THE BABES IN THE WOOD.
"'What are you singing of, soft and mild,
Green leaves, waving your gentle hands?
Is it a song for a little child,
Or a song God only understands?'
Answered the green leaves, soft and mild,
Whispered the green leaves, soft and clear,--
'It is a song for every child,
It is a song God loves to hear;
It is the only song we know,
We never question how or why.
'Tis not a song of fear or woe,
A song of regret that we must die;
Ever at morn and at eventide
This is our song in the deep old wood,--
"Earth is beautiful, heaven is wide;
And we are happy, for God is good!"'"
F. E. WEATHERLY.
"Have you anything for us to do, Auntie Alice?" said Darby Dene one day,
after he had watched Aunt Catharine safely into the fowl-house to have a
look at her Brahmas.
It was a still, bright afternoon in October, when the ripe apples were
dropping from the trees in the garden, and up at Copsley Farm Mrs.
Grey's turkeys wandered at will over the stubble whence the grain had
all been carted and built into stacks beside the farmyard.
"Do say that you can think of something, please," pleaded the boy--"a
message or anything. We are so tired of the garden, and the lawn, and
the swing, and--and--everything.--Aren't we, Joan?"
"Yes, werry, werry tired," agreed Joan with ready assent. She always did
agree with everything that Darby said. He was her model, her hero, who,
in Joan's eyes, could do no wrong.
"I'm afraid I cannot invent or suggest any fresh occupation for you just
now," answered Auntie Alice, smiling down into the eager upturned faces
beside her knee. "Would you not run away and have a romp with pussy? she
is frolicking with her kittens in the garden, quite close to the
tool-house."
"We were playing with pussy for ever so long, and look there!" said
Darby, holding up for his aunt's inspection one small brown and not
over-clean hand. Across the back of it ran a long, straight scratch from
which the blood was slowly oozing. "That's what pussy did! That's why
we left her, and why we don't want to go back to the garden."
Darby's tone was so rueful, his expression one of such patient
forbearance towards base treachery, that his aunt laughed outright. Yet
she kissed the wounded hand again and again, whispering gently the
while,--
"Poor Darby! poor little hand! and poor pussy too!" she added below her
breath. For she guessed correctly that pussy--who was in general a
long-suffering animal--must have been sorely beset when she used her
claws in defence of herself or the rights of her family.
"If you really haven't an errand, won't you just invent one, auntie?"
persisted Darby. Then suddenly he cried, while his face beamed with the
happiness of the thought that had struck him, "May we go up to the farm
and see Mrs. Grey? Oh, do say 'yes,' Auntie Alice!"
"Well, I'm sure I don't know. Perhaps we should hear what Aunt Catharine
thinks. Still, I suppose you might," decided Auntie Alice, her
hesitation overcome by the pleading look in Darby's eyes.
"Oh, thank you, thank you, dear Auntie Alice!" said both children in a
breath, flinging themselves in ecstasy upon their aunt. She, however,
did not like to have her delicate ribbons crumpled by smudgy, sticky
little hands; so she gently withdrew herself from their embrace, shaking
a warning finger playfully at the pair as she gave them a caution,--
"You must not stay too long or tease Mrs. Grey, either of you."
"We shan't stay very long," promised Darby; "and Mrs. Grey says we never
tease her."
"Mrs. Grey hasn't got no chil'ens of her own to play wif and 'muse her,
and that's why she likes Darby and me to go and talk to her whiles,"
explained Joan sagely, looking up at her aunt through the mop of golden
curls which shaded her big blue eyes.
"Is that the reason? Well, since you are going, you might just bring
those Cochin eggs with you that Mrs. Grey promised us. Your aunt
Catharine was speaking about them a little ago. Wait a minute, and I'll
hear what she says," and Auntie Alice made as if she would follow her
sister to the fowl-house.
"Oh, please don't!" cried Darby wildly, clutching with both hands at his
aunt's gown in order to stay her steps. "She'll be sure not to let us.
She'll ask if we've learned our Catechism, and send us to wash our hands
or change our clothes, or--or _something_. You know how she does, Auntie
Alice!"
Yes, Alice Turner knew her elder sister's little way very well indeed,
and because of this she yielded to Darby's importunity.
