Little Bertha Bryant.
Who, with pretty, young eyes overflowing with soft, sweet tears, stood
gazing at Sprigg and his mother, where they lay side by side together?
Little Bertha. Who, with pretty, young hands, so kind and deft, hung the
kettle over the fire, and, when the water was warmed, carried it to her
mother to wash and lave Sprigg's wounds? Little Bertha. Who, with
pretty, young hopes and fears, all in a bird-like flutter, hovered
around till the latest grown-up bedtime, wishing and wishing that she
might do something to make Sprigg open his eyes and smile--part his lips
and speak? Little Bertha. Who, with pretty, young feet, so willing and
nimble, ran to the gate next morning, and every morning thereafter for
more than a week, to receive from Ben the squirrel or bird for Sprigg's
broth; then to the spring to fetch a pail of good, cool water; then to a
neighbor's house for some balsam; then somewhere else for something
else, and so on and so on throughout the livelong summer day, and all
for Sprigg? Little Bertha all the time; nobody but little Bertha!
And who was little Bertha? Well, the answer to this question can only be
given in superlatives, and even then it must still fall short of full
expression. For little Bertha, you must know, was the sweetest-tempered,
the truest-hearted, the clearest-headed, the purest-minded, the most
helpful-handed, the most willing-footed--in short, the best and the
nicest little backwoods damsel that ever wore linsey-woolsey frocks and
homemade shoes in winter, and homespun cotton frocks and nothing at all
on her feet in summer. But I see that, in this list, I had well nigh
forgotten the most popular of all superlatives--"prettiest." So
accustomed am I to squaring my estimate of beauty by the good, old
adage, "he handsome is who handsome does," or "she beautiful is who
beautiful does"--to employ a gender more appropriate to the case. Well,
then, "the prettiest," withal, as you may easily believe when I tell you
that her hair was so gold-like, her eyes so sky-like, her brow so
lily-like, her cheeks so rose-like, her lips so cherry-like, and her
form and motions so fairy-like, that Sleeping Beauty herself--of course,
I mean before she fell asleep--would have envied little Bertha, even to
the extent of wishing that she had been born in a backwoods cabin,
instead of a royal palace.
From what has just been said, it may fairly be inferred that, young as
it was, little Bertha's life was already largely made up of daily duty,
and that she found in them such real delight as to make her quite
unconscious of deserving credit for performing them. But the duty in
which she took the greatest delight was that of going every evening to
the bluegrass glades, a mile away from the fort, to fetch the cows home
to be milked and secured for the night. The glades, which were well set
in grass and thickly mottled over with patches of white clover, both the
spontaneous products of the soil, were separated from each other by
narrow belts of forest growth, converging, for the most part, toward the
base of a grass-coated, tree-crowned, exceedingly pleasant-looking hill,
of sufficient height to command a fine view of the neighboring country.
To the top of this hill, no matter where the cattle might be, Bertha
always climbed before quitting the spot.
I would not be understood as meaning that backwoods-man's daughter did
this because she was a great admirer of fine landscapes. Intellectually,
she may have been almost unconscious of their beauty; and yet it made
her happy simply to sit up there for a half hour every evening and let
the gladness in her young heart go forth to mingle itself with gladness
of nature around her. The universal mother and friend, thus looked
directly down upon, seems to assume a smile more directly responsive to
the thoughts and emotions in the beholder's mind than when viewed from
the general level. The little girl may have had but the faintest
intimation of such an interchange; yet, depend upon it, had it not
existed, she never would have troubled herself to clamber up the hill,
excepting when the cattle were up there and too perverse to come down at
her gentle call.
On the evening following Sprigg's mysterious reappearance, Bertha, on
going to the glades and climbing to the top of her favorite hill, found
there an altogether unfamiliar object, the sight whereof made her two
blue eyes dilate with wonder and delight. Beside the moss-grown tree
trunk, where she always sat when up there, stood a small but exceedingly
luxuriant bush, which must have been the growth of a single day, as she
had not seen it there on the previous evening, nor the like of it in all
her life. Upon the bush, besides foliage of vivid greenness, grew in in
the greatest profusion a large flower of marvelous beauty, both as to
its shape, so heart-like, and to its color, so blood-like. But what more
especially still distinguished the flower was its perfume, which, though
powerful enough to be perceptible all over the hill, was yet too
delicate, too lily-like to be easily referred to a plant of such
tropical richness, which had more the appearance of bleeding than of
blooming. It was a sweetness so peculiar, so foreign to all common
experience that to inhale it were enough to make you fancy that
fairyland was blooming near, and fairy florists experimenting with their
plants in mortal soil.
