which would be sop-soaking wet, and I suppose Mr. Everhard was looking
for some color or other of a dress or a pair of slacks his wife might
be wearing.
After what seemed like a week, but couldn’t have been a half hour,
or even a quarter of one, we came to the old hollow sycamore tree,
which is at the edge of the swamp, and where the gang had had so many
exciting experiences which you maybe already know about, but there
wasn’t any sign of Charlotte Ann or Mrs. Everhard. We were still
gasping and panting and calling in every direction, but there wasn’t
any answer.
Then I saw something that made me almost lose control of all my
thoughts--the big oak tree which grew on the other side of the path
from the old sycamore, not more than twenty feet distant, had a great
big ugly whitish gash running from its roots all the way up to about
twenty feet. The rest of the tree had broken off and fallen and its
branches lay sprawled across the path to the entrance--right where
anybody who might have been in the path at the time, would have been
struck and smashed into the ground.
That could mean only one thing: Charlotte Ann and Mrs. Everhard would
be on the other side of the fallen tree in the swamp itself, or
wandering around on this side somewhere, or else they were under the
fallen tree.
“I hope they’re NOT under the tree,” I made myself think, and yelled
for them some more, without getting any answer.
Right that second there was what is called a “lull” in the storm, when
there wasn’t any thunder, and for a jiffy the drenching rain almost
stopped, and I knew that if it was like some of the Sugar Creek storms,
it might soon be over.
And then, right in the middle of my worry, I heard the most beautiful
music I had ever heard in my life--a flute-like bird call that was so
exactly like the song of a wood thrush--or a brown thrasher, as some
folks call that sweet-singing bird--that I thought for sure it was one.
A second later, when I heard it again, I knew it _wasn’t_ on account
of a thrush wouldn’t be very likely to sing its thrilling song in the
middle of a summer storm.
I remembered quick what Mrs. Everhard had written to her husband on
the note she had left on the rollaway table in the twisted-up tent.
Mr. Everhard must have remembered it too, because he cupped his hands
to his lips to protect them from the wind and the rain and whistled
back a clear, beautiful, quail call: “Bob-white ... Bob-white ...
Poor-bob-white!”--and right away there was a cheerful wood-thrush
answer, and it seemed like it was saying “Lottle-lee ... Lottle-lee ...
Charlotte Ann ... Charlotte Ann.” Boy, oh boy, it sounded so cheerful
that all of a sudden my heart was as light as a feather because I was
pretty sure if Mrs. Everhard felt happy enough to whistle, Charlotte
Ann would be safe and all right.
Just that second also I heard another sound coming from Mr. Everhard
beside me and it was something I probably wasn’t supposed to hear, but
it seemed even prettier than a quail or a thrush--anyway it must have
sounded fine to God on account of it was, “Thank you, Lord, for sparing
her! I’ll try to keep my promise.”
Say, I remembered that the Bible says “There is rejoicing in Heaven
over one sinner that repents”--and it seemed like Mr. Everhard had just
done that. That is how I knew his prayer, coming out of a rainstorm,
would sound awful pretty to God and maybe to a whole flock of angels
who had heard it. In fact, they might have even been listening for it,
hoping to hear it.
The thrush’s song hadn’t come from the direction of the swamp either,
where the fallen oak tree was, but from the other side of the old
sycamore tree in the direction of the Sugar Creek cave. Say, my heart
leaped with the happiest joy I had felt in a long time when I realized
that the song might have come from the cave itself, which, as you
know, is a short cut to Old Man Paddler’s cabin in the hills. I was
remembering that the first room is about twelve feet across, not quite
as big as the sitting room at our house. I also remembered that Old Man
Paddler keeps a little desk there and a bench and a few candles and
the gang sometimes meets there when we are in that part of the woods.
We had even stayed almost all night there once--both ends of the night
anyway--the middle of it being interrupted by Poetry’s home-made ghost,
which scared the living daylights out of most of the gang.
I yelled to Mr. Everhard, saying, “Come on! They’re safe! Hurrah!” and
I started on a fast, wet run toward the old sycamore tree, swerved
around it and went on toward the mouth of the cave itself. Just as I
got there, I noticed that the door, which as you know had been locked
for a few weeks, was open, and what to my wondering eyes should appear
but Mrs. Everhard wearing the Swallow Tail butterfly dress I had liked
so well that other afternoon when she had borrowed Charlotte Ann.