"Dear, dear, what a droll boy you are!" and by the way she spoke the
youngsters knew that they had won their way. "Off with you both, then,
quick! Take my white basket out of the breakfast-room, and see that you
carry the eggs carefully, or I'm afraid we shall all get into trouble."
"Which way shall we go?" asked Darby, gleefully swinging the basket
about his head. "May we go through the fields, Auntie Alice? The ground
is quite dry to-day, and the path is ever so much nicer than the road
past Copsley Wood."
"You may go through the fields, dear; but come back by the road. You
might break the eggs if you were to return the field way; there are so
many stiles to climb. And listen to me, chickabiddies," continued Auntie
Alice earnestly. "You must not on any account go into the wood; it is
not a safe place for children."
"Why?" demanded Darby in astonishment, for he had little or no fear of
any living thing--man or beast.
"I need not detain you now, dear, to explain further than to say that
there are sometimes rough people about who might think it rather funny
to behave rudely to unprotected little children."
"Don't you know there's bears in Copsley Wood, and lions and tigers and
effelants, and--and--oh, heaps of drefful fings!" explained Joan, as
glibly as if she had in person penetrated the many mysteries that--to
her infant mind--were hidden in the cool, dark depths of the old pine
wood.
"Nonsense!" and Darby smiled in scorn of his sister's ignorance.--"Do
you hear her, Auntie Alice?--Why, you little goose, don't you know that
there aren't any bears, or lions, or tigers, or elephants in this
country? If we were in a lonely part of Africa, we might see some; but
there's only rabbits and squirrels and perhaps wild cats in Copsley
Wood.--Isn't she a silly, Auntie Alice?"
"I'm not a silly!" said Joan stoutly.--"Sure I isn't, Auntie Alice?"
"No, child; and you are quite right to be shy of the wood," answered her
aunt gravely. "And now, if you want to go to the farm to-day, you had
better be off. I think I hear Aunt Catharine coming!"
Her caution came too late, however, for in another instant Aunt
Catharine was upon them.
"What is it now?" she demanded, glancing from one to another of the
guilty-looking group.--"What are you doing with that basket, Darby?"
"I--we--Joan and me were going up to the farm to see Mrs. Grey,"
faltered Darby. "And please, please, Aunt Catharine, don't say we aren't
to get!"
"We's goin' to bring your Cochin eggs," added Joan sweetly.
"I hope you won't mind, sister," struck in Auntie Alice, in her soft,
timid voice, "but I gave them leave to go. And I thought they might as
well fetch the eggs when they are coming back."
"Alice Turner! when do you mean to grow up?" exclaimed Aunt Catharine,
in withering accents. "Is it that boy you expect to carry a basket of
eggs? Those fidgets! Why, they'll leave the half of them on the road or
sit on them by the way!"
"We willn't sit on them," said Joan stoutly. "Jetty shall sit on them,
and they'll turn into dear, soft, fluffy chickens! Willn't they, Aunt
Catharine?"
Aunt Catharine did not answer directly, but she looked as if she did
not feel quite so sure of results as Joan.
"We'll be very, very careful, indeed!" promised Darby earnestly; and
Joan echoed likewise, "Werry, werry careful!"
"Well, well; since your Auntie Alice has already given permission, I
shall not prevent you, and I must admit I am in a hurry for the eggs.
Jetty is making a terrible to-do over a solitary china one in her nest.
But if they are broken or shaken--"
There Aunt Catharine paused; yet her listeners perfectly understood what
she did not say.
"And remember, children, what has been so often said to you about
Copsley Wood. You are not to go there on any pretext whatever! Do you
understand?"
"Yes, Aunt Catharine; and we've promised Auntie Alice already," replied
Darby meekly.
"Very well; see that you keep your promise, my boy. You always say that
you forgot when you have been disobedient, but you are both old enough
to do as you are told. And I should not be doing my duty if I did not
try to teach you," added Aunt Catharine significantly, as she bent and
kissed the little ones good-bye.
"And that just means that she'll punish us badly the next time we're
naughty," explained Darby to Joan, as they clambered over the stile at
the foot of Mr. Grey's turnip field. "Well, I shouldn't mind greatly if
it wasn't putting to bed. I do hate going to bed; don't you, Joan?"
