Abe Pike was laying a new floor to his shed. He had at last, after many
years, brought that wonderful structure to some semblance of a covered
shelter, and now he was stamping down the red earth taken from
ant-hills. This earth makes a firm floor, as it binds well and grows
harder from use.
"Yes, sonny," said the old man, "when animiles or insecks take a work in
hand they do it better'n men. See this yer earth. Well, every grain of
it's been worked up by the jaws of a ant, and covered with a nateral
mortar. It's been all milled month in and month out, mostly after a
fall o' rain, each tiny pellet mined out o' the smoking ground and
carried by the little chaps way up the tunnels out inter the sunlight
and glued to its place on the risin' mound. An' in the buildin' of the
dome them critturs don't forget the chopped straw, and when they've
carried their temple high above the groun' they don't forget, too, to
narrow the circle till they come to the finishin' peak. Yes, sir, I
tell you, there's more wonder in one of em ord'nary ant-hills than there
is in the biggest cathedral ever built, an' yet here I be spreading the
remains of such works over the floor of this yer shed."
"But ants always keep to the same designs, Abe."
"Not they. In diffrent countries they have diffrent kinds o' hills; but
when they find the sort that's best fitted for the climate they sticks
to it, which is morn men do. No, sonny; the animiles an' the insecks
know what they start out to learn without goin' to school for sixteen
years, same as some young ones do that I know of, and then can't tell a
field of wheat from a barley crop. As for me, I've had no schooling;
but I know how to do what I want to do."
"How long have you been over this shed, Abe?"
"Lemme see. I laid the fust pole at the time of the big drought, maybe
thirty years ago."
"And when it's finished?"
"Finished!" Abe left off stamping the red earth, and looked around with
a strange expression. "I ain't goin' to finish it, sonny; no, what's
the use? When I begun that shed Abe Pike were a young man, and I seed
under the roof of it when the work were done sacks o' yellow wheat,
piled up. The lands were young, I had a team o' young oxen, there were
young cows in the kraal, a good flock o' sheep, an' a crop of hopes in
my head. That were thirty years ago, sonny, an' the shed ain't finished
yet, and the cows is dead, the lands are poor, and Abe Pike don't hope
no more. I ain't goin' to finish this yer shed, not me; it's all that
holds me together. There's a man buried in this yer shed."
"What!"
"Yes, lad, that's so. Young Abe is here--in the four corners, and under
the ground, an' in the roof, and the sides. Yes, young Abe hisself, an'
his sorrows, an' his hopes, an' his pride and laziness. I've worked him
in these thirty years in loneliness, with the sound of the sea groanin'
in the air, an' the hills lookin' on, and the sky stretched abuv,
workin' him in slowly with nery an eye to watch, and what's lef of him
is this yer sun-dried karkus that's standing afore you. That's all."
Abe Pike straightened himself and looked round at the drab veld, the
grey hills, and the dark of the kloof where the forest trees were
massed. Then he rested his hands on the handle of his stamper, and, so
standing, gazed with a vacant expression before him, and watching him I
seemed to see a long line of shadowy reflections of him, standing so
with the same fixed look fastened on the empty veld. The hollow booming
of the great waves solemnly breaking in endless succession alone broke
the heavy silence.
"Did ever anything come out of the sea, Abe?" I asked, idly, as I
gazed, like him, in a sort of spell, scarcely knowing what I meant.
"A many things," said he, without moving. "Yes, sonny," he continued,
after a long pause; "a many, many things. When the evenin' wind comes
off the sea, and I been a-sittin' outside the door, listenin' to the
waves and the different voices of 'em all blendin', with now and ag'in a
mighty bass note from the biggest of the seven brothers, as he rolled
his shining crest--I've seed things come over the randt yonder, seed 'em
come an' melt away, often an' often."
"What things?"
"All manner o' things, sonny; but I allow you won't see 'em, as you
ain't had the trainin'. Night after night, year in year out, you must
sit alone listenin' in the stillness, and maybe you'll year the voices I
year an' see what I see. But you couldn't go through it--no, sonny! I
bin frightened many a time so that I've got up and fetched the gun to
make a noise--yes, that's so; for there's some things you can't see,
only feel, an' they hard to bear. I seed a little boy once. Maybe he
was young Abe Pike afore I knew him. A little chap with brown legs an'
curly hair an' big eyes. He came drifting over the randt outer the sea,
when its waves was jes' murmuring sof and low, and I yeard him laugh as
I watched him come, thinking he were a wild fowl. He lighted over there
where that railed-in moss is a-growin'--see how green it is in the dry
of the yearth. That's where his little naked feet touched the ground,
and where he stood eyeing me with his big eyes and a sort o' dew on his
forehead where the curls came down. Then he laughed, and with his head
on one side he came up to my knee an' looked up at me. Yes, a little
chap; an' he came outer the sea to ole Abe Pike, sitting lonely out
there on the door-step. Maybe if I'd a married I might a' had a son
like that, for he seemed to b'long to me, as he eyed me with a smile.
Only onct he came, only onct; but, sonny, I feel the touch of his hands
now, an' by that touch I know I will meet him ag'in. He may a bin young
Abe afore I knew him come back to see what I'd made o' him, an' but for
the smile on his face I'd think he were grieved to see what a blamed
failure I'd made outer him. Many a time I watched for him. Yes, sonny;
I've sat in the quiet of the afternoon, listenin' to the sea, and when I
year the murmuring same as then I look for that little chap to come
floatin' up over the randt, an' I keep the moss there wet when I have to
go without water to drink in the drought. You ain't laughing?"
