CHAPTER XVI
WHEREIN THE LIMBERLOST SINGS FOR PHILIP, AND THE TALKING TREES TELL
GREAT SECRETS
A few days later Philip handed Elnora a sheet of paper and she read:
"In your condition I should think the moth hunting and life
at that cabin would be very good for you, but for any sake keep
away from that Grosbeak person, and don't come home with your head
full of granger ideas. No doubt he has a remarkable voice, but I
can't bear untrained singers, and don't you get the idea that a
June song is perennial. You are not hearing the music he will make
when the four babies have the scarlet fever and the measles, and
the gadding wife leaves him at home to care for them then. Poor
soul, I pity her! How she exists where rampant cows bellow at you,
frogs croak, mosquitoes consume you, the butter goes to oil in summer
and bricks in winter, while the pump freezes every day, and there
is no earthly amusement, and no society! Poor things! Can't you
influence him to move? No wonder she gads when she has a chance!
I should die. If you are thinking of settling in the country, think
also of a woman who is satisfied with white and brown to accompany
you! Brown! Of all deadly colours! I should go mad in brown."
Elnora laughed while she read. Her face was dimpling, as she returned
the sheet. "Who's ahead?" she asked.
"Who do you think?" he parried.
"She is," said Elnora. "Are you going to tell her
in your next that R. B. Grosbeak is a bird, and that he probably
will spend the winter in a wild plum thicket in Tennessee?"
"No," said Philip. "I shall tell her that I understand
her ideas of life perfectly, and, of course, I never shall ask her
to deal with oily butter and frozen pumps--"
"--and measley babies," interpolated Elnora.
"Exactly!" said Philip. "At the same time I find
so much to counterbalance those things, that I should not object
to bearing them myself, in view of the recompense. Where do we go
and what do we do to-day?"
"We will have to hunt beside the roads and around the edge
of the Limberlost to-day," said Elnora. "Mother is making
strawberry preserves, and she can't come until she finishes. Suppose
we go down to the swamp and I'll show you what is left of the flower-room
that Terence O'More, the big lumber man of Great Rapids, made when
he was a homeless boy here. Of course, you have heard the story?"
"Yes, and I've met the O'Mores who are frequently in Chicago
society. They have friends there. I think them one ideal couple."
"That sounds as if they might be the only one," said Elnora,
"and, indeed, they are not. I know dozens. Aunt Margaret and
Uncle Wesley are another, the Brownlees another, and my mathematics
professor and his wife.
The world is full of happy people, but no one ever hears of them.
You must fight and make a scandal to get into the papers. No one
knows about all the happy people. I am happy myself, and look how
perfectly inconspicuous I am."
"You only need go where you will be seen," began Philip,
when he remembered and finished. "What do we take to-day?"
"Ourselves," said Elnora. "I have a vagabond streak
in my blood and it's in evidence. I am going to show you where real
flowers grow, real birds sing, and if I feel quite right about it,
perhaps I shall raise a note or two myself."
"Oh, do you sing?" asked Philip politely.
"At times," answered Elnora. "`As do the birds; because
I must,' but don't be scared. The mood does not possess me often.
Perhaps I shan't raise a note."
They went down the road to the swamp, climbed the snake fence, followed
the path to the old trail and then turned south upon it. Elnora
indicated to Philip the trail with remnants of sagging barbed wire.
"It was ten years ago," she said. "I was a little
school girl, but I wandered widely even then, and no one cared.
I saw him often. He had been in a city institution all his life,
when he took the job of keeping timber thieves out of this swamp,
before many trees had been cut. It was a strong man's work, and
he was a frail boy, but he grew hardier as he lived out of doors.
This trail we are on is the path his feet first wore, in those days
when he was insane with fear and eaten up with loneliness, but he
stuck to his work and won out. I used to come down to the road and
creep among the bushes as far as I dared, to watch him pass. He
walked mostly, at times he rode a wheel.
"Some days his face was dreadfully sad, others it was so determined
a little child could see the force in it, and once he was radiant.
