LOST IN THE WOODS
“Don’t be silly, Nan!” exclaimed Bert, as he held his sister back. She
seemed about to leap from the car, which Mr. Bobbsey had already left.
“What do you mean—silly?” demanded Nan, a bit angrily.
“Because the car isn’t on fire—is it, Daddy?” he appealed to his
father.
“Of course not!” replied Mr. Bobbsey. “It was stupid of me, but I forgot
to put water in the radiator. What little there was in there has become
so hot that it has boiled and turned into steam. Now the steam is simply
escaping through the overflow pipe, which comes out beneath the front
axle. Here, Nan, come and look at it, and you’ll know what it is the
next time.”
“Oh,” murmured Bert’s sister, feeling the least little bit ashamed of
herself because she had been frightened. Then she got out, Bert helping
her politely, and looked to where the steam in a white cloud was hissing
its way out of a small pipe.
“No danger at all, if you don’t run too long after your water begins to
boil,” explained Mr. Bobbsey. “But I’ve got to get a fresh supply. I
wonder if there’s a roadside spring anywhere around here?”
“I’ll look,” offered Bert.
“So’ll I,” chimed in Nan.
“Well, then,” agreed their father, “one of you go a little way up the
road and the other a little way down the road. Don’t go too far, if you
don’t find water. I’ll stay here by the car and take the cap off the
radiator. That will let the steam out more quickly.”
The two Bobbsey twins separated, going in different directions along the
lonely country road.
“Doesn’t seem to be much chance of getting water here,” thought Bert, as
he trudged along. “It’s as dry as a desert.”
This was true. There had been no rain for some time—not more than
little showers since the big storm in which Baby May came—and the grass
and weeds along the road were dry and dusty.
Nan, too, looked in vain for a spring or a brook where her father could
scoop up water in the folding canvas pail he carried under the seat of
the automobile.
“I wonder what we’ll do if daddy can’t get water,” Nan was thinking,
when she rounded a turn in the road and saw, in the midst of a clump of
apple trees, a small house almost like a log cabin save that it was
built of boards instead of logs.
“Oh, I guess some one must live there,” thought Nan. “And if they do
they must have a well of water. I’ll go and ask, to make sure, before I
go back and tell daddy.”
She made her way toward the weather-beaten, paintless hut, going slowly
for fear some savage dog might rush out at her. But none came, and she
opened the gate. The gate swung shut after her. It was pulled by a piece
of iron fastened to a bit of clothesline for a weight.
“Who’s comin’ in my yard?” a shrill voice demanded—the voice of an old
woman, Nan decided, for she could see no one. For a moment, she thought
it might be the woman in the faded shawl, the woman who had deserted the
baby. Was it possible that little May had come from here?
“Who’s comin’ in my yard?” the voice went on. Nan felt that she must
answer.
“If you please, could we get some water—for the auto?” faltered Nan.
“It’s boiling over—I mean the auto is—and it needs cool water, and—”
She stopped suddenly as an old woman came around the path that twined
itself around the house. One look showed Nan that it was not the little
old woman of the faded shawl. This was quite a different person, in
fact.
“What is it you want?” demanded the old woman sharply.
“Some water, if you please, for my father’s auto. It’s just down the
road a little way,” replied Nan.
“Oh, water! I s’pose ye heard of my spring, ain’t ye?” said the woman,
in a rasping voice.
“Your spring? No, I didn’t know you had a spring,” answered Nan. “But I
thought maybe you might have a well, and—”
“I ain’t got a well; but I’ve a fine deep spring, an’ the water’s as
cold as ice. But, say, look here! Did you ever throw stones at my frog?”
The old woman asked this question sharply.
“Your frog! No!” gasped Nan, wondering whether or not she might have to
do with a crazy person. “I never saw your frog,” she added.
“Oh, all right then,” said the woman, more gently. “Girls ain’t so bad
as boys. It’s the pesky boys that’s allers throwin’ stones at my frog.
He’s the biggest bullfrog you ever saw. Him an’ me’s friends, an’ I
never let anybody get a drink from my spring that has throwed stones at
my frog. Seein’ as how you ain’t, you can have all the water you want.
Come, I’ll show you where the spring is.”
She started to lead the way down a weed-tangled path at the side of the
house, but Nan drew back. She did not exactly like this old woman with
that queer story about a giant frog.
“I’ll—I’ll go call my father,” said Nan. “He’ll get the water in a
pail, thank you. I’ll call my father,” and she turned away.
“Your father never throwed stones at my frog, did he?” demanded the old
woman sharply. Nan decided she was so queer that she must be a
hermit—living all alone in the half-tumbled-down hut.
