CHAPTER XIII._That Little Girl of Miss Eliza's: A Story for Young People

"I'm to be your neighbor for the winter," he said. "My experience as

house-keeper is limited. I set up my Lares and Penates to-day and forgot

that man must eat. Will you sell me bread and fresh eggs?"

"Lares and Penates," both Eliza and Beth knew the meaning of those

words. Roman mythology! A strange tramp, indeed, who could quote this.

"Will you come in?" asked Eliza. Tramp or not, his clear gray eyes were

too fine and commanding to permit his being kept outside the door.

He entered and took the proffered seat before the grate in which a few

chunks of wood were smoldering.

"These wood-fires are delightful," he said. "I do not wonder that the

age of poetry and romance have passed away. It was one with the open

grate. What mind of man can conceive of poetry being written before a

Eliza had nothing to say to this. The conversation was not just what she

expected from a tramp. She went to the kitchen and counted out the eggs

and took a loaf of fresh bread from the box. She was sorry for the man.

He looked so fine and interesting. It was to be regretted that he

allowed himself to be a wanderer. Miss Eliza felt a sense of duty. It

grieved her to see one who appeared so bright and attractive waste his

life wandering upon the earth. When she heard him sing and whistle in

the woods that afternoon, she had thought him a young man. There was the

joyousness and buoyancy of youth in his looks and voice. To-night,

however, she saw that he was not a boy, but a man fully her own age. She

prepared his basket for him, while her heart was heavy.

He arose when she re-entered the living-room and extended his hand for

the basket, at the same time laying out a dollar upon the table.

Miss Eliza was surprised. "I--I--did not think of pay," she stammered.

"Surely," he said. "You do not think that I came up to beg. While we are

on the subject, I'd like to settle about getting milk, eggs and bread

regularly from you. I should like plenty of them. I find they are about

the only reliable things one can find in tramping over the country. All

cooks are not like our blessed Yankee ones."

"You intend to stay about here?"

"Until spring is fairly settled. I've a little place down here in the

woods. I'm sure that I shall be mighty comfortable there all winter.

When the weather permits, I suppose I'll wander forth again to find new

experiences. When the wanderlust takes possession of one--" He waved his

hand as though the subject were not worth continuing.

"It must be a very unprofitable life," said Eliza. "You look so well and

strong, I should think you would settle down to some useful work. You

don't look a bit like a tramp."

"Ah--a--h," the word came from the stranger's lips slowly. A peculiar

twinkle shone in his eyes, and for a moment his lips curled into a

smile. He controlled himself, however, and said, "But what a gay life it

is! One can see so much--now as to the eggs and milk."

Miss Eliza promised that he could get them daily.

"My name is Hillis," he said. Again the amused expression came to him.

"Even a tramp must have a name, you know."

He was gone, leaving Miss Eliza wondering what strange circumstance made

such a man a wanderer upon the face of the earth. Thereafter he came

every morning for milk. During the week, he had fresh bread and eggs. He

always paid for them as he received them.

In personal appearance he was the most exquisite tramp that Eliza had

ever seen. She laid it down to the fact that her acquaintance in the

line had been limited. He always sang or whistled as he came up the

hill, and after a while, Eliza found herself expecting him at a regular

time in the morning and listening for the song which never failed. Such

songs as they were! She could not have believed that words and air could

be so exquisitely sweet. The tears actually came to her eyes when she

heard, for the first time, his voice ringing through the woods:

"I hear you calling me.

Through all the years, dear one,

I hear you calling me."

One afternoon as he was passing, he paused to speak to Miss Eliza, who

was plucking the last of her chrysanthemums.

"You should see them in Japan," he said. "We cannot raise them here as

the Japanese do. There's something lacking, either in our skill or our

soil. You should see the real Japanese flower."

He continued in this strain for some time, during which Miss Eliza

learned about soils, and chemical compounds and fertilization. She had

lived among farmers all her life, but never realized that in the fields

lay a study for a lifetime, and that the soil needed as scientific

treatment as a child. It was to be fed, to be rested, to be worked, all

with judgment and science. All this, she learned from the tramp. She

attributed his knowledge to the fact that he had traveled widely, and

being naturally of a keen mind, had picked up information from all parts

of the globe.

During the winter, he fell into the habit of bringing magazines to Miss

Eliza. They opened a new world to her--a world of flowers and sunshine;

the world where the artist soul expresses itself in making the world

beautiful in color and form. He sometimes lingered to explain some plant

or variety of flowers of which the magazines treated. Beth would sit and

listen with open eyes. Sometimes she took part in the conversation. Once

she laughingly said in connection with some story of his, "That makes me

think of the poppy story Adee told me when I was a little girl."

"Tell it to me," he said, seating himself by the fireside. "I fancy Miss

Eliza would have a story worth telling."

For some reason which she could not explain, Eliza's face grew crimson

at something in his voice, rather than his words, and hurriedly excused

herself and went into the kitchen.

"Adee always told me stories when I was little. Because she had never

read any children's stories, she had to make them up."

Beth began the story of the poppy, and the "tramp" listened with

interest. When she had finished, he said simply, "Tell me more that Miss

Eliza told you."

Beth was only too glad to do so. She began at once. Eliza was back in

the room before she had finished.

"Where did you get such fairy-tales?" asked the tramp. "I've read all

that ever came in book form, but I missed these."

Eliza tapped her forehead. "Here," she said. "Don't you think it was a

pleasure to get them out?"

"Have you written them?" It was surprising how concise, how direct the

tramp could be when he chose.

"Write them? I never thought of such a thing. I made up the stories

simply to please Beth. I am not an author."

"You don't know what you are," he said. "You have never found yourself,

Miss Eliza. No one knows how great a thing he may be. In each soul lies

an unexplored country. Be a Columbus to your own soul."

He took up his hat and moved to the door. "I want you to write down

these stories Beth told me. Don't bother trying to make them fine.

Scribble them. This is not a request, Miss Eliza. This is a command."

Eliza had no time to remonstrate. The tramp was gone before she could

reply.

"I would do it, Adee." Beth smiled whimsically to herself and added, as

she did when she was a baby, "Please, pretty lady."

It was impossible to withstand both of these. Eliza began the very next

day when Beth was away at school. She took tablet and pencil and,

sitting down by the open grate, wrote just as she had told the stories

to Beth. There was no attempt at fine writing. Her language was simple

as a child's. There were even quite serious mistakes in grammar and

punctuation. The hours passed quickly. Beth was home from school before

Eliza realized it. She had been happy all afternoon--happy in a

different way from what she had been all these years.

"I am expressing myself. I am finding my own soul," she told herself.

She smiled at her own egotism, as she added, "What, if like Columbus, I

should find a great undiscovered country?"

She laid the stories away. What simple little things they were! The

story of an ambitious little seed which was unhappy because it had been

tied up in a paper all winter and then hidden in the ground. It wanted

to do something great. It did not wish to hide from life and light. But

as the days passed, it crept up from the earth into a life of whose

beauty it had no conception. It cast shade and perfume on all about it.

It burst in a hundred glorious flowers. Then it learned that its own way

would have made it a failure, that there is something in one which must

suffer and die before one can be a power.

The following afternoon she wrote again. There was little chance of

interruption, for neighbors were at a distance, and the people of

Shintown did not give themselves to bodily exertion.

One evening she handed them to the tramp when he came for his evening

supply of milk and eggs.

"Quite a package," he said. "Is this all you can think of, or have you