THE POWER OF MUSIC
Dolph could not but watch the actions of his camp mate with
considerable curiosity and satisfaction, at this stage of the game.
Teddy had had more or less experience in woodcraft, and long ago
learned many of the lessons so essential in the make-up of a clever
still hunter. To him the leaves of the forest spoke as eloquently as
printed pages in a book did to the other canoe cruiser. He could read
the language of the trail, and discover a score of valuable things,
from signs that would never be noticed by ordinary eyes or at least
deemed of no importance.
When an observing lad has spent considerable time in these Northern
woods, the voices of Nature speak to him in the wailing of the wind
whispering secrets as it stirs the branches of the pines; he hears
another story in the thunder tones of the rushing rapids; the crash of
the summer storm; the whisper of sunrise; the chatter of the little
woods folks excited over his presence in their favorite haunts—he
learns by degrees to match his wits against their cunning, and to
discover every secret connected with their mode of living, so that the
curtain of mystery is rolled away for his eyes, and he lives in a world
totally unknown to many others of his kind.
Teddy had practiced this art of creeping silently through the woods,
when stalking the timid deer, and perhaps also the lordly caribou
over in Canada. He certainly had all the little wrinkles down
pretty fine—at least Dolph thought so, as he followed in his wake,
endeavoring the best way he could to imitate these noiseless movements.
So, foot by foot, and yard by yard, they drew nearer the strange cabin.
As yet not a sound had been heard, to indicate that the place had any
inhabitant; though the light shining from the small opening that might
be called a window, must be set down as conclusive evidence on that
score, since lights ordinarily do not spring into existence without the
aid of human hands.
Twice Teddy halted until his chum came alongside. Then he would whisper
a few words in his ear, after which the forward movement would be
resumed.
All at once both boys came to a sudden pause, and crouched there,
listening to certain sounds that had broken loose.
Plainly these sprang from a fiddle—a violin is unknown by any other
name than this, in the backwoods country, where the “fiddler” is always
in great demand at the husking bees and barn dances.
Undoubtedly some one was sawing a bow across the catgut strings of
an instrument and it was evident from the chords resulting from this
effort that the player was no greenhorn.
Teddy pinched the arm of his chum when the latter came alongside, and
whispered, “Amos.”
He had heard the woods boy scrape a bow more than a few times, and
recognized his “touch” instantly. Indeed, Teddy had more than once
regretted that he had decided against the other bringing his old fiddle
along. With it in camp Amos would have been enabled to make many an
evening around the fire seem more sociable.
Apparently then, Amos must have discovered some sort of old instrument
in the cabin occupied by Crawley, the trapper and poacher. Overtaken by
an irresistible inclination to make music, he had eagerly pounced upon
the same, tuned up, and started in.
The music stopped several times, and a twanging followed. Amos
evidently was having more or less trouble in making the old fiddle
behave.
Somehow the sounds thrilled Teddy, and he found himself wondering what
the result would be. Would the two scoundrels, possibly in hiding close
by, rush upon the scene, and demand that the noise stop forthwith?
After all, why should they do this? It was an object with them to have
the other two boys believe that Amos was being suitably entertained, so
that with suspicions wholly disarmed they would walk innocently into
the trap?
Ah! now the woods boy seemed to fancy that he had tuned the old violin
as well as might be done; either that, or else he could no longer hold
his desire to play under bonds.
With a sudden swing of the bow he started into “Money Musk,” always a
prime favorite among the loggers in the winter camps, who, in their
times of leisure, danced for an hour, and usually to some of these good
old tunes.
Amos was a “good one” with the bow. He could make that fiddle fairly
laugh and weep by turns, as he coaxed the vibrating strings.
Dolph had heard many kinds of music in different corners of the
wide world, whither he had traveled with his father. He had sat and
listened to the most famous artists of Europe, and eagerly drank in the
sounds as only a true lover of melodious combinations can. He had felt
his soul aroused by the grand crash of orchestras led by celebrated
composers. He had sat through scores of operas, and applauded the
famous song birds, with voices worth thousands of dollars a night to
the fortunate possessors.
And yet this boy could not remember of ever having been so thrilled by
the sound of music in all his life, as when crouching there in that
thicket, just outside the “haunted” cabin, listening to the weird
playing of his camp mate, Amos.
Say what you will, the surroundings have everything to do with the
effect produced by music. A wild, barbaric crash of tom toms appeals
more effectively to sentiment if heard among the queer lodges of a Zulu
“Kraal” in South Africa, than the same strain could ever do under the
towering roof of a London music hall.
