THEY were a timely arrival—those new friends who had found Edith Dunmore. She was no longer satisfied with the narrow world in which her father had imprisoned her, and had begun to wander alone as if in quest of a better one. That hour of revelation on the shore of Birch Cove led quickly to others quite as wonderful.
She had no sooner reached home than she told her grandmother of the young man and the children who had come with him to the shore of Catamount and of a strange happiness in her heart. It was then that a sense of duty in the old Scotchwoman broke away from promises to her son which had long suppressed it.
As they sat alone, together, the old lady talked to her granddaughter of the mysteries of life and love and death. Much in this talk the girl had gathered for herself, by inference, out of books—mostly fairy tales that her father had brought to her—and out of the evasions which had greeted her questioning and out of her own heart.
Her queries followed one another fast and were answered freely. She learned, among other things, a part of the reason for their lonely life—that her father was not like other men, not even like himself; that their isolation had been a wicked and foolish error; that men were not, mostly, children of the devil seeking whom they might destroy, but kindly, giving and desiring love; that she, Edith Dunmore, had a right to live like the rest of God's children, and to love and be loved and given in marriage and to have her part in the world's history.
All this and much good counsel besides the old lady gave to the girl who sat a long time pondering after her grandmother had left her.
In the miracle of birth and the storied change that follows dissolution she saw the magic of fairyland. To her Paristan had been much more real than the republic in which she lived.
She longed for the hour to come when she should again see those wonderful children and the still more wonderful being who had brought them in his canoe.
Next morning she set out early in the trail to Catamount with her little guide and companion. She had named him Roc, after the famous bird of Oriental tradition. She arrived there long before the hour appointed. Slowly she wandered to the trail over which Master and the children would be sure to come. She approached the camp at Lost River and stood peering through thickets of young fir, She saw the boy and girl at play, and watched them. Soon Master came out of one of the cabins. Now, somehow, she felt a greater fear of him than before, yet she longed to look into his face—to feel the touch of his hand.
The crow had taken his perch in a small tree beside his mistress. He seemed to be looking thoughtfully at the children, with now and then a little croak of criticism or of amusement, ending frequently in a sound like half-suppressed laughter. He raised a foot and slowly scratched his head, a gaze of meditation deepening in his eyes. Suddenly his interest seemed to grow keener. He moved a step aside, rose in the air, and approached the children. Darting to the ground, he picked up a little silver compass which, one of them had dropped, and quickly returned with it. The children called to Master, and all three followed the crow. His mistress, scarcely knowing why, had run up the trail, and Roc pursued her with foot and wing, croaking urgently, as if his life and spoil depended on their haste. Reaching a thicket beside the trail, she hid under its sheltering cover and sat down to rest. The crow, following, scrambled upon her shoulder and dropped the bit of silver into her lap. She held his beak to keep him quiet when Master and the children came near, but as the latter were passing they could hear the smothered laughter of Roc.
In a moment Socky and Sue ran to their new friend, while Master waited near them. The crow spread his wings and seemed to threaten with a scolding chatter. The girl threw the bird in the air and took the hands of the children and drew them to her breast. She held them close and looked into their faces.
"Dear fairies!" said she, impulsively kissing them.
"Tell us where the cranes go with—with the young fairies," Sue managed to say, her hands and voice trembling.
Miss Dunmore sat looking down sadly for a little before she answered. Sue, curiously, felt "the lady's" cheeks that were now rose-red and beautiful.
"I will tell you what my father says," the latter began. "The cranes take them to Slum-bercity on a great marsh and put them in their nests. The heads of the young fairies are bald and smooth and the cranes sit on them as if they were eggs. By-and-by wonderful thoughts and dreams come into them so that the fairies wake up and begin crying for they are very hungry. They remember the spring of milk, but they are so young and helpless they can only reach out their hands and cry for it. Some of the cranes stand on one leg in the marsh and listen. The moment they hear the young fairies crying they fly away to find mothers for them. The unhappy little things are really not fairies any more—they are babies. Some of the cranes come and dance around the nest to keep them quiet, and the babies sit up and open their eyes and begin to laugh, it is so very funny. And that night a big crane sits by the side of each baby and the baby creeps on his back and rides away to his mother. And he is so weary after his ride that he sleeps and is scarcely able to move, and when he wakes and smiles and laughs, he remembers how the cranes danced in the marsh."
Curiously, silently, the children looked into her face, while she, with wonder equal to their own, put her arms around them.
"My father says that there are no people—that we are really nothing but young fairies asleep and dreaming up in the tops of the trees, and that the fairy heaven is not here."
She gazed into the eyes of the boy a moment, all unconscious of his mental limitations. Then she added, "You're nothing but a big fairy—you're so very young."
Socky drew away with a look of injury and threw out his chest.
"I'm six years old," he answered, with dignity. "In a little while I'll be a man."
Miss Dunmore drew them close to her and said, "I wish I could take you home with me."
"Have you any maple sugar there?" the little girl inquired.
"Yes, and a tame fox and a little fawn."
"But you'ain't got no Uncle Silas," said the boy, boastfully.
"Ner no Aunt Sinth," Sue ventured. Then, with her tiny fingers, she felt the neck of "the beautiful lady" to see if there were a "mold" on it. She was thinking of one of the chief attractions of her aunt. In a moment she added, "Ner no Uncle Robert." They had begun to call him Uncle Robert.
"Is he the man I saw?" the maiden asked.