That day the Swamp Angel was with him. I can't tell you what she
was like. I never saw any one who resembled her. He stopped close
here to show her a bird's nest. Then they went on to a sort of flower-room
he had made, and he sang for her. By the time he left, I had gotten
bold enough to come out on the trail, and I met the big Scotchman
Freckles lived with. He saw me catching moths and butterflies, so
he took me to the flower-room and gave me everything there. I don't
dare come alone often, so I can't keep it up as he did, but you
can see something of how it was."
Elnora led the way and Philip followed. The outlines of the room
were not distinct, because many of the trees were gone, but Elnora
showed how it had been as nearly as she could.
"The swamp is almost ruined now," she said. "The
maples, walnuts, and cherries are all gone. The talking trees are
the only things left worth while."
"The `talking trees!' I don't understand," commented Philip.
"No wonder!" laughed Elnora. "They are my discovery.
You know all trees whisper and talk during the summer, but there
are two that have so much to say they keep on the whole winter,
when the others are silent. The beeches and oaks so love to talk,
they cling to their dead, dry leaves. In the winter the winds are
stiffest and blow most, so these trees whisper, chatter, sob, laugh,
and at times roar until the sound is deafening. They never cease
until new leaves come out in the spring to push off the old ones.
I love to stand beneath them with my ear to the trunks, interpreting
what they say to fit my moods. The beeches branch low, and their
leaves are small so they only know common earthly things; but the
oaks run straight above almost all other trees before they branch,
their arms are mighty, their leaves large. They meet the winds that
travel around the globe, and from them learn the big things."
Philip studied the girls face. "What do the beeches tell you,
Elnora?" he asked gently.
"To be patient, to be unselfish, to do unto others as I would
have them do to me."
"And the oaks?"
"They say `be true,' `live a clean life,' `send your soul up
here and the winds of the world will teach it what honour achieves.'"
"Wonderful secrets, those!" marvelled Philip. "Are
they telling them now? Could I hear?"
"No. They are only gossiping now. This is play-time. They tell
the big secrets to a white world, when the music inspires them."
"The music?"
"All other trees are harps in the winter. Their trunks are
the frames, their branches the strings, the winds the musicians.
When the air is cold and clear, the world very white, and the harp
music swelling, then the talking trees tell the strengthening, uplifting
things."
"You wonderful girl!" cried Philip. "What a woman
you will be!"
"If I am a woman at all worth while, it will be because I have
had such wonderful opportunities," said Elnora. "Not every
girl is driven to the forest to learn what God has to say there.
Here are the remains of Freckles's room. The time the Angel came
here he sang to her, and I listened. I never heard music like that.
No wonder she loved him. Every one who knew him did, and they do
yet. Try that log, it makes a fairly good seat. This old store box
was his treasure house, just as it's now mine. I will show you my
dearest possession. I do not dare take it home because mother can't
overcome her dislike for it. It was my father's, and in some ways
I am like him. This is the strongest."
Elnora lifted the violin and began to play. She wore a school dress
of green gingham, with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. She seemed
a part of the setting all around her. Her head shone like a small
dark sun, and her face never had seemed so rose-flushed and fair.
From the instant she drew the bow, her lips parted and her eyes
turned toward something far away in the swamp, and never did she
give more of that impression of feeling for her notes and repeating
something audible only to her. Philip was too close to get the best
effect. He arose and stepped back several yards, leaning against
a large tree, looking and listening intently.
As he changed positions he saw that Mrs. Comstock had followed them,
and was standing on the trail, where she could not have helped hearing
everything Elnora had said.
So to Philip before her and the mother watching on the trail, Elnora
played the Song of the Limberlost. It seemed as if the swamp hushed
all its other voices and spoke only through her dancing bow. The
mother out on the trail had heard it all, once before from the girl,
many times from her father. To the man it was a revelation. He stood
so stunned he forgot Mrs. Comstock. He tried to realize what a city
audience would say to that music, from such a player, with a similar
background, and he could not imagine.
He was wondering what he dared say, how much he might express, when
the last note fell and the girl laid the violin in the case, closed
the door, locked it and hid the key in the rotting wood at the end
of a log. Then she came to him. Philip stood looking at her curiously.
