THE HERMIT SINGS AT TWILIGHT
The next morning I demanded that Mrs. Temple again put me up some lunch.
"For," said I, "I'm going to postpone meeting this broken-down wreck
of a perhaps once proud female as long as possible."
"Maybe when you see her drive by you'll be sorry," Mrs. Bert smiled.
"I shall be working on the south side of the house," I retorted.
I had not been long at my place, indeed, I had scarcely finished watering
my seed bed and carting out my daily stint of two barrow loads of slash
from the orchard, when I heard the road scraper rattling over the
bridge by the brook. Mike came from the vegetable garden and met his
"frind Morrissy," to whom I was ceremoniously presented.
The scraper was a large affair with flat-tired iron wheels and a blade
eight feet long. It was drawn by four horses, and Mr. Morrissy himself
was driving, while a younger man manipulated the levers. We drove in
behind the woodshed to the proposed lawn, I explained what I wanted
done, and the scraper went to work, with me trotting anxiously alongside,
quite useless but convinced that I was helping, like Marceline at the
Hippodrome. The way that eight-foot blade, with four horses hauling
it, peeled off the old furrows and brought the top soil down from the
high side to the low made my poor efforts with the scoop look puny
enough. After a few trips it began to look as if my lawn could be fairly
level after all. Where I had worked an hour to lower the ground six
inches, the scraper accomplished the same result in five minutes and on
four times as wide a strip. I soon saw, too, that Mike and Joe were
useless in the garden, so long as "frind Morrissy" and his helper
were here on the lawn, so I set them to spreading the loose dirt at
the lower end, as fast as the scraper brought it down, taking a hand
myself. The lawn was shaping up so fast that I began once more to
grow expansive.
"It really won't be square," thought I, "because my pergola will cut
off twelve feet of the length, and if I have flower beds by the roses,
they'll cut off some more. I guess those roses ought to be 112 feet from
the house."
I threw down my shovel, went over to the row of stakes, and moved them
south again, twenty-five feet, having added thirteen feet as I walked;
then I called out to "frind Morrissy" to bring his scraper.
"Sure," said Mike, "you'll get it right yet. But I was goin' to put
me cauliflowers there."
The scraper went at the new twenty-five foot strip, and in an hour that,
too, was down eight inches at the west end and up as much at the east.
The lawn still sloped, and though an afternoon with the scraper could
probably have put it nearly level, and I was tempted to have it done,
Mike pointed out that we were already getting perilously close to the
subsoil, and if we went deeper we'd get into tough sledding, and I'd
end, besides, by getting a surface which wouldn't grow grass. So I
took his advice, paid "frind Morrissy"--for the town!--as the far-off
noon whistle at Slab City blew, and took my lunch down to the brook
while the scraper rattled off down the road.
The brook reminded me of the pool I was going to build, and the pool of
my dream, and my dream of the new boarder, and then with the patness of a
"well-made" play the boarder herself entered, as it were. That is, I
heard the buggy coming, and the voice of Bert. I lay down flat behind
the tall weeds and grasses, and remained hidden till the buggy had passed.
"Confounded petticoats!" thought I. "Well, if she tries to advise me,
I'll snub her so she won't try a second time!"
Then I finished my lunch, and lay for a quarter of an hour lazily
regarding the sky, a great blue sky with cloud ships floating at anchor
in its depths, while the indescribable fragrance of May in moist places
filled my nostrils and a song sparrow practised in the alders. As I got
up to return to my work, I saw suddenly that the old apple trees in my
orchard were showing pink--just a frail hint of it in the veil of young
green. A great cumulus cloud piled up like a Himalayan peak in the
west beyond my mouse-gray dwelling. To the left, the new lawn was shiny
brown, and as I climbed the slopes the smell of it came to me. Out
still farther to the left my land was already staked in rows of packed
earth, neatly. The scene was beautiful to my eyes, and the imagined
beauty of to-morrow made me almost run through the orchard to leave
my lunch basket in the kitchen and get my tools for the afternoon's work.