"Yes, werry much; for they're always sure to come for us when we'se not
ready, nurse or Aunt Catharine! They seem to know 'zactly when we're in
the middle of somefin' awful nice, and then they says, 'Bedtime,
chil'ens!' Oh, it's just ho'wid!"
Joan puckered up her pretty face so comically in imitation of nurse's
worried expression, and mimicked Aunt Catharine's lofty tones so
cleverly, that Darby clapped his hands in delight and admiration. Then
they raced each other along the breezy headland, across the
sweet-smelling stubble field, through the stackyard and the orchard,
until, flushed and breathless, they stood beside the mistress in the
cool, red-tiled dairy of Copsley Farm.
Mrs. Grey was always well pleased to see the little folks from Firgrove,
and made them warmly welcome; just as, in the long-ago days, she had
welcomed their father when he too found it a relief sometimes to slip
away from the prim precision of his aunts' establishment, and come
rushing up the hill to count the calves, tease the turkey-cock, ride the
donkey, plague the maids, and generally enjoy himself to his heart's
content. She dearly loved children although, as Joan said, she had none
of her own; and the day always seemed brighter to her when Darby and
Joan came flying over the fields to pay her one of their frequent
visits.
There was a new donkey at the farm in those days, and as neither of the
children was particular about a saddle, they rode him in turn until
Neddy rose in revolt--actually, with his heels in the air!--or lay down,
which was more hopeless still; for once he did that they knew that he,
for one, had frolicked enough, that day, at any rate. But there were
other things. They played hide-and-seek round the stacks with Scott the
huge collie, who was so gentle that he would allow Joan to put her
fingers in his eyes or pull his big bushy tail. They gathered apples in
the orchard, hazel nuts in the copse, late blackberries from the hedge
at the back of the stackyard; and they watched the pigs at their
afternoon meal until Joan turned away in disgust, declaring that "the
dirty fings should be teached better manners, and made to sup their
pow'idge wif a spoon!"
Then, when the sun was sinking low in the west, and they had feasted to
their complete satisfaction on all the dainties that their hostess loved
to set before them, it was time to return to Firgrove.
Mrs. Grey put into Darby's hand the shallow basket of round brown eggs,
with two tiny white ones on the top for themselves that had been laid by
Specky, the lovely black-and-buff bantam. Then, with many kisses and
warnings to be careful, she set the happy pair upon their homeward way.
They took turns at carrying the basket, and paused now and again to peep
at their bantam eggs, not much bigger than marbles, and the others which
held the promise of such sweet baby Cochins within their smooth,
silk-lined shells.
"Oh, I am tired!" sighed Darby at length, when they were still only
half-way down the road, just passing by the entrance to the pine wood.
"Are you tired, Joan?"
"Yes," assented Joan promptly; "this basket's so heavy. Can't we rest
awhile after we pass the trees?"
"We shall rest here," said Darby decidedly; and suiting the action to
the word, he took the basket from his sister's hand, placed it carefully
on the roadside, and, with a deep breath of satisfaction, dropped on
the soft grass beside it, just where the path branched off the highway
into Copsley Wood.
"Darby!" cried Joan in remonstrance, "are you forgetting what you
promised Auntie Alice, and that Aunt Catharine said we wasn't to go into
the wood?"
"I'm not forgetting one bit," he replied loftily. "Sure, sitting here
isn't going into the wood, is it, Miss Joan? Besides, I don't believe
there's any bad people in it. They only want to frighten us," he
continued, in a grown-up sort of tone; and when Darby spoke like that,
Joan felt quite sure he knew what he was talking about--better even than
Aunt Catharine herself!
They sat still for a little while, resting on the soft, mossy grass,
listening to the song of the robins in the hedges, watching the snowy
sea-gulls that hovered about the tail of Mr. Grey's plough as it turned
the stubble into long, even furrows of dark, fresh-smelling soil.
Then a couple of rabbits darted by to their burrow in the wood; and at
the foot of a big beech tree growing close beside the children a whole
party of squirrels had gathered, nibbling hungrily at the nuts that were
scattered round its base.
The little ones hushed their chatter, afraid to breathe almost, lest
they should disturb the merry family meal.
By-and-by, however, Joan spoke, for she could not keep silent many
minutes at a time.
"I wish I had one of those dear pretty fings, Darby," she whispered.