"I wonder," he said, "what people would say to that?"
"I played that in public once," said Elnora. "I think
they liked it, fairly well. I had a note yesterday offering me the
leadership of the high school orchestra in Onabasha. I can take
it as well as not. None of my talks to the grades come the first
thing in the morning. I can play a few minutes in the orchestra
and reach the rooms in plenty of time. It will be more work that
I love, and like finding the money. I would gladly play for nothing,
merely to be able to express myself."
"With some people it makes a regular battlefield of the human
heart--this struggle for self-expression," said Philip. "You
are going to do beautiful work in the world, and do it well. When
I realize that your violin belonged to your father, that he played
it before you were born, and it no doubt affected your mother strongly,
and then couple with that the years you have roamed these fields
and swamps finding in nature all you had to lavish your heart upon,
I can see how you evolved. I understand what you mean by self-expression.
I know something of what you have to express. The world never so
wanted your message as it does now. It is hungry for the things
you know. I can see easily how your position came to you. What you
have to give is taught in no college, and I am not sure but you
would spoil yourself if you tried to run your mind through a set
groove with hundreds of others. I never thought I should say such
a thing to any one, but I do say to you, and I honestly believe
it; give up the college idea. Your mind does not need that sort
of development. Stick close to your work in the woods. You are becoming
so infinitely greater on it, than the best college girl I ever knew,
that there is no comparison. When you have money to spend, take
that violin and go to one of the world's great masters and let the
Limberlost sing to him; if he thinks he can improve it, very well.
I have my doubts."
"Do you really mean that you would give up all idea of going
to college, in my place?"
"I really mean it," said Philip. "If I now held the
money in my hands to send you, and could give it to you in some
way you would accept I would not. I do not know why it is the fate
of the world always to want something different from what life gives
them. If you only could realize it, my girl, you are in college,
and have been always. You are in the school of experience, and it
has taught you to think, and given you a heart. God knows I envy
the man who wins it! You have been in the college of the Limberlost
all your life, and I never met a graduate from any other institution
who could begin to compare with you in sanity, clarity, and interesting
knowledge. I wouldn't even advise you to read too many books on
your lines. You acquire your material first hand, and you know that
you are right. What you should do is to begin early to practise
self-expression. Don't wait too long to tell us about the woods
as you know them."
"Follow the course of the Bird Woman, you mean?" asked
Elnora.
"In your own way; with your own light. She won't live forever.
You are younger, and you will be ready to begin where she ends.
The swamp has given you all you need so far; now you give it to
the world in payment. College be confounded! Go to work and show
people what there is in you!"
Not until then did he remember Mrs. Comstock.
"Should we go out to the trail and see if your mother is coming?"
he asked.
"Here she is now," said Elnora. "Gracious, it's a
mercy I got that violin put away in time! I didn't expect her so
soon," whispered the girl as she turned and went toward her
mother. Mrs. Comstock's expression was peculiar as she looked at
Elnora.
"I forgot that you were making sun-preserves and they didn't
require much cooking," she said. "We should have waited
for you."
"Not at all!" answered Mrs. Comstock. "Have you found
anything yet?"
"Nothing that I can show you," said Elnora. "I am
almost sure I have found an idea that will revolutionize the whole
course of my work, thought, and ambitions."
"`Ambitions!' My, what a hefty word!" laughed Mrs. Comstock.
"Now who would suspect a little red-haired country girl of
harbouring such a deadly germ in her body? Can you tell mother about
it?"
"Not if you talk to me that way, I can't," said Elnora.
"Well, I guess we better let ambition lie. I've always heard
it was safest asleep. If you ever get a bona fide attack, it will
be time to attend it. Let's hunt specimens. It is June. Philip and
I are in the grades. You have an hour to put an idea into our heads
that will stick for a lifetime, and grow for good. That's the way
I look at your job. Now, what are you going to give us? We don't
want any old silly stuff that has been hashed over and over, we
want a big new idea to plant in our hearts. Come on, Miss Teacher,
what is the boiled-down, double-distilled essence of June? Give
it to us strong. We are large enough to furnish it developing ground.