Charlotte Ann herself was standing in front of Mrs. Everhard with one
of her chubby hands clasped in hers.
“Come on in out of the rain! Come on in!” Mrs. Everhard said
cheerfully. “Mr. Paddler has invited us to come up through the cave to
his cabin for a cup of sassafras tea.”
13
Boy, oh boy, I tell you it was a wonderful feeling, which started to
gallop up and down my spine and all through me as we two drowned rats
hurried to the cave and went inside where it was so quiet we could
hardly hear the storm outside.
“We got here just before the storm broke,” she said to her husband--and
probably also to me.
I noticed that the rock-walled room was all lit up with maybe five or
six candles and there over in a corner sitting at the desk was Old Man
Paddler himself, his long, white whiskers reaching almost down to his
belt and his white hair was as white as a summer afternoon cloud in the
southwest sky.
I noticed also that there were several new, comfortable chairs like the
kind people have in their houses. Over on the east wall, hanging from a
wooden peg, which was driven into a crack, was a beautiful wall motto,
which said, “_For we know that all things work together for good to
them that love God._”
Say, I thought, this is why he has had the cave all closed up for the
past few weeks. He had closed it “for repairs” like they do a store in
town when they are redecorating it. It was really pretty swell.
“How do you like our reception room?” Mrs. Everhard asked her husband.
He stared at her, and she, knowing he didn’t understand what she meant,
said, “Today was my consultation day, you know. Mr. Paddler has been
giving me lessons in faith, teaching me how to trust everything to God
and--.”
I noticed while she was talking that Charlotte Ann was sorta hiding
herself behind Mrs. Everhard’s skirts like she does behind Mom’s
sometimes when she feels bashful.
Then Mr. Everhard asked a question and it was, “You mean you have been
coming here for _consultations?_”
“Sure every other day for over a week. I had a hard time sneaking away
sometimes, but I managed it--while you thought I was at the Collins’
and once when you thought I was taking a nap, but I won’t have to come
any more--” Her voice suddenly broke and I could tell that some tears
had gotten into it; and maybe not realizing that her husband’s clothes
were as wet as a soaked sponge and that she had on her pretty Swallow
Tail butterfly dress, she made a dive for him, sobbing and saying, “Oh,
John, darling! I see it now! I see it! God _is_ good! God _does_ love
me and _I know_ we will see our dear little Elsa again in Heaven! I
have learned to trust! There is rest in Heaven like it says on Sarah
Paddler’s tombstone!”
It was a sight I maybe wasn’t supposed to see and I noticed that Old
Man Paddler himself got out a snow-white handkerchief and brushed away
a couple of tears. Then he adjusted his thick-lensed glasses and looked
down at the Bible on the desk in front of him.
“Just this afternoon,” Mrs. Everhard said with her face buried against
her husband’s neck, “when I saw the clouds rolling and twisting and
I knew there was going to be a bad storm, I was so afraid for little
Charlotte Ann and I prayed and prayed as I ran, knowing if I could get
here, I would be safe. When lightning struck that old tree out there
and it came crashing down in the very place where we had been just a
moment before, I realized that God himself was looking after us. So
I began to thank Him and without knowing I was going to do it I was
thanking Him also for dying upon the cross for me that my sins might be
forgiven and--and all of a sudden I began to be very happy inside--Oh,
John!... Darling....”
Mrs. Everhard stopped talking and just clung to her husband while they
both stood with their arms around each other, with little Charlotte
Ann standing below them not knowing what was going on at all. Then
Charlotte Ann quick looked up at them and, like she does sometimes when
Mom and Pop are standing like that and doing that to each other, she
kinda beat her little hands on Mrs. Everhard’s knees and said up to
them in her cute little baby voice, “I want to be up where the heads
are.”
Well, that is the beginning of the end of this story--one of the most
wonderful things that ever happened around Sugar Creek.
