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At the Foot of the Rainbow

by Gene Stratton-Porter · English · Gutenberg #532 · 347,401 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: At the Foot of the Rainbow

Author: Gene Stratton-Porter


        
Release date: May 1, 1996 [eBook #532]
                Most recently updated: January 1, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/532


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW ***














At the Foot of the Rainbow


by

Gene Stratton-Porter




  "And the bow shall be set in the cloud; and I will look upon it,
  that I may remember the everlasting covenant between God and
  every living creature of all flesh that is upon the earth."
  --GENESIS, ix-16.




Contents

    I.  THE RAT-CATCHERS OF THE WABASH
   II.  RUBEN O'KHAYAM AND THE MILK PAIL
  III.  THE FIFTY COONS OF THE CANOPER
   IV.  WHEN THE KINGFISHER AND THE BLACK BASS CAME HOME
    V.  WHEN THE RAINBOW SET ITS ARCH IN THE SKY
   VI.  THE HEART OF MARY MALONE
  VII.  THE APPLE OF DISCORD BECOMES A JOINTED ROD
 VIII.  WHEN THE BLACK BASS STRUCK
   IX.  WHEN JIMMY MALONE CAME TO CONFESSION
    X.  DANNIE'S RENUNCIATION
   XI.  THE POT OF GOLD





GENE STRATTON-PORTER

A LITTLE STORY OF HER LIFE AND WORK

For several years Doubleday, Page & Company have been receiving
repeated requests for information about the life and books of Gene
Stratton-Porter. Her fascinating nature work with bird, flower, and
moth, and the natural wonders of the Limberlost Swamp, made famous as
the scene of her nature romances, all have stirred much curiosity among
readers everywhere.

Mrs. Porter did not possess what has been called "an aptitude for
personal publicity." Indeed, up to the present, she has discouraged
quite successfully any attempt to stress the personal note. It is
practically impossible, however, to do the kind of work she has
done--to make genuine contributions to natural science by her wonderful
field work among birds, insects, and flowers, and then, through her
romances, to bring several hundred thousands of people to love and
understand nature in a way they never did before--without arousing a
legitimate interest in her own history, her ideals, her methods of
work, and all that underlies the structure of her unusual achievement.

Her publishers have felt the pressure of this growing interest and it
was at their request that she furnished the data for a biographical
sketch that was to be written of her. But when this actually came to
hand, the present compiler found that the author had told a story so
much more interesting than anything he could write of her, that it
became merely a question of how little need be added.

The following pages are therefore adapted from what might be styled the
personal record of Gene Stratton-Porter. This will account for the very
intimate picture of family life in the Middle West for some years
following the Civil War.

Mark Stratton, the father of Gene Stratton-Porter, described his wife,
at the time of their marriage, as a "ninety-pound bit of pink
porcelain, pink as a wild rose, plump as a partridge, having a big rope
of bright brown hair, never ill a day in her life, and bearing the
loveliest name ever given a woman--Mary." He further added that "God
fashioned her heart to be gracious, her body to be the mother of
children, and as her especial gift of Grace, he put Flower Magic into
her fingers." Mary Stratton was the mother of twelve lusty babies, all
of whom she reared past eight years of age, losing two a little over
that, through an attack of scarlet fever with whooping cough; too ugly
a combination for even such a wonderful mother as she. With this brood
on her hands she found time to keep an immaculate house, to set a table
renowned in her part of the state, to entertain with unfailing
hospitality all who came to her door, to beautify her home with such
means as she could command, to embroider and fashion clothing by hand
for her children; but her great gift was conceded by all to be the
making of things to grow. At that she was wonderful. She started dainty
little vines and climbing plants from tiny seeds she found in rice and
coffee. Rooted things she soaked in water, rolled in fine sand, planted
according to habit, and they almost never failed to justify her
expectations. She even grew trees and shrubs from slips and cuttings no
one else would have thought of trying to cultivate, her last resort
being to cut a slip diagonally, insert the lower end in a small potato,
and plant as if rooted. And it nearly always grew!

There is a shaft of white stone standing at her head in a cemetery that
belonged to her on a corner of her husband's land; but to Mrs. Porter's
mind her mother's real monument is a cedar of Lebanon which she set in
the manner described above. The cedar tops the brow of a little hill
crossing the grounds. She carried two slips from Ohio, where they were
given to her by a man who had brought the trees as tiny things from the
holy Land. She planted both in this way, one in her dooryard and one in
her cemetery. The tree on the hill stands thirty feet tall now, topping
all others, and has a trunk two feet in circumference.

Mrs. Porter's mother was of Dutch extraction, and like all Dutch women
she worked her special magic with bulbs, which she favoured above other
flowers. Tulips, daffodils, star flowers, lilies, dahlias, little
bright hyacinths, that she called "blue bells," she dearly loved. From
these she distilled exquisite perfume by putting clusters, & time of
perfect bloom, in bowls lined with freshly made, unsalted butter,
covering them closely, and cutting the few drops of extract thus
obtained with alcohol. "She could do more different things," says the
author, "and finish them all in a greater degree of perfection than any
other woman I have ever known. If I were limited to one adjective in
describing her, 'capable' would be the word."

The author's father was descended from a long line of ancestors of
British blood. He was named for, and traced his origin to, that first
Mark Stratton who lived in New York, married the famous beauty, Anne
Hutchinson, and settled on Stratton Island, afterward corrupted to
Staten, according to family tradition. From that point back for
generations across the sea he followed his line to the family of
Strattons of which the Earl of Northbrooke is the present head. To his
British traditions and the customs of his family, Mark Stratton clung
with rigid tenacity, never swerving from his course a particle under
the influence of environment or association. All his ideas were
clear-cut; no man could influence him against his better judgment. He
believed in God, in courtesy, in honour, and cleanliness, in beauty,
and in education. He used to say that he would rather see a child of
his the author of a book of which he could be proud, than on the throne
of England, which was the strongest way he knew to express himself. His
very first earnings he spent for a book; when other men rested, he
read; all his life he was a student of extraordinarily tenacious
memory. He especially loved history: Rollands, Wilson's Outlines, Hume,
Macauley, Gibbon, Prescott, and Bancroft, he could quote from all of
them paragraphs at a time contrasting the views of different writers on
a given event, and remembering dates with unfailing accuracy. "He could
repeat the entire Bible," says Mrs. Stratton-Porter, "giving chapters
and verses, save the books of Generations; these he said 'were a waste
of gray matter to learn.' I never knew him to fail in telling where any
verse quoted to him was to be found in the Bible." And she adds: "I was
almost afraid to make these statements, although there are many living
who can corroborate them, until John Muir published the story of his
boyhood days, and in it I found the history of such rearing as was my
father's, told of as the customary thing among the children of Muir's
time; and I have referred many inquirers as to whether this feat were
possible, to the Muir book."

All his life, with no thought of fatigue or of inconvenience to
himself, Mark Stratton travelled miles uncounted to share what he had
learned with those less fortunately situated, by delivering sermons,
lectures, talks on civic improvement and politics. To him the love of
God could be shown so genuinely in no other way as in the love of his
fellowmen. He worshipped beauty: beautiful faces, souls, hearts,
beautiful landscapes, trees, animals, flowers. He loved colour: rich,
bright colour, and every variation down to the faintest shadings. He
was especially fond of red, and the author carefully keeps a cardinal
silk handkerchief that he was carrying when stricken with apoplexy at
the age of seventy-eight. "It was so like him," she comments, "to have
that scrap of vivid colour in his pocket. He never was too busy to
fertilize a flower bed or to dig holes for the setting of a tree or
bush. A word constantly on his lips was 'tidy.' It applied equally to a
woman, a house, a field, or a barn lot. He had a streak of genius in
his make-up: the genius of large appreciation. Over inspired Biblical
passages, over great books, over sunlit landscapes, over a white violet
abloom in deep shade, over a heroic deed of man, I have seen his brow
light up, his eyes shine."

Mrs. Porter tells us that her father was constantly reading aloud to
his children and to visitors descriptions of the great deeds of men.
Two "hair-raisers" she especially remembers with increased heart-beats
to this day were the story of John Maynard, who piloted a burning boat
to safety while he slowly roasted at the wheel. She says the old thrill
comes back when she recalls the inflection of her father's voice as he
would cry in imitation of the captain: "John Maynard!" and then give
the reply. "Aye, aye, sir!" His other until it sank to a mere gasp:
favourite was the story of Clemanthe, and her lover's immortal answer
to her question: "Shall we meet again?"

To this mother at forty-six, and this father at fifty, each at
intellectual top-notch, every faculty having been stirred for years by
the dire stress of Civil War, and the period immediately following, the
author was born. From childhood she recalls "thinking things which she
felt should be saved," and frequently tugging at her mother's skirts
and begging her to "set down" what the child considered stories and
poems. Most of these were some big fact in nature that thrilled her,
usually expressed in Biblical terms; for the Bible was read twice a day
before the family and helpers, and an average of three services were
attended on Sunday.

Mrs. Porter says that her first all-alone effort was printed in wabbly
letters on the fly-leaf of an old grammar. It was entitled: "Ode to the
Moon." "Not," she comments, "that I had an idea what an 'ode' was,
other than that I had heard it discussed in the family together with
different forms of poetic expression. The spelling must have been by
proxy: but I did know the words I used, what they meant, and the idea I
was trying to convey.

"No other farm was ever quite so lovely as the one on which I was born
after this father and mother had spent twenty-five years beautifying
it," says the author. It was called "Hopewell" after the home of some
of her father's British ancestors. The natural location was perfect,
the land rolling and hilly, with several flowing springs and little
streams crossing it in three directions, while plenty of forest still
remained. The days of pioneer struggles were past. The roads were
smooth and level as floors, the house and barn commodious; the family
rode abroad in a double carriage trimmed in patent leather, drawn by a
matched team of gray horses, and sometimes the father "speeded a
little" for the delight of the children. "We had comfortable clothing,"
says Mrs. Porter, "and were getting our joy from life without that
pinch of anxiety which must have existed in the beginning, although I
know that father and mother always held steady, and took a large
measure of joy from life in passing."

Her mother's health, which always had been perfect, broke about the
time of the author's first remembrance due to typhoid fever contracted
after nursing three of her children through it. She lived for several
years, but with continual suffering, amounting at times to positive
torture.

So it happened, that led by impulse and aided by an escape from the
training given her sisters, instead of "sitting on a cushion and sewing
a fine seam"--the threads of the fabric had to be counted and just so
many allowed to each stitch!--this youngest child of a numerous
household spent her waking hours with the wild. She followed her father
and the boys afield, and when tired out slept on their coats in fence
corners, often awaking with shy creatures peering into her face. She
wandered where she pleased, amusing herself with birds, flowers,
insects, and plays she invented. "By the day," writes the author, "I
trotted from one object which attracted me to another, singing a little
song of made-up phrases about everything I saw while I waded catching
fish, chasing butterflies over clover fields, or following a bird with
a hair in its beak; much of the time I carried the inevitable baby for
a woman-child, frequently improvised from an ear of corn in the silk,
wrapped in catalpa leaf blankets."

She had a corner of the garden under a big Bartlett pear tree for her
very own, and each spring she began by planting radishes and lettuce
when the gardening was done; and before these had time to sprout she
set the same beds full of spring flowers, and so followed out the
season. She made special pets of the birds, locating nest after nest,
and immediately projecting herself into the daily life of the
occupants. "No one," she says, "ever taught me more than that the birds
were useful, a gift of God for our protection from insect pests on
fruit and crops; and a gift of Grace in their beauty and music, things
to be rigidly protected. From this cue I evolved the idea myself that I
must be extremely careful, for had not my father tied a 'kerchief over
my mouth when he lifted me for a peep into the nest of the
humming-bird, and did he not walk softly and whisper when he approached
the spot? So I stepped lightly, made no noise, and watched until I knew
what a mother bird fed her young before I began dropping bugs, worms,
crumbs, and fruit into little red mouths that opened at my tap on the
nest quite as readily as at the touch of the feet of the mother bird."

In the nature of this child of the out-of-doors there ran a fibre of
care for wild things. It was instinct with her to go slowly, to touch
lightly, to deal lovingly with every living thing: flower, moth, bird,
or animal. She never gathered great handfuls of frail wild flowers,
carried them an hour and threw them away. If she picked any, she took
only a few, mostly to lay on her mother's pillow--for she had a habit
of drawing comfort from a cinnamon pink or a trillium laid where its
delicate fragrance reached her with every breath. "I am quite sure,"
Mrs. Porter writes, "that I never in my life, in picking flowers,
dragged up the plant by the roots, as I frequently saw other people do.
I was taught from infancy to CUT a bloom I wanted. My regular habit was
to lift one plant of each kind, especially if it were a species new to
me, and set it in my wild-flower garden."

To the birds and flowers the child added moths and butterflies, because
she saw them so frequently, the brilliance of colour in yard and garden
attracting more than could be found elsewhere. So she grew with the
wild, loving, studying, giving all her time. "I fed butterflies
sweetened water and rose leaves inside the screen of a cellar window,"
Mrs. Porter tells us; "doctored all the sick and wounded birds and
animals the men brought me from afield; made pets of the baby squirrels
and rabbits they carried in for my amusement; collected wild flowers;
and as I grew older, gathered arrow points and goose quills for sale in
Fort Wayne. So I had the first money I ever earned."

Her father and mother had strong artistic tendencies, although they
would have scoffed at the idea themselves, yet the manner in which they
laid off their fields, the home they built, the growing things they
preserved, the way they planted, the life they led, all go to prove
exactly that thing. Their bush--and vine-covered fences crept around
the acres they owned in a strip of gaudy colour; their orchard lay in a
valley, a square of apple trees in the centre widely bordered by peach,
so that it appeared at bloom time like a great pink-bordered white
blanket on the face of earth. Swale they might have drained, and would
not, made sheets of blue flag, marigold and buttercups. From the home
you could not look in any direction without seeing a picture of beauty.

"Last spring," the author writes in a recent letter, "I went back with
my mind fully made up to buy that land at any reasonable price, restore
it to the exact condition in which I knew it as a child, and finish my
life there. I found that the house had been burned, killing all the big
trees set by my mother's hands immediately surrounding it. The hills
were shorn and ploughed down, filling and obliterating the creeks and
springs. Most of the forest had been cut, and stood in corn. My old
catalpa in the fence corner beside the road and the Bartlett pear under
which I had my wild-flower garden were all that was left of the
dooryard, while a few gnarled apple trees remained of the orchard,
which had been reset in another place. The garden had been moved, also
the lanes; the one creek remaining out of three crossed the meadow at
the foot of the orchard. It flowed a sickly current over a dredged bed
between bare, straight banks. The whole place seemed worse than a
dilapidated graveyard to me. All my love and ten times the money I had
at command never could have put back the face of nature as I knew it on
that land."

As a child the author had very few books, only three of her own outside
of school books. "The markets did not afford the miracles common with
the children of today," she adds. "Books are now so numerous, so cheap,
and so bewildering in colour and make-up, that I sometimes think our
children are losing their perspective and caring for none of them as I
loved my few plain little ones filled with short story and poem, almost
no illustration. I had a treasure house in the school books of my
elders, especially the McGuffey series of Readers from One to Six. For
pictures I was driven to the Bible, dictionary, historical works read
by my father, agricultural papers, and medical books about cattle and
sheep.

"Near the time of my mother's passing we moved from Hopewell to the
city of Wabash in order that she might have constant medical attention,
and the younger children better opportunities for schooling. Here we
had magazines and more books in which I was interested. The one volume
in which my heart was enwrapt was a collection of masterpieces of
fiction belonging to my eldest sister. It contained 'Paul and
Virginia,' 'Undine,' 'Picciola,' 'The Vicar of Wakefield,' 'Pilgrim's
Progress,' and several others I soon learned by heart, and the reading
and rereading of those exquisitely expressed and conceived stories may
have done much in forming high conceptions of what really constitutes
literature and in furthering the lofty ideals instilled by my parents.
One of these stories formed the basis of my first publicly recognized
literary effort."

Reared by people who constantly pointed out every natural beauty, using
it wherever possible to drive home a precept, the child lived
out-of-doors with the wild almost entirely. If she reported promptly
three times a day when the bell rang at meal time, with enough clothing
to constitute a decent covering, nothing more was asked until the
Sabbath. To be taken from such freedom, her feet shod, her body
restricted by as much clothing as ever had been worn on Sunday, shut up
in a schoolroom, and set to droning over books, most of which she
detested, was the worst punishment ever inflicted upon her she
declares. She hated mathematics in any form and spent all her time on
natural science, language, and literature. "Friday afternoon," writes
Mrs. Porter, "was always taken up with an exercise called
'rhetoricals,' a misnomer as a rule, but let that pass. Each week
pupils of one of the four years furnished entertainment for the
assembled high school and faculty. Our subjects were always assigned,
and we cordially disliked them. This particular day I was to have a
paper on 'Mathematical Law.'

"I put off the work until my paper had been called for several times,
and so came to Thursday night with excuses and not a line. I was told
to bring my work the next morning without fail. I went home in hot
anger. Why in all this beautiful world, would they not allow me to do
something I could do, and let any one of four members of my class who
revelled in mathematics do my subject? That evening I was distracted.
'I can't do a paper on mathematics, and I won't!' I said stoutly; 'but
I'll do such a paper on a subject I can write about as will open their
foolish eyes and make them see how wrong they are.'"

Before me on the table lay the book I loved, the most wonderful story
in which was 'Picciola' by Saintine. Instantly I began to write.
Breathlessly I wrote for hours. I exceeded our limit ten times over.
The poor Italian Count, the victim of political offences, shut by
Napoleon from the wonderful grounds, mansion, and life that were his,
restricted to the bare prison walls of Fenestrella, deprived of books
and writing material, his one interest in life became a sprout of
green, sprung, no doubt, from a seed dropped by a passing bird, between
the stone flagging of the prison yard before his window. With him I had
watched over it through all the years since I first had access to the
book; with him I had prayed for it. I had broken into a cold sweat of
fear when the jailer first menaced it; I had hated the wind that bent
it roughly, and implored the sun. I had sung a paean of joy at its
budding, and worshipped in awe before its thirty perfect blossoms. The
Count had named it 'Picciola'--the little one--to me also it was a
personal possession. That night we lived the life of our 'little one'
over again, the Count and I, and never were our anxieties and our joys
more poignant.

"Next morning," says Mrs. Porter, "I dared my crowd to see how long
they could remain on the grounds, and yet reach the assembly room
before the last toll of the bell. This scheme worked. Coming in so late
the principal opened exercises without remembering my paper. Again, at
noon, I was as late as I dared be, and I escaped until near the close
of the exercises, through which I sat in cold fear. When my name was
reached at last the principal looked at me inquiringly and then
announced my inspiring mathematical subject. I arose, walked to the
front, and made my best bow. Then I said: 'I waited until yesterday
because I knew absolutely nothing about my subject'--the audience
laughed--'and I could find nothing either here or in the library at
home, so last night I reviewed Saintine's masterpiece, "Picciola."'