“Of course not!” exclaimed Nan. “Daddy wouldn’t throw stones at any
animal.”
“Wa-all, mebby he did when he was a boy. But I’ll let him get some water
from my spring,” said the old woman.
Before Nan could reach the swinging gate she heard her father calling,
and Bert, too, added his voice, saying:
“Nan! Nan! Did you find any water?”
“Yes, there’s a spring here,” Nan replied, “But—”
She was going to add something about the frog, but she did not have
time, for her father and Bert at that moment opened the gate. They
caught sight of the old woman.
For a moment, Bert said later, he thought she was the one for whom they
were searching. But he had no time to say anything for no sooner had the
old woman caught sight of Bert, than she exclaimed:
“Oh, ho! There’s a boy! A pesky boy! Did you ever throw stones at my
frog in the spring? If ye did—”
“No, I never did!” declared Bert.
“Are ye sure?”
“Sure!” he repeated, wondering what it all meant.
“What’s this about a frog in the spring?” asked Mr. Bobbsey, smiling,
for he saw that he had to do with a queer person.
“It’s my frog, Ebenezer,” explained the old woman. “The biggest bullfrog
that ever lived. I’ll show him to you and let you get water from my
spring if you never throwed stones at him.”
“I’m sure we never did, for I have never been on this road before,”
answered Mr. Bobbsey.
The old woman looked at him sharply, then at Bert; and, as if satisfied
that they were telling the truth, she said:
“Wa-all, all right. Come on and bring your blickie.”
“My blickie?” exclaimed Mr. Bobbsey. “What’s that?”
“Your pail—your bucket—whatever you call it. I calls ’em blickies.
That’s what I calls ’em—blickies,” said the old woman. “It’s
Dutch—Pennsylvania Dutch,” she explained. “I’m Pennsylvania Dutch.”
“Oh,” murmured Mr. Bobbsey, making a side motion to Nan and Bert to tell
them not to laugh.
The old woman shuffled along, leading the way down the weed- and
vine-obstructed path until she pointed to a stone-lined hole in the
ground, near a small shed.
“There’s the spring,” she said. “Help yourself. Fill your blickie,” and
she motioned to the canvas pail in Mr. Bobbsey’s hand. “But it’s the
queerest blickie I ever see. And don’t you bother my frog!” she warned.
Mr. Bobbsey and the children hardly knew whether or not to believe that
there was a frog. But when Mr. Bobbsey leaned over the edge of the deep,
clear spring, to fill the canvas pail, he saw, sitting on the bottom, in
the clean, white sand, the largest frog he had ever beheld.
“Look, children!” he said. “It is a giant frog!”
And so it was—an immense green bullfrog, that looked at them with its
bulging, fishy eyes from the bottom of the pool. Perhaps the water
magnified the frog, making it appear larger than it really was, but it
certainly seemed immense.
“That’s my pet frog,” mumbled the old woman. “I don’t let no boys stone
him if I can help it, but sometimes I can’t help it. They peg rocks at
him when he sits on the edge of the spring. An’ if I ketch them
boys—wa-all, if they do it once they never can drink from my spring
again.”
“What boys are they?” asked Mr. Bobbsey, as he filled his canvas pail,
the frog not seeming to be disturbed.
“Oh, pesky boys—boys what go up in the hills to take their cows to
pasture or drive ’em home. Pesky boys,” answered the old woman.
“Well, I never stoned any frogs,” said Bert.
“Then you must be one of the few good boys,” said the old woman, and she
gave a half-smile, for the first time in many days it seemed.
“Thank you for the water,” said Mr. Bobbsey, as he started off with the
dripping pail.
“Ef the children want any there’s a dipper in the spring house,” said
the old woman.
“I’d like a drink,” said Bert.
“Oh,” murmured Nan. “Would you take a drink from the spring where that
big frog is?”
“Sure!” answered her brother. “A frog is as clean as a fish, and all the
water we drink has fishes in it.”
“Does it, Daddy?” asked Nan.
“Of course,” laughed Mr. Bobbsey. “The frog doesn’t hurt the water any.”
“Then I’ll take a drink,” decided Nan. And they all drank, finding the
water cool—almost ice-cold, in fact—and delicious.
“Come ag’in any time ye like as long as ye don’t stone my frog,” invited
the old woman.
“Thank you,” said Mr. Bobbsey.