I had, unfortunately, no roller, but I found in the shed an old piece of
tattered carpet, which I tacked on a ten-foot beam, tied a rope to each
end, united the two ropes around a stick for a handle, and dragged
this improvised smoother back and forth over my lawn, as I had seen
the keepers of the dirt tennis courts at college do. It was really
surprising how well this smoothed the surface, especially at the
lower end where the dirt was loose. It had much less effect on the
ground where the scraper had taken off the top soil. After the lawn
looked tolerably level to the eye, I brought three loads of manure
from the barn, scattered them lightly, and went over the surface with a
light tooth harrow. I saw I was not going to get the lawn done that
afternoon, for it would have to be "rolled" again. I further realized,
as the horse sank into the loose soil at the lower side, that I should
have to wait till a rain had settled the earth before I resmoothed it,
and could sow my grass seed. At five o'clock, as Joe was leaving the
garden, and Mike had gone to the barn to milk the cows, I, too, put up
my tools, resolved to enjoy an hour's loaf--my first since I bought
the farm!
I scrubbed my hands and face at the kitchen sink in a tin basin which
recalled my childhood, took a long draught from the tin dipper, filled my
pipe, and strolled down through the budding orchard toward the brook. The
song sparrow was still singing. The cloud ships were still riding at
anchor. Even with my pipe in my mouth I could smell the odour of moist
places in May. Walking beside the brook, I suddenly found the green
spears of an iris plant amid the grasses. A few steps farther on, under
the maples, the ground was blue and white with violets and anemones.
Then the brook entered the pines, lisping a secret as it went, and I
followed it into their cool hush.
I had gone scarcely six paces when I heard the crackle of footsteps on
dead twigs somewhere ahead of me, and a moment later the vague form of
a woman was visible making her way amid the impeding dead branches.
I stood still. She did not see me till she was close up. Then she
gave a slight start and said, "I beg your pardon. I trust I am not
trespassing."
I looked at her, while my pipe bowl was hot in my calloused hand. She
was scarce more than a girl, I fancied, pale and unmistakably not of this
country world. I cannot say how she was dressed, save that she wore
no hat and looked white and cool. But I saw that she had very blue eyes
on each side of a decidedly tilted nose, and these eyes were unmistakably
the kind which twinkle.
"Trespassing is a relative term," said I, after this, I fear, rather
rudely prolonged scrutiny.
"You talk like 'Hill's Rhetoric,'" she smiled, with a quick glance
at the incongruity of my clothes.
"Naturally," I replied. "It was the text-book I formerly used with
my classes."
There was a little upward gurgle of laughter from the girl. "Clearness,
force, and elegance, wasn't that the great triumvirate?" she said.
"Something like that, I believe," said I. "I am trying to forget."
"And are these pines yours to forget in? It should be easy. I was
walking out there in the road, and I spied the brook over the wall and
climbed through the briers to walk beside it, because it was trying so
hard to talk to me. That was wrong of me, perhaps, but I never could
resist a brook--nor pine trees. They are such nice old men."
"Why, then," I asked, "are the little virgin birches always running
away from them?"
Her eyes contracted a second, and then twinkled. "The birches _plague_
them," she replied.
"How do they plague them?" I demanded.
"Pull their pine needles when they are asleep, of course," she
answered. "Thank you for letting me walk here."
"Not at all," said I, "it is always a pleasure to entertain a true
naturalist."
She smiled, and made to pass on. I stood a little aside, in silence.
And in that moment of silence suddenly, from near at hand, from somewhere
in these very pines, there rang out the golden throb of a hermit thrush
so close that the grace notes of his song were audible, cool and liquid
and lovely. The suddenness, the nearness, the wildness of this song
made it indescribably thrilling, and the girl and I both stood rigid,
breathless, peering into the gloom of the pines. Again the call rang out,
but a little farther away this time, more plaintive, more fairylike
with distance. She took a step as if to follow, and instinctively I
put out my hand, grasping her arm to restrain her. So we stood and
waited, while from farther still, evidently from the tamaracks in the
corner of my lot, came the elfin clarion. The singer was a good one;
his attack was flawless, and he scattered his triplets with Mozartian
ease and precision. Still we waited, in silence, but he did not sing
again. Then in a kind of wonder the girl turned her face to mine, and
in a kind of wonder I realized that I was still holding her arm. She
appeared as unconscious of it as I, till I let my hand fall. Then she
coloured a little, smiled a little, and said, "What was it? I never
heard anything so beautiful."