"Then instantly I began to read. I was almost paralyzed at my audacity,
and with each word I expected to hear a terse little interruption.
Imagine my amazement when I heard at the end of the first page: 'Wait a
minute!' Of course I waited, and the principal left the room. A moment
later she reappeared accompanied by the superintendent of the city
schools. 'Begin again,' she said. 'Take your time.'

"I was too amazed to speak. Then thought came in a rush. My paper was
good. It was as good as I had believed it. It was better than I had
known. I did go on! We took that assembly room and the corps of
teachers into our confidence, the Count and I, and told them all that
was in our hearts about a little flower that sprang between the paving
stones of a prison yard. The Count and I were free spirits. From the
book I had learned that. He got into political trouble through it, and
I had got into mathematical trouble, and we told our troubles. One
instant the room was in laughter, the next the boys bowed their heads,
and the girls who had forgotten their handkerchiefs cried in their
aprons. For almost sixteen big foolscap pages I held them, and I was
eager to go on and tell them more about it when I reached the last
line. Never again was a subject forced upon me."

After this incident of her schooldays, what had been inclination before
was aroused to determination and the child neglected her lessons to
write. A volume of crude verse fashioned after the metre of Meredith's
"Lucile," a romantic book in rhyme, and two novels were the fruits of
this youthful ardour. Through the sickness and death of a sister, the
author missed the last three months of school, but, she remarks,
"unlike my schoolmates, I studied harder after leaving school than ever
before and in a manner that did me real good. The most that can be said
of what education I have is that it is the very best kind in the world
for me; the only possible kind that would not ruin a person of my
inclinations. The others of my family had been to college; I always
have been too thankful for words that circumstances intervened which
saved my brain from being run through a groove in company with dozens
of others of widely different tastes and mentality. What small measure
of success I have had has come through preserving my individual point
of view, method of expression, and following in after life the Spartan
regulations of my girlhood home. Whatever I have been able to do, has
been done through the line of education my father saw fit to give me,
and through his and my mother's methods of rearing me.

"My mother went out too soon to know, and my father never saw one of
the books; but he knew I was boiling and bubbling like a yeast jar in
July over some literary work, and if I timidly slipped to him with a
composition, or a faulty poem, he saw good in it, and made suggestions
for its betterment. When I wanted to express something in colour, he
went to an artist, sketched a design for an easel, personally
superintended the carpenter who built it, and provided tuition. On that
same easel I painted the water colours for 'Moths of the Limberlost,'
and one of the most poignant regrets of my life is that he was not
there to see them, and to know that the easel which he built through
his faith in me was finally used in illustrating a book.

"If I thought it was music through which I could express myself, he
paid for lessons and detected hidden ability that should be developed.
Through the days of struggle he stood fast; firm in his belief in me.
He was half the battle. It was he who demanded a physical standard that
developed strength to endure the rigours of scientific field and
darkroom work, and the building of ten books in ten years, five of
which were on nature subjects, having my own illustrations, and five
novels, literally teeming with natural history, true to nature. It was
he who demanded of me from birth the finishing of any task I attempted
and who taught me to cultivate patience to watch and wait, even years,
if necessary, to find and secure material I wanted. It was he who daily
lived before me the life of exactly such a man as I portrayed in 'The
Harvester,' and who constantly used every atom of brain and body power
to help and to encourage all men to do the same."

Marriage, a home of her own, and a daughter for a time filled the
author's hands, but never her whole heart and brain. The book fever lay
dormant a while, and then it became a compelling influence. It
dominated the life she lived, the cabin she designed for their home,
and the books she read. When her daughter was old enough to go to
school, Mrs. Porter's time came. Speaking of this period, she says: "I
could not afford a maid, but I was very strong, vital to the marrow,
and I knew how to manage life to make it meet my needs, thanks to even
the small amount I had seen of my mother. I kept a cabin of fourteen
rooms, and kept it immaculate. I made most of my daughter's clothes, I
kept a conservatory in which there bloomed from three to six hundred
bulbs every winter, tended a house of canaries and linnets, and cooked
and washed dishes besides three times a day. In my spare time (mark the
word, there was time to spare else the books never would have been
written and the pictures made) I mastered photography to such a degree
that the manufacturers of one of our finest brands of print paper once
sent the manager of their factory to me to learn how I handled it. He
frankly said that they could obtain no such results with it as I did.
He wanted to see my darkroom, examine my paraphernalia, and have me
tell him exactly how I worked. As I was using the family bathroom for a
darkroom and washing negatives and prints on turkey platters in the
kitchen, I was rather put to it when it came to giving an exhibition.
It was scarcely my fault if men could not handle the paper they
manufactured so that it produced the results that I obtained, so I said
I thought the difference might lie in the chemical properties of the
water, and sent this man on his way satisfied. Possibly it did. But I
have a shrewd suspicion it lay in high-grade plates, a careful
exposure, judicious development, with self-compounded chemicals
straight from the factory, and C.P.  I think plates swabbed with wet
cotton before development, intensified if of short exposure, and
thoroughly swabbed again before drying, had much to do with it; and
paper handled in the same painstaking manner had more. I have hundreds
of negatives in my closet made twelve years ago, in perfect condition
for printing from to-day, and I never have lost a plate through fog
from imperfect development and hasty washing; so my little mother's
rule of 'whatsoever thy hands find to do, do it with thy might,' held
good in photography."

Thus had Mrs. Porter made time to study and to write, and editors began
to accept what she sent them with little if any changes. She began by
sending photographic and natural history hints to Recreation, and with
the first installment was asked to take charge of the department and
furnish material each month for which she was to be paid at current
prices in high-grade photographic material. We can form some idea of
the work she did under this arrangement from the fact that she had over
one thousand dollars' worth of equipment at the end of the first year.
The second year she increased this by five hundred, and then accepted a
place on the natural history staff of Outing, working closely with Mr.
Casper Whitney. After a year of this helpful experience Mrs. Porter
began to turn her attention to what she calls "nature studies sugar
coated with fiction." Mixing some childhood fact with a large degree of
grown-up fiction, she wrote a little story entitled "Laddie, the
Princess, and the Pie."

"I was abnormally sensitive," says the author, "about trying to
accomplish any given thing and failing. I had been taught in my home
that it was black disgrace to undertake anything and fail. My husband
owned a drug and book store that carried magazines, and it was not
possible to conduct departments in any of them and not have it known;
but only a few people in our locality read these publications, none of
them were interested in nature photography, or natural science, so what
I was trying to do was not realized even by my own family.

"With them I was much more timid than with the neighbours. Least of all
did I want to fail before my man Person and my daughter and our
respective families; so I worked in secret, sent in my material, and
kept as quiet about it as possible. On Outing I had graduated from the
camera department to an illustrated article each month, and as this
kept up the year round, and few illustrations could be made in winter,
it meant that I must secure enough photographs of wild life in summer
to last during the part of the year when few were to be had.

"Every fair day I spent afield, and my little black horse and load of
cameras, ropes, and ladders became a familiar sight to the country folk
of the Limberlost, in Rainbow Bottom, the Canoper, on the banks of the
Wabash, in woods and thickets and beside the roads; but few people
understood what I was trying to do, none of them what it would mean
were I to succeed. Being so afraid of failure and the inevitable
ridicule in a community where I was already severly criticised on
account of my ideas of housekeeping, dress, and social customs, I
purposely kept everything I did as quiet as possible. It had to be
known that I was interested in everything afield, and making pictures;
also that I was writing field sketches for nature publications, but
little was thought of it, save as one more, peculiarity, in me. So when
my little story was finished I went to our store and looked over the
magazines. I chose one to which we did not subscribe, having an
attractive cover, good type, and paper, and on the back of an old
envelope, behind the counter, I scribbled: Perriton Maxwell, 116 Nassau
Street, New York, and sent my story on its way.

"Then I took a bold step, the first in my self-emancipation. Money was
beginning to come in, and I had some in my purse of my very own that I
had earned when no one even knew I was working. I argued that if I kept
my family so comfortable that they missed nothing from their usual
routine, it was my right to do what I could toward furthering my
personal ambitions in what time I could save from my housework. And
until I could earn enough to hire capable people to take my place, I
held rigidly to that rule. I who waded morass, fought quicksands,
crept, worked from ladders high in air, and crossed water on improvised
rafts without a tremor, slipped with many misgivings into the
postoffice and rented a box for myself, so that if I met with failure
my husband and the men in the bank need not know what I had attempted.
That was early May; all summer I waited. I had heard that it required a
long time for an editor to read and to pass on matter sent him; but my
waiting did seem out of all reason. I was too busy keeping my cabin and
doing field work to repine; but I decided in my own mind that Mr.
Maxwell was a 'mean old thing' to throw away my story and keep the
return postage. Besides, I was deeply chagrined, for I had thought
quite well of my effort myself, and this seemed to prove that I did not
know even the first principles of what would be considered an
interesting story.

"Then one day in September I went into our store on an errand and the
manager said to me: 'I read your story in the Metropolitan last night.
It was great! Did you ever write any fiction before?'

"My head whirled, but I had learned to keep my own counsels, so I said
as lightly as I could, while my heart beat until I feared he could hear
it: 'No. Just a simple little thing! Have you any spare copies? My
sister might want one.'

"He supplied me, so I hurried home, and shutting myself in the library,
I sat down to look my first attempt at fiction in the face. I quite
agreed with the manager that it was 'great.' Then I wrote Mr. Maxwell a
note telling him that I had seen my story in his magazine, and saying
that I was glad he liked it enough to use it. I had not known a letter
could reach New York and bring a reply so quickly as his answer came.
It was a letter that warmed the deep of my heart. Mr. Maxwell wrote
that he liked my story very much, but the office boy had lost or
destroyed my address with the wrappings, so after waiting a reasonable
length of time to hear from me, he had illustrated it the best he
could, and printed it. He wrote that so many people had spoken to him
of a new, fresh note in it, that he wished me to consider doing him
another in a similar vein for a Christmas leader and he enclosed my
very first check for fiction.

"So I wrote: 'How Laddie and the Princess Spelled Down at the Christmas
Bee.' Mr. Maxwell was pleased to accept that also, with what I
considered high praise, and to ask me to furnish the illustrations. He
specified that he wanted a frontispiece, head and tail pieces, and six
or seven other illustrations. Counting out the time for his letter to
reach me, and the material to return, I was left with just ONE day in
which to secure the pictures. They had to be of people costumed in the
time of the early seventies and I was short of print paper and
chemicals. First, I telephoned to Fort Wayne for the material I wanted
to be sent without fail on the afternoon train. Then I drove to the
homes of the people I wished to use for subjects and made appointments
for sittings, and ransacked the cabin for costumes. The letter came on
the eight A.M. train. At ten o'clock I was photographing Colonel Lupton
beside my dining-room fireplace for the father in the story. At eleven
I was dressing and posing Miss Lizzie Huart for the princess. At twelve
I was picturing in one of my bed rooms a child who served finely for
Little Sister, and an hour later the same child in a cemetery three
miles in the country where I used mounted butterflies from my cases,
and potted plants carried from my conservatory, for a graveyard scene.
The time was early November, but God granted sunshine that day, and
short focus blurred the background. At four o'clock I was at the
schoolhouse, and in the best-lighted room with five or six models, I
was working on the spelling bee scenes. By six I was in the darkroom
developing and drying these plates, every one of which was good enough
to use. I did my best work with printing-out paper, but I was compelled
to use a developing paper in this extremity, because it could be worked
with much more speed, dried a little between blotters, and mounted. At
three o'clock in the morning I was typing the quotations for the
pictures, at four the parcel stood in the hall for the six o'clock
train, and I realized that I wanted a drink, food, and sleep, for I had
not stopped a second for anything from the time of reading Mr.
Maxwell's letter until his order was ready to mail. For the following
ten years I was equally prompt in doing all work I undertook, whether
pictures or manuscript, without a thought of consideration for self;
and I disappointed the confident expectations of my nearest and dearest
by remaining sane, normal, and almost without exception the healthiest
woman they knew."

This story and its pictures were much praised, and in the following
year the author was asked for several stories, and even used bird
pictures and natural history sketches, quite an innovation for a
magazine at that time. With this encouragement she wrote and
illustrated a short story of about ten thousand words, and sent it to
the Century. Richard Watson Gilder advised Mrs. Porter to enlarge it to
book size, which she did. This book is "The Cardinal." Following Mr.
Gilder's advice, she recast the tale and, starting with the mangled
body of a cardinal some marksman had left in the road she was
travelling, in a fervour of love for the birds and indignation at the
hunter, she told the Cardinal's life history in these pages.

The story was promptly accepted and the book was published with very
beautiful half-tones, and cardinal buckram cover. Incidentally, neither
the author's husband nor daughter had the slightest idea she was
attempting to write a book until work had progressed to that stage
where she could not make a legal contract without her husband's
signature. During the ten years of its life this book has gone through
eight different editions, varying in form and make-up from the birds in
exquisite colour, as colour work advanced and became feasible, to a
binding of beautiful red morocco, a number of editions of differing
design intervening. One was tried in gray binding, the colour of the
female cardinal, with the red male used as an inset. Another was
woodsgreen with the red male, and another red with a wild rose design
stamped in. There is a British edition published by Hodder and
Stoughton. All of these had the author's own illustrations which
authorities agree are the most complete studies of the home life and
relations of a pair of birds ever published.

The story of these illustrations in "The Cardinal" and how the author
got them will be a revelation to most readers. Mrs. Porter set out to
make this the most complete set of bird illustrations ever secured, in
an effort to awaken people to the wonder and beauty and value of the
birds. She had worked around half a dozen nests for two years and had
carried a lemon tree from her conservatory to the location of one nest,
buried the tub, and introduced the branches among those the birds used
in approaching their home that she might secure proper illustrations
for the opening chapter, which was placed in the South. When the
complete bird series was finished, the difficult work over, and there
remained only a few characteristic Wabash River studies of flowers,
vines, and bushes for chapter tail pieces to be secured, the author
"met her Jonah," and her escape was little short of a miracle.

After a particularly strenuous spring afield, one teeming day in early
August she spent the morning in the river bottom beside the Wabash. A
heavy rain followed by August sun soon had her dripping while she made
several studies of wild morning glories, but she was particularly
careful to wrap up and drive slowly going home, so that she would not
chill. In the afternoon the author went to the river northeast of town
to secure mallow pictures for another chapter, and after working in
burning sun on the river bank until exhausted, she several times waded
the river to examine bushes on the opposite bank. On the way home she
had a severe chill, and for the following three weeks lay twisted in
the convulsions of congestion, insensible most of the time. Skilled
doctors and nurses did their best, which they admitted would have
availed nothing if the patient had not had a constitution without a
flaw upon which to work.

"This is the history," said Mrs. Porter, "of one little tail piece
among the pictures. There were about thirty others, none so strenuous,
but none easy, each having a living, fighting history for me. If I were
to give in detail the story of the two years' work required to secure
the set of bird studies illustrating 'The Cardinal,' it would make a
much larger book than the life of the bird."

"The Cardinal" was published in June of 1903. On the 20th of October,
1904, "Freckles" appeared. Mrs. Porter had been delving afield with all
her heart and strength for several years, and in the course of her work
had spent every other day for three months in the Limberlost swamp,
making a series of studies of the nest of a black vulture. Early in her
married life she had met a Scotch lumberman, who told her of the swamp
and of securing fine timber there for Canadian shipbuilders, and later
when she had moved to within less than a mile of its northern boundary,
she met a man who was buying curly maple, black walnut, golden oak,
wild cherry, and other wood extremely valuable for a big furniture
factory in Grand Rapids. There was one particular woman, of all those
the author worked among, who exercised herself most concerning her. She
never failed to come out if she saw her driving down the lane to the
woods, and caution her to be careful. If she felt that Mrs. Porter had
become interested and forgotten that it was long past meal time, she
would send out food and water or buttermilk to refresh her. She had her
family posted, and if any of them saw a bird with a straw or a hair in
its beak, they followed until they found its location. It was her
husband who drove the stake and ploughed around the killdeer nest in
the cornfield to save it for the author; and he did many other acts of
kindness without understanding exactly what he was doing or why.
"Merely that I wanted certain things was enough for those people,"
writes Mrs. Porter. "Without question they helped me in every way their
big hearts could suggest to them, because they loved to be kind, and to
be generous was natural with them. The woman was busy keeping house and
mothering a big brood, and every living creature that came her way,
besides. She took me in, and I put her soul, body, red head, and all,
into Sarah Duncan. The lumber and furniture man I combined in McLean.
Freckles was a composite of certain ideals and my own field
experiences, merged with those of Mr. Bob Burdette Black, who, at the
expense of much time and careful work, had done more for me than any
other ten men afield. The Angel was an idealized picture of my daughter.

"I dedicated the book to my husband, Mr. Charles Darwin Porter, for
several reasons, the chiefest being that he deserved it. When word was
brought me by lumbermen of the nest of the Black Vulture in the
Limberlost, I hastened to tell my husband the wonderful story of the
big black bird, the downy white baby, the pale blue egg, and to beg
back a rashly made promise not to work in the Limberlost. Being a
natural history enthusiast himself, he agreed that I must go; but he
qualified the assent with the proviso that no one less careful of me
than he, might accompany me there. His business had forced him to allow
me to work alone, with hired guides or the help of oilmen and farmers
elsewhere; but a Limberlost trip at that time was not to be joked
about. It had not been shorn, branded, and tamed. There were most
excellent reasons why I should not go there. Much of it was
impenetrable. Only a few trees had been taken out; oilmen were just
invading it. In its physical aspect it was a treacherous swamp and
quagmire filled with every plant, animal, and human danger known in the
worst of such locations in the Central States.

"A rod inside the swamp on a road leading to an oil well we mired to
the carriage hubs. I shielded my camera in my arms and before we
reached the well I thought the conveyance would be torn to pieces and
the horse stalled. At the well we started on foot, Mr. Porter in
kneeboots, I in waist-high waders. The time was late June; we forced
our way between steaming, fetid pools, through swarms of gnats, flies,
mosquitoes, poisonous insects, keeping a sharp watch for rattlesnakes.
We sank ankle deep at every step, and logs we thought solid broke under
us. Our progress was a steady succession of prying and pulling each
other to the surface. Our clothing was wringing wet, and the exposed
parts of our bodies lumpy with bites and stings. My husband found the
tree, cleared the opening to the great prostrate log, traversed its
unspeakable odours for nearly forty feet to its farthest recess, and
brought the baby and egg to the light in his leaf-lined hat.