After the storm was over and the clouds had cleared away and the
friendly sun was shining again on a terribly wet world that had just
had a good rain-water bath, we said “goodbye” to Old Man Paddler, not
accepting his kind invitation to go through the cave to his cabin for
a cup of sassafras tea, on account of I knew that I had better get
back home with Charlotte Ann before my parents got there so that when
they did get there I would just be finishing my job of two hours of
baby-sitting. I maybe ought to close the windows too, and if there was
any rain water on the floor anywhere I had better get it mopped up
quick before Pop or Mom or both of them at the same time saw it and
started mopping up on me.
We were all the way to the Sugar Creek bridge before Mr. Everhard
stopped to say, “Where’s the shovel you took with you when you left the
tent?”
She laughed a very musical laugh and answered, “I gave it to Mr.
Paddler. He needs a new one for his flower garden up in the hills.
Besides, I don’t think I’ll ever need it again--will I, darling?” she
said to Charlotte Ann whom she was carrying.
But Charlotte Ann didn’t seem to understand what it was all about. “I’m
hungry,” she said.
Just that second there was a rippling bird voice from somewhere in the
woods and it sounded like it was saying, “O Lottle-lee ... Lottle-lee,”
and it was an honest-to-goodness wood thrush, which now that the storm
was over, probably felt extra happy about something.
* * * * *
When we got to the green tent, Mrs. Everhard just stood looking at all
the damage the storm had done, none of us saying anything for a minute,
not even Charlotte Ann. I was sort of expecting her to make some kind
of a woman’s exclamation, and feel terribly bad, but instead she said
quietly, “Well, that’s that. It was God’s storm, so we’ll have to
accept what it did to our property,”--and I thought what a wonderful
teacher Old Man Paddler had been.
Then she seemed to forget that Charlotte Ann and I were there, ’cause
she said, “It’s been a wonderful vacation, John, _wonderful!_ I’ll
never be able to thank God enough for such a thoughtful husband, and
for that dear old man in the cave.”
Well, I can’t take time now to tell you any more about what happened
that day, except that I did get home with Charlotte Ann at just about
the same time my folks drove up to Theodore Collins on our mailbox.
Mom was so thankful that we were all right that she didn’t say much
about the rain water on the kitchen floor, and my wet clothes. Besides,
the Everhards were there with me, and it seems like Mom thinks I am a
better boy when we have company than when we don’t. Also, besides, Mr.
Everhard was all wet too, and it might not seem right for a boy to get
a scolding for something it was all right for a grown-up person to do.
The Everhards couldn’t stay in the tent that night, so Little Jim’s
mom kept them at their house, they having one of the best spare rooms
in all the Sugar Creek territory. Tomorrow the bobwhite and his wood
thrush wife could move back into the tent again--after it had been
dried out and pitched in a new and better location.
* * * * *
Big Jim himself picked out the best camp site in the woods, for the
Everhards, and with some of our pops helping a little, we moved the
tent and all their equipment--the best place being about fifty feet
from the linden tree. Then we called a special meeting of the gang
to talk over all the exciting things that had happened, especially
to Charlotte Ann and the turtledove--who had turned into a wood
thrush--and her bobwhite husband. We spent maybe an hour walking
around through the woods to see how many trees had been blown down or
uprooted, and some of our favorite trees had, which made us feel kinda
sad, but it was good to be together even though we couldn’t go in
swimming on account of Sugar Creek’s ordinarily nice, clear, friendly
water was an angry-looking brown and was running almost as fast all
along its course as it does all the time just in the riffles. Both
ends of the bayou were so full they came together in the middle to make
one big, long pond, and I thought about how sad the cute, little barred
pickerel must feel to have their playground all spoiled for them. It
certainly wouldn’t be much fun for them to have to look at everything
through muddy water. Besides, who wants to have muddy water in his eyes
all the time, which the barred pickerel would have to have?
There wasn’t very much we could do that was exciting enough for a gang
of boys and we couldn’t even lie down and roll in the grass--it was
still so wet.
“We can all go home and help our folks--maybe offer to hoe potatoes or
something,” Poetry said with a heavy sigh, and Circus answered, “It’s
too wet to work the ground today--don’t you know that?”
“Sure I know that,” Poetry answered with a grin. “That’s why I said it.”
“What _can_ we do?” Dragonfly asked in a discouraged, whining voice.
