WHITE PEACOCKS
During the time that Jimmy stayed at his grandmother's farm--a period
that was lengthened to more than two weeks--we were all agitated by the
approach of a circus. Excitement had reached such a pitch that when,
three days before circus-day, Jimmy invited me to make him a visit, I
was in some doubt whether I ought to venture so far afield.
But on a solemn promise from Jimmy's Uncle Will that he would
personally convey me home, behind one of his own horses, at least
twenty-four hours before the great event, I thought it might be safe to
risk it. Jimmy could stay at the farm (fully two miles away) until the
very morning, if he liked. I preferred to be nearer at hand. So to the
farm I went.
Certainly, no other place would have tempted me. It was, to our
fancies, perhaps the most fortunate spot on earth. Historians and
antiquaries might deny that it had been the scene of a proper Indian
raid. _We_ could see the loopholes from which the flintlocks had been
fired, and mark the small window whence a dipperful of molten lead
was poured, to discourage an Indian whose anxiety to come inside the
house made him indiscreet. I have never heard any of the slaves to fact
assert that the farm-house might not have seen the tomahawk flashing
about its walls and heard the war-whoop ring out.
It was there in the days of tomahawks and war-whoops.
If the Indians had been so inconsiderate as to pass it by, we were
not going to let that trouble us. Certainly, a plough seldom turned
the earth of the adjoining meadow without bringing to light a flint
arrow-tip or the head of a stone axe--weapons which even the scientific
historian might hesitate to attribute to the ministers and deacons of
Puritan times.
There was the meadow itself, an enormous tract of land, as it appeared
to us. In it, somewhere, dwelt the lord of the herd, a legendary bull
whose uncertain temper might be aroused by the sight of a small boy
wearing a plaid necktie with a single spot of red in it. He could
detect this spot at half a mile, and the boy had better make for the
nearest fence, and affect blue neckties exclusively henceforth. Thus
the crossing of the meadow had that spice of danger without which life
is tasteless.
There were other reasons for crossing the meadow besides the mere
braving of the bull. At its foot was a pond, rich in mud of primeval
blackness, and well stocked with turtles and "green-leapers." Farther
on was a bog and wood, deep and gloomy as the magic forest of
Broceliande, and not less pleasing to us because it went by the more
homely name of Pettingell's Swamp. Crows built their nests in its
trees, and without its borders jack-in-the-pulpit held his springtime
services. Beyond this, more meadows--salt ones this time; then the
river, the sand-dunes, and the ocean.
The barns about the farm-house were full of sweet-smelling hay. You
could bore long tunnels through this, and come out with your hair full
of dust and spiders' webs. Certain cocks of salt hay stood outside. By
climbing to the top of one of them, sitting down, and sliding to the
bottom you could enjoy an exhilarating exercise. It is only fair to
say, however, that the salt water and occasional bit of mud which gave
the hay its slipperiness had an evil effect upon knickerbockers, and
furnished relatives with a subject for wearisome jest which dieth never.
Yet with all these methods of entertainment, Jimmy and I considered
the peacocks chief among the attractions of his grandmother's farm.
They did not really belong on the farm, but were the property of Mr.
Bartlett, who lived at some distance. We judged that the owner of such
exotic fowls must possess the wealth of Ormus and of Ind. The birds
themselves were indifferent in the matter of domicile, and spent most
of the day and all the night on the Toppans' land.
Their bedtime was an hour of unusual interest. They gathered about
sunset around a large apple tree which stood near one corner of the
farm-house. There was much strutting and spreading of tails among the
gentlemen of the party; the peahens moved about nervously, but with
less ostentation. Both sexes raised discordant shrieks from time to
time, for no purpose that we could discover.
When, one by one, they had taken up their roosting-places in the tree,
they made an impressive spectacle, especially after night had fallen,
and seemed to bring the jungles of Hindustan to our very doors.
They inspired a feeling of awe and mystery because of their radiant
plumage and reputed value. It was the veneration which we felt toward
the whole tribe that turned so quickly to terror in the matter of the
white peacock.
The adventure flashed on us suddenly the morning after my arrival at
the farm.
In a sand-pit beyond the orchard it was the immemorial custom to build
fires and roast potatoes and other eatables. Marks of fires long dead
showed us that the practice extended far back, perhaps to the boys
of prehistoric times, or to those whose fathers had shot the arrows
whereof the flint heads lay beneath the surface of the meadow. Potatoes
and apples were placed in the hot embers, and removed at the end of
about twenty minutes. The apples were, by this time, roasted not wisely
but too well. The potatoes had an outer region of softness, but at
heart were firm and unyielding. Both were so covered with wood ashes
that their consumption left streaks of soot all about the vicinity of
the mouth, extending back even to the ears.
Potatoes and apples, thus prepared, had palled upon us. We sought for
variety in the bill of fare, and this morning Jimmy proposed eggs.
"At clam-bakes they roast eggs in hot seaweed," declared Jimmy.
The idea was worthy, but eggs were not so easy to procure. A visit to
the hen-house proved that the day's supply had already been gathered.
Then, though Robinson Crusoe would hardly have done it, we applied at
the kitchen. But Grandmother Toppan, who might have humored our whim,
was away from home. The Power temporarily in command dismissed our
request brusquely:--
"Ye byes git outer here, now, or I'll be afther takin' the paddle to
yez."
We did not know what paddle was referred to, but we understood that we
had leave to withdraw. We wondered if Robinson Crusoe ever met with
humiliating rebuffs like that. It was impossible; no tyrannous cook
could lord it over him while he carried that long gun.
But we had no gun, so, in dejection and despair, we wandered again
toward the sand-pit. As we crossed the orchard, a startling event
occurred. Some large bird rustled off through the grass, and in the
little round hollow where she had been sitting gleamed four white
objects. It was enough to renew our trust in the gods who favor the
romantic in their everlasting encounters with the practical folk of the
world.