"We could endure the location only by dipping napkins in deodorant and
binding them over our mouths and nostrils. Every third day for almost
three months we made this trip, until Little Chicken was able to take
wing. Of course we soon made a road to the tree, grew accustomed to the
disagreeable features of the swamp and contemptuously familiar with its
dangers, so that I worked anywhere in it I chose with other assistance;
but no trip was so hard and disagreeable as the first. Mr. Porter
insisted upon finishing the Little Chicken series, so that 'deserve' is
a poor word for any honour that might accrue to him for his part in the
book."

This was the nucleus of the book, but the story itself originated from
the fact that one day, while leaving the swamp, a big feather with a
shaft over twenty inches long came spinning and swirling earthward and
fell in the author's path. Instantly she looked upward to locate the
bird, which from the size and formation of the quill could have been
nothing but an eagle; her eyes, well trained and fairly keen though
they were, could not see the bird, which must have been soaring above
range. Familiar with the life of the vulture family, the author changed
the bird from which the feather fell to that described in "Freckles."
Mrs. Porter had the old swamp at that time practically untouched, and
all its traditions to work upon and stores of natural history material.
This falling feather began the book which in a few days she had
definitely planned and in six months completely written. Her title for
it was "The Falling Feather," that tangible thing which came drifting
down from Nowhere, just as the boy came, and she has always regretted
the change to "Freckles." John Murray publishes a British edition of
this book which is even better liked in Ireland and Scotland than in
England.

As "The Cardinal" was published originally not by Doubleday, Page &
Company, but by another firm, the author had talked over with the
latter house the scheme of "Freckles" and it had been agreed to publish
the story as soon as Mrs. Porter was ready. How the book finally came
to Doubleday, Page & Company she recounts as follows:

"By the time 'Freckles' was finished, I had exercised my woman's
prerogative and 'changed my mind'; so I sent the manuscript to
Doubleday, Page & Company, who accepted it. They liked it well enough
to take a special interest in it and to bring it out with greater
expense than it was at all customary to put upon a novel at that time;
and this in face of the fact that they had repeatedly warned me that
the nature work in it would kill fully half its chances with the
public. Mr. F.N. Doubleday, starting on a trip to the Bahamas, remarked
that he would like to take a manuscript with him to read, and the
office force decided to put 'Freckles' into his grip. The story of the
plucky young chap won his way to the heart of the publishers, under a
silk cotton tree, 'neath bright southern skies, and made such a friend
of him that through the years of its book-life it has been the object
of special attention. Mr. George Doran gave me a photograph which Mr.
Horace MacFarland made of Mr. Doubleday during this reading of the Mss.
of 'Freckles' which is especially interesting."

That more than 2,000,000 readers have found pleasure and profit in Mrs.
Porter's books is a cause for particular gratification. These stories
all have, as a fundamental reason of their existence, the author's
great love of nature. To have imparted this love to others--to have
inspired many hundreds of thousands to look for the first time with
seeing eyes at the pageant of the out-of-doors--is a satisfaction that
must endure. For the part of the publishers, they began their business
by issuing "Nature Books" at a time when the sale of such works was
problematical. As their tastes and inclinations were along the same
lines which Mrs. Porter loved to follow, it gave them great pleasure to
be associated with her books which opened the eyes of so great a public
to new and worthy fields of enjoyment.

The history of "Freckles" is unique. The publishers had inserted
marginal drawings on many pages, but these, instead of attracting
attention to the nature charm of the book, seemed to have exactly a
contrary effect. The public wanted a novel. The illustrations made it
appear to be a nature book, and it required three long slow years for
"Freckles" to pass from hand to hand and prove that there really was a
novel between the covers, but that it was a story that took its own
time and wound slowly toward its end, stopping its leisurely course for
bird, flower, lichen face, blue sky, perfumed wind, and the closest
intimacies of the daily life of common folk. Ten years have wrought a
great change in the sentiment against nature work and the interest in
it. Thousands who then looked upon the world with unobserving eyes are
now straining every nerve to accumulate enough to be able to end life
where they may have bird, flower, and tree for daily companions.

Mrs. Porter's account of the advice she received at this time is
particularly interesting. Three editors who read "Freckles" before it
was published offered to produce it, but all of them expressed
precisely the same opinion: "The book will never sell well as it is. If
you want to live from the proceeds of your work, if you want to sell
even moderately, you must CUT OUT THE NATURE STUFF." "Now to PUT IN THE
NATURE STUFF," continues the author, "was the express purpose for which
the book had been written. I had had one year's experience with 'The
Song of the Cardinal,' frankly a nature book, and from the start I
realized that I never could reach the audience I wanted with a book on
nature alone. To spend time writing a book based wholly upon human
passion and its outworking I would not. So I compromised on a book into
which I put all the nature work that came naturally within its scope,
and seasoned it with little bits of imagination and straight copy from
the lives of men and women I had known intimately, folk who lived in a
simple, common way with which I was familiar. So I said to my
publishers: 'I will write the books exactly as they take shape in my
mind. You publish them. I know they will sell enough that you will not
lose. If I do not make over six hundred dollars on a book I shall never
utter a complaint. Make up my work as I think it should be and leave it
to the people as to what kind of book they will take into their hearts
and homes.' I altered 'Freckles' slightly, but from that time on we
worked on this agreement.

"My years of nature work have not been without considerable insight
into human nature, as well," continues Mrs. Porter. "I know its
failings, its inborn tendencies, its weaknesses, its failures, its
depth of crime; and the people who feel called upon to spend their time
analyzing, digging into, and uncovering these sources of depravity have
that privilege, more's the pity! If I had my way about it, this is a
privilege no one could have in books intended for indiscriminate
circulation. I stand squarely for book censorship, and I firmly believe
that with a few more years of such books, as half a dozen I could
mention, public opinion will demand this very thing. My life has been
fortunate in one glad way: I have lived mostly in the country and
worked in the woods. For every bad man and woman I have ever known, I
have met, lived with, and am intimately acquainted with an overwhelming
number of thoroughly clean and decent people who still believe in God
and cherish high ideals, and it is UPON THE LIVES OF THESE THAT I BASE
WHAT I WRITE. To contend that this does not produce a picture true to
life is idiocy. It does. It produces a picture true to ideal life; to
the best that good men and good women can do at level best.

"I care very little for the magazine or newspaper critics who proclaim
that there is no such thing as a moral man, and that my pictures of
life are sentimental and idealized. They are! And I glory in them! They
are straight, living pictures from the lives of men and women of
morals, honour, and loving kindness. They form 'idealized pictures of
life' because they are copies from life where it touches religion,
chastity, love, home, and hope of heaven ultimately. None of these
roads leads to publicity and the divorce court. They all end in the
shelter and seclusion of a home.

"Such a big majority of book critics and authors have begun to teach,
whether they really believe it or not, that no book is TRUE TO LIFE
unless it is true to the WORST IN LIFE, that the idea has infected even
the women."

In 1906, having seen a few of Mrs. Porter's studies of bird life, Mr.
Edward Bok telegraphed the author asking to meet him in Chicago. She
had a big portfolio of fine prints from plates for which she had gone
to the last extremity of painstaking care, and the result was an order
from Mr. Bok for a six months' series in the Ladies' Home Journal of
the author's best bird studies accompanied by descriptions of how she
secured them. This material was later put in book form under the title,
"What I Have Done with Birds," and is regarded as authoritative on the
subject of bird photography and bird life, for in truth it covers every
phase of the life of the birds described, and contains much of other
nature subjects.

By this time Mrs. Porter had made a contract with her publishers to
alternate her books. She agreed to do a nature book for love, and then,
by way of compromise, a piece of nature work spiced with enough fiction
to tempt her class of readers. In this way she hoped that they would
absorb enough of the nature work while reading the fiction to send them
afield, and at the same time keep in their minds her picture of what
she considers the only life worth living. She was still assured that
only a straight novel would "pay," but she was living, meeting all her
expenses, giving her family many luxuries, and saving a little sum for
a rainy day she foresaw on her horoscope. To be comfortably clothed and
fed, to have time and tools for her work, is all she ever has asked of
life.

Among Mrs. Porter's readers "At the Foot of the Rainbow" stands as
perhaps the author's strongest piece of fiction.

In August of 1909 two books on which the author had been working for
years culminated at the same time: a nature novel, and a straight
nature book. The novel was, in a way, a continuation of "Freckles,"
filled as usual with wood lore, but more concerned with moths than
birds. Mrs. Porter had been finding and picturing exquisite big night
flyers during several years of field work among the birds, and from
what she could have readily done with them she saw how it would be
possible for a girl rightly constituted and environed to make a living,
and a good one, at such work. So was conceived "A Girl of the
Limberlost." "This comes fairly close to my idea of a good book," she
writes. "No possible harm can be done any one in reading it. The book
can, and does, present a hundred pictures that will draw any reader in
closer touch with nature and the Almighty, my primal object in each
line I write. The human side of the book is as close a character study
as I am capable of making. I regard the character of Mrs. Comstock as
the best thought-out and the cleanest-cut study of human nature I have
so far been able to do. Perhaps the best justification of my idea of
this book came to me recently when I received an application from the
President for permission to translate it into Arabic, as the first book
to be used in an effort to introduce our methods of nature study into
the College of Cairo."

Hodder and Stoughton of London published the British edition of this
work.

At the same time that "A Girl of the Limberlost" was published there
appeared the book called "Birds of the Bible." This volume took shape
slowly. The author made a long search for each bird mentioned in the
Bible, how often, where, why; each quotation concerning it in the whole
book, every abstract reference, why made, by whom, and what it meant.
Then slowly dawned the sane and true things said of birds in the Bible
compared with the amazing statements of Aristotle, Aristophanes, Pliny,
and other writers of about the same period in pagan nations. This led
to a search for the dawn of bird history and for the very first
pictures preserved of them. On this book the author expended more work
than on any other she has ever written.

In 1911 two more books for which Mrs. Porter had gathered material for
long periods came to a conclusion on the same date: "Music of the Wild"
and "The Harvester." The latter of these was a nature novel; the other
a frank nature book, filled with all outdoors--a special study of the
sounds one hears in fields and forests, and photographic reproductions
of the musicians and their instruments.

The idea of "The Harvester" was suggested to the author by an editor
who wanted a magazine article, with human interest in it, about the
ginseng diggers in her part of the country. Mr. Porter had bought
ginseng for years for a drug store he owned; there were several people
he knew still gathering it for market, and growing it was becoming a
good business all over the country. Mrs. Porter learned from the United
States Pharmacopaeia and from various other sources that the drug was
used mostly by the Chinese, and with a wholly mistaken idea of its
properties. The strongest thing any medical work will say for ginseng
is that it is "A VERY MILD AND SOOTHING DRUG." It seems that the
Chinese buy and use it in enormous quantities, in the belief that it is
a remedy for almost every disease to which humanity is heir; that it
will prolong life, and that it is a wonderful stimulant. Ancient
medical works make this statement, laying special emphasis upon its
stimulating qualities. The drug does none of these things. Instead of
being a stimulant, it comes closer to a sedative. This investigation
set the author on the search for other herbs that now are or might be
grown as an occupation. Then came the idea of a man who should grow
these drugs professionally, and of the sick girl healed by them. "I
could have gone to work and started a drug farm myself," remarks Mrs.
Porter, "with exactly the same profit and success as the Harvester. I
wrote primarily to state that to my personal knowledge, clean, loving
men still exist in this world, and that no man is forced to endure the
grind of city life if he wills otherwise. Any one who likes, with even
such simple means as herbs he can dig from fence corners, may start a
drug farm that in a short time will yield him delightful work and
independence. I WROTE THE BOOK AS I THOUGHT IT SHOULD BE WRITTEN, TO
PROVE MY POINTS AND ESTABLISH MY CONTENTIONS. I THINK IT DID. MEN THE
GLOBE AROUND PROMPTLY WROTE ME THAT THEY ALWAYS HAD OBSERVED THE MORAL
CODE; OTHERS THAT THE SUBJECT NEVER IN ALL THEIR LIVES HAD BEEN
PRESENTED TO THEM FROM MY POINT OF VIEW, BUT NOW THAT IT HAD BEEN, THEY
WOULD CHANGE AND DO WHAT THEY COULD TO INFLUENCE ALL MEN TO DO THE
SAME."

Messrs. Hodder and Stoughton publish a British edition of "The
Harvester," there is an edition in Scandinavian, it was running
serially in a German magazine, but for a time at least the German and
French editions that were arranged will be stopped by this war, as
there was a French edition of "The Song of the Cardinal."

After a short rest, the author began putting into shape a book for
which she had been compiling material since the beginning of field
work. From the first study she made of an exquisite big night moth,
Mrs. Porter used every opportunity to secure more and representative
studies of each family in her territory, and eventually found the work
so fascinating that she began hunting cocoons and raising caterpillars
in order to secure life histories and make illustrations with fidelity
to life. "It seems," comments the author, "that scientists and
lepidopterists from the beginning have had no hesitation in describing
and using mounted moth and butterfly specimens for book text and
illustration, despite the fact that their colours fade rapidly, that
the wings are always in unnatural positions, and the bodies shrivelled.
I would quite as soon accept the mummy of any particular member of the
Rameses family as a fair representation of the living man, as a mounted
moth for a live one."

When she failed to secure the moth she wanted in a living and perfect
specimen for her studies, the author set out to raise one, making
photographic studies from the eggs through the entire life process.
There was one June during which she scarcely slept for more than a few
hours of daytime the entire month. She turned her bedroom into a
hatchery, where were stored the most precious cocoons; and if she lay
down at night it was with those she thought would produce moths before
morning on her pillow, where she could not fail to hear them emerging.
At the first sound she would be up with notebook in hand, and by dawn,
busy with cameras. Then she would be forced to hurry to the darkroom
and develop her plates in order to be sure that she had a perfect
likeness, before releasing the specimen, for she did release all she
produced except one pair of each kind, never having sold a moth,
personally. Often where the markings were wonderful and complicated, as
soon as the wings were fully developed Mrs. Porter copied the living
specimen in water colours for her illustrations, frequently making
several copies in order to be sure that she laid on the colour enough
BRIGHTER than her subject so that when it died it would be exactly the
same shade.

"Never in all my life," writes the author, "have I had such exquisite
joy in work as I had in painting the illustrations for this volume of
'Moths of the Limberlost.' Colour work had advanced to such a stage
that I knew from the beautiful reproductions in Arthur Rackham's
'Rheingold and Valkyrie' and several other books on the market, that
time so spent would not be lost. Mr. Doubleday had assured me
personally that I might count on exact reproduction, and such details
of type and paper as I chose to select. I used the easel made for me
when a girl, under the supervision of my father, and I threw my whole
heart into the work of copying each line and delicate shading on those
wonderful wings, 'all diamonded with panes of quaint device,
innumerable stains and splendid dyes,' as one poet describes them.
There were times, when in working a mist of colour over another
background, I cut a brush down to three hairs. Some of these
illustrations I sent back six and seven times, to be worked over before
the illustration plates were exact duplicates of the originals, and my
heart ached for the engravers, who must have had Job-like patience; but
it did not ache enough to stop me until I felt the reproduction exact.
This book tells its own story of long and patient waiting for a
specimen, of watching, of disappointments, and triumphs. I love it
especially among my book children because it represents my highest
ideals in the making of a nature book, and I can take any skeptic
afield and prove the truth of the natural history it contains."

In August of 1913 the author's novel "Laddie" was published in New
York, London, Sydney and Toronto simultaneously. This book contains the
same mixture of romance and nature interest as the others, and is
modelled on the same plan of introducing nature objects peculiar to the
location, and characters, many of whom are from life, typical of the
locality at a given period. The first thing many critics said of it was
that "no such people ever existed, and no such life was ever lived." In
reply to this the author said: "Of a truth, the home I described in
this book I knew to the last grain of wood in the doors, and I painted,
it with absolute accuracy; and many of the people I described I knew
more intimately than I ever have known any others. TAKEN AS A WHOLE IT
REPRESENTS A PERFECTLY FAITHFUL PICTURE OF HOME LIFE, IN A FAMILY WHO
WERE REARED AND EDUCATED EXACTLY AS THIS BOOK INDICATES. There was such
a man as Laddie, and he was as much bigger and better than my
description of him as a real thing is always better than its
presentment. The only difference, barring the nature work, between my
books and those of many other writers, is that I prefer to describe and
to perpetuate the BEST I have known in life; whereas many authors seem
to feel that they have no hope of achieving a high literary standing
unless they delve in and reproduce the WORST.

"To deny that wrong and pitiful things exist in life is folly, but to
believe that these things are made better by promiscuous discussion at
the hands of writers who FAIL TO PROVE BY THEIR BOOKS that their
viewpoint is either right, clean, or helpful, is close to insanity. If
there is to be any error on either side in a book, then God knows it is
far better that it should be upon the side of pure sentiment and high
ideals than upon that of a too loose discussion of subjects which often
open to a large part of the world their first knowledge of such forms
of sin, profligate expenditure, and waste of life's best opportunities.
There is one great beauty in idealized romance: reading it can make no
one worse than he is, while it may help thousands to a cleaner life and
higher inspiration than they ever before have known."

Mrs. Porter has written ten books, and it is not out of place here to
express her attitude toward them. Each was written, she says, from her
heart's best impulses. They are as clean and helpful as she knew how to
make them, as beautiful and interesting. She has never spared herself
in the least degree, mind or body, when it came to giving her best, and
she has never considered money in relation to what she was writing.

During the hard work and exposure of those early years, during rainy
days and many nights in the darkroom, she went straight ahead with
field work, sending around the globe for books and delving to secure
material for such books as "Birds of the Bible," "Music of the Wild,"
and "Moths of the Limberlost." Every day devoted to such work was
"commercially" lost, as publishers did not fail to tell her. But that
was the work she could do, and do with exceeding joy. She could do it
better pictorially, on account of her lifelong knowledge of living
things afield, than any other woman had as yet had the strength and
nerve to do it. It was work in which she gloried, and she persisted.
"Had I been working for money," comments the author, "not one of these
nature books ever would have been written, or an illustration made."

When the public had discovered her and given generous approval to "A
Girl of the Limberlost," when "The Harvester" had established a new
record, that would have been the time for the author to prove her
commercialism by dropping nature work, and plunging headlong into books
it would pay to write, and for which many publishers were offering
alluring sums. Mrs. Porter's answer was the issuing of such books as
"Music of the Wild" and "Moths of the Limberlost." No argument is
necessary. Mr. Edward Shuman, formerly critic of the Chicago
Record-Herald, was impressed by this method of work and pointed it out
in a review. It appealed to Mr. Shuman, when "Moths of the Limberlost"
came in for review, following the tremendous success of "The
Harvester," that had the author been working for money, she could have
written half a dozen more "Harvesters" while putting seven years of
field work, on a scientific subject, into a personally illustrated work.