"How sweet and soft it would be to love and stroke! far nicer than
pussy, for I don't think it would scratch. Look at their great bushy
tails!"
"Well, sit you still and mind the eggs, and I'll creep over ever so
softly and catch one for you," replied her brother under his breath,
only too willing, alas! to gratify her wish. "It'll be quite easy: just
one grab at its tail and there you are!"
"But, Darby, Aunt Catharine. What ever will she say? Darby!" cried Joan
in distress.
Darby was creeping on all-fours over the springy grass, and did not mind
her. Slowly, stealthily he went--near, nearer, and yet nearer the root
of the beech tree with every movement of his lithe, wriggling body. He
is now only a few feet from the squirrels, who seem not to notice the
intruder. He puts out his hand. He almost touches the smallest member of
the group, a bright-eyed, furry little fellow. Joan starts to her feet
in excitement. Darby does exactly as he had planned--makes a sudden
clutch at the coveted prize. The object of her desire is really within
her reach, Joan believes, and she shouts aloud in her delight. There is
a flash of bead-like eyes, a waving of plumy tails, a scurry of flying
feet, a chorus of queer, chattering cries, and, lo, the squirrels have
disappeared, some up one tree, some up another--all except one, the very
one which Darby desired to possess, and it scampered along the pathway,
seeming too frightened to know where it was going; and, without giving a
thought to the Cochin eggs, to Aunt Catharine, or to probable
consequences, away rushed Darby in hot pursuit, with Joan treading
closely on his heels.
Soon the squirrel found refuge in a lofty pine where, most probably,
some of its friends had their home, and the children halted to take
breath. Just at that instant, however, a frisky young rabbit started
from its hiding-place in a hole at their feet. Off it went, scampering
over the fallen fir needles that were spread so thickly like a soft
brown carpet over the ground. And away, too, Darby and Joan raced after
it, as quickly as they could thread their way through the trees,
following where in front the rabbit led the way, its stumpy whitish
tail turned up like a beckoning signal-flag. Still they struggled and
stumbled on and on, in and out, until they stopped for want of breath in
what seemed the very heart of the wood. Their prey had escaped into the
shelter of a burrow, and the hunters gazed blankly at the spot where it
had disappeared. Then they turned to each other in discomfiture and
disappointment. Afterwards they looked about them, and were filled with
confusion and affright, for the pathway was nowhere to be seen.
"The eggs, Darby!" cried Joan, suddenly conscious, now that the play was
played out, of what had been, what was, and what might be. "Let us go
back diwectly and get Aunt Catharine's basket of eggs."
"Yes, of course, that's what we shall do; but don't be in such a hurry.
You only confuse a fellow," answered Darby, trying to speak lightly,
although his lips were quivering. He had sought up and down, backwards,
forwards, and roundabout, but still could see neither track nor
footmark--just trees, tall trees everywhere, one seeming the exact
counterpart of the other.
Joan, however, was quick to catch his expression of bewilderment, which
so sadly belied his brave words, and she began to sob weakly. She
always cried easily, and seemed sometimes to enjoy it; at least Darby
thought so privately.
"Be quiet, can't you! There's nothing for you to cry about," he said, in
a tone of easy assurance; "at least not yet--not until after we get
home," he added comically. "I do hope Aunt Catharine will be in the
drawing-room, or out to dinner, or--or--something when we arrive. If she
sees us like this, she'll be certain sure to put us to bed at once,"
continued Darby, with sad conviction, glancing anxiously at his soiled
sailor suit, which a few hours before was white, his straw hat with the
brim dangling by a thread; and, worst of all, at Joan's torn pinafore,
scratched legs, and shoeless foot--for in the flurry and fervour of the
chase one small slipper had somehow been left behind.
Joan still sobbed.
"Hush, Joan! don't cry any more, like a good girl," said the little lad
soothingly. "We shall be sure to find the way out very soon now. We left
the basket at the edge of the wood; I don't think any one will have
taken it away. And when we get it, we shan't be hardly any time going
down the hill. We'll slip in softly, softly, and find Auntie Alice
first. We'll ask her to coax Aunt Catharine not to be too angry; and
perhaps, if we tell her we're sorry, she'll not punish us very badly. I
think we had better not say anything about forgetting this time; we'll
just be sorry right off."