Both children nodded affirmatively.
"Do you love him?"
"Yes; would you like to take him home with you, too?" Socky asked, with a look of deep interest. If they were to go he would wish to have his new uncle with them, and Sue saw the point.
"He can carry you on his back and growl jes' like a bear," she urged. "He can put his mouth on your cheek and make such a funny noise."
Miss Dunmore looked away, blushing red. It was a curious kind of love-making. She whispered in the ear of the little girl, "Would you let me have him?"
Sue looked up into her eyes doubtfully.
"She wants our Uncle Robert," Socky guessed aloud.
"But not to keep?" Sue questioned, as if it were not to be thought of.
The eyes of the children were looking into those of "the beautiful lady."
"I couldn't have him?" the latter asked.
"We'll give you our coon," Sue suggested, by way of compromise.
"I am sure he—your uncle—would not go with me," Miss Dunmore suggested.
Socky seemed now to think that the time had come for authoritative information. He broke away and called to his new uncle.
The maiden rose quickly, blushing with surprise. She turned away as Robert Master came in sight, and stood for half a moment looking down. Then, stooping, she picked a wild flower and timidly offered it. The act was full of childish simplicity. It spoke for her as her tongue could not. Knowledge acquired since she saw him last had possibly increased her shyness.
"She wants you," said the boy, with vast innocence, while he looked up at the young man.
"I wish I could believe it were true," said Master, as he came nearer by a step to the daughter of the woodland.
She turned with a look of fear and said, "I must go," as she ran to the trail, followed by Roc.
A little distance away she turned, looking back at the young man. Something in her eyes told of a soul beneath them lovelier than its nobly fashioned house. Moreover, they proclaimed the secret which she would fain have kept.
"Shall we shake hands?" he asked.
She took a step towards him and stopped.
"No," she answered.
"I must see you again," said Master, with passionate eagerness, fearing that she was about to leave.
She looked down but made no answer. The children put their arms about her knees as if to detain her.
"You will not forget to come Thursday?" he added.
"The beautiful lady" stood looking at him, her left hand upon her chin, her arms bare to the elbows. A smile, an almost imperceptible nod, and the eloquence of her eyes were the only answer she gave him, but they were enough.
"Will you not speak to me?" the young man urged, as he came nearer.
She stood looking, curiously, until he could almost have touched her. Then, gently, she pushed the children away and fled up the trail, her pet following. In a moment she had gone out of sight.
She was like the spirit of the woodland—wild, beautiful, silent.
THERE was a great marsh around a set-back leading off the still water near Lost River camp. There the children had seen many cranes, and they did not forget that certain of them had stood upon one leg. After supper that evening they sat together whispering awhile and presently stole away. There was a trail for frog-hunters that led to their destination. They ran, eagerly, and, just as the sun was going down, stopped on a high bank overlooking the marshes. It was a broad flat covered with pools and tall grasses and bogs, crowned with leaves of the sweet-flag and with cattails and pussy-willows. Now it was still and hazy. The pools were like mirrors with the golden glow of the sky and soft, dark shadows in them.
Far out on the marsh they discovered a crane strolling leisurely among the bogs, and began to chatter about him.
They looked and listened until the sun had gone below the tops of the trees. Then cranes came flying homeward out of the four skies, and, one by one, lighted on the edge of a bog some two or three hundred feet from the children. Sue uttered a little cry of joy. The cranes stood motionless with heads up.
"They're listening," Socky assured his sister.
Bull-frogs had begun croaking and a mud-hen was making a sound like that of a rusty pump. The children now sat on the side of the bank and leaned forward straining their eyes and ears.
Soon the far, shrill cry of some little animal rang above the chorus of the marsh. The children took it to be a baby, and seemed almost to writhe with suppressed laughter mingled with hopeful and whispered comment. In his excitement Socky slipped off his perch and came near rolling down the side of the bank. One of the cranes began to shuffle about, his wings half open, like an awkward dancer. Soon the whole group of birds seemed to be imitating him, and each shuffled on his long legs as if trying to be most ridiculous. The dusk was thickening, and the children could only just discern them. They sat close together and held each other's hands tightly, and looked out upon the marsh and were silent with awe and expectation. Suddenly the cranes scattered into the bushes and the sedge. Socky and Sue were now watching to see them fly. It was almost dark and a big moon seemed to be peering through the tops of the trees. Soon the great birds strode slowly in single file past the wonder-stricken two.
"See the babies! See the babies!" Sue cried out.
They squirmed and shivered with awe, their lips and eyes wide with amazement. In the dim light they imagined that a baby sat on the back of each crane. Sue had no sooner cried out than there came a flapping of wings that seemed to fill the sky. The feathered caravan had taken to the air and were swinging in a wide circle around the edge of the marsh. They quickly disappeared in the gloom.
"Gone to find mothers for 'em," said Socky, in a trembling whisper.
The children had suddenly become aware that it was quite dark, but neither dared speak of it. They still sat looking out upon the marsh and clinging hand to hand. Soon a procession of grotesque and evil creatures began to pass them: the great bear of the woods who had swallowed alive all the little runaways, and who, having made them prisoners, only let them come out now and then to ride upon his back; the big panther-bird who lured children from their homes with berries and flowers and nuts and, maybe, raisins, and who, when they were in some lonely place, dropped stones upon their heads and slew them; odd, indescribable shapes, some having long, hairy necks and heads like cocoa-nuts; and, lastly, came that awful horned creature, with cloven hoofs and the body of a man, who carried a pitchfork and who, soon or late, flung all the bad children into a lake of fire. Socky and Sue covered their faces with their hands. Suddenly a prudent thought entered the mind of the boy.