"A hermit thrush," I answered. "Thoreau once described his song as
'cool bars of melody from the everlasting morning or evening.' I think
that expresses it as well as words can."
"I have always wanted to hear a hermit," she said wistfully. "And, oh,
it is lovelier than I dreamed! I am going now before I get too jealous
of you for having one all your own."
"Don't go!" I said impulsively. "The hermit has never sung for me.
That song must have been in your honour."
The moment when I stood holding her arm, the moment when she had turned
her wondering, eager face to mine, had been very pleasant. It was dusk
now in the pines, and, looking westward, the low sun was making daggers
of light between the trees. My ghost that I had brought up from the
pump suddenly walked again, but walked in flesh and blood, with blue
eyes and tilted nose. I was undeniably affected. My voice must have
betrayed it as I repeated, "Don't go!"
"But I fear it is time for my supper," she said, with a little nervous
laugh. "The thrush has evidently gone for his."
"Birds eat early," said I. "They have to, because they get up so
early, after that worm."
Her laugh was once more an up-gushing gurgle. The tenseness was broken.
I found myself walking by her side through the maples, and pointing out
my house.
She clapped her hands ecstatically. "Oh," she cried, "they made the
front door out of a highboy! How jolly! Is it as nice inside?"
"It's going to be nicer," said I. "Come and see."
"I'll peep through the windows," she smiled.
I led her to my new south door, proudly showing my new lawn and the
terrace, and telling her where the roses were to be, and the sundial,
and dilating on the work my own hands had done. With a silly, boyish
enthusiasm, I even displayed the callouses and invited her to feel of
them, which she did as one humours a child, while I thrilled quite
unchildishly at the touch of her finger tips. Then we peeped through the
glass doors. The low sun was streaming in through the west window and
disclosed the old oak beam across the ceiling. Hard Cider had erected the
frame of the bookcase and double settle, which would perfectly match the
mantels as soon as the molding was on. One side of the settle faced
toward one smoky old fireplace, the other toward the second.
"Two fireplaces! What luxury!" she exclaimed.
"You see," said I, "when I get tired of reading philosophy at the
east fireplace, I'll just come around the corner and read 'Alice in
Wonderland' at the west chimney nook."
"Double fireplaces--twin fireplaces--twin fires! That's it, Twin Fires!
That ought to be the name of your house."
"You're right!" I cried, delighted. "I've never been able to think
of a name. That's the inevitable one--that's Flaubert's one right
word. You must come to my christening party and break a bottle of wine
on the hearth."
She smiled wistfully, as she turned away from the window. "I must surely
go to supper," she said. "Good-bye, and thank you for your wonderful
concert."
We walked to the road, but to my surprise she did not turn toward the
village but toward Bert's. A sudden light came.
"Are you the broken-down boarder?" I cried.
The gurgle welled up, and the blue eyes twinkled, but she made no reply.
"Just for that," said I, "I won't carry back Mrs. Bert's basket."
As we entered the Temple's yard, Mrs. Bert stood in the kitchen door.
"Well, you two seem to have got acquainted," she remarked in a
matter-of-fact tone. "Miss Goodwin, this is Mr. Upton I told you
about. Mr. Upton, this is Miss Goodwin I told you about."
"Mrs. Temple," said I, "you are another. You didn't tell me."
"Young man," she retorted, "where's my basket?"
"I left it behind--on purpose," said I.
"Then you'll hev ter come home to yer dinner to-morrow," she said.
"Well, I'm willing," I answered.
"I guess you be," said she.
At supper she returned to the theme, which appeared to amuse her
endlessly. "Miss Goodwin," she said, "I want ter warn you thet Mr.
Upton's terrible afraid somebody's goin' ter advise him how ter
build his garden. He's a regular man."
I replied quickly: "Your warning is too late," said I; "Miss Goodwin
has already begun by naming my place."
"You can change the name, you know," the girl smiled.
"How can I?" I answered, with great sternness. "It's the right one."
Whereupon I went up to my work, and listened to the sounds of soft
singing in the room across the hall.