Hurry up! Time is short and we are waiting. What is the miracle
of June? What one thing epitomizes the whole month, and makes it
just a little different from any other?"
"The birth of these big night moths," said Elnora promptly.
Philip clapped his hands. The tears started to Mrs. Comstock's eyes.
She took Elnora in her arms, and kissed her forehead.
"You'll do!" she said. "June is June, not because
it has bloom, bird, fruit, or flower, exclusive to it alone.
It's half May and half July in all of them. But to me, it's just
June, when it comes to these great, velvet-winged night moths which
sweep its moonlit skies, consummating their scheme of creation,
and dropping like a bloomed- out flower. Give them moths for June.
Then make that the basis of your year's work. Find the distinctive
feature of each month, the one thing which marks it a time apart,
and hit them squarely between the eyes with it. Even the babies
of the lowest grades can comprehend moths when they see a few emerge,
and learn their history, as it can be lived before them. You should
show your specimens in pairs, then their eggs, the growing caterpillars,
and then the cocoons. You want to dig out the red heart of every
month in the year, and hold it pulsing before them.
"I can't name all of them off-hand, but I think of one more
right now. February belongs to our winter birds. It is then the
great horned owl of the swamp courts his mate, the big hawks pair,
and even the crows begin to take notice. These are truly our birds.
Like the poor we have them always with us. You should hear the musicians
of this swamp in February, Philip, on a mellow night. Oh, but they
are in earnest! For twenty-one years I've listened by night to the
great owls, all the smaller sizes, the foxes, coons, and every resident
left in these woods, and by day to the hawks, yellow-hammers, sap-suckers,
titmice, crows, and other winter birds. Only just now it's come
to me that the distinctive feature of February is not linen bleaching,
nor sugar making; it's the love month of our very own birds. Give
them hawks and owls for February, Elnora."
With flashing eyes the girl looked at Philip. "How's that?"
she said. "Don't you think I will succeed, with such help?
You should hear the concert she is talking about! It is simply indescribable
when the ground is covered with snow, and the moonlight white."
"It's about the best music we have," said Mrs. Comstock.
"I wonder if you couldn't copy that and make a strong, original
piece out of it for your violin, Elnora?"
There was one tense breath, then---- "I could try," said
Elnora simply.
Philip rushed to the rescue. "We must go to work," he
said, and began examining a walnut branch for Luna moth eggs. Elnora
joined him while Mrs. Comstock drew her embroidery from her pocket
and sat on a log. She said she was tired, they could come for her
when they were ready to go. She could hear their voices around her
until she called them at supper time. When they came to her she
stood waiting on the trail, the sewing in one hand, the violin in
the other. Elnora became very white, but followed the trail without
a word. Philip, unable to see a woman carry a heavier load than
he, reached for the instrument. Mrs. Comstock shook her head. She
carried the violin home, took it into her room and closed the door.
Elnora turned to Philip.
"If she destroys that, I shall die!" cried the girl.
"She won't!" said Philip. "You misunderstand her.
She wouldn't have said what she did about the owls, if she had meant
to. She is your mother. No one loves you as she does. Trust her!
Myself--I think she's simply great!"
Mrs. Comstock returned with serene face, and all of them helped
with the supper. When it was over Philip and Elnora sorted and classified
the afternoon's specimens, and made a trip to the woods to paint
and light several trees for moths. When they came back Mrs. Comstock
sat in the arbour, and they joined her. The moonlight was so intense,
print could have been read by it. The damp night air held odours
near to earth, making flower and tree perfume strong. A thousand
insects were serenading, and in the maple the grosbeak occasionally
said a reassuring word to his wife, while she answered that all
was well. A whip-poor-will wailed in the swamp and beside the blue-bordered
pool a chat complained disconsolately. Mrs. Comstock went into the
cabin, but she returned immediately, laying the violin and bow across
Elnora's lap. "I wish you would give us a little music,"
she said.