For here were eggs!
And eggs obtained under conditions that our friend Crusoe need not
have scorned. To us the adventure said in no unmistakable tones: Abase
yourself not before cooks when your spoil is at hand. Trust Providence,
as did the Swiss Family Robinson.
We hurried to the sand-pit, kindled the fire, and put in the eggs. I
refuse to dwell upon their condition when we took them out, or on the
difficulty attendant upon eating the two that remained unbroken, or
what these tasted like.
People who think that the carnal joy of eating is of much importance at
these camp-fires have vulgar, prosaic minds.
We heard the dinner-bell ringing just as we disposed of the second egg,
and we hurried toward the house.
Ten minutes later (for it takes some time to remove from one's face
and hands the evidences of a feast of roasted eggs) we appeared at the
dinner-table. It was a long one, with Uncle Will at one end, Uncle
Charley at the other. The eggs had not spoiled our appetites, and
we ate, with nothing to disturb our pleasure, up to the point when
blueberry pie came on. Then Uncle Will, his carving duties over, and
his own share of the dinner consumed, leaned back in his chair and
addressed Uncle Charley:--
"I was over at Bartlett's last night."
"That so?" returned Uncle Charley. "Did you speak about the peacocks?"
"About the peahen that's setting in the orchard? Yes. He knew she had
been setting there on nothing for three days. The eggs came from New
York yesterday, and he said he was going to send Foley over with them
this morning."
Aunt Ellen showed an interest in the conversation. "Eggs from New
York?" she queried.
"Yes," replied Uncle Will; "from the Zoo. They're peacocks' eggs.
_White_ peacocks, too. They cost him ten dollars apiece--forty dollars
for the four. I told him 'twas a risky thing to leave them out in the
orchard. Said _I_ wouldn't be responsible. Bartlett said the peahen
wouldn't set anywhere else. He'd have to take the chance. What are you
going to do with a man like that?"
I glanced out of the corner of my eye at Jimmy Toppan. He was trying
to insert a piece of blueberry pie in his mouth. Three times he made
the attempt, and each time his aim was poor. I had a feeling as if my
chair were sinking beneath me. The dining-room and the whole family of
Toppans revolved about me in a blur.
_Peacocks' eggs! Forty dollars!_
I have no recollection of the rest of the meal. The elder Toppans
talked together, I believe, but on what subject I have not the faintest
notion.
In five or six minutes Jimmy and I were safely over the fence and
running across the meadow. We had to stop once or twice for breath, but
we covered the distance to the wooded swamp in record time. Back of a
large oak, where we were nearly covered by ferns, we stopped and panted.
Jimmy spoke first.
"They don't hang people under sixteen years old," he said.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure," he replied.
"They put 'em in prison, though," I remarked, "for life!"
"What'll we do?" asked Jimmy.
We debated the question from every point of view. Of one thing we were
determined: we would never be taken alive.
"There's the circus," I suggested. "Don't you suppose we could join
that?"
"Like Toby Tyler? He had a horrible time!"
"It's better than stayin' all your life in a dungeon on bread and water
hollowed out of the living rock," I reminded him.
"I'd have to go home first and get my decalcomania book," Jimmy
stipulated.
"Well, that will be all right; I'll get my punch."
About my most cherished possession was a discarded punch, formerly used
by a real conductor on a train. It seemed that I ought not present
myself to the circus people empty-handed if Jimmy were going to bring
his book of decalcomanias. It struck me that I might be especially
welcome, as a ticket-taker, if I had a punch. I could work in that
capacity while I was learning to ride bareback, or qualifying for the
position of ring-master, or perhaps--so high do one's air-castles
tower--that of clown!
Why not? Others had achieved it.
We decided to leave our refuge in the swamp, sneak up the meadow,
pass the farm by a back route, and so to the highroad and home. Then,
separating long enough to get the decalcomania book and the punch,
we could camp for a night or two in Davenport's field, and join the
circus in the morning. By the time the peacocks' eggs were missed we
would be far away.
The first part of the plan was carried out. We crossed the meadow
stealthily, creeping a greater part of the way on our hands and knees.
Once in a while, when this got tiresome, we would rise and walk in the
normal fashion, which was probably just as safe, for there was no one
within half a mile.
As we slunk by the rear of the barn we came suddenly on Mr. Bartlett
and his man, Foley. There was no time to run. Mr. Bartlett addressed us
genially.
"Hullo, boys! Want to see something? Look in this box. Peacocks'
eggs--white peacocks, too. Very rare. We're going to set them under
that peahen in the orchard. I suppose she's there all right, Foley?"
"Yis, sorr. She was at foive o'clock this marning, sorr. Oi give her
four ducks' eggs to kape her continted-loike."
"All right, then. Come on, boys. We'll see how she's getting on. We'll
have to set a guard around her while she hatches these out. They're
too valuable to risk. Do you suppose she'd stand for it if we put up
a little tent around her, Foley? Big nuisance she won't set in some
convenient place."
Mr. Bartlett and Foley walked on ahead, discussing ways and means for
protecting the peahen against marauders. We followed, a dozen steps
behind. The shadow of the dungeon fell no longer upon our path, and
there was no necessity for joining the circus. We did not admit it to
each other, but we felt it to be a happy release.
In a moment we heard Foley's voice.
"Here she is, sorr. An' settin' on nothin' again. Phwhere's thim
ducks' eggs gone, Oi dunno. Somebody's shtole thim, fir the birrd
niver ate thim, shills an' all. 'Twill niver do to lave thim ixpinsive
eggs here, sorr!"
Jimmy Toppan and I maintained expressions of innocent wonder.