In an interesting passage dealing with her books, Mrs. Porter writes:
"I have done three times the work on my books of fiction that I see
other writers putting into a novel, in order to make all natural
history allusions accurate and to write them in such fashion that they
will meet with the commendation of high schools, colleges, and
universities using what I write as text books, and for the homes that
place them in their libraries. I am perfectly willing to let time and
the hearts of the people set my work in its ultimate place. I have no
delusions concerning it.

"To my way of thinking and working the greatest service a piece of
fiction can do any reader is to leave him with a higher ideal of life
than he had when he began. If in one small degree it shows him where he
can be a gentler, saner, cleaner, kindlier man, it is a wonder-working
book. If it opens his eyes to one beauty in nature he never saw for
himself, and leads him one step toward the God of the Universe, it is a
beneficial book, for one step into the miracles of nature leads to that
long walk, the glories of which so strengthen even a boy who thinks he
is dying, that he faces his struggle like a gladiator."

During the past ten years thousands of people have sent the author word
that through her books they have been led afield and to their first
realization of the beauties of nature her mail brings an average of ten
such letters a day, mostly from students, teachers, and professional
people of our largest cities. It can probably be said in all truth of
her nature books and nature novels, that in the past ten years they
have sent more people afield than all the scientific writings of the
same period. That is a big statement, but it is very likely pretty
close to the truth. Mrs. Porter has been asked by two London and one
Edinburgh publishers for the privilege of bringing out complete sets of
her nature books, but as yet she has not felt ready to do this.

In bringing this sketch of Gene Stratton-Porter to a close it will be
interesting to quote the author's own words describing the Limberlost
Swamp, its gradual disappearance under the encroachments of business,
and her removal to a new field even richer in natural beauties. She
says: "In the beginning of the end a great swamp region lay in
northeastern Indiana. Its head was in what is now Noble and DeKalb
counties; its body in Allen and Wells, and its feet in southern Adams
and northern Jay The Limberlost lies at the foot and was, when I
settled near it, EXACTLY AS DESCRIBED IN MY BOOKS. The process of
dismantling it was told in, Freckles, to start with, carried on in 'A
Girl of the Limberlost,' and finished in 'Moths of the Limberlost.' Now
it has so completely fallen prey to commercialism through the
devastation of lumbermen, oilmen, and farmers, that I have been forced
to move my working territory and build a new cabin about seventy miles
north, at the head of the swamp in Noble county, where there are many
lakes, miles of unbroken marsh, and a far greater wealth of plant and
animal life than existed during my time in the southern part. At the
north end every bird that frequents the Central States is to be found.
Here grow in profusion many orchids, fringed gentians, cardinal
flowers, turtle heads, starry campions, purple gerardias, and grass of
Parnassus. In one season I have located here almost every flower named
in the botanies as native to these regions and several that I can find
in no book in my library.

"But this change of territory involves the purchase of fifteen acres of
forest and orchard land, on a lake shore in marsh country. It means the
building of a permanent, all-year-round home, which will provide the
comforts of life for my family and furnish a workshop consisting of a
library, a photographic darkroom and negative closet, and a printing
room for me. I could live in such a home as I could provide on the
income from my nature work alone; but when my working grounds were
cleared, drained and ploughed up, literally wiped from the face of the
earth, I never could have moved to new country had it not been for the
earnings of the novels, which I now spend, and always have spent, in
great part UPON MY NATURE WORK. Based on this plan of work and life I
have written ten books, and 'please God I live so long,' I shall write
ten more. Possibly every one of them will be located in northern
Indiana. Each one will be filled with all the field and woods
legitimately falling to its location and peopled with the best men and
women I have known."



Chapter 1

THE RAT-CATCHERS OF THE WABASH

"Hey, you swate-scented little heart-warmer!" cried Jimmy Malone, as he
lifted his tenth trap, weighted with a struggling muskrat, from the
Wabash. "Varmint you may be to all the rist of creation, but you mane a
night at Casey's to me."

Jimmy whistled softly as he reset the trap. For the moment he forgot
that he was five miles from home, that it was a mile farther to the end
of his line at the lower curve of Horseshoe Bend, that his feet and
fingers were almost freezing, and that every rat of the ten now in the
bag on his back had made him thirstier. He shivered as the cold wind
sweeping the curves of the river struck him; but when an unusually
heavy gust dropped the ice and snow from a branch above him on the back
of his head, he laughed, as he ducked and cried: "Kape your snowballing
till the Fourth of July, will you!"

"Chick-a-dee-dee-dee!" remarked a tiny gray bird on the tree above him.
Jimmy glanced up. "Chickie, Chickie, Chickie," he said. "I can't till
by your dress whether you are a hin or a rooster. But I can till by
your employmint that you are working for grub. Have to hustle lively
for every worm you find, don't you, Chickie? Now me, I'm hustlin'
lively for a drink, and I be domn if it seems nicessary with a whole
river of drinkin' stuff flowin' right under me feet. But the old Wabash
ain't runnin "wine and milk and honey" not by the jug-full. It seems to
be compounded of aquil parts of mud, crude ile, and rain water. If
'twas only runnin' Melwood, be gorry, Chickie, you'd see a mermaid
named Jimmy Malone sittin' on the Kingfisher Stump, combin' its auburn
hair with a breeze, and scoopin' whiskey down its gullet with its tail
fin. No, hold on, Chickie, you wouldn't either. I'm too flat-chisted
for a mermaid, and I'd have no time to lave off gurglin' for the
hair-combin' act, which, Chickie, to me notion is as issential to a
mermaid as the curves. I'd be a sucker, the biggest sucker in the
Gar-hole, Chickie bird. I'd be an all-day sucker, be gobs; yis, and an
all-night sucker, too. Come to think of it, Chickie, be domn if I'd be
a sucker at all. Look at the mouths of thim! Puckered up with a
drawstring! Oh, Hell on the Wabash, Chickie, think of Jimmy Malone
lyin' at the bottom of a river flowin' with Melwood, and a
puckerin'-string mouth! Wouldn't that break the heart of you? I know
what I'd be. I'd be the Black Bass of Horseshoe Bend, Chickie, and I'd
locate just below the shoals headin' up stream, and I'd hold me mouth
wide open till I paralyzed me jaws so I couldn't shut thim. I'd just
let the pure stuff wash over me gills constant, world without end.
Good-by, Chickie. Hope you got your grub, and pretty soon I'll have
enough drink to make me feel like I was the Bass for one night, anyway."

Jimmy hurried to his next trap, which was empty, but the one after that
contained a rat, and there were footprints in the snow. "That's where
the porrage-heart of the Scotchman comes in," said Jimmy, as he held up
the rat by one foot, and gave it a sharp rap over the head with the
trap to make sure it was dead. "Dannie could no more hear a rat fast in
one of me traps and not come over and put it out of its misery, than he
could dance a hornpipe. And him only sicond hand from hornpipe land,
too! But his feet's like lead. Poor Dannie! He gets just about half the
rats I do. He niver did have luck."

Jimmy's gay face clouded for an instant. The twinkle faded from his
eyes, and a look of unrest swept into them. He muttered something, and
catching up his bag, shoved in the rat. As he reset the trap, a big
crow dropped from branch to branch on a sycamore above him, and his
back scarcely was turned before it alighted on the ice, and ravenously
picked at three drops of blood purpling there.

Away down the ice-sheeted river led Dannie's trail, showing plainly
across the snow blanket. The wind raved through the trees, and around
the curves of the river. The dark earth of the banks peeping from under
overhanging ice and snow, looked like the entrance to deep mysterious
caves. Jimmy's superstitious soul readily peopled them with goblins and
devils. He shuddered, and began to talk aloud to cheer himself. "Elivin
muskrat skins, times fifteen cints apiece, one dollar sixty-five. That
will buy more than I can hold. Hagginy! Won't I be takin' one long fine
gurgle of the pure stuff! And there's the boys! I might do the grand
for once. One on me for the house! And I might pay something on my back
score, but first I'll drink till I swell like a poisoned pup. And I
ought to get Mary that milk pail she's been kickin' for this last
month. Women and cows are always kickin'! If the blarsted cow hadn't
kicked a hole in the pail, there'd be no need of Mary kicking for a new
one. But dough IS dubious soldering. Mary says it's bad enough on the
dish pan, but it positively ain't hilthy about the milk pail, and she
is right. We ought to have a new pail. I guess I'll get it first, and
fill up on what's left. One for a quarter will do. And I've several
traps yet, I may get a few more rats."

The virtuous resolve to buy a milk pail before he quenched the thirst
which burned him, so elated Jimmy with good opinion of himself that he
began whistling gayly as he strode toward his next trap. And by that
token, Dannie Macnoun, resetting an empty trap a quarter of a mile
below, knew that Jimmy was coming, and that as usual luck was with him.
Catching his blood and water dripping bag, Dannie dodged a rotten
branch that came crashing down under the weight of its icy load, and
stepping out on the river, he pulled on his patched wool-lined mittens
as he waited for Jimmy.

"How many, Dannie?" called Jimmy from afar.

"Seven," answered Dannie. "What for ye?"

"Elivin," replied Jimmy, with a bit of unconscious swagger. "I am
havin' poor luck to-day."

"How mony wad satisfy ye?" asked Dannie sarcastically.

"Ain't got time to figure that," answered Jimmy, working in a double
shuffle as he walked. "Thrash around a little, Dannie. It will warm you
up."

"I am no cauld," answered Dannie.

"No cauld!" imitated Jimmy. "No cauld! Come to observe you closer, I do
detect symptoms of sunstroke in the ridness of your face, and the
whiteness about your mouth; but the frost on your neck scarf, and the
icicles fistooned around the tail of your coat, tell a different story.

"Dannie, you remind me of the baptizin' of Pete Cox last winter. Pete's
nothin' but skin and bone, and he niver had a square meal in his life
to warm him. It took pushin' and pullin' to get him in the water, and a
scum froze over while he was under. Pete came up shakin' like the
feeder on a thrashin' machine, and whin he could spake at all, 'Bless
Jasus,' says he, 'I'm jist as wa-wa-warm as I wa-wa-want to be.' So are
you, Dannie, but there's a difference in how warm folks want to be. For
meself, now, I could aisily bear a little more hate."

"It's honest, I'm no cauld," insisted Dannie; and he might have added
that if Jimmy would not fill his system with Casey's poisons, that
degree of cold would not chill and pinch him either. But being Dannie,
he neither thought nor said it. '"Why, I'm frozen to me sowl!" cried
Jimmy, as he changed the rat bag to his other hand, and beat the empty
one against his leg. "Say, Dannie, where do you think the Kingfisher is
wintering?"

"And the Black Bass," answered Dannie. "Where do ye suppose the Black
Bass is noo?"

"Strange you should mintion the Black Bass," said Jimmy. "I was just
havin' a little talk about him with a frind of mine named Chickie-dom,
no, Chickie-dee, who works a grub stake back there. The Bass might be
lyin' in the river bed right under our feet. Don't you remimber the
time whin I put on three big cut-worms, and skittered thim beyond the
log that lays across here, and he lept from the water till we both saw
him the best we ever did, and nothin' but my old rotten line ever saved
him? Or he might be where it slumps off just below the Kingfisher
stump. But I know where he is all right. He's down in the Gar-hole, and
he'll come back here spawning time, and chase minnows when the
Kingfisher comes home. But, Dannie, where the nation do you suppose the
Kingfisher is?"

"No' so far away as ye might think," replied Dannie. "Doc Hues told me
that coming on the train frae Indianapolis on the fifteenth of
December, he saw one fly across a little pond juist below Winchester. I
believe they go south slowly, as the cold drives them, and stop near as
they can find guid fishing. Dinna that stump look lonely wi'out him?"

"And sound lonely without the Bass slashing around! I am going to have
that Bass this summer if I don't do a thing but fish!" vowed Jimmy.

"I'll surely have a try at him," answered Dannie, with a twinkle in his
gray eyes. "We've caught most everything else in the Wabash, and our
reputation fra taking guid fish is ahead of any one on the river,
except the Kingfisher. Why the Diel dinna one of us haul out that Bass?"

"Ain't I just told you that I am going to hook him this summer?"
shivered Jimmy.

"Dinna ye hear me mention that I intended to take a try at him mysel'?"
questioned Dannie. "Have ye forgotten that I know how to fish?"

"'Nough breeze to-day without starting a Highlander," interposed Jimmy
hastily. "I believe I hear a rat in my next trap. That will make me
twilve, and it's good and glad of it I am for I've to walk to town when
my line is reset. There's something Mary wants."

"If Mary wants ye to go to town, why dinna ye leave me to finish your
traps, and start now?" asked Dannie. "It's getting dark, and if ye are
so late ye canna see the drifts, ye never can cut across the fields;
fra the snow is piled waist high, and it's a mile farther by the road."

"I got to skin my rats first, or I'll be havin' to ask credit again,"
replied Jimmy.

"That's easy," answered Dannie. "Turn your rats over to me richt noo.
I'll give ye market price fra them in cash."

"But the skinnin' of them," objected Jimmy for decency sake, though his
eyes were beginning to shine and his fingers to tremble.

"Never ye mind about that," retorted Dannie. "I like to take my time to
it, and fix them up nice. Elivin, did ye say?"

"Elivin," answered Jimmy, breaking into a jig, supposedly to keep his
feet warm, in reality because he could not stand quietly while Dannie
pulled off his mittens, got out and unstrapped his wallet, and
carefully counted out the money. "Is that all ye need?" he asked.

For an instant Jimmy hesitated. Missing a chance to get even a few
cents more meant a little shorter time at Casey's. "That's enough, I
think," he said. "I wish I'd staid out of matrimony, and then maybe I
could iver have a cint of me own. You ought to be glad you haven't a
woman to consume ivery penny you earn before it reaches your pockets,
Dannie Micnoun."

"I hae never seen Mary consume much but calico and food," Dannie said
dryly.

"Oh, it ain't so much what a woman really spinds," said Jimmy,
peevishly, as he shoved the money into his pocket, and pulled on his
mittens. "It's what you know she would spind if she had the chance."

"I dinna think ye'll break up on that," laughed Dannie.

And that was what Jimmy wanted. So long as he could set Dannie
laughing, he could mold him.

"No, but I'll break down," lamented Jimmy in sore self-pity, as he
remembered the quarter sacred to the purchase of the milk pail.

"Ye go on, and hurry," urged Dannie. "If ye dinna start home by seven,
I'll be combing the drifts fra ye before morning."

"Anything I can do for you?" asked Jimmy, tightening his old red neck
scarf.

"Yes," answered Dannie. "Do your errand and start straight home, your
teeth are chattering noo. A little more exposure, and the rheumatism
will be grinding ye again. Ye will hurry, Jimmy?"

"Sure!" cried Jimmy, ducking under a snow slide, and breaking into a
whistle as he turned toward the road.

Dannie's gaze followed Jimmy's retreating figure until he climbed the
bank, and was lost in the woods, and the light in his eyes was the
light of love. He glanced at the sky, and hurried down the river. First
across to Jimmy's side to gather his rats and reset his traps, then to
his own. But luck seemed to have turned, for all the rest of Dannie's
were full, and all of Jimmy's were empty. But as he was gone, it was
not necessary for Dannie to slip across and fill them, as was his
custom when they worked together. He would divide the rats at skinning
time, so that Jimmy would have just twice as many as he, because Jimmy
had a wife to support. The last trap of the line lay a little below the
curve of Horseshoe Bend, and there Dannie twisted the tops of the bags
together, climbed the bank, and struck across Rainbow Bottom. He
settled his load to his shoulders, and glanced ahead to choose the
shortest route. He stopped suddenly with a quick intake of breath.

"God!" he cried reverently. "Hoo beautifu' are Thy works."

The ice-covered Wabash circled Rainbow Bottom like a broad white frame,
and inside it was a perfect picture wrought in crystal white and snow
shadows. The blanket on the earth lay smoothly in even places, rose
with knolls, fell with valleys, curved over prostrate logs, heaped in
mounds where bushes grew thickly, and piled high in drifts where the
wind blew free. In the shelter of the bottom the wind had not stripped
the trees of their loads as it had those along the river. The willows,
maples, and soft woods bent almost to earth with their shining burden;
but the stout, stiffly upstanding trees, the oaks, elms, and
cottonwoods defied the elements to bow their proud heads. While the
three mighty trunks of the great sycamore in the middle looked white as
the snow, and dwarfed its companions as it never had in summer; its
wide-spreading branches were sharply cut against the blue background,
and they tossed their frosted balls in the face of Heaven. The giant of
Rainbow Bottom might be broken, but it never would bend. Every
clambering vine, every weed and dried leaf wore a coat of lace-webbed
frostwork. The wind swept a mist of tiny crystals through the air, and
from the shelter of the deep woods across the river a Cardinal whistled
gayly.

The bird of Good Cheer, whistling no doubt on an empty crop, made
Dannie think of Jimmy, and his unfailing fountain of mirth. Dear Jimmy!
Would he ever take life seriously? How good he was to tramp to town and
back after five miles on the ice. He thought of Mary with almost a
touch of impatience. What did the woman want that was so necessary as
to send a man to town after a day on the ice? Jimmy would be dog tired
when he got home. Dannie decided to hurry, and do the feeding and get
in the wood before he began to skin the rats.

He found walking uncertain. He plunged into unsuspected hollows, and
waded drifts, so that he was panting when he reached the lane. From
there he caught the gray curl of smoke against the sky from one of two
log cabins side by side at the top of the embankment, and he almost ran
toward them. Mary might think they were late at the traps, and be out
doing the feeding, and it would be cold for a woman.

On reaching his own door, he dropped the rat bags inside, and then
hurried to the yard of the other cabin. He gathered a big load of wood
in his arms, and stamping the snow from his feet, called "Open!" at the
door. Dannie stepped inside and filled the empty box. With smiling eyes
he turned to Mary, as he brushed the snow and moss from his sleeves.

"Nothing but luck to-day," he said. "Jimmy took elivin fine skins frae
his traps before he started to town, and I got five more that are his,
and I hae eight o' my own."

Mary looked such a dream to Dannie, standing there all pink and warm
and tidy in her fresh blue dress, that he blinked and smiled, half
bewildered.

"What did Jimmy go to town for?" she asked.

"Whatever it was ye wanted," answered Dannie.

"What was it I wanted?" persisted Mary.

"He dinna tell me," replied Dannie, and the smile wavered.

"Me, either," said Mary, and she stooped and picked up her sewing.

Dannie went out and gently closed the door. He stood for a second on
the step, forcing himself to take an inventory of the work. There were
the chickens to feed, and the cows to milk, feed, and water. Both the
teams must be fed and bedded, a fire in his own house made, and two
dozen rats skinned, and the skins put to stretch and cure. And at the
end of it all, instead of a bed and rest, there was every probability
that he must drive to town after Jimmy; for Jimmy could get helpless
enough to freeze in a drift on a dollar sixty-five.