"I'm going to be good," said he, in a loud but timid voice. "I love God best of every one." His sister gave a little start.
In half a moment she suggested, her eyes covered with her hands, "You don't love God better than Uncle Silas?"
Socky hesitated. Prudence and affection struggled for the mastery.
"Yes," he managed to say, although with some difficulty. "Don't you?"
Sue hesitated.
He nudged her and whispered, "Say yes—say it out loud."
The word came from Sue in a low, pathetic wail of fear.
"I ain't never goin' to tell any more lies," the boy asserted, in a firm, clear voice, "er swear er run away."
They both gave a cry of alarm, for Zeb had sprung upon them and begun to lick their faces. Their aunt and uncle had missed them and Zeb had led his master to where they sat.
Strong had heard the children choosing between him and their Creator and understood. Socky and Sue, after the shock of Zeb's sudden arrival, were encouraged by his presence and began to take counsel together.
"We better go home," said Socky.
"What if we meet something?"
"Pooh! I'll crook my finger to him an' say, 'Sile Strong is my uncle,'" Socky answered, confidently. "You'll see him run fast enough."
It was a formula which his uncle had taught him, and he had tried it upon a deer and a hedgehog with eminent success.
The Emperor had planned to give them a scare by way of punishment, but now he had no heart for severity. He walked through the bushes whistling. He said not a word as he knelt before them—indeed, the man dared not trust himself to speak. With cries of joy they climbed upon his shoulders and embraced him. Strong rose and slowly carried them through the dark trail. He could not even answer their questions. He. was thinking of their faith in him—of their love, the like of which he had-never known or dreamed of and was not able to understand. Sinth was out with a lantern when they returned. The children were asleep in his arms.
"Sh-h-h! Don't scold, sister," said he, in a voice so gentle it surprised himself. They put the children to bed and walked to the cook-tent. Strong told of all he had heard them say.
"I dunno but you'll have to whip 'em," said Sinth.
Strong was drying the little boots of the boy. He touched them tenderly with his great hand. He smiled and shook his head and slowly stammered, "If we're g-goin't' be g-good'nough t' 's-sociate with them we got t' wh-whip ourselves."
He rose and put a stick of wood on the fire.
"Th-they think I'm m-most as good as God," he added, huskily, and then he went out-ofdoors.
Before going to bed that night he made this entry in his memorandum-book:
"Strong won't do he'll have to be tore down an' built over."
THE Migleys had engaged Strong to take them out of the woods next day. They were going to the Fourth-of-July celebration at Hillsborough. Master was going also, be orator of the day. Strong, hearing the talk of the others, had "got to wishin'," as Sinth put it, and had finally concluded to go on to Hillsborough and witness the celebration. So Master had sent for his guide to come and stay at Lost River camp until the return of Silas.
The Emperor was getting ready to go. Some one had told him that a man at Hillsborough was buying coons and foxes for the zoological gardens in New York. He considered whether he had better take his young pet coon with him. In that hour of expanding generosity when he had broken his bank, as the saying goes, he had forgotten his new responsibilities. There were the children, and that necessity which often awoke him at night and whispered of impending evil—he must leave his old home and find a new one somewhere in the forest. The little people would need boots and dresses, and why shouldn't they have a rocking-horse or some cheering toy of that character? Such reflections began to change—to amend, as it were—his view of money.
Furthermore, Sinth had no respect for coons. Ever since the Emperor had captured him, much of her ill-nature had been focussed upon the coon.
"W-woods g-goin'," he mused, as he fed the little creature. "W-we got t' git t-tame."
"You better take him along," said Sinth, as she came out of the cook-tent. "Jim Warner got ten dollars for a coon down to Canton las' summer."
"C-come on, Dick," said the hunter, with some regret in his tone as he fastened the coon's cage upon his basket.
Strong looped a cord through the wire and the buckles of both shoulder-braces. Master had taken the river route, and would drive to Hillsborough from Tupper's. Strong and the Migleys were going out through Pitkin. The "sports" had been on their way for more than half an hour. Strong put his arms in the straps and followed them. He turned in the trail and called back:
"B-better times!" he shouted. It was a cheerful sentiment which he often expressed in moments of parting with Sinth.
"Don't believe it," Sinth answered.
"You s-see," he insisted, and then he disappeared in the timber.
As the travellers went on, the Migleys exhibited increasing respect for the law of gravitation. They gave their coats to the Emperor, who studiously kept as far ahead or behind them as possible to avoid conversation. He was "tongue weary," and told them so.
Late in the afternoon they came to a new lumber-camp. "The Warren job" had pushed its front across the old trail. What desolation had fallen where Strong passed, two weeks before, in the shadow of the primeval wood! Its green roof lay in scraggled, withering heaps; the under thickets had been cut away; the ferns lay flat, blackening on the sunburned soil. An old skeleton of pine lifted its broken arms high above the scene of desolation, and one could hear its bones creak and rattle in the breezy heavens.
Great shafts of spruce and pine were being sawed into even lengths and hauled to a skidway. Busy men looked small as ants in the edge of the high forest. Some swayed in pairs, "pulling the briar," as woodsmen say of those who work with a saw.