The automobile was much cooler by the time they went back to it, and
pouring the cold spring water into the radiator enabled them to go on
without further delay. Bert told Nan that, when he could find no water
on his part of the road, he went back to the car and Mr. Bobbsey, and
then the two of them went in search of Nan, who had walked a bit farther
than her brother.
“She was a queer old character,” said Mr. Bobbsey, as he drove the
machine along toward Hankertown. “Lives all alone, I guess, except for
her giant frog.”
Later he learned that the woman, while considered partly crazy, was a
good and harmless old soul with a horror of boys who might stone her
frog—as, alas, many of the lads did.
Without further mishap Hankertown was reached, and Mr. Bobbsey decided
to begin his inquiries at the railroad station, since it was there the
little old lady in the faded shawl had left the train.
The station at Hankertown was a small one—there did not seem to be much
business done there—and Mr. Bobbsey decided that the agent would
probably remember having seen the old lady. He might even know her name
and where she lived.
But when the twins’ father had told the agent what was wanted, asking if
he knew the strange woman, the agent said:
“No, I can’t say I know her. But I do remember seeing her get off the
train. She had a shawl, just as you describe.”
“Which way did she go?” asked Mr. Bobbsey. “Does she live in the
village?”
“I can’t say, I’m sure. I don’t know where she lives. But she went up
the wood road after she left the train.”
“Which is the wood road?” Mr. Bobbsey wanted to know. “It is very
important that I find this old woman, or I should not trouble you with
so many questions,” he said.
“Oh, that’s all right,” answered the station agent, good-naturedly. “I’m
used to answering questions. That’s why I’m here. The wood road is that
one crossing the track and going up though the woods,” he explained,
pointing.
Then Mr. Bobbsey and the children noticed it—a narrow, winding road,
half hidden amid the trees.
“Where does it lead to?” asked Mr. Bobbsey.
“Well, if you keep on it long enough, and don’t turn off on any of the
side trails, it will take you to Coopertown.”
“Hum—yes. I know that place. They make a lot of barrels there,” said
Mr. Bobbsey.
“But it’s thirty miles to Coopertown, and there are a lot of little
villages in between,” said the agent. “But be sure to keep to the main
road.”
“I will,” replied Mr. Bobbsey. “Thank you.”
He was about to start on again in the automobile with the children,
hoping to overtake the strange woman, when Bert saw a lunch wagon not
far from the station.
“Daddy, I’m hungry!” he cried.
“So’m I,” added Nan.
“Yes? Well, I could eat a sandwich myself,” Mr. Bobbsey said. “I’ll get
some at the wagon, and some bottles of soda, and we’ll eat as we go
along. I don’t want to delay, for that old woman may disappear again.”
He bought some things at the lunch wagon, and started once more, driving
through the woods. The road was a fair one, of dirt, but so narrow that
the branches of the trees on either side brushed the children as they
passed.
“I wouldn’t like to meet a big truck now,” said Mr. Bobbsey, as they
reached a very narrow place and squeezed through. “There is no room to
pass.”
But they met no other cars, and heard none. It was very still and quiet
in the road, save for the chugging of their own motor and the occasional
notes of birds.
“Daddy, it’s getting late, isn’t it?” asked Nan, when they had gone
several miles, with never a sign of the old woman. They had not even
passed a house at which they might inquire.
“My gracious, it is late—nearly six o’clock!” exclaimed Mr. Bobbsey,
looking at his watch. “We’ve been traveling the best part of the day.
Whew! I don’t know whether we’d better go on or not. It doesn’t look
very promising ahead,” he added, as he slowed down the car. “We’re
getting deeper into the woods all the while.”
“Do you think the old woman came along here?” asked Bert.
“It’s hard to say, Son,” answered his father. “I’ll keep on a bit
farther, and then, if we don’t catch up to her, I’ll turn back.”
They went on for another mile, and then, finding a good place to turn,
Mr. Bobbsey did so.
“Guess we’ll have to give it up,” he said. “That agent spoke of several
towns or villages between Hankertown and Coopertown, but we haven’t seen
a single house. Yes, I’ll turn back.”
It was getting dusk now, and Mr. Bobbsey turned on the lights. He peered
from side to side of the road, and tooted his horn at curves. Suddenly
Nan exclaimed:
“Daddy, we didn’t pass that big rock before. Look!”
“That’s right,” her father admitted, as they swung around a boulder as
large as a small house. “Whew, this is bad! I was afraid of this!”
“What’s the matter?” asked Bert.
“I’m afraid we took the wrong road,” his father replied.
“Are we lost—in the woods?” faltered Nan.
“It begins to look that way,” her father, answered. “Yes, it surely
begins to look as though we were lost!”