"Oh, Jimmy, Jimmy!" muttered Dannie. "I wish ye wadna." And he was not
thinking of himself, but of the eyes of the woman inside.

So Dannie did all the work, and cooked his supper, because he never ate
in Jimmy's cabin when Jimmy was not there. Then he skinned rats, and
watched the clock, because if Jimmy did not come by eleven, it meant he
must drive to town and bring him home. No wonder Jimmy chilled at the
trapping when he kept his blood on fire with whiskey. At half-past ten,
Dannie, with scarcely half the rats finished, went out into the storm
and hitched to the single buggy. Then he tapped at Mary Malone's door,
quite softly, so that he would not disturb her if she had gone to bed.
She was not sleeping, however, and the loneliness of her slight figure,
as she stood with the lighted room behind her, struck Dannie forcibly,
so that his voice trembled with pity as he said: "Mary, I've run out o'
my curing compound juist in the midst of skinning the finest bunch o'
rats we've taken frae the traps this winter. I am going to drive to
town fra some more before the stores close, and we will be back in less
than an hour. I thought I'd tell ye, so if ye wanted me ye wad know why
I dinna answer. Ye winna be afraid, will ye?"

"No," replied Mary, "I won't be afraid."

"Bolt the doors, and pile on plenty of wood to keep ye warm," said
Dannie as he turned away.

Just for a minute Mary stared out into the storm. Then a gust of wind
nearly swept her from her feet, and she pushed the door shut, and slid
the heavy bolt into place. For a little while she leaned and listened
to the storm outside. She was a clean, neat, beautiful Irish woman. Her
eyes were wide and blue, her cheeks pink, and her hair black and softly
curling about her face and neck. The room in which she stood was neat
as its keeper. The walls were whitewashed, and covered with prints,
pictures, and some small tanned skins. Dried grasses and flowers filled
the vases on the mantle. The floor was neatly carpeted with a striped
rag carpet, and in the big open fireplace a wood fire roared. In an
opposite corner stood a modern cooking stove, the pipe passing through
a hole in the wall, and a door led into a sleeping room beyond.

As her eyes swept the room they rested finally on a framed lithograph
of the Virgin, with the Infant in her arms. Slowly Mary advanced, her
gaze fast on the serene pictured face of the mother clasping her child.
Before it she stood staring. Suddenly her breast began to heave, and
the big tears brimmed from her eyes and slid down her cheeks.

"Since you look so wise, why don't you tell me why?" she demanded. "Oh,
if you have any mercy, tell me why!"

Then before the steady look in the calm eyes, she hastily made the sign
of the cross, and slipping to the floor, she laid her head on a chair,
and sobbed aloud.



Chapter II

RUBEN O'KHAYAM AND THE MILK PAIL


Jimmy Malone, carrying a shinning tin milk pail, stepped into Casey's
saloon and closed the door behind him.

"E' much as wine has played the Infidel, And robbed me of my robe of
Honor--well, I wonder what the Vinters buy One-half so precious as the
stuff they sell."

Jimmy stared at the back of a man leaning against the bar, and gazing
lovingly at a glass of red wine, as he recited in mellow, swinging
tones. Gripping the milk pail, Jimmy advanced a step. The man stuck a
thumb in the belt of his Norfolk jacket, and the verses flowed on:


  "The grape that can with logic absolute
  The two and seventy jarring sects confute:
  The sovereign Alchemist that in a trice
  Life's leaden metal into Gold transmute."


Jimmy's mouth fell open, and he slowly nodded indorsement of the
sentiment. The man lifted his glass.


  "Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
  Before we too into the Dust descend;
  Yesterday this Day's Madness did prepare;
  To-morrow's Silence, Triumph, or Despair:
  Drink! for you know not whence you came nor why:
  Drink! for you know not why you go nor where."


Jimmy set the milk pail on the bar and faced the man.

"'Fore God, that's the only sensible word I ever heard on my side of
the quistion in all me life. And to think that it should come from the
mouth of a man wearing such a Go-to-Hell coat!"

Jimmy shoved the milk pail in front of the stranger. "In the name of
humanity, impty yourself of that," he said. "Fill me pail with the
stuff and let me take it home to Mary. She's always got the bist of the
argumint, but I'm thinkin' that would cork her. You won't?" questioned
Jimmy resentfully. "Kape it to yoursilf, thin, like you did your wine."
He shoved the bucket toward the barkeeper, and emptied his pocket on
the bar. "There, Casey, you be the Sovereign Alchemist, and transmute
that metal into Melwood pretty quick, for I've not wet me whistle in
three days, and the belly of me is filled with burnin' autumn leaves.
Gimme a loving cup, and come on boys, this is on me while it lasts."

The barkeeper swept the coin into the till, picked up the bucket, and
started back toward a beer keg.

"Oh, no you don't!" cried Jimmy. "Come back here and count that 'leaden
metal,' and then be transmutin' it into whiskey straight, the purest
gold you got. You don't drown out a three-days' thirst with beer. You
ought to give me 'most two quarts for that."

The barkeeper was wise. He knew that what Jimmy started would go on
with men who could pay, and he filled the order generously.

Jimmy picked up the pail. He dipped a small glass in the liquor, and
held near an ounce aloft.


  "I wonder what the Vinters buy
  One-half so precious as the stuff they sell?"

he quoted. "Down goes!" and he emptied the glass at a draft. Then he
walked to the group at the stove, and began dipping a drink for each.

When Jimmy came to a gray-haired man, with a high forehead and an
intellectual face, he whispered: "Take your full time, Cap. Who's the
rhymin' inkybator?"

"Thread man, Boston," mouthed the Captain, as he reached for the glass
with trembling fingers. Jimmy held on. "Do you know that stuff he's
giving off?" The Captain nodded, and rose to his feet. He always
declared he could feel it farther if he drank standing.

"What's his name?" whispered Jimmy, releasing the glass. "Rubaiyat,
Omar Khayyam," panted the Captain, and was lost. Jimmy finished the
round of his friends, and then approached the bar.

His voice was softening. "Mister Ruben O'Khayam," he said, "it's me
private opinion that ye nade lace-trimmed pantalettes and a sash to
complate your costume, but barrin' clothes, I'm entangled in the thrid
of your discourse. Bein' a Boston man meself, it appeals to me, that I
detict the refinemint of the East in yer voice. Now these, me frinds,
that I've just been tratin', are men of these parts; but we of the
middle East don't set up to equal the culture of the extreme East. So,
Mr. O'Khayam, solely for the benefit you might be to us, I'm askin' you
to join me and me frinds in the momenchous initiation of me new milk
pail."

Jimmy lifted a brimming glass, and offered it to the Thread Man. "Do
you transmute?" he asked. Now if the Boston man had looked Jimmy in the
eye, and said "I do," this book would not have been written. But he did
not. He looked at the milk pail, and the glass, which had passed
through the hands of a dozen men in a little country saloon away out in
the wilds of Indiana, and said: "I do not care to partake of further
refreshment; if I can be of intellectual benefit, I might remain for a
time."

For a flash Jimmy lifted the five feet ten of his height to six; but in
another he shrank below normal. What appeared to the Thread Man to be a
humble, deferential seeker after wisdom, led him to one of the chairs
around the big coal base burner. But the boys who knew Jimmy were
watching the whites of his eyes, as they drank the second round. At
this stage Jimmy was on velvet. How long he remained there depended on
the depth of Melwood in the milk pail between his knees. He smiled
winningly on the Thread Man.

"Ye know, Mister O'Khayam," he said, "at the present time you are
located in one of the wooliest parts of the wild East. I don't suppose
anything woolier could be found on the plains of Nebraska where I am
reliably informed they've stuck up a pole and labeled it the cinter of
the United States. Being a thousand miles closer that pole than you are
in Boston, naturally we come by that distance closer to the great wool
industry. Most of our wool here grows on our tongues, and we shear it
by this transmutin' process, concerning which you have discoursed so
beautiful. But barrin' the shearin' of our wool, we are the mildest,
most sheepish fellows you could imagine. I don't reckon now there is a
man among us who could be induced to blat or to butt, under the most
tryin' circumstances. My Mary's got a little lamb, and all the rist of
the boys are lambs. But all the lambs are waned, and clusterin' round
the milk pail. Ain't that touchin'? Come on, now, Ruben, ile up and
edify us some more!"

"On what point do you seek enlightenment?" inquired the Thread Man.

Jimmy stretched his long legs, and spat against the stove in pure
delight.

"Oh, you might loosen up on the work of a man," he suggested. "These
lambs of Casey's fold may larn things from you to help thim in the
striss of life. Now here's Jones, for instance, he's holdin' togither a
gang of sixty gibbering Atalyans; any wan of thim would cut his throat
and skip in the night for a dollar, but he kapes the beast in thim
under, and they're gettin' out gravel for the bed of a railway. Bingham
there is oil. He's punchin' the earth full of wan thousand foot holes,
and sendin' off two hundred quarts of nitroglycerine at the bottom of
them, and pumpin' the accumulation across continents to furnish folks
light and hate. York here is runnin' a field railway between Bluffton
and Celina, so that I can get to the river and the resurvoir to fish
without walkin'. Haines is bossin' a crew of forty Canadians and he's
takin' the timber from the woods hereabouts, and sending it to be made
into boats to carry stuff across sea. Meself, and me partner, Dannie
Micnoun, are the lady-likest lambs in the bunch. We grow grub to feed
folks in summer and trap for skins to cover 'em in winter. Corn is our
great commodity. Plowin' and hoein' it in summer, and huskin' it in the
fall is sich lamb-like work. But don't mintion it in the same brith
with tendin' our four dozen fur traps on a twenty-below-zero day.
Freezing hands and fate, and fallin' into air bubbles, and building
fires to thaw out our frozen grub. Now here among us poor little,
transmutin', lambs you come, a raging lion, ripresentin' the cultour
and rayfinement of the far East. By the pleats on your breast you show
us the style. By the thrid case in your hand you furnish us material so
that our women can tuck their petticoats so fancy, and by the book in
your head you teach us your sooperiority. By the same token, I wish I
had that book in me head, for I could just squelch Dannie and Mary with
it complate. Say, Mister O'Khayam, next time you come this way bring me
a copy. I'm wantin' it bad. I got what you gave off all secure, but I
take it there's more. No man goin' at that clip could shut off with
thim few lines. Do you know the rist?"

The Thread Man knew the most of it, and although he was very
uncomfortable, he did not know just how to get away, so he recited it.
The milk pail was empty now, and Jimmy had almost forgotten that it was
a milk pail, and seemed inclined to resent the fact that it had gone
empty. He beat time on the bottom of it, and frequently interrupted the
Thread Man to repeat a couplet which particularly suited him. By and by
he got to his feet and began stepping off a slow dance to a sing-song
repetition of lines that sounded musical to him, all the time marking
the measures vigorously on the pail. When he tired of a couplet, he
pounded the pail over the bar, stove, or chairs in encore, until the
Thread Man could think up another to which he could dance.


  "Wine! Wine! Wine! Red Wine!
  The Nightingale cried to the rose,"

chanted Jimmy, thumping the pail in time, and stepping off the measures
with feet that scarcely seemed to touch the floor. He flung his hat to
the barkeeper, and his coat on a chair, ruffled his fingers through his
thick auburn hair, and holding the pail under one arm, he paused,
panting for breath and begging for more. The Thread Man sat on the edge
of his chair, and the eyes he fastened on Jimmy were beginning to fill
with interest.

  "Come fill the Cup and in the fire of Spring
  Your Winter-Garment of Repentance fling.
  The bird of time has but a little way to flutter
  And the bird is on the wing."

Smash came the milk pail across the bar. "Hooray!" shouted Jimmy.
"Besht yet!" Bang! Bang! He was off. "ird ish on the wing," he chanted,
and his feet flew. "Come fill the cup, and in the firesh of
spring--Firesh of Spring, Bird ish on the Wing!" Between the music of
the milk pail, the brogue of the panted verses, and the grace of
Jimmy's flying feet, the Thread Man was almost prostrate. It suddenly
came to him that here might be a chance to have a great time.

"More!" gasped Jimmy. "Me some more!" The Thread Man wiped his eyes.


  "Wether the cup with sweet or bitter run,
  The wine of life keeps oozing drop by drop,
  The leaves of life keep falling one by one."

Away went Jimmy.

  "Swate or bitter run,
  Laves of life kape falling one by one."


Bang! Bang! sounded a new improvision on the sadly battered pail, and
to a new step Jimmy flashed back and forth the length of the saloon. At
last he paused to rest a second. "One more! Just one more!" he begged.


  "A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
  A jug of wine, a Loaf of Bread and Thou
  Beside me singing in the Wilderness.
  Oh, wilderness were Paradise enough!"


Jimmy's head dropped an instant. His feet slowly shuffled in
improvising a new step, and then he moved away, thumping the milk pail
and chanting:

  "A couple of fish poles underneath a tree,
  A bottle of Rye and Dannie beside me
  A fishing in the Wabash.
  Were the Wabash Paradise? HULLY GEE!


Tired out, he dropped across a chair facing the back and folded his
arms. He regained breath to ask the Thread Man: "Did you iver have a
frind?"

He had reached the confidential stage.

The Boston man was struggling to regain his dignity. He retained the
impression that at the wildest of the dance he had yelled and patted
time for Jimmy.

"I hope I have a host of friends," he said, settling his pleated coat.

"Damn hosht!" said Jimmy. "Jisht in way. Now I got one frind, hosht all
by himself. Be here pretty soon now. Alwaysh comesh nights like thish."

"Comes here?" inquired the Thread Man. "Am I to meet another
interesting character?"

"Yesh, comesh here. Comesh after me. Comesh like the clock sthriking
twelve. Don't he, boys?" inquired Jimmy. "But he ain't no interesting
character. Jisht common man, Dannie is. Honest man. Never told a lie in
his life. Yesh, he did, too. I forgot. He liesh for me. Jish liesh and
liesh. Liesh to Mary. Tells her any old liesh to keep me out of
schrape. You ever have frind hish up and drive ten milesh for you night
like thish, and liesh to get you out of schrape?"

"I never needed any one to lie and get me out of a scrape," answered
the Thread Man.

Jimmy sat straight and solemnly batted his eyes. "Gee! You musht
misshed mosht the fun!" he said. "Me, I ain't ever misshed any. Always
in schrape. But Dannie getsh me out. Good old Dannie. Jish like dog.
Take care me all me life. See? Old folks come on same boat. Women get
thick. Shettle beside. Build cabinsh together. Work together, and domn
if they didn't get shmall pox and die together. Left me and Dannie. So
we work together jish shame, and we fallsh in love with the shame girl.
Dannie too slow. I got her." Jimmy wiped away great tears.

"How did you get her, Jimmy?" asked a man who remembered a story.

"How the nation did I get her?" Jimmy scratched his head, and appealed
to the Thread Man. "Dannie besht man. Milesh besht man! Never
lie--'cept for me. Never drink--'cept for me. Alwaysh save his
money--'cept for me. Milesh besht man! Isn't he besht man, Spooley?"

"Ain't it true that you served Dannie a mean little trick?" asked the
man who remembered.

Jimmy wasn't quite drunk enough, and the violent exercise of the dance
somewhat sobered him. He glared at the man. "Whatsh you talkin' about?"
he demanded.

"I'm just asking you," said the man, "why, if you played straight with
Dannie about the girl, you never have had the face to go to confession
since you married her."

"Alwaysh send my wife," said Jimmy grandly. "Domsh any woman that can't
confiss enough for two!"

Then he hitched his chair closer to the Thread Man, and grew more
confidential. "Shee here," he said. "Firsht I see your pleated coat,
didn't like. But head's all right. Great head! Sthuck on frillsh there!
Want to be let in on something? Got enough city, clubsh, an' all that?
Want to taste real thing? Lesh go coon huntin'. Theysh tree down
Canoper, jish short pleashant walk, got fify coons in it! Nobody knowsh
the tree but me, shee? Been good to ush boys. Sat on same kind of
chairs we do. Educate ush up lot. Know mosht that poetry till I die,
shee? 'Wonner wash vinters buy, halfsh precious ash sthuff shell,'
shee? I got it! Let you in on real thing. Take grand big coon skinch
back to Boston with you. Ringsh on tail. Make wife fine muff, or fur
trimmingsh. Good to till boysh at club about, shee?"

"Are you asking me to go on a coon hunt with you?" demanded the Thread
Man. "When? Where?"

"Corshally invited," answered Jimmy. "To-morrow night. Canoper. Show
you plashe. Bill Duke's dogs. My gunsh. Moonsh shinin'. Dogs howlin'.
Shnow flying! Fify coonsh rollin' out one hole! Shoot all dead! Take
your pick! Tan skin for you myself! Roaring big firesh warm by. Bag
finesh sandwiches ever tasted. Milk pail pure gold drink. No stop, slop
out going over bridge. Take jug. Big jug. Toss her up an' let her
gurgle. Dogsh bark. Fire pop. Guns bang. Fifty coons drop. Boysh all
go. Want to get more education. Takes culture to get woolsh off. Shay,
will you go?"

"I wouldn't miss it for a thousand dollars," said the Thread Man. "But
what will I say to my house for being a day late?"

"Shay gotter grip," suggested Jimmy. "Never too late to getter grip.
Will you all go, boysh?"

There were not three men in the saloon who knew of a tree that had
contained a coon that winter, but Jimmy was Jimmy, and to be trusted
for an expedition of that sort; and all of them agreed to be at the
saloon ready for the hunt at nine o'clock the next night. The Thread
Man felt that he was going to see Life. He immediately invited the boys
to the bar to drink to the success of the hunt.

"You shoot own coon yourself," offered the magnanimous Jimmy. "You may
carrysh my gunsh, take first shot. First shot to Missher O'Khayam,
boysh, 'member that. Shay, can you hit anything? Take a try now." Jimmy
reached behind him, and shoved a big revolver into the hand of the
Thread Man. "Whersh target?" he demanded.

As he turned from the bar, the milk pail which he still carried under
his arm caught on an iron rod. Jimmy gave it a jerk, and ripped the rim
from the bottom. "Thish do," he said. "Splendid marksh. Shinesh jish
like coon's eyesh in torch light."

He carried the pail to the back wall and hung it over a nail. The nail
was straight, and the pail flaring. The pail fell. Jimmy kicked it
across the room, and then gathered it up, and drove a dent in it with
his heel that would hold over the nail. Then he went back to the Thread
Man. "Theresh mark, Ruben. Blash away!" he said.

The Boston man hesitated. "Whatsh the matter? Cansh shoot off nothing
but your mouth?" demanded Jimmy. He caught the revolver and fired three
shots so rapidly that the sounds came almost as one. Two bullets
pierced the bottom of the pail, and the other the side as it fell.