Strong and the Migleys halted to watch the downfall of a great pine. Soon the sawyers put their wedge in the slit and smote upon it. The sheet of steel hissed back and forth. Then a few blows of the axe. The men gave a shout of warning and drew aside. The great tree began to creak and tremble. Slowly it bent and groaned; its long arms seemed to clutch at the air. Then it pitched headlong, its top whistling, its heavy stem shaking the ground upon which it fell. A voice of thunder seemed to proclaim its fate. The axemen lopped off its branches, and soon the long column lay stark, and the growth of two centuries had come to its end. Strong and his companions stood a moment longer watching the scene.
"Huh!" the Emperor grunted, with a sorry look as they passed on.
Near sundown they came into the cleared land—the sandy, God-forsaken barrens of Tifton, robbed of root and branch and soil, of their glory, and the one crop nature had designed for them. The travellers passed a deserted cabin on a hot, stony hill. In its door-yard they could see a plough and an old wagon partly overgrown with weeds. Some one had tried to live on the spoiled earth and had come to discouragement. Where ten thousand men could have found healing and refreshment there was not enough growing to feed a dozen sheep. Here a part of the great inheritance of man had been forever ruined. Strong spoke of the pity of it.
"Can't be helped," said the elder Migley. "A man has a right to cut and sell his timber."
Strong made no question of that, claiming only that the cutting should be "reg'lated," an expression which he rarely took the trouble to explain. It stood for a meaning well considered—that the forest belonged to the people, the timber to the owner of the land; that the right of the owner should be subject to restraint. He should be permitted to cut trees of a certain size only. So the forest would be made permanent, and the owner and the generations to follow him would get a crop of timber every eight or ten years.
The sun was setting when they came into the little forest hamlet. The Migleys put up at the Pitkin general store, where one might have rude hospitality as well as merchandise. There Strong left pack and coon behind the counter and hastened to the home of Annette. The comely young woman rose from the supper-table and took both his hands in hers.
"Strong's ahead!" he answered, cheerfully, as she greeted him.
In response to her invitation he sat down to eat. Her father lighted his pipe and left them. Silas told of the swishers and the big trout and the children.
"M-me an' Sinth is b-bein' cut over," here-marked, with a smile, as he thought of the children.
"What do you mean?"
"B-bein' cleared an' p-ploughed an' sowed."
She laughed a little as the Emperor unfolded his pleasantry. He thought of his improved account in the matter of swearing and of the better temper of Sinth.
"G-gittin' p-proper," he added.
Annette was amused.
"G-got t' leave Lost R-river," he said, presently.
"Got to leave Lost River!" Annette exclaimed.
"Ay-ah," Strong answered. He looked down for a second, then he added, sorrowfully, "G-goin' to tear down the w-woods."
"It's an outrage. Couldn't you go to the plains?"
"S-sold an' f-fenced."
"How about the Rag Lake country?"
"B-bein' cut."
Annette shook her head ruefully.
"W-woods got t' g-go," said Strong, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. .
"What'll you do?"
"G-git tame," Strong answered, as he rose and went to the squirrel cage and began to play with his old pet. The little animal came to his wire gateway and stood upon the palm of the Emperor's hand.
"T-trespasser!" he remarked, stroking the squirrel. "Th-they'll have me in a c-cage, too, purty s-soon."
He put the squirrel away and offered his hand to Annette.
"S-some day," he whispered.
"Some day," she answered, with a sigh.
"Y-you're g-goin' to hear me d-do some t-talkin'," he assured her. The Lady Ann had often mildly complained of his reticence.
They now stood in front of the little veranda. She was looking up at him.
"It'll 'mount to s-suthin', t-too," he went on. It seemed as if he were making an honest effort to correct the idleness of his tongue. He was looking down at her and groping in his mind for some other cheerful sentiment. He seemed to make this happy discovery, and added, "W-won-derful good t-times comin'."
With a full heart she pressed his great hand in both of hers.
"K-keep ahead," said he, cheerfully, and bade her good-night.
With this he left her and was happy, for the taming of Sinth had seemed to bring that "some day" of his promise into the near future.
At the Pitkin general store his two companions had retired for the night, and he joined a group of woodsmen who occupied everything in the place which had a fairly smooth and accessible top on it. They were all in debt to the storekeeper and seemed to entertain a regard for him not unmingled with pity. This latter sentiment was, the historian believes, rather well founded. They called him "Billy," with the inflection of fondness. Two sat slouching, apologetically, on the counter. One rested his weight, as tenderly and considerately as might be, on a cracker-barrel. Another reposed with a look of greater confidence on the end of a nail-keg. They were guides, two of whom had come out for provisions; the others, like Strong, were on their way to Hillsborough.
"Here's the old Emp'ror," said one, as Strong entered and returned their greetings and sat down astride the beam of a plough.
"I'd like to know what he thinks of it," said a guide from the Jordan Lake country.
Strong looked up at him without a word.
"A millionaire has bought thirty thousand acres alongside o' my camp," the guide explained. "He won't let me cross on the old trail. I had to go six mile out o' my way to git here."
He smote the counter with his fist and coupled the name of the rich man with vile epithets.
"My father and my grandfather travelled that trail before he was born," the angry woodsman declared.
Strong leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and looked at his hands without speaking. One laughed loudly, another gave out a sympathetic curse.
"I'll git even with him—you hear me." So the aggrieved party expressed himself.