"No, Abe, no. One of these wretched flies has got into my eye."
"I made a boat for the little chap, 'gainst he came again, and a fishin'
line, and a reed pipe. We could 'a played many games together, him and
me, but he only came onct." Abe turned his face to the sea and stared
wistfully. He was not yarning now, and I wondered at him.
"Yes," he said; "I could a showed him many a bird's nest if he'd a come,
but maybe the white woman has kep' him away. She's bin here off an' on
for maybe six years. She came outer the sea, too, footin' her way
through the air--comin' like a cloud or one o' these big sea-birds that
sails on the wind without a flap of his long, narrer wings. White, my
sonny!--I never seed anythin' so white, not even the sails o' a ship
with the sun on, or the inside o' one o' them shells folk use for tooth
powder. She comes on me all o' a sudden, and all I see is the gleam o'
her eyes--then she's gone, leavin' me here with my heart beatin'. Maybe
she looks after the little ones, for when she comes there's a queer
noise in the waves over yonder 's if a heap o' girls were at play. Oh,
yes; many things come outer the sea besides fish an' otter an' sich
like--many things, sonny; an' when I'm buildin' this yer shed I stop
workin' to look for their comin'. Of late I bin expectin' somethin'
mor'n ord'nary, but it ain't come. Yes, I bin waitin' for that little
chap to take me by the hand. Got any tabak?"
I handed over the pouch, and saw that Abe had come out of the spell that
had been on him.
"That water bar'l o' mine's all broken up."
"How was that?"
"I'll tell you how it happened. The dry weather druv the field-rats to
the bar'l for water, which they fetched out by dipping their tails in.
Many a time I seed 'em at it, an' it weren't long before a _ringhals_
spotted the performance; so what's he do but get inter the water, tail
fust, through the bung, and watch for the rats to come an' drink. My!
He guv me a _schreik_ when I went for a drink an' saw his eyes gleamin'
up outer the green bough I poked in the hole to cool the water an'
prevent it shakin' out. I lef him there, for I couldn't see how to
fetch him out; but, whiles I were sittin' quiet in the evenin', waitin'
for him to crawl out, up came along a percession of rats, with a ole
grey-whiskered chap leading. He took a look at me, movin' his nose, but
I kep' still, and he reared hisself against the bar'l. Next rat he run
up, and the next over the two of 'em, till the third got over the swell
of the bar'l and scooted to the bung-hole, backed round and popped in
his tail, unsuspicious of that vicious crittur inside. Nex' minit that
rat were hollering out blue murder, for the snake grabbed him by the
tail, and the other rats, they jes' lit out for hum. Well, that snake
he let go, but the rat he jes' curled up and fell down in a kickin' fit.
Then the _ringhals_ crawled out--the ugly five feet length o' livin'
death--and there and then gorged the rat. Well, I let him be. Snakes
is bad, and rats is bad. I let him be, and three days arter there were
the blamed _ringhals_ in my bar'l again. Blow me, if the same
performance didn't happen over ag'in, and some days arter I seed that
partickler tribe o' rats was gettin' smaller, and, believe me, sonny,
that _ringhals_ had guv the news to another snake, for one evenin' I
seed two o' their wicked-lookin' heads jes' inside the bung on the
twigs. I were watchin' for the tragedy--same as us'al--when--same as
us'al--up come that ole grey chap on his own hook. He came to the
bar'l, and sat up on his behind legs like a hare, twiddling his
moustaches and twisting his nose. Then he backed off, and give a
whopping spring, which landed him on a swell of the bar'l. Well, he
weren't takin' any water, he weren't; oh, no! He jes' walked on his
hind legs and took a peep inter the bung-hole. I guess he seed
something, for he turned a back sumersault, jes' as a vicious head came
with a hiss at him. Well, I tell you that ole chap he scooted off,
squeaking like a forty-shillin' kettle. I sat there laughin' at the
skeer of that 'ere rat, but, by gum! I soon dropped grinnin', for up
along came the ole feller ag'in with a 'ole lot o' rats behind him.
When they drew near he gave them the word to stop, whiles he examined
the bar'l all round. Then he spoke a few words, and the entire gang
they went to the lower side of the bar'l and began to scratch away the
yearth. Yes, sir, that's what they done. They scratched away the
yearth. Then the ole chap guv another word, an' they got roun' on the
top side o' the bar'l. Then they begun to shuv."
"Nonsense!"
"I tell you; them rats they jist put their backs ag'in the bar'l and
shuved for all they were worth; but 'twarn't no go. They was too light.
D'ye think they guv up the job--not they! The ole chap led 'em roun'
the bottom side, and they set to scraping more yearth away till the
bar'l were almost undermined. Then roun' they came ag'in, all
squeaking, and one of the snakes popped his head out ter see what the
noise were about. Nex' minute he'd a' bin among 'em, but the 'ole
parcel o' rats, maybe one hundred, guv another mighty shuv, and 'fore I
could start up to prevent it that bar'l gave a list over, and then
started. Once it started it jes' flew down the slope, and went to
pieces at the bottom with a smash. The snake that were hangin' out were
flattened dead, and the way them rats fell on his body were a caution.
They were tearin' it to pieces when, bilin' with rage an' hissin' most
furious, up came the other riptile. The rats then scooted--that's so!"