The moment Bertha caught sight and scent of the flowers, there came,
first into her mind, a vivid image of Sprigg, as she had left him lying
at home, less like the living than the dead; and then, into her heart, a
feeling that they were blooming there to no other end than for his
restoration to life and health. Thus impressed--bespelled, it may
be--the little girl, instead of lingering about the spot as usual,
hastened to fill her apron with the offered good, stripping the bush to
its last blossom. Then, bringing the cattle together in the shortest
time the thing was ever done, without the help of a dog, she sent them
trotting homeward with all their awkward might, leaving the patriarch of
the herd, who was too stately or too stubborn to be stimulated out of a
dignified walk, to follow on or stay behind, as suited his sulky old
fancy best. Briskly had they started, more and more briskly on they
went, the grandmotherly cows hobbling along in that peculiar,
cross-legged trot, rather suggestive of rheumatism in the hocks and
hips, and which limber-legged little boys, who follow at their heels,
are mighty apt to mimic. Set were their big, mild eyes, all glassy with
amazement--the sun a mile too high for milking time, not a sign in the
sky to show for a coming thunder storm; not a yell, not a howl, not a
scream in the forest to tell of Indian, wolf or panther.
Arrived at home, Bertha turned the cows into the enclosure, where they
were wont to be milked and secured for the night. Then hastening on to
grandpap's house, she entered by a back door, which opened directly into
the sick room, and stealing quietly up to the bedside, began softly
strewing the fragrant contents of her apron, handful by handful, over
and around the form of the unconscious boy. Scarcely were the flowers
strewn, their perfume filling the room, when, slowly over the wan, young
face, which until this moment had worn the fixed and pallid cast of
death, came stealing a smile of solemn, innocent sweetness, such as we
often see on the faces of sleeping infants. Faint, it is true, was the
smile, yet perceptible enough to betoken that the spirit was still at
home, and only waiting for its doors to be reopened, when it would again
reveal itself as a living presence. All in the room observed the change,
wondering and rejoicing; rejoicing, for, when it passed away, which it
did more slowly than it had come, they could see that the smile had been
there, by the more life-like expression it left upon the face. But
Jervis Whitney was moved to wonderment more than all the rest; for the
moment he caught the scent of the flowers, he remembered it to be the
same as that which had met him at the foot of the hill the previous
evening.
Next afternoon, Bertha was off to the glades an hour before the usual
time, and climbing at once to the top of the hill, was delighted to find
that the bush had put forth fresh blossoms on every twig she had
stripped the evening before, and evidently to no other end than to be
stripped again for Sprigg's especial benefit. So it seemed to little
Bertha; so it seems to us. The folks at home had hardly taken the second
thought that she had gone for the cows, when here was Bertha back
again, her cheeks as brightly red from her loving haste as the flowers
she was strewing broadcast over and around her unconscious patient. Yes,
and there it came again--that smile, less faint and sweeter still--and
when it had passed away more slowly than before, more perceptible still
was the life-like cast it left upon the countenance. Every evening, for
seven days, was this repeated, the life-giving plant as often renewing
its blossoms, and their vivifying effects on the patient becoming more
and more apparent. Toward the third evening Sprigg had so far revived in
body as to be able to toss himself about on the bed, and, in mind, so
far as to be able to speak. And these manifestations of returning
strength became each day more and more decided. When he spoke, however,
it was to give utterance, in short and broken sentences, to wild and
incoherent fancies, incomprehensible to those who listened, taking, as
they did, shape and color from his present experiences; first, as an
object of Manitou retribution, now as an object of Manitou regeneration.
But always, the moment Bertha, returning all odorous from the glades,
entered the room, the tossings and the ravings would cease and he would
sink into a deep and peaceful sleep, and so remain throughout the
livelong night.
At length the imprisoned spirit became so susceptible to the mysterious
flowers that the brightening of the wan, young face would begin ere
Bertha, returning with a fresh culling of them, had well-nigh entered
the house. Of course, this susceptibility comprehended Bertha, too, else
she never could have been made the medium of such administration. While
engaged in discharging her floral office, she appeared as one in happy
trance, never speaking and apparently as oblivious of what was passing
around her as Sprigg himself. Always, when she had finished strewing the
flowers, she would take her station at the foot of the bed, where, with
pretty little arms folded together and resting on the footboard, she
would stand gazing fixedly into the unconscious, spirit-like face before
her, with a look of dreamy, tender, solemn wonder in her innocent blue
eyes, beautiful to behold.
How could poor Sprigg have ever imagined that he had but to put on a
pair of red moccasins to captivate the fancy and win the love of such a
little angel as Bertha Bryant? Had she seen him so
bedizened--"Fop-Indian!" "Jack-Monkey!" would have been the first
thoughts to pop into her judicious little head, and Sprigg might have
chased her till he had worn his red moccasins slip-shod, and no more
have caught her had he, indeed, been a monkey, chasing a dove or a bird
of paradise. That he was spared such a humiliation was because he had
become by strange chance an object of Manitou interest, and was not
allowed to carry out the ridiculous programme he had proposed to
himself. What a pity it is that many of us grown-up Spriggs can not
become objects of similar interest, to be dealt with in the like
manner, even to the bleeding-heart degree, and made to abandon,
perforce, many a purpose in life, which, when it is too late to escape
the humiliation of its failure, or, worse, still, of its success, proves
to be not a whit less paltry or preposterous than the programme our
little hero had in view when he donned his red moccasins.