The door opened, and with the rush of cold air Jimmy gave just one
glance toward it, and slid the revolver into his pocket, reached for
his hat, and started in the direction of his coat. "Glad to see you,
Micnoun," he said. "If you are goingsh home, I'll jish ride out with
you. Good night, boysh. Don't forgetsh the coon hunt," and Jimmy was
gone.

A minute later the door opened again, and this time a man of nearly
forty stepped inside. He had a manly form, and a manly face, was above
the average in looks, and spoke with a slight Scotch accent.

"Do any of ye boys happen to know what it was Jimmy had with him when
he came in here?"

A roar of laughter greeted the query. The Thread Man picked up the
pail. As he handed it to Dannie, he said: "Mr. Malone said he was
initiating a new milk pail, but I am afraid he has overdone the job."

"Thank ye," said Dannie, and taking the battered thing, he went out
into the night.

Jimmy was asleep when he reached the buggy. Dannie had long since found
it convenient to have no fence about his dooryard. He drove to the
door, dragged Jimmy from the buggy, and stabled the horse. By hard work
he removed Jimmy's coat and boots, laid him across the bed, and covered
him. Then he grimly looked at the light in the next cabin. "Why doesna
she go to bed?" he said. He summoned courage, and crossing the space
between the two buildings, he tapped on the window. "It's me, Mary," he
called. "The skins are only half done, and Jimmy is going to help me
finish. He will come over in the morning. Ye go to bed. Ye needna be
afraid. We will hear ye if ye even snore." There was no answer, but by
a movement in the cabin Dannie knew that Mary was still dressed and
waiting. He started back, but for an instant, heedless of the scurrying
snow and biting cold, he faced the sky.

"I wonder if ye have na found a glib tongue and light feet the least
part o' matrimony," he said. "Why in God's name couldna ye have married
me? I'd like to know why."

As he closed the door, the cold air roused Jimmy.

"Dannie," he said, "donsh forget the milk pail. All 'niciate good now."



Chapter III

THE FIFTY COONS OF THE CANOPER

Near noon of the next day, Jimmy opened his eyes and stretched himself
on Dannie's bed. It did not occur to him that he was sprawled across it
in such a fashion that if Dannie had any sleep that night, he had taken
it on chairs before the fireplace. At first Jimmy decided that he had a
head on him, and would turn over and go back where he came from. Then
he thought of the coon hunt, and sitting on the edge of the bed he
laughed, as he looked about for his boots.

"I am glad ye are feeling so fine," said Dannie at the door, in a
relieved voice. "I had a notion that ye wad be crosser than a badger
when ye came to."

Jimmy laughed on.

"What's the fun?" inquired Dannie.

Jimmy thought hard a minute. Here was one instance where the truth
would serve better than any invention, so he virtuously told Dannie all
about it. Dannie thought of the lonely little woman next door, and
rebelled.

"But, Jimmy!" he cried, "ye canna be gone all nicht again. It's too
lonely fra Mary, and there's always a chance I might sleep sound and
wadna hear if she should be sick or need ye."

"Then she can just yell louder, or come after you, or get well, for I
am going, see? He was a thrid peddler in a dinky little pleated coat,
Dannie. He laid up against the counter with his feet crossed at a
dancing-girl angle. But I will say for him that he was running at the
mouth with the finest flow of language I iver heard. I learned a lot of
it, and Cap knows the stuff, and I'm goin' to have him get you the
book. But, Dannie, he wouldn't drink with us, but he stayed to iducate
us up a little. That little spool man, Dannie, iducatin' Jones of the
gravel gang, and Bingham of the Standard, and York of the 'lectric
railway, and Haines of the timber gang, not to mintion the champeen
rat-catcher of the Wabash."

Jimmy hugged himself, and rocked on the edge of the bed.

"Oh, I can just see it, Dannie," he cried. "I can just see it now! I
was pretty drunk, but I wasn't too drunk to think of it, and it came to
me sudden like."

Dannie stared at Jimmy wide-eyed, while he explained the details, and
then he too began to laugh, and the longer he laughed the funnier it
grew.

"I've got to start," said Jimmy. "I've an awful afternoon's work. I
must find him some rubber boots. He's to have the inestimable privilege
of carryin' me gun, Dannie, and have the first shot at the coons,
fifty, I'm thinkin' I said. And if I don't put some frills on his cute
little coat! Oh, Dannie, it will break the heart of me if he don't wear
that pleated coat!"

Dannie wiped his eyes.

"Come on to the kitchen," he said, "I've something ready fra ye to eat.
Wash, while I dish it."

"I wish to Heaven you were a woman, Dannie," said Jimmy. "A fellow
could fall in love with you, and marry you with some satisfaction.
Crimminy, but I'm hungry!"

Jimmy ate greedily, and Dannie stepped about setting the cabin to
rights. It lacked many feminine touches that distinguished Jimmy's as
the abode of a woman; but it was neat and clean, and there seemed to be
a place where everything belonged.

"Now, I'm off," said Jimmy, rising. "I'll take your gun, because I
ain't goin' to see Mary till I get back."

"Oh, Jimmy, dinna do that!" pleaded Dannie. "I want my gun. Go and get
your own, and tell her where ye are going and what ye are going to do.
She'd feel less lonely."

"I know how she would feel better than you do," retorted Jimmy. "I am
not going. If you won't give me your gun, I'll borrow one; or have all
my fun spoiled."

Dannie took down the shining gun and passed it over. Jimmy instantly
relented. He smiled an old boyish smile, that always caught Dannie in
his softest spot.

"You are the bist frind I have on earth, Dannie," he said winsomely.
"You are a man worth tying to. By gum, there's NOTHING I wouldn't do
for you! Now go on, like the good fellow you are, and fix it up with
Mary."

So Dannie started for the wood pile. In summer he could stand outside
and speak through the screen. In winter he had to enter the cabin for
errands like this, and as Jimmy's wood box was as heavily weighted on
his mind as his own, there was nothing unnatural in his stamping snow
on Jimmy's back stoop, and calling "Open!" to Mary at any hour of the
day he happened to be passing the wood pile.

He stood at a distance, and patiently waited until a gray and black
nut-hatch that foraged on the wood covered all the new territory
discovered by the last disturbance of the pile. From loosened bark
Dannie watched the bird take several good-sized white worms and a few
dormant ants. As it flew away he gathered an armload of wood. He was
very careful to clean his feet on the stoop, place the wood without
tearing the neat covering of wall paper, and brush from his coat the
snow and moss so that it fell in the box. He had heard Mary tell the
careless Jimmy to do all these things, and Dannie knew that they saved
her work. There was a whiteness on her face that morning that startled
him, and long after the last particle of moss was cleaned from his
sleeve he bent over the box trying to get something said. The cleaning
took such a length of time that the glint of a smile crept into the
grave eyes of the woman, and the grim line of her lips softened.

"Don't be feeling so badly about it, Dannie," she said. "I could have
told you when you went after him last night that he would go back as
soon as he wakened to-day. I know he is gone. I watched him lave."

Dannie brushed the other sleeve, on which there had been nothing at the
start, and answered: "Noo, dinna ye misjudge him, Mary. He's goin' to a
coon hunt to-nicht. Dinna ye see him take my gun?"

This evidence so bolstered Dannie that he faced Mary with confidence.

"There's a traveling man frae Boston in town, Mary, and he was edifying
the boys a little, and Jimmy dinna like it. He's going to show him a
little country sport to-nicht to edify him."

Dannie outlined the plan of Jimmy's campaign. Despite disapproval, and
a sore heart, Mary Malone had to smile--perhaps as much over Dannie's
eagerness in telling what was contemplated as anything.

"Why don't you take Jimmy's gun and go yoursilf?" she asked. "You
haven't had a day off since fishing was over."

"But I have the work to do," replied Dannie, "and I couldna leave--" He
broke off abruptly, but the woman supplied the word.

"Why can't you lave me, if Jimmy can? I'm not afraid. The snow and the
cold will furnish me protiction to-night. There'll be no one to fear.
Why should you do Jimmy's work, and miss the sport, to guard the thing
he holds so lightly?"

The red flushed Dannie's cheeks. Mary never before had spoken like
that. He had to say something for Jimmy quickly, and quickness was not
his forte. His lips opened, but nothing came; for as Jimmy had boasted,
Dannie never lied, except for him, and at those times he had careful
preparation before he faced Mary. Now, he was overtaken unawares. He
looked so boyish in his confusion, the mother in Mary's heart was
touched.

"I'll till you what we'll do, Dannie," she said. "You tind the stock,
and get in wood enough so that things won't be frazin' here; and then
you hitch up and I'll go with you to town, and stay all night with Mrs.
Dolan. You can put the horse in my sister's stable, and whin you and
Jimmy get back, you'll be tired enough that you'll be glad to ride
home. A visit with Katie will be good for me; I have been blue the last
few days, and I can see you are just aching to go with the boys. Isn't
that a fine plan?"

"I should say that IS a guid plan," answered the delighted Dannie.
Anything to save Mary another night alone was good, and then--that coon
hunt did sound alluring.

And that was how it happened that at nine o'clock that night, just as
arrangements were being completed at Casey's, Dannie Macnoun stepped
into the group and said to the astonished Jimmy: "Mary wanted to come
to her sister's over nicht, so I fixed everything, and I'm going to the
coon hunt, too, if you boys want me."

The crowd closed around Dannie, patted his back and cheered him, and he
was introduced to Mister O'Khayam, of Boston, who tried to drown the
clamor enough to tell what his name really was, "in case of accident";
but he couldn't be heard for Jimmy yelling that a good old Irish name
like O'Khayam couldn't be beat in case of anything. And Dannie took a
hasty glance at the Thread Man, to see if he wore that hated pleated
coat, which lay at the bottom of Jimmy's anger.

Then they started. Casey's wife was to be left in charge of the saloon,
and the Thread Man half angered Casey by a whispered conversation with
her in a corner. Jimmy cut his crowd as low as he possibly could, but
it numbered fifteen men, and no one counted the dogs. Jimmy led the
way, the Thread Man beside him, and the crowd followed. The walking
would be best to follow the railroad to the Canoper, and also they
could cross the railroad bridge over the river and save quite a
distance.

Jimmy helped the Thread Man into a borrowed overcoat and mittens, and
loaded him with a twelve-pound gun, and they started. Jimmy carried a
torch, and as torch bearer he was a rank failure, for he had a careless
way of turning it and flashing it into people's faces that compelled
them to jump to save themselves. Where the track lay clear and straight
ahead the torch seemed to light it like day; but in dark places it was
suddenly lowered or wavering somewhere else. It was through this
carelessness of Jimmy's that at the first cattle-guard north of the
village the torch flickered backward, ostensibly to locate Dannie, and
the Thread Man went crashing down between the iron bars, and across the
gun. Instantly Jimmy sprawled on top of him, and the next two men
followed suit. The torch plowed into the snow and went out, and the
yells of Jimmy alarmed the adjoining village.

He was hurt the worst of all, and the busiest getting in marching order
again. "Howly smoke!" he panted. "I was havin' the time of me life, and
plum forgot that cow-kitcher. Thought it was a quarter of a mile away
yet. And liked to killed meself with me carelessness. But that's always
the way in true sport. You got to take the knocks with the fun." No one
asked the Thread Man if he was hurt, and he did not like to seem
unmanly by mentioning a skinned shin, when Jimmy Malone seemed to have
bursted most of his inside; so he shouldered his gun and limped along,
now slightly in the rear of Jimmy. The river bridge was a serious
matter with its icy coat, and danger of specials, and the torches
suddenly flashed out from all sides; and the Thread Man gave thanks for
Dannie Macnoun, who reached him a steady hand across the ties. The walk
was three miles, and the railroad lay at from twenty to thirty feet
elevation along the river and through the bottom land. The Boston man
would have been thankful for the light, but as the last man stepped
from the ties of the bridge all the torches went out save one. Jimmy
explained they simply had to save them so that they could see where the
coon fell when they began to shake the coon tree.

Just beside the water tank, and where the embankment was twenty feet
sheer, Jimmy was cautioning the Boston man to look out, when the hunter
next behind him gave a wild yell and plunged into his back. Jimmy's
grab for him seemed more a push than a pull, and the three rolled to
the bottom, and half way across the flooded ditch. The ditch was frozen
over, but they were shaken, and smothered in snow. The whole howling
party came streaming down the embankment. Dannie held aloft his torch
and discovered Jimmy lying face down in a drift, making no effort to
rise, and the Thread Man feebly tugging at him and imploring some one
to come and help get Malone out. Then Dannie slunk behind the others
and yelled until he was tired.

By and by Jimmy allowed himself to be dragged out.

"Who the thunder was that come buttin' into us?" he blustered. "I don't
allow no man to butt into me when I'm on an imbankmint. Send the fool
back here till I kill him."

The Thread Man was pulling at Jimmy's arm. "Don't mind, Jimmy," he
gasped. "It was an accident! The man slipped. This is an awful place. I
will be glad when we reach the woods. I'll feel safer with ground
that's holding up trees under my feet. Come on, now! Are we not almost
there? Should we not keep quiet from now on? Will we not alarm the
coons?"

"Sure," said Jimmy. "Boys, don't hollo so much. Every blamed coon will
be scared out of its hollow!"

"Amazing!" said the Thread Man. "How clever! Came on the spur of the
moment. I must remember that to tell the Club. Do not hollo. Scare the
coon out of its hollow!"

"Oh, I do miles of things like that," said Jimmy dryly, "and mostly I
have to do thim before the spur of the moment; because our moments go
so domn fast out here mighty few of thim have time to grow their spurs
before they are gone. Here's where we turn. Now, boys, they've been
trying to get this biler across the tracks here, and they've broke the
ice. The water in this ditch is three feet deep and freezing cold.
They've stuck getting the biler over, but I wonder if we can't cross on
it, and hit the wood beyond. Maybe we can walk it."

Jimmy set a foot on the ice-covered boiler, howled, and fell back on
the men behind him. "Jimminy crickets, we niver can do that!" he
yelled. "It's a glare of ice and roundin'. Let's crawl through it! The
rist of you can get through if I can. We'd better take off our
overcoats, to make us smaller. We can roll thim into a bundle, and the
last man can pull it through behind him."

Jimmy threw off his coat and entered the wrecked oil engine. He knew
how to hobble through on his toes, but the pleated coat of the Boston
man, who tried to pass through by stooping, got almost all Jimmy had in
store for it. Jimmy came out all right with a shout. The Thread Man did
not step half so far, and landed knee deep in the icy oil-covered slush
of the ditch. That threw him off his balance, and Jimmy let him sink
one arm in the pool, and then grabbed him, and scooped oil on his back
with the other hand as he pulled. During the excitement and struggles
of Jimmy and the Thread Man, the rest of the party jumped the ditch and
gathered about, rubbing soot and oil on the Boston man, and he did not
see how they crossed.

Jimmy continued to rub oil and soot into the hated coat industriously.
The dogs leaped the ditch, and the instant they struck the woods broke
away baying over fresh tracks. The men yelled like mad. Jimmy struggled
into his overcoat, and helped the almost insane Boston man into his and
then they hurried after the dogs.

The scent was so new and clear the dogs simply raged. The Thread Man
was wild, Jimmy was wilder, and the thirteen contributed all they could
for laughing. Dannie forgot to be ashamed of himself and followed the
example of the crowd. Deeper and deeper into the wild, swampy Canoper
led the chase. With a man on either side to guide him into the deepest
holes and to shove him into bushy thickets, the skinned, soot-covered,
oil-coated Boston man toiled and sweated. He had no time to think, the
excitement was so intense. He scrambled out of each pitfall set for
him, and plunged into the next with such uncomplaining bravery that
Dannie very shortly grew ashamed, and crowding up beside him he took
the heavy gun and tried to protect him all he could without falling
under the eye of Jimmy, who was keeping close watch on the Boston man.

Wild yelling told that the dogs had treed, and with shaking fingers the
Thread Man pulled off the big mittens he wore and tried to lift the
gun. Jimmy flashed a torch, and sure enough, in the top of a medium
hickory tree, the light was reflected in streams from the big shining
eyes of a coon. "Treed!" yelled Jimmy frantically. "Treed! and big as
an elephant. Company's first shot. Here, Mister O'Khayam, here's a good
place to stand. Gee, what luck! Coon in sight first thing, and Mellen's
food coon at that! Shoot, Mister O'Khayam, shoot!"

The Thread Man lifted the wavering gun, but it was no use.

"Tell you what, Ruben," said Jimmy. "You are too tired to shoot
straight. Let's take a rist, and ate our lunch. Then we'll cut down the
tree and let the dogs get cooney. That way there won't be any shot
marks in his skin. What do you say? Is that a good plan?"

They all said that was the proper course, so they built a fire, and
placed the Thread Man where he could see the gleaming eyes of the
frightened coon, and where all of them could feast on his soot and
oil-covered face. Then they opened the bag and passed the sandwiches.

"I really am hungry," said the weary Thread Man, biting into his with
great relish. His jaws moved once or twice experimentally, and then he
lifted his handkerchief to his lips.

"I wish 'twas as big as me head," said Jimmy, taking a great bite, and
then he began to curse uproariously.

"What ails the things?" inquired Dannie, ejecting a mouthful. And then
all of them began to spit birdshot, and started an inquest
simultaneously. Jimmy raged. He swore some enemy had secured the bag
and mined the feast; but the boys who knew him laughed until it seemed
the Thread Man must suspect. He indignantly declared it was a dirty
trick. By the light of the fire he knelt and tried to free one of the
sandwiches from its sprinkling of birdshot, so that it would be fit for
poor Jimmy, who had worked so hard to lead them there and tree the
coon. For the first time Jimmy looked thoughtful.

But the sight of the Thread Man was too much for him, and a second
later he was thrusting an ax into the hands accustomed to handling a
thread case. Then he led the way to the tree, and began chopping at the
green hickory. It was slow work, and soon the perspiration streamed.
Jimmy pulled off his coat and threw it aside. He assisted the Thread
Man out of his and tossed it behind him. The coat alighted in the fire,
and was badly scorched before it was rescued. But the Thread Man was
game. Fifty times that night it had been said that he was to have the
first coon, of course he should work for it. So with the ax with which
Casey chopped ice for his refrigerator, the Boston man banged against
the hickory, and swore to himself because he could not make the chips
fly as Jimmy did.

"Iverybody clear out!" cried Jimmy. "Number one is coming down. Get the
coffee sack ready. Baste cooney over the head and shove him in before
the dogs tear the skin. We want a dandy big pelt out of this!"

There was a crack, and the tree fell with a crash. All the Boston man
could see was that from a tumbled pile of branches, dogs, and men, some
one at last stepped back, gripping a sack, and cried: "Got it all
right, and it's a buster."

"Now for the other forty-nine!" shouted Jimmy, straining into his coat.