"How?" Strong inquired, looking up suddenly.
"I'll git even. I'll send a traveller into that preserve who'll put him off it." He spoke with a sinister suggestion.
"Huh!" the Emperor grunted. He understood the threat of the other, who clearly meant to set the woods afire.
"Ain't I right? What d' ye come to, anyway, when ye think it all over?" The words came hot and fast off the tongue of the com-plainer.
"F-fool," Strong stammered, calmly. There was something in his way of saying it that made the others laugh.
A faint smile of embarrassment showed in the face of the angry woodsman.
"Me or the millionaire?" he inquired.
"B-both," Strong answered, soberly, as the storm ended in a little gust of laughter.
Strong had stripped the guide of his anger as deftly as a squirrel could take the shell off a nut. In the brief silence that followed he thought of another maxim for his memorandum-book, and soon it was recorded therein as follows:
"Man that makes trouble sure to have most of it."
Presently he who sat on the cracker-barrel remarked, "If them air woods git afire now, they'll burn the stars out o' heaven."
All eyes turned upon the once violent man.
"Of course, I wouldn't fire the woods," he muttered. He was now cool, and could see the folly and also the peril which lay in his threat. "I never said I'd set the woods afire, but the ol' trail has been a thoroughfare for nigh a hunderd year.-I believe I've got as good a right to use it as he has."
"Th-think so?" the Emperor inquired.
"Yes, sir."
"Then d-do it," Strong answered, dryly. There was much in those three words and in the look of the speaker. It said, plainly, that the other was to do what he thought to be right and never what he knew to be wrong.
"Lumbermen are more to blame," said another. "Where they've been nobody wants to go. They cut everything down t' the size o' yer wrist an' leave the soil covered with tinder-stacks. They think o' nothin' but the profit. Case o' fire, woods 'round 'em wouldn't hev a ghost of a show."
"Look at the Weaver tract," said he who sat on the nail-keg. "Four thousand acres o' dead tops—miles on 'em—an' all as dry as gunpowder. If you was t' touch a match there ye'd have to run fer yer life."
"Go like a scairt deer," said he of the cracker-barrel. "'Fore it stopped I guess ye'd think the world was afire."
"W-woods g-goin'," said the Emperor, sadly.
He thought of the cold springs at which he had refreshed himself in the heat of the summer day and which were to perish utterly; he thought of the brooks and rivers, slowing their pace like one stricken with infirmity, and, by-and-by, lying dead in the sunlight—lying in a chain of slimy pools across the great valley of the St. Lawrence; he thought of green meadows which, soon or late, would probably wither into a desert.
"What 'll become of us?" said he on the nail-keg.
"Have t' be sawed an' trimmed an' planed an' matched an' go into town." It was the voice above the cracker-barrel.
"Not me," said the occupant of the nail-keg. "Too many houses an' folks an' too much noise. Couldn't never stan' it."
"Village is a cur'ous place," said another, who had never been sober when he saw it. "Steeples an' buildin's an' folks reel 'round in pairs. Seems so the sidewalk flowed like a river, an' nothin' stan's still long 'nough so ye can see how 't looks."
The speaker was interrupted by the proprietor of the Pitkin general store, who came downstairs and flung himself on the top of the counter.
"Goin't' the Fourth?" said he of the cracker-barrel.
"Might as well—got t' hev a tooth drawed."
"I've got one that's been growlin' purty spiteful," said the nail-kegger. "Dunno but I might as well go an' hev it tore out."
"I got t' be snaked, too," said the cracker-barrel man.
"Reg'lar tooth-drawin' down thar to-morrer," said a voice from the counter.
"Beats all how the teeth git t' rairin' up ev'ry circus an' Fourth o' July," said the nail-kegger. The laughter which now ensued seemed, as it were, to shake everybody off his perch. The counter and the cracker-barrel expressed themselves in a creak of relief, and all went abovestairs save the Emperor. He cut a few boughs for a pillow, spread his blanket under the pine-trees, flung an end of it over his great body, and "let go," as he was wont to say. At any time of day or night he had only to lie down and "let go," and enjoy absolute forgetfulness.
AT the break of day next morning, Strong rose and called his fellow-travellers. Beside the turnpike he built a fire, over which he began to cook fish and potatoes and coffee. When the Migleys had come, all sat on a blanket within reach of their food and helped themselves in a fashion almost as ancient as the hills. Then Strong gave the coon his share, and washed the dishes and got his pack ready. It was a tramp of four miles to the station below Pitkin. They arrived there, however, before the sun was an hour high.
When they were seated in the end of the smoking-car, with coon and pack beside them, Mr. Migley began to reveal the plans of the great king, Business. Having increased his territory, he now felt the need of adding to his power. He must have more legislation, for there were to be ruthless changes of the map. Those few really free and independent people who dwelt in and near the Lost River country were to be his subjects and they must learn to obey. At least they must not oppose him and make trouble. Gently his envoy began.
"You know," said he, "there's to be a new member of Assembly in our district."
Strong nodded.
"I want my son to go," the elder Migley went on, as he winked suggestively. "He's going to make his home in Pitkin, and it's very necessary to his plans that you people should be with him. He's got the talent of a statesman. Ask anybody who knows the boy."
He paused a moment. The Emperor made no reply.
"Level-headed and reliable in every spot an' place, an' a good-looker," Migley continued, as if he were selling a road-horse, while he nudged the Emperor. "Look at him. I'd swap faces with that boy any day and give him ten thousand dollars to boot. Wouldn't you?"