It was Little Tom Till who thought of something that sounded
interesting. “Let’s all go down to the cave and see the way Old Man
Paddler has fixed it up.”
“Yeah,” Little Jim chimed in, “and let’s all go through it up to his
cabin and see if maybe he will offer to make us some sassafras tea.”
From the old linden tree, where we were at the time, we rambled along
toward the bridge following the shore above the creek, which certainly
didn’t look friendly today, even with the cheerful afternoon sun
shining down on it. I wished it would hurry up and get back to normal
because if there is anything in the world that gives a person a sad
feeling, it is to have his favorite swimming hole spoiled by a heavy
rain.
“Ho hum,” I sighed as I was climbing over the rail fence at the north
road.
“Ho hum, yourself,” Poetry sighed back at me.
Only Little Jim seemed happy. He was standing on the flat surface of
the top rail of the fence when he answered Poetry’s and my “ho hum’s,”
saying, “What you guys so sad for?”
“Sad?” I answered. “Who’s sad?”
“Yeah, who is?” even Big Jim said sadly.
“What are you grinning like a simpish ’possum for?” Dragonfly asked
Little Jim, who quick scooted himself down on the other side of the
fence, saying over his shoulder as he ran across the gravel road,
“Because next winter I get to go to the Everhard’s new resort at Squaw
Lake and go ice fishing and I can take two of the gang along with me,
whichever two of you wants to go. They just bought a resort up there
last week and are going to move there this fall,”--Little Jim having
found out about it while the Everhards were at his house last night. He
was halfway up the fence on the other side of the road when he finished
telling us about it.
Well, this has got to be the last part of this story because I have
to get started as quick as I can on the next one--a long and happy
and also exciting story about how _all_ the gang got to go to the
Everhard’s resort up in the wilds of the North for a few days’
ice-fishing--up where there were a lot of wild animals living all
around in the forest. Talk about a different kind of fun, and also a
different kind of adventure! Boy, oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!
I also have to tell you something else that happened that very
afternoon when we got to the cave--what we found in an envelope tacked
to the door.
“Hurry up,” Little Jim called to us--and for some reason his cheerful
voice made me begin to feel wonderful as all the rest of us swished
across the road, up the embankment on the other side and started on a
helter-skelter gallop toward the cave.
THE END
There’s not only a green tent in this Sugar Creek Gang story, but some
mysterious digging at night and what is almost another kidnapping.
Here’s another lively adventure book in this very popular series by
Paul Hutchens, the happy friend of young America.
[Illustration]
_Be sure to read all the books in the SCRIPTURE PRESS series_:
THE SUGAR CREEK GANG GOES NORTH
ADVENTURES IN AN INDIAN CEMETERY
THE SUGAR CREEK GANG DIGS FOR TREASURE
NORTH WOODS MANHUNT
LOST IN A SUGAR CREEK BLIZZARD
SUGAR CREEK GANG ON THE MEXICAN BORDER
GREEN TENT MYSTERY AT SUGAR CREEK
10,000 MINUTES AT SUGAR CREEK
BLUE COW AT SUGAR CREEK
OLD STRANGER’S SECRET AT SUGAR CREEK
THE SUGAR CREEK GANG AT SNOW GOOSE LODGE
THE SUGAR CREEK GANG GOES WESTERN
WE KILLED A WILDCAT AT SUGAR CREEK
THE HAUNTED HOUSE AT SUGAR CREEK
TRAP LINE THIEF AT SUGAR CREEK
WATERMELON MYSTERY AT SUGAR CREEK
DOWN A SUGAR CREEK CHIMNEY
WILD HORSE CANYON MYSTERY
Other thrilling stories about the Sugar Creek Gang may be ordered from
your Christian bookstore.
_Published and Distributed Exclusively by_
[Illustration]
SCRIPTURE PRESS
SCRIPTURE PRESS PUBLICATIONS, INC.
1825 College Avenue · Wheaton, Illinois
[Illustration]
Transcriber’s Note:
Punctuation has been standardised. Hyphenation has been retained as it
appears in the original publication. Changes have been made as follows:
Page 57
readly to start wiping them _changed to_
ready to start wiping them
Page 90
O lottle-lee ... Lottle-lee _changed to_
O Lottle-lee ... Lottle-lee