right to
know. Who really did locate that tree?”
“Freckles,” she answered promptly and emphatically.
“But he says quite as positively that it was you. I don't understand.”
The Angel's legal look flashed into her face. Her eyes grew tense with
earnestness. She glanced around, and seeing no towel or basin, held out
her hand for Sears to pour water over them. Then, using the skirt of her
dress to dry them, she climbed on the wagon.
“I'll tell you, word for word, how it happened,” she said, “and then you
shall decide, and Freckles and I will agree with you.”
When she had finished her version, “Tell us, 'oh, most learned judge!'”
she laughingly quoted, “which of us located that tree?”
“Blest if I know who located it!” exclaimed McLean. “But I have a fairly
accurate idea as to who put the blue ribbon on it.”
The Boss smiled significantly at Freckles, who just had come, for they
had planned that they would instruct the company to reserve enough of
the veneer from that very tree to make the most beautiful dressing table
they could design for the Angel's share of the discovery.
“What will you have for yours?” McLean had asked of Freckles.
“If it's all the same to you, I'll be taking mine out in music
lessons--begging your pardon--voice culture,” said Freckles with a
grimace.
McLean laughed, for Freckles needed to see or hear only once to absorb
learning as the thirsty earth sucks up water.
The Angel placed McLean at the head of the table. She took the foot,
with Freckles on her right, while the lumber gang, washed, brushed, and
straightened until they felt unfamiliar with themselves and each other,
filled the sides. That imposed a slight constraint. Then, too, the men
were afraid of the flowers, the polished tableware, and above all, of
the dainty grace of the Angel. Nowhere do men so display lack of good
breeding and culture as in dining. To sprawl on the table, scoop
with their knives, chew loudly, gulp coffee, and duck their heads as
snapping-turtles for every bite, had not been noticed by them until the
Angel, sitting straightly, suddenly made them remember that they,
too, were possessed of spines. Instinctively every man at the table
straightened.