"Come on, boys, we must secure a coon for every one," cried the Thread
Man, heartily as any member of the party might have said it. But the
rest of the boys suddenly grew tired. They did not want any coons, and
after some persuasion the party agreed to go back to Casey's to warm
up. The Thread Man got into his scorched, besooted, oil-smeared coat,
and the overcoat which had been loaned him, and shouldered the gun.
Jimmy hesitated. But Dannie came up to the Boston man and said:
"There's a place in my shoulder that gun juist fits, and it's lonesome
without it. Pass it over." Only the sorely bruised and strained Thread
Man knew how glad he was to let it go.

It was Dannie, too, who whispered to the Thread Man to keep close
behind him; and when the party trudged back to Casey's it was so
surprising how much better he knew the way going back than Jimmy had
known it coming out, that the Thread Man did remark about it. But Jimmy
explained that after one had been out a few hours their eyes became
accustomed to the darkness and they could see better. That was
reasonable, for the Thread Man knew it was true in his own experience.

So they got back to Casey's, and found a long table set, and a steaming
big oyster supper ready for them; and that explained the Thread Man's
conference with Mrs. Casey. He took the head of the table, with his
back to the wall, and placed Jimmy on his right and Dannie on his left.
Mrs. Casey had furnished soap and towels, and at least part of the
Boston man's face was clean. The oysters were fine, and well cooked.
The Thread Man recited more of the wonderful poem for Dannie's benefit,
and told jokes and stories. They laughed until they were so weak they
could only pound the table to indicate how funny it was. And at the
close, just as they were making a movement to rise, Casey proposed that
he bring in the coon, and let all of them get a good look at their
night's work. The Thread Man applauded, and Casey brought in the bag
and shook it bottom up over the floor. Therefrom there issued a poor,
frightened, maltreated little pet coon of Mrs. Casey's, and it
dexterously ran up Casey's trouser leg and hid its nose in his collar,
its chain dragging behind. And that was so funny the boys doubled over
the table, and laughed and screamed until a sudden movement brought
them to their senses.

The Thread Man was on his feet, and his eyes were no laughing matter.
He gripped his chair back, and leaned toward Jimmy. "You walked me into
that cattle-guard on purpose!" he cried.

Silence.

"You led me into that boiler, and fixed the oil at the end!"

No answer.

"You mauled me all over the woods, and loaded those sandwiches
yourself, and sored me for a week trying to chop down a tree with a pet
coon chained in it! You----! You----! What had I done to you?"

"You wouldn't drink with me, and I didn't like the domned, dinky,
little pleated coat you wore," answered Jimmy.

One instant amazement held sway on the Thread Man's face; the next,
"And damned if I like yours!" he cried, and catching up a bowl half
filled with broth he flung it squarely into Jimmy's face.

Jimmy, with a great oath, sprang at the Boston man. But once in his
life Dannie was quick. For the only time on record he was ahead of
Jimmy, and he caught the uplifted fist in a grip that Jimmy's use of
whiskey and suffering from rheumatism had made his master.

"Steady--Jimmy, wait a minute," panted Dannie. "This mon is na even wi'
ye yet. When every muscle in your body is strained, and every inch of
it bruised, and ye are daubed wi' soot, and bedraggled in oil, and he's
made ye the laughin' stock fra strangers by the hour, ye will be juist
even, and ready to talk to him. Every minute of the nicht he's proved
himself a mon, and right now he's showed he's na coward. It's up to ye,
Jimmy. Do it royal. Be as much of a mon as he is. Say ye are sorry!"

One tense instant the two friends faced each other.

Then Jimmy's fist unclenched, and his arms dropped. Dannie stepped
back, trying to breathe lightly, and it was between Jimmy and the
Thread Man.

"I am sorry," said Jimmy. "I carried my objictions to your wardrobe too
far. If you'll let me, I'll clean you up. If you'll take it, I'll raise
you the price of a new coat, but I'll be domn if I'll hilp put such a
man as you are into another of the fiminine ginder."

The Thread Man laughed, and shook Jimmy's hand; and then Jimmy proved
why every one liked him by turning to Dannie and taking his hand.
"Thank you, Dannie," he said. "You sure hilped me to mesilf that time.
If I'd hit him, I couldn't have hild up me head in the morning."



Chapter IV

WHEN THE KINGFISHER AND THE BLACK BASS CAME HOME

"Crimminy, but you are slow." Jimmy made the statement, not as one
voices a newly discovered fact, but as one iterates a time-worn truism.
He sat on a girder of the Limberlost bridge, and scraped the black muck
from his boots in a little heap. Then he twisted a stick into the top
of his rat sack, preparatory to his walk home. The ice had broken on
the river, and now the partners had to separate at the bridge, each
following his own line of traps to the last one, and return to the
bridge so that Jimmy could cross to reach home. Jimmy was always
waiting, after the river opened, and it was a remarkable fact to him
that as soon as the ice was gone his luck failed him. This evening the
bag at his feet proved by its bulk that it contained just about
one-half the rats Dannie carried.

"I must set my traps in my own way," answered Dannie calmly. "If I
stuck them into the water ony way and went on, so would the rats. A
trap is no a trap unless it is concealed."

"That's it! Go on and give me a sarmon!" urged Jimmy derisively. "Who's
got the bulk of the rats all winter? The truth is that my side of the
river is the best catching in the extrame cold, and you get the most
after the thaws begin to come. The rats seem to have a lot of burrows
and shift around among thim. One time I'm ahead, and the nixt day they
go to you: But it don't mane that you are any better TRAPPER than I am.
I only got siven to-night. That's a sweet day's work for a whole man.
Fifteen cints apace for sivin rats. I've a big notion to cut the rat
business, and compete with Rocky in ile."

Dannie laughed. "Let's hurry home, and get the skinning over before
nicht," he said. "I think the days are growing a little longer. I seem
to scent spring in the air to-day."

Jimmy looked at Dannie's mud-covered, wet clothing, his blood-stained
mittens and coat back, and the dripping bag he had rested on the
bridge. "I've got some music in me head, and some action in me feet,"
he said, "but I guess God forgot to put much sintimint into me heart.
The breath of spring niver got so strong with me that I could smell it
above a bag of muskrats and me trappin' clothes."

He arose, swung his bag to his shoulder, and together they left the
bridge, and struck the road leading to Rainbow Bottom. It was late
February. The air was raw, and the walking heavy. Jimmy saw little
around him, and there was little Dannie did not see. To him, his farm,
the river, and the cabins in Rainbow Bottom meant all there was of
life, for all he loved on earth was there. But loafing in town on rainy
days, when Dannie sat with a book; hearing the talk at Casey's, at the
hotel, and on the streets, had given Jimmy different views of life, and
made his lot seem paltry compared with that of men who had greater
possessions. On days when Jimmy's luck was bad, or when a fever of
thirst burned him, he usually discoursed on some sort of intangible
experience that men had, which he called "seeing life." His rat bag was
unusually light that night, and in a vague way he connected it with the
breaking up of the ice. When the river lay solid he usually carried
home just twice the rats Dannie had, and as he had patronized Dannie
all his life, it fretted Jimmy to be behind even one day at the traps.

"Be Jasus, I get tired of this!" he said. "Always and foriver the same
thing. I kape goin' this trail so much that I've got a speakin'
acquaintance with meself. Some of these days I'm goin' to take a trip,
and have a little change. I'd like to see Chicago, and as far west as
the middle, anyway."

"Well, ye canna go," said Dannie. "Ye mind the time when ye were
married, and I thought I'd be best away, and packed my trunk? When ye
and Mary caught me, ye got mad as fire, and she cried, and I had to
stay. Just ye try going, and I'll get mad, and Mary will cry, and ye
will stay at home, juist like I did."

There was a fear deep in Dannie's soul that some day Jimmy would
fulfill this long-time threat of his. "I dinna think there is ony place
in all the world so guid as the place ye own," Dannie said earnestly.
"I dinna care a penny what anybody else has, probably they have what
they want. What _I_ want is the land that my feyther owned before me,
and the house that my mither kept. And they'll have to show me the
place they call Eden before I'll give up that it beats Rainbow
Bottom--Summer, Autumn, or Winter. I dinna give twa hoops fra the
palaces men rig up, or the thing they call 'landscape gardening'. When
did men ever compete with the work of God? All the men that have
peopled the earth since time began could have their brains rolled into
one, and he would stand helpless before the anatomy of one of the rats
in these bags. The thing God does is guid enough fra me."

"Why don't you take a short cut to the matin'-house?" inquired Jimmy.

"Because I wad have nothing to say when I got there," retorted Dannie.
"I've a meetin'-house of my ain, and it juist suits me; and I've a God,
too, and whether He is spirit or essence, He suits me. I dinna want to
be held to sharper account than He faces me up to, when I hold
communion with mesel'. I dinna want any better meetin'-house than
Rainbow Bottom. I dinna care for better talkin' than the 'tongues in
the trees'; sounder preachin' than the 'sermons in the stones'; finer
readin' than the books in the river; no, nor better music than the
choir o' the birds, each singin' in its ain way fit to burst its leetle
throat about the mate it won, the nest they built, and the babies they
are raising. That's what I call the music o' God, spontaneous, and the
soul o' joy. Give it me every time compared with notes frae a book. And
all the fine places that the wealth o' men ever evolved winna begin to
compare with the work o' God, and I've got that around me every day."

"But I want to see life," wailed Jimmy.

"Then open your eyes, mon, fra the love o' mercy, open your eyes!
There's life sailing over your heid in that flock o' crows going home
fra the night. Why dinna ye, or some other mon, fly like that? There's
living roots, and seeds, and insects, and worms by the million wherever
ye are setting foot. Why dinna ye creep into the earth and sleep
through the winter, and renew your life with the spring? The trouble
with ye, Jimmy, is that ye've always followed your heels. If ye'd
stayed by the books, as I begged ye, there now would be that in your
heid that would teach ye that the old story of the Rainbow is true.
There is a pot of gold, of the purest gold ever smelted, at its foot,
and we've been born, and own a good living richt there. An' the gold is
there; that I know, wealth to shame any bilious millionaire, and both
of us missing the pot when we hold the location. Ye've the first
chance, mon, fra in your life is the great prize mine will forever
lack. I canna get to the bottom of the pot, but I'm going to come close
to it as I can; and as for ye, empty it! Take it all! It's yours! It's
fra the mon who finds it, and we own the location."

"Aha! We own the location," repeated Jimmy. "I should say we do! Behold
our hotbed of riches! I often lay awake nights thinkin' about my
attachmint to the place.

  "How dear to me heart are the scanes of me childhood,
  Fondly gaze on the cabin where I'm doomed to dwell,
  Those chicken-coop, thim pig-pen, these highly piled-wood
  Around which I've always raised Hell."


Jimmy turned in at his own gate, while Dannie passed to the cabin
beyond. He entered, set the dripping rat bag in a tub, raked open the
buried fire and threw on a log. He always ate at Jimmy's when Jimmy was
at home, so there was no supper to get. He went out to the barn, wading
mud ankle deep, fed and bedded his horses, and then went over to
Jimmy's barn, and completed his work up to milking. Jimmy came out with
the pail, and a very large hole in the bottom of it was covered with
dried dough. Jimmy looked at it disapprovingly.

"I bought a new milk pail the other night. I know I did," he said.
"Mary was kicking for one a month ago, and I went after it the night I
met Ruben O'Khayam. Now what the nation did I do with that pail?"

"I have wondered mysel'," answered Dannie, as he leaned over and lifted
a strange looking object from a barrel. "This is what ye brought home,
Jimmy."

Jimmy stared at the shining, battered, bullet-punctured pail in
amazement. Slowly he turned it over and around, and then he lifted
bewildered eyes to Dannie.

"Are you foolin'?" he asked. "Did I bring that thing home in that
shape?"

"Honest!" said Dannie.

"I remember buyin' it," said Jimmy slowly. "I remember hanging on to it
like grim death, for it was the wan excuse I had for goin', but I don't
just know how--!" Slowly he revolved the pail, and then he rolled over
in the hay and laughed until he was tired. Then he sat up and wiped his
eyes. "Great day! What a lot of fun I must have had before I got that
milk pail into that shape," he said. "Domned if I don't go straight to
town and buy another one; yes, bedad! I'll buy two!"

In the meantime Dannie milked, fed and watered the cattle, and Jimmy
picked up the pail of milk and carried it to the house. Dannie came by
the wood pile and brought in a heavy load. Then they washed, and sat
down to supper.

"Seems to me you look unusually perky," said Jimmy to his wife. "Had
any good news?"

"Splendid!" said Mary. "I am so glad! And I don't belave you two
stupids know!"

"You niver can tell by lookin' at me what I know," said Jimmy. "Whin I
look the wisest I know the least. Whin I look like a fool, I'm thinkin'
like a philosopher."

"Give it up," said Dannie promptly. You would not catch him knowing
anything it would make Mary's eyes shine to tell.

"Sap is running!" announced Mary.

"The Divil you say!" cried Jimmy.

"It is!" beamed Mary. "It will be full in three days. Didn't you notice
how green the maples are? I took a little walk down to the bottom
to-day. I niver in all my life was so tired of winter, and the first
thing I saw was that wet look on the maples, and on the low land, where
they are sheltered and yet get the sun, several of them are oozing!"

"Grand!" cried Dannie. "Jimmy, we must peel those rats in a hurry, and
then clean the spiles, and see how mony new ones we will need.
To-morrow we must come frae the traps early and look up our troughs."

"Oh, for pity sake, don't pile up work enough to kill a horse," cried
Jimmy. "Ain't you ever happy unless you are workin'?"

"Yes," said Dannie. "Sometimes I find a book that suits me, and
sometimes the fish bite, and sometimes it's in the air."

"Git the condinser" said Jimmy. "And that reminds me, Mary, Dannie
smelled spring in the air to-day."

"Well, what if he did?" questioned Mary. "I can always smell it. A
little later, when the sap begins to run in all the trees, and the buds
swell, and the ice breaks up, and the wild geese go over, I always
scent spring; and when the catkins bloom, then it comes strong, and I
just love it. Spring is my happiest time. I have more news, too!"

"Don't spring so much at wance!" cried Jimmy, "you'll spoil my
appetite."

"I guess there's no danger," replied Mary.

"There is," said Jimmy. "At laste in the fore siction. 'Appe' is
Frinch, and manes atin'. 'Tite' is Irish, and manes drinkin'. Appetite
manes atin' and drinkin' togither. 'Tite' manes drinkin' without atin',
see?"

"I was just goin' to mintion it meself," said Mary, "it's where you
come in strong. There's no danger of anybody spoilin' your drinkin', if
they could interfere with your atin'. You guess, Dannie."

"The dominick hen is setting," ventured Dannie, and Mary's face showed
that he had blundered on the truth.

"She is," affirmed Mary, pouring the tea, "but it is real mane of you
to guess it, when I've so few new things to tell. She has been setting
two days, and she went over fifteen fresh eggs to-day. In just
twinty-one days I will have fiftane the cunningest little chickens you
ever saw, and there is more yet. I found the nest of the gray goose,
and there are three big eggs in it, all buried in feathers. She must
have stripped her breast almost bare to cover them. And I'm the
happiest I've been all winter. I hate the long, lonely, shut-in time. I
am going on a delightful spree. I shall help boil down sugar-water and
make maple syrup. I shall set hins, and geese, and turkeys. I shall
make soap, and clane house, and plant seed, and all my flowers will
bloom again. Goody for summer; it can't come too soon to suit me."

"Lord! I don't see what there is in any of those things," said Jimmy.
"I've got just one sign of spring that interests me. If you want to see
me caper, somebody mention to me the first rattle of the Kingfisher.
Whin he comes home, and house cleans in his tunnel in the embankment,
and takes possession of his stump in the river, the nixt day the Black
Bass locates in the deep water below the shoals. THIN you can count me
in. There is where business begins for Jimmy boy. I am going to have
that Bass this summer, if I don't plant an acre of corn."

"I bet you that's the truth!" said Mary, so quickly that both men
laughed.

"Ahem!" said Dannie. "Then I will have to do my plowing by a heidlicht,
so I can fish as much as ye do in the day time. I hereby make, enact,
and enforce a law that neither of us is to fish in the Bass hole when
the other is not there to fish also. That is the only fair way. I've as
much richt to him as ye have."

"Of course!" said Mary. "That is a fair way. Make that a rule, and kape
it. If you both fish at once, it's got to be a fair catch for the one
that lands it; but whoever catches it, _I_ shall ate it, so it don't
much matter to me."

"You ate it!" howled Jimnmy. "I guess not. Not a taste of that fish,
when he's teased me for years? He's as big as a whale. If Jonah had had
the good fortune of falling in the Wabash, and being swallowed by the
Black Bass, he could have ridden from Peru to Terre Haute, and suffered
no inconvanience makin' a landin'. Siven pounds he'll weigh by the
steelyard I'll wager you."

"Five, Jimmy, five," corrected Dannie.

"Siven!" shouted Jimmy. "Ain't I hooked him repeated? Ain't I seen him
broadside? I wonder if thim domn lines of mine have gone and rotted."

He left his supper, carrying his chair, and standing on it he began
rummaging the top shelf of the cupboard for his box of tackle. He
knocked a bottle from the shelf, but caught it in mid-air with a
dexterous sweep.

"Spirits are movin'," cried Jimmy, as he restored the camphor to its
place. He carried the box to the window, and became so deeply engrossed
in its contents that he did not notice when Dannie picked up his rat
bag and told him to come on and help skin their day's catch. Mary tried
to send him, and he was going in a minute, but the minute stretched and
stretched, and both of them were surprised when the door opened and
Dannie entered with an armload of spiles, and the rat-skinning was all
over. So Jimmy went on unwinding lines, and sharpening hooks, and
talking fish; while Dannie and Mary cleaned the spiles, and figured on
how many new elders must be cut and prepared for more on the morrow;
and planned the sugar making.

When it was bedtime, and Dannie had gone an Jimmy and Mary closed their
cabin for the night, Mary stepped to the window that looked on Dannie's
home to see if his light was burning. It was, and clear in its rays
stood Dannie, stripping yard after yard of fine line through his
fingers, and carefully examining it. Jimmy came and stood beside her as
she wondered.

"Why, the domn son of the Rainbow," he cried, "if he ain't testing his
fish lines!"

The next day Mary Malone was rejoicing when the men returned from
trapping, and gathering and cleaning the sugar-water troughs. There had
been a robin at the well.

"Kape your eye on, Mary" advised Jimmy. "If she ain't watched close
from this time on, she'll be settin' hins in snowdrifts, and pouring
biling water on the daffodils to sprout them."

On the first of March, five killdeers flew over in a flock, and a half
hour later one straggler crying piteously followed in their wake.

"Oh, the mane things!" almost sobbed Mary. "Why don't they wait for it?"