So it was in this case. The danger that hovered over them, the state of
Nature by which they were surrounded; and the fact that this lonely
cabin in the pine woods was said to be haunted by spirits of the dead
trappers—all these things united to thrill the nerves of an excitable
boy like Dolph Bradley, and give him the sensation of his life.
The fiddle seemed to moan and laugh and even sob, as the delighted Amos
drew his magic bow over the strings, until the whole vicinity appeared
to be filled with strange spirit voices.
Had any wandering basket-making Chippewa Indian, or nomad timber
cruiser, his mind filled with an ardent belief in ghosts, chanced
to pass within hearing distance of those ramshackle walls on this
particular night, the chances were he would have fled in abject terror,
upon hearing such strange sounds.
When Amos had reached the end of his tune, after repeating the refrain
in a minor key, he immediately struck up “Dixie,” and from this whipped
off upon the well-known strains of the “Arkansaw Traveler.”
That air has aroused wild enthusiasm in many a concert hall, but it
certainly never thrilled human hearts more than on this occasion.
Dolph could hardly keep his feet still; while Teddy was drawing himself
along in the direction of the little window, as though bent upon
investigating, and seeing for himself if it could be Amos producing
those wondrous strains.
When Teddy presently reached the wall of the old cabin, he raised his
head until his wondering eyes took in the strange scene beyond. It was
so that Dolph found his chum when he, too, reached the spot, to also
stare.
Amos was in plain view, squatted on the floor. He held the end of the
old instrument tucked under his chin, regulation fashion, with the
most caressing air imaginable. For the time being Amos had apparently
forgotten his surroundings, forgotten everything else in the world,
perhaps, save that after a long lapse he was again happy in being able
to coax those sobbing strings to give out the music he loved so well.
Indeed, just then his eyes were shut, as though he might be in a
half trance; but Teddy knew this was a favorite habit with the young
lumberjack, indicating that he was wrapped up in his playing, and in
the seventh heaven of delight.
But this was not all.
Sitting on a low three-legged stool close by, and leaning forward, with
her chin held in her hand, and her big blue eyes fastened upon the
fiddler in wonder, was a girl of ten or twelve years of age. She seemed
actually fascinated by those wonderful strains which now sprang from
the instrument that was doubtless often sadly racked by her uncultured
father, in his endeavor to play.
Now, Teddy knew full well about the old story of mermaids tempting
luckless mariners to their doom. He also understood that many a trap
has been baited with music or a pretty face in times gone by. But
everything went to tell him that Amos was playing just because he had
discovered an old fiddle, and not that his captors wanted him to do so.
Indeed this fact was immediately proven, for even as Teddy looked into
the place he detected a movement in the direction of the door, which
swung open, to admit the burly figure of the game poacher, Crawley.
Teddy’s first thought was that the man had become enraged at this
unwarranted outburst of sound from the boy prisoner, and that he had
rushed to the spot to hoarsely demand that the noise cease, on pain of
punishment.
He even anticipated seeing Crawley foaming at the mouth knowing what
a vile temper the greasy old wretch was said to possess. Fearing that
Amos might be in danger of rough handling, Teddy gripped the gun he
held, and instantly resolved to block that little game, if it were
tried.
Never was he more mistaken.
Crawley, it is true, came into the cabin with the impetuosity of a
hurricane, and his hard face was indeed working with some sort of
emotion, but it was far from anger.
Indeed, the man seemed to be quivering with eagerness, and the hand
he stretched out toward the boy on the floor was more indicative of
pleading than wrath.
Crawley was at that moment fairly transformed. Deep down in his rough
soul he must have had a natural love for music which, owing to his
clumsiness and lack of education could never find an adequate outlet.
Old sinner that he was, probably he had stood many a time and listened
as if charmed, to some song bird in the brush; and even the cheery call
of the bobolink, heard in the early Spring, may have had the power to
make him look up and listen, when in the act of taking a mink or a
muskrat from his traps.
Teddy saw this, and greatly marveled. He realized that every day he
lived it was possible for him to learn something new. Because a man
might be rough and uncouth, and perhaps even lawless in his way of
living, was no evidence that he might not have a streak of good deep
down in his nature.
In Crawley it was perhaps this passion for music; but Teddy guessed it
was so very deep down, that it was hardly likely to do himself, or any
one else in the world, any good.