Joan ceased crying. She dabbed her eyes with the corner of her soiled
pinafore until they smiled like violets new washed with dew; she wiped
the trickling tear-drops from her smudgy China rose cheeks until they
bloomed afresh.
Thus the brave boy soothed his small sister's terror, although his own
heart was heavy with fear; for the farther they walked the deeper they
seemed to go into the depths of the dark pine wood. And night was coming
on. In daytime, even, Copsley Wood was a shadowy place; but now, when
above the trees and beyond their margin twilight had fallen, it was
indeed a dark and lonesome spot. All around the pines rose straight and
tall, like gaunt giant forms flinging out long, skeleton arms eager to
infold them in a cruel clasp. Strange and stealthy sounds from bird and
beast came to their ears at intervals, while the unfamiliar music of
rustling branches and whispering leaves filled the souls of these two
little travellers with a feeling of awe and vague alarm. Nevertheless
they kept moving on, on; now stumbling over a fallen branch, again
shrinking in terror as a great soft owl flitted slowly by, or hooted
solemnly right above their heads.
At length Joan cried out that she could not walk another step. A sharp
stone had cut her poor little shoeless foot, and she was limping
painfully. She sank down on a smooth tree-stump, and Darby sat beside
her, allowing her to lean her drooping head against his shoulder.
"Are we lost, Darby?" she asked piteously. "Are we goin' to die here
like the babes in the wood? And will the robins come in the mornin' and
cover us up wif leaves?"
"No, no," answered Darby, shivering at the mere thought of such a
hurried burial, yet trying to speak cheerfully in spite of the tears in
his eyes, the lump in his throat. "When you are rested a bit we will go
on again. If you can't walk, perhaps I could carry you--a short
distance, anyway. Surely we shall soon find the path, or some one will
come to look for us," he added, feeling as if at that moment any one,
even Aunt Catharine herself, would be welcome.
"It's gettin' awful dark," sobbed Joan, in a choked, weak voice. "Why,
we can't see even a single star."
"We'd be all right if we could see anything," replied the boy ruefully.
"Maybe the moon will shine soon; then we'll find our way," he added,
still trying to cheer his little chum as best he could.
For a while they were silent. Joan was almost asleep, with her head
still resting on Darby's breast. None but the creatures of the wild were
near them; only the sounds of the night were in the air--those soft,
mysterious voices that whisper to the listening soul of the spirit world
which wraps so closely round the pure in heart.
But stay! Who dare disturb the sweetness of nature's symphony? Whose
stealthy steps are those that steal so cautiously over the tell-tale
twigs and withered bracken? What figures are they that crouch and slide
from tree to tree, then pause within half a dozen yards of the wandered
children, ready to pounce like cruel beasts upon their prey?
The shuffling noise attracted Darby's attention. He looked all about
him, but observed nothing unusual. He peered into the gathering gloom,
yet failed to see the ugly, red-haired man, the bold, black-browed woman
who glared at them from behind a screen of hazel bushes. And again he
settled himself comfortably on the moss-grown stump, and drew Joan's
head into an easier position against his shoulder.
He thought she was asleep, and was nearly over himself, when suddenly
she sat up and said eagerly,--
"Darby, I'se been finkin'. Don't you know in that nice hymn of ours--the
one we singed to daddy the Sunday before he goed away--there's somefin'
about bein' 'guided by a star'? P'raps if we was to sing it now God
would un'erstand, and send a star to show us the way out of the wood."
Darby hesitated.
"Well, I don't know; I'm not sure," he said at length. "Still, if you
think singing would make you feel better we might try it," he yielded.
"Yes, we'll do a verse, anyway. It'll be cheerier than praying--not so
much like as if we were going to bed. And it doesn't really matter which
we do; God will be sure to know 'zactly what we mean. Now, are you
ready? Come on!"
And there, in the depths of the forest that to these two babes was as
desolate, dark, and drear as any of which they had heard in fairy tale
or nursery rhyme, they raised their clear, tremulous voices in pathetic
appeal to that unseen Presence whom from their cradles they had been
taught to look upon as "our Father:"--
"From the eastern mountains
Pressing on they come,
Wise men in their wisdom,
To His humble home;
Stirred by deep devotion,
Hasting from afar,
Ever journeying onward,
Guided by a star."