Mr. Migley spoke in dead earnest. He pinched the knee of Strong and waited for his reply.
"W-wouldn't fit me," the Emperor replied.
"Pop" Migley took the answer as a compliment and gurgled with good feeling.
"Strong, you're a kind of a boss up here in the hills," said he. "There isn't a jay in the pine lands that wouldn't walk twenty miles to caucus if you asked him to."
"Dunno," Strong answered, doubtfully.
"I know what I'm talking about," said the lumberman, with a smile. "I want the vote o' the town o' Pitkin. If we get that we can give 'em all the flag."
Strong was not unaccustomed to this kind of appeal. There were not many voters in his town, but they always followed the Emperor.
"You can get it for us," Mr. Migley insisted.
"N-no."
"Why not?"
"I've promised to help M-Master."
"Oh, well, now, look here—you and I ought to be friends," said Migley. "We ought to stand by each other. You look out for me and I'll look out for you."
As he offered his alliance, Migley tenderly pressed the shoulder of Silas Strong. Then he put his index-finger on that square of latitude and longitude which indicated the region of his heart, and added, impressively, "I have the reputation of being true to my friends—ask anybody."
The hunter sat filling his pipe in silence.
"With what's pledged to us, if we get this town we can win easy."
Strong began to puff at his pipe thoughtfully. Here sat a man who could make or break him. His face reddened a little. He shook his head.
Mr. Migley had caught the eye of a man he knew—Joe Socket—postmaster and politician of Moon Lake. He rose, tapped the shoulder of Strong, and said, "Think it over." Then he hurried down the aisle of the car.
He leaned over and whispered into the ear of Socket, "What kind of a man is Strong?"
"Square," said the other, promptly. "A little cranky in some ways, but you can depend upon him. He'll do What he says—the devil couldn't turn him."
"He says he's pledged to Master—that chap who's come up here with a bag o' money. Do you think Master has bought him?"
"I don't think so. I suppose he could be bought, but—but I never knew of his taking money. The boys of the back country swear by the Emperor; they look up to him. Fact is, Sile Strong is a ——— —— good fellow."
His oath seemed to contradict his affirmation.
"He's like a rock," said Migley. "The glad hand don't make any impression. What ye going to do with a man who won't drink or talk or swap lies with ye? I could put the poor devil out of house and home, but he don't seem to care."
"We'll turn him over to the Congressman," Socket answered. "He'll bring him into camp. If not we can get along without him."
The fact was the "Emperor of the Woods" was not like any other man they had to deal with—in history, character, and caliber.
He used his brain for a definite purpose—"to think out thoughts with," as he was wont to say, and if his heart approved of them they were right, and he could no more change them than a tree could change its bark or its foliage.
As yet the arts and allies of the flatterer had no power over him. He was content and without any false notion of his own importance.
WHAT a fair of American citizenship was on its way to Hillsborough this morning of the Fourth of July! They that now crowded the train were like others travelling on all the main thoroughfares of the county—farmers and their wives, rustic youths and their sweethearts, mill-hands and mill-owners, teamsters, sawyers, axemen, guides, and storekeepers. They were celebrating a day's release from the tyranny of Business, and were not deeply moved by the tyranny which their grandfathers had suffered. History, save that of the present hour, did not much concern them.
They were mostly sound-hearted men. There were some who, in answer to the charge that a local statesman had got riches in the Legislature, were wont to say, "He'd be a fool if he hadn't." He was "a good fellow," anyhow, and they loved a good fellow. All the men of wealth and place and power were in his favor, and had practised upon them the subtle arts of the friend-maker. They would not have accepted "a bribe"—these good people now on their way to Hillsborough—but they could get all kinds of favors from Joe Socket and Pop Migley and Horace Dumay and other henchmen of the wealthy boss and legislator. They had yielded to the insidious briberies of friendship—warm greetings and handshakes, loans, small sinecures, compliments, pledges of undying esteem over clinking glasses, and similar condescension. They loved the forest and were sorry to see it go, but many of them got their bread-and-butter by its downfall—directly or indirectly—and then Socket, Dumay, and Migley were nothing more or less than lumber, pulp, and water-power personified. They were like the lords and barons of the olden time—less arrogant but more powerful. Indeed, Strong was right—the tyrant of the modern world is that ruthless giant that he called "Business," and his nobles are coal, iron, cotton, wool, food, power, paper, and lumber. These people on the edge of the woodland were slaves of power, paper, and lumber. With able and designing chiefs this great triumvirate gently drove the good people this way and that, and there was a little touch of irony in this journey of the latter to celebrate their freedom and independence.
One who knew them could not help feeling that the old martial spirit of the day was wholly out of harmony with their own. They were a peace-loving people, purged of their fathers' hatred, and roars of defiance found no echo in any breast—save those overheated by alcohol.
Some wore flannel shirts and the livery of a woodsman's toil; some, unduly urged, no doubt, by a wife or sister, had ventured forth in more conventional attire. They sat, as if posing for a photograph, galled, hot, gloomy, suspicious, self-suppressed, silent, their necks hooped in linen, their bodies resisting the tight embrace of new attire. In the crowd were a number to whom the reaping of the ruined hills, on either side of the train, had brought wealth and an air of proprietorship. Most of the crowd were in high spirits. The sounds of loud talk and laughter and the rankling smoke of cheap cigars filled the air above them. A lank youth under a dark, broad-brimmed hat, tilted backward, so as neither to conceal nor disarrange a rare embellishment of curls upon his brow, entered the car with another like him. His hair had the ginger-brown, ringletudinous look of spaniel fur. He began to whistle loudly and, as it would seem, prelusively. In a moment he was in full song on a ballad of the cheap theatres, with sentiment like his hair—frank, bold, oily, and outreaching.
As the train stopped at Hillsborough, Strong rose and put on his pack and left with the crowd, coon in hand. The sidewalks were crowded, and Strong took the centre of the street. There, at least, was comparative seclusion.
Silas had not travelled a block when, all unexpectedly, he became a centre of attraction. A group of whining dogs gathered about him, peering wistfully at the coon. They were shortly reinforced by a number of small boys, which grew with astonishing rapidity. Cries of curiosity and derision rose around him. Sportsmen who had visited his camp and who recognized him shouted their greeting to the "Emperor of the Woods." A "swisher" of some prominence in the little school of sportsmanship at Lost River came and dispersed the boys. The Emperor kicked at a dog and ran a little way in pursuit of him. He came back and set down the coon-cage and shook hands with his pupil. Immediately a dog, approaching from behind, sprang at the cage and tipped it over, and leaped upon it and began to claw. Strong seized and flung the dog away, and as he righted the cage its door came open and the coon escaped. Dodging his enemy, the little animal sought refuge in a thicket of people. Being pursued by dogs, and accustomed also to avoid peril by climbing, he straightway climbed, not a tree, but a tall sapling of a youth, from which the others broke away in a panic. They were opposite a little park, and the youth, not daring to lay hold of the animal, fled among the trees, pursued by Strong and two dogs and a throng of brave spirits who shouted information as to what he had best do.
For half a moment the frightened coon clung on a shoulder, his tail in the air, growling at the dogs. The latter leaped up at him, and he began to feel for more altitude. The youth, who had some knowledge of the nature of coons, ran to the nearest tree. Quickly the coon sprang upon it and scrambled far out of reach. He ran up the smooth shaft of elm and settled on a swaying bough some forty feet above ground. A crowd of people were now looking up at him.
"Coon in a cage is worth two in a tree," a man shouted.
Strong sat down beneath the tree and lighted his pipe and "thought out" another bit of wisdom for his memorandum-book. It was:
"Coon on yer shoulder worth less'n what he is anywhere."He sat in meditation—as if, indeed, he were resting in the wilderness. A cannon, not a hundred feet away, shook the windows of Hillsborough with a loud explosion for every star on the flag. A perpetual fusillade of fire-crackers seemed to suggest the stripes. Accustomed to woodland silences, the Emperor's feeling was, in a measure, like that of his coon. The "morning salute" ended presently, and then he uttered an exclamation which indicated clearly that he had been losing ground in his late struggle with Satan.
One of the guides with whom he had sat in the store at Pitkin came near. "Had yer tooth drawed?" was the question he put to the Emperor.
Strong was now looking at the empty cage. "Had my coon d-drawed," he answered.
"Where is he?"
"Up-s-stairs." Strong pointed in the direction of the coon's refuge.
Silas was now the centre of an admiring company. His former pupil had brought the president of the corporation of Hillsborough to meet him. The official invited Strong to participate in the games. The Emperor was willing to do anything to oblige, and walked with his new acquaintance to the public square.
A trial at lifting and carrying was the first number on the programme. The contestants leaned, with hands behind them, while others on a raised platform began to heap bags of oats upon their backs and shoulders. Loaded to the limit of their strength, they carried the burden as far as they were able and flung it down. One after another tried, and the last carried nine bags a distance of seven feet and was rewarded with many cheers.
It was Strong's turn now. He bent his broad back, and the loaders began to burden him. At ten they stopped, but Strong called for more. Three others were heaped upon him, and slowly he began to move away. One could see only his legs beneath his burden, which towered far above him. Ten feet beyond the farthest mark he bore the bags and let them down. The people began cheering, and many came to shake his hand and feel the sinews in his arms and shoulders. Of the trial at scale-lifting a woodsman who stood near gave this illuminating description, "When they all got through, Strong put on two hundred more an' raised his neck an' lifted, an' the bar come up like a trout after a fly." Silas Strong stood, his coat off, his trousers tucked in his boots, looking soberly at the people who cheered him. One eye was wide open, the other partly closed. There were wrinkles above his wide eye, and his faded felt hat, tilted backward and to one side, left his face uncovered. He had a new and grateful sense of being "ahead," but seemed to wonder if so much brute strength were altogether creditable.
Master was to address the people, and Strong was invited to sit behind the speaker's table with the select of the county. He accompanied the president of the corporation to the platform in the park, his pack-basket on his arm. More than a thousand men and women had gathered in front of them when the chairman introduced the young orator.
The speech delighted Silas Strong, and he summed it up in his old memorandum-book as follows:
"folks cant be no better than the air they brethe "roots of a plant are in the ground but the roots of a man are in his lungs
"whair the woods ar plenty the air is strong an folks are stout an supple like our forefathers when they licked the British them days they got a powrful crop of folks sometimes fifteen in a famly the powr of the woods was in em. now folks live under a sky eight feet above their heads an take their air secont handed an drink at the bar instead of the spring an eat more than what they earn an travel on wheels an think so much of their own helth they aint got no time to think of their countrys when a man's mind is on his stummick it cant be any where else brains warnt made to digest vittles with old fashioned ways is best which Strong says is so also that a man had not oughto eat any more than what he's earnt by hard labor."
After the address Strong went home to dinner with Congressman Wilbert, the leading citizen of Hillsborough. That little town still retained the democratic spirit of old times. There one had only to be clean and honest to be respectable, and the mighty often sat at meat with the lowly. Strong declined the invitation at first, on the plea that he had fried cakes in his pack-basket, and yielded only after some urging.
The statesman's wife received the hunter cordially and presented him to her daughter. The girl led Strong aside and began to entertain him. He had lost his easy, catlike stride, his unconscious control of bone and muscle. He looked and felt as if he were carrying himself on his own back. He seemed to be balancing his head carefully, for fear it would fall off, and had treated his hands like detached sundries in a camp-outfit by stuffing them into the side pockets of his coat. Gradually he limbered in his chair and settled down. His confidence grew, and soon he "horsed" one knee upon the other and flung his hands around it as if to bind an invisible burden resting on his lap. He carried this objective treatment of his own, person to such an extreme that he seemed even to be measuring his breath and to find little opportunity for cerebration. When the young lady addressed him he often answered with the old formulas of "I tnum!" or "T-y-ty!" They eased the responsibility of his tongue, and, without seriously committing him, expressed a fair degree of interest and surprise.
At the table Strong behaved himself with the utmost conservatism. They treated him very tenderly, and he found relief in the fact that his embarrassment seemed not to be observed. He thought it the part of politeness to refuse nearly everything that was offered and to eat in a gingerly fashion.
The Congressman had often heard of Silas and gave him many compliments, and finally asked what, in his opinion, should be done to protect the forest. Briefly Strong gave his views, and the other seemed to agree with him.
"I'll do what I can for the woods and for you, too," said the statesman. "You ought to be a warden with a good salary."
These kindly assurances flattered the "Emperor of the Woods." Insidiously the great world power was making its most potent appeal to him.
"I may ask you for a favor now and then," said Wilbert. "I'd be glad if you'd do what you could to help Migley. He needs the vote of your town."
Strong knew not what to say. "M-mind's m-made up," he stammered, after a little pause. When his mind was "made up" he had nothing further to do but obey its will. The other did not quite comprehend his meaning.
Strong in his embarrassment had put too much tabasco sauce on his meat. He blew, according to his custom in moments of distress, and took a drink of water. He looked thoughtfully at the small cylinder of glass. He tried to read its label.
"Small b-bore," he remarked, presently.
"Sh-shoots w-well," he added, after a moment of reflection.
Strong had begun to think of his coon, now clinging in a tree-top. Suddenly he had become too proud to try to sell him, but he could not bear to abandon his old pet. So while the others talked together he began to contrive against the dogs of Hillsborough. As he was about to leave, he asked Mrs. Wilbert where he could buy "one o' them l-little r-red guns," by which he meant a bottle of tabasco sauce. She immediately sent a servant to bring one, which the Emperor accepted with her compliments. His host went with him to a store where Strong invested some of his prize-money in "C'ris'mus presents"—so he called them—for Sinth and the "little fawns," filling his pack well above the brim.
Then, forthwith, Strong proceeded to the coon's refuge, in the public park, where, with the aid of a Roman-candle, as he explained to Sinth in the privacy of their cook-tent, he made the coon "l-let go all holts." The animal had been clinging high in the old elm, and, being stunned by his fall, Strong caught and held him firmly by the nape of the neck while he covered him with an armor of liquid fire from the tabasco bottle. The fur of back and neck and shoulders had now the power to inflict misery sharper than a serpent's tooth.
"D-Dick," he whispered, "Strong is 'shamed o' y-you. He c-can't 'sociate n-no more with c-coons in this v-village. But he won't let ye git t-tore up."
Strong carried his coon out of the park and let him down. In Hillsborough popular enthusiasm had turned from revelry to refreshment. The crowd, having retired to home and hostelry, had left the streets nearly deserted.
Strong's coon set out in the direction of the river, and soon a bull-dog laid hold of him. The dog gave the coon a shake, and began, as it were, to lose confidence. He dropped the hot-furred animal, shook his head, and tarried the tenth part of a second, as if to make a note of the coon's odor for future reference, and then ran with all speed to the river. He heeded not the call of his master or the jeering of a number of small boys. They were no more to him than the idle wind.
The coon proceeded on his way to the woods. Farther on three other dogs bounded into trouble, and rushed for water. The coon passed two bridges and made his way across an open field in the direction of Turner's wood.
Strong, whose hunger had not been satisfied, bought some cake and pie, and made for open country where he sat down by the road-side. Tree-tops above him were full of chattering birds, driven out of town probably by its hideous uproar.
The Emperor, having appeased his hunger, took half an hour for reflection. Before the end of it came he began for the first time in his life to suffer the penalty of idleness and high living. Indigestion, the bane of towns and cities, had taken hold of him. Before leaving he made these entries in his little book:
"July the 4
"This aint no place for Strong
"Man might as well be in Ogdensburg * as have Ogdensburg in him.
"Strong's coon snaked out of his cage contrived to git even also coon made free and independent."
His revenge was of such lasting effect that, some say, for a long time thereafter dogs in Hillsborough fled terror-stricken at the sight of a coon-skin overcoat.