She stood by a big kettle of boiling syrup at the sugar camp, almost
helpless in Jimmy's boots and Dannie's great coat. Jimmy cut and
carried wood, and Dannie hauled sap. All the woods were stirred by the
smell of the curling smoke and the odor of the boiling sap, fine as the
fragrance of flowers. Bright-eyed deer mice peeped at her from under
old logs, the chickadees, nuthatches, and jays started an investigating
committee to learn if anything interesting to them was occurring. One
gayly-dressed little sapsucker hammered a tree near by and scolded
vigorously.

"Right you are!" said Mary. "It's a pity you're not big enough to drive
us from the woods, for into one kittle goes enough sap to last you a
lifetime."

The squirrels were sure it was an intrusion, and raced among the
branches overhead, barking loud defiance. At night the three rode home
on the sled, with the syrup jugs beside them, and Mary's apron was
filled with big green rolls of pungent woolly-dog moss.

Jimmy built the fires, Dannie fed the stock, and Mary cooked the
supper. When it was over, while the men warmed chilled feet and fingers
by the fire, Mary poured some syrup into a kettle, and just as it
"sugared off" she dipped streams of the amber sweetness into cups of
water. All of them ate it like big children, and oh, but it was good!
Two days more of the same work ended sugar making, but for the next
three days Dannie gathered the rapidly diminishing sap for the vinegar
barrel.

Then there were more hens ready to set, water must be poured hourly
into the ash hopper to start the flow of lye for soap making, and the
smoke house must be gotten ready to cure the hams and pickled meats, so
that they would keep during warm weather. The bluebells were pushing
through the sod in a race with the Easter and star flowers. One morning
Mary aroused Jimmy with a pull at his arm.

"Jimmy, Jimmy," she cried. "Wake up!"

"Do you mane, wake up, or get up?" asked Jimmy sleepily.

"Both," cried Mary. "The larks are here!"

A little later Jimmy shouted from the back door to the barn: "Dannie,
do you hear the larks?"

"Ye bet I do," answered Dannie. "Heard ane goin' over in the nicht. How
long is it now till the Kingfisher comes?"

"Just a little while," said Jimmy. "If only these March storms would
let up 'stid of down! He can't come until he can fish, you know. He's
got to have crabs and minnies to live on."

A few days later the green hylas began to pipe in the swamps, the
bullfrogs drummed among the pools in the bottom, the doves cooed in the
thickets, and the breath of spring was in the nostrils of all creation,
for the wind was heavy with the pungent odor of catkin pollen. The
spring flowers were two inches high. The peonies and rhubarb were
pushing bright yellow and red cones through the earth. The old gander,
leading his flock along the Wabash, had hailed passing flocks bound
northward until he was hoarse; and the Brahma rooster had threshed the
yellow dorkin until he took refuge under the pig pen, and dare not
stick out his unprotected head.

The doors had stood open at supper time, and Dannie staid up late,
mending and oiling the harness. Jimmy sat by cleaning his gun, for to
his mortification he had that day missed killing a crow which stole
from the ash hopper the egg with which Mary tested the strength of the
lye. In a basket behind the kitchen stove fifteen newly hatched yellow
chickens, with brown stripes on their backs, were peeping and nestling;
and on wing the killdeers cried half the night. At two o'clock in the
morning came a tap on the Malone's bedroom window.

"Dannie?" questioned Mary, half startled.

"Tell Jimmy!" cried Dannie's breathless voice outside. "Tell him the
Kingfisher has juist struck the river!"

Jimmy sat straight up in bed.

"Then glory be!" he cried. "To-morrow the Black Bass comes home!"



Chapter V

WHEN THE RAINBOW SET ITS ARCH IN THE SKY

"Where did Jimmy go?" asked Mary.

Jimmy had been up in time to feed the chickens and carry in the milk,
but he disappeared shortly after breakfast.

Dannie almost blushed as he answered: "He went to take a peep at the
river. It's going down fast. When it gets into its regular channel,
spawning will be over and the fish will come back to their old places.
We figure that the Black Bass will be home to-day."

"When you go digging for bait," said Mary, "I wonder if the two of you
could make it convanient to spade an onion bed. If I had it spaded I
could stick the sets mesilf."

"Now, that amna fair, Mary," said Dannie. "We never went fishing till
the garden was made, and the crops at least wouldna suffer. We'll make
the beds, of course, juist as soon as they can be spaded, and plant the
seed, too."

"I want to plant the seeds mesilf," said Mary.

"And we dinna want ye should," replied Dannie. "All we want ye to do,
is to boss."

"But I'm going to do the planting mesilf," Mary was emphatic. "It will
be good for me to be in the sunshine, and I do enjoy working in the
dirt, so that for a little while I'm happy."

"If ye want to put the onions in the highest place, I should think I
could spade ane bed now, and enough fra lettuce and radishes."

Dannie went after a spade, and Mary Malone laughed softly as she saw
that he also carried an old tin can. He tested the earth in several
places, and then called to her: "All right, Mary! Ground in prime
shape. Turns up dry and mellow. We will have the garden started in no
time."

He had spaded but a minute when Mary saw him run past the window, leap
the fence, and go hurrying down the path to the river. She went to the
door. At the head of the lane stood Jimmy, waving his hat, and the
fresh morning air carried his cry clearly: "Gee, Dannie! Come hear him
splash!"

Just why that cry, and the sight of Dannie Macnoun racing toward the
river, his spade lying on the upturned earth of her scarcely begun
onion bed, should have made her angry, it would be hard to explain. He
had no tackle or bait, and reason easily could have told her that he
would return shortly, and finish anything she wanted done; but when was
a lonely, disappointed woman ever reasonable?

She set the dish water on the stove, wiped her hands on her apron, and
walking to the garden, picked up the spade and began turning great
pieces of earth. She had never done rough farm work, such as women all
about her did; she had little exercise during the long, cold winter,
and the first half dozen spadefuls tired her until the tears of
self-pity rolled.

"I wish there was a turtle as big as a wash tub in the river" she
sobbed, "and I wish it would eat that old Black Bass to the last scale.
And I'm going to take the shotgun, and go over to the embankment, and
poke it into the tunnel, and blow the old Kingfisher through into the
cornfield. Then maybe Dannie won't go off too and leave me. I want this
onion bed spaded right away, so I do."

"Drop that! Idjit! What you doing?" yelled Jimmy.

"Mary, ye goose!" panted Dannie, as he came hurrying across the yard.
"Wha' do ye mean? Ye knew I'd be back in a minute! Jimmy juist called
me to hear the Bass splash. I was comin' back. Mary, this amna fair."

Dannie took the spade from her hand, and Mary fled sobbing to the house.

"What's the row?" demanded Jimmy of the suffering Dannie.

"I'd juist started spadin' this onion bed," explained Dannie. "Of
course, she thought we were going to stay all day."

"With no poles, and no bait, and no grub? She didn't think any such a
domn thing," said Jimmy. "You don't know women! She just got to the
place where it's her time to spill brine, and raise a rumpus about
something, and aisy brathin' would start her. Just let her bawl it out,
and thin--we'll get something dacent for dinner."

Dannie turned a spadeful of earth and broke it open, and Jimmy squatted
by the can, and began picking out the angle worms.

"I see where we dinna fish much this summer," said Dannie, as he
waited. "And where we fish close home when we do, and where all the
work is done before we go."

"Aha, borrow me rose-colored specks!" cried Jimmy. "I don't see
anything but what I've always seen. I'll come and go as I please, and
Mary can do the same. I don't throw no 'jeminy fit' every time a woman
acts the fool a little, and if you'd lived with one fiftane years you
wouldn't either. Of course we'll make the garden. Wish to goodness it
was a beer garden! Wouldn't I like to plant a lot of hop seed and see
rows of little green beer bottles humpin' up the dirt. Oh, my! What all
does she want done?"

Dannie turned another spadeful of earth and studied the premises, while
Jimmy gathered the worms.

"Palins all on the fence?" asked Dannie.

"Yep," said Jimmy.

"Well, the yard is to be raked."

"Yep."

"The flooer beds spaded."

"Yep."

"Stones around the peonies, phlox, and hollyhocks raised and manure
worked in. All the trees must be pruned, the bushes and vines trimmed,
and the gooseberries, currants, and raspberries thinned. The strawberry
bed must be fixed up, and the rhubarb and asparagus spaded around and
manured. This whole garden must be made----"

"And the road swept, and the gate sandpapered, and the barn
whitewashed! Return to grazing, Nebuchadnezzar," said Jimmy. "We do
what's raisonable, and then we go fishin'. See?"

Three beds spaded, squared, and ready for seeding lay in the warm
spring sunshine before noon. Jimmy raked the yard, and Dannie trimmed
the gooseberries. Then he wheeled a barrel of swamp loam for a flower
bed by the cabin wall, and listened intently between each shovelful he
threw. He could not hear a sound. What was more, he could not bear it.
He went to Jimmy.

"Say, Jimmy," he said. "Dinna ye have to gae in fra a drink?"

"House or town?" inquired Jimmy sweetly.

"The house!" exploded Dannie. "I dinna hear a sound yet. Ye gae in fra
a drink, and tell Mary I want to know where she'd like the new flooer
bed she's been talking about."

Jimmy leaned the rake against a tree, and started.

"And Jimmy," said Dannie. "If she's quit crying, ask her what was the
matter. I want to know."

Jimmy vanished. Presently he passed Dannie where he worked.

"Come on," whispered Jimmy.

The bewildered Dannie followed. Jimmy passed the wood pile, and pig
pen, and slunk around behind the barn, where he leaned against the logs
and held his sides. Dannie stared at him.

"She says," wheezed Jimmy, "that she guesses SHE wanted to go and hear
the Bass splash, too!"

Dannie's mouth fell open, and then closed with a snap.

"Us fra the fool killer!" he said. "Ye dinna let her see ye laugh?"

"Let her see me laugh!" cried Jimmy. "Let her see me laugh! I told her
she wasn't to go for a few days yet, because we were sawin' the
Kingfisher's stump up into a rustic sate for her, and we were goin' to
carry her out to it, and she was to sit there and sew, and umpire the
fishin', and whichiver bait she told the Bass to take, that one of us
would be gettin' it. And she was pleased as anything, me lad, and now
it's up to us to rig up some sort of a dacint sate, and tag a woman
along half the time. You thick-tongued descindint of a bagpipe baboon,
what did you sind me in there for?"

"Maybe a little of it will tire her," groaned Dannie.

"It will if she undertakes to follow me," Jimmy said. "I know where
horse-weeds grow giraffe high."

Then they went back to work, and presently many savory odors began to
steal from the cabin. Whereat Jimmy looked at Dannie, and winked an
'I-told-you-so' wink. A garden grows fast under the hands of two strong
men really working, and by the time the first slice of sugar-cured ham
from the smoke house for that season struck the sizzling skillet, and
Mary very meekly called from the back door to know if one of them
wanted to dig a little horse radish, the garden was almost ready for
planting. Then they went into the cabin and ate fragrant, thick slices
of juicy fried ham, seasoned with horse radish; fried eggs, freckled
with the ham fat in which they were cooked; fluffy mashed potatoes,
with a little well of melted butter in the center of the mound
overflowing the sides; raisin pie, soda biscuit, and their own maple
syrup.

"Ohumahoh!" said Jimmy. "I don't know as I hanker for city life so much
as I sometimes think I do. What do you suppose the adulterated stuff we
read about in papers tastes like?"

"I've often wondered," answered Dannie. "Look at some of the hogs and
cattle that we see shipped from here to city markets. The folks that
sell them would starve before they'd eat a bit o' them, yet somebody
eats them, and what do ye suppose maple syrup made from hickory bark
and brown sugar tastes like?"

"And cold-storage eggs, and cotton-seed butter, and even horse radish
half turnip," added Mary. "Bate up the cream a little before you put it
in your coffee, or it will be in lumps. Whin the cattle are on clover
it raises so thick."

Jimmy speared a piece of salt-rising bread crust soaked in ham gravy
made with cream, and said: "I wish I could bring that Thrid Man home
with me to one meal of the real thing nixt time he strikes town. I
belave he would injoy it. May I, Mary?"

Mary's face flushed slightly. "Depends on whin he comes," she said. "Of
course, if I am cleaning house, or busy with something I can't put
off----"

"Sure!" cried Jimmy. "I'd ask you before I brought him, because I'd
want him to have something spicial. Some of this ham, and horse radish,
and maple syrup to begin with, and thin your fried spring chicken and
your stewed squirrel is a drame, Mary. Nobody iver makes turtle soup
half so rich as yours, and your green peas in cream, and asparagus on
toast is a rivilation--don't you rimimber 'twas Father Michael that
said it? I ought to be able to find mushrooms in a few weeks, and I can
taste your rhubarb pie over from last year. Gee! But I wish he'd come
in strawberrying! Berries from the vines, butter in the crust, crame
you have to bate to make it smooth--talk about shortcake!"

"What's wrong wi' cherry cobbler?" asked Dannie.

"Or blackberry pie?"

"Or greens cooked wi' bacon?"

"Or chicken pie?"

"Or catfish, rolled in cornmeal and fried in ham fat?"

"Or guineas stewed in cream, with hard-boiled eggs in the gravy?"

"Oh, stop!" cried the delighted Mary. "It makes me dead tired thinkin'
how I'll iver be cookin' all you'll want. Sure, have him come, and both
of you can pick out the things you like the best, and I'll fix thim for
him. Pure, fresh stuff might be a trate to a city man. When Dolan took
sister Katie to New York with him, his boss sent them to a
five-dollar-a-day house, and they thought they was some up. By the
third day poor Katie was cryin' for a square male. She couldn't touch
the butter, the eggs made her sick, and the cold-storage meat and
chicken never got nearer her stomach than her nose. So she just ate
fish, because they were fresh, and she ate, and she ate, till if you
mintion New York to poor Katie she turns pale, and tastes fish. She
vows and declares that she feeds her chickens and hogs better food
twice a day than people fed her in New York."

"I'll bet my new milk pail the grub we eat ivery day would be a trate
that would raise him," said Jimmy. "Provided his taste ain't so
depraved with saltpeter and chalk he don't know fresh, pure food whin
he tastes it. I understand some of the victims really don't."

"Your new milk pail?" questioned Mary.

"That's what!" said Jimmy. "The next time I go to town I'm goin' to get
you two."

"But I only need one," protested Mary. "Instead of two, get me a new
dishpan. Mine leaks, and smears the stove and table."

"Be Gorry!" sighed Jimmy. "There goes me tongue, lettin' me in for it
again. I'll look over the skins, and if any of thim are ripe, I'll get
you a milk pail and a dishpan the nixt time I go to town. And, by gee!
If that dandy big coon hide I got last fall looks good, I'm going to
comb it up, and work the skin fine, and send it to the Thrid Man, with
me complimints. I don't feel right about him yet. Wonder what his name
railly is, and where he lives, or whether I killed him complate."

"Any dry goods man in town can tell ye," said Dannie.

"Ask the clerk in the hotel," suggested Mary.

"You've said it," cried Jimmy. "That's the stuff! And I can find out
whin he will be here again."

Two hours more they faithfully worked on the garden, and then Jimmy
began to grow restless.

"Ah, go on!" cried Mary. "You have done all that is needed just now,
and more too. There won't any fish bite to-day, but you can have the
pleasure of stringin' thim poor sufferin' worms on a hook and soaking
thim in the river."

"'Sufferin' worms!' Sufferin' Job!" cried Jimmy. "What nixt? Go on,
Dannie, get your pole!"

Dannie went. As he came back Jimmy was sprinkling a thin layer of earth
over the bait in the can. "Why not come along, Mary?" he suggested.

"I'm not done planting my seeds," she answered. "I'll be tired when I
am, and I thought that place wasn't fixed for me yet."

"We can't fix that till a little later," said Jimmy. "We can't tell
where it's going to be grassy and shady yet, and the wood is too wet to
fix a sate."

"Any kind of a sate will do," said Mary. "I guess you better not try to
make one out of the Kingfisher stump. If you take it out it may change
the pool and drive away the Bass."

"Sure!" cried Jimmy. "What a head you've got! We'll have to find some
other stump for a sate."

"I don't want to go until it gets dry under foot, and warmer" said
Mary. "You boys go on. I'll till you whin I am riddy to go."

"There!" said Jimmy, when well on the way to the river. "What did I
tell you? Won't go if she has the chance! Jist wants to be ASKED."

"I dinna pretend to know women," said Dannie gravely. "But whatever
Mary does is all richt with me."

"So I've obsarved," remarked Jimmy. "Now, how will we get at this
fishin' to be parfectly fair?"

"Tell ye what I think," said Dannie. "I think we ought to pick out the
twa best places about the Black Bass pool, and ye take ane fra yours
and I'll take the ither fra mine, and then we'll each fish from his own
place."

"Nothing fair about that," answered Jimmy. "You might just happen to
strike the bed where he lays most, and be gettin' bites all the time,
and me none; or I might strike it and you be left out. And thin there's
days whin the wind has to do, and the light. We ought to change places
ivery hour."

"There's nothing fair in that either," broke in Dannie. "I might have
him tolled up to my place, and juist be feedin' him my bait, and here
you'd come along and prove by your watch that my time was up, and take
him when I had him all ready to bite."

"That's so for you!" hurried in Jimmy. "I'll be hanged if I'd leave a
place by the watch whin I had a strike!"

"Me either," said Dannie. "'Tis past human nature to ask it. I'll tell
ye what we'll do. We'll go to work and rig up a sort of a bridge where
it's so narrow and shallow, juist above Kingfisher shoals, and then
we'll toss up fra sides. Then each will keep to his side. With a decent
pole either of us can throw across the pool, and both of us can fish as
we please. Then each fellow can pick his bait, and cast or fish deep as
he thinks best. What d'ye say to that?"

"I don't see how anything could be fairer than that," said Jimmy. "I
don't want to fish for anything but the Bass. I'm goin' back and get
our rubber boots, and you be rollin' logs, and we'll build that
crossing right now."

"All richt," said Dannie.

So they laid aside their poles and tackle, and Dannie rolled logs and
gathered material for the bridge, while Jimmy went back after their
boots. Then both of them entered the water and began clearing away
drift and laying the foundations. As the first log of the crossing
lifted above the water Dannie paused.

"How about the Kingfisher?" he asked. "Winna this scare him away?"

"Not if he ain't a domn fool," said Jimmy; "and if he is, let him go!"

"Seems like the river would no be juist richt without him," said
Dannie, breaking off a spice limb and nibbling the fragrant buds.
"Let's only use what we bare need to get across. And where will we fix
fra Mary?"

"Oh, git out!" said Jimmy. "I ain't goin' to fool with that."

"Well, we best fix a place. Then we can tell her we fixed it, and it's
all ready."

"Sure!" cried Jimmy. "You are catchin' it from your neighbor. Till her
a place is all fixed and watin', and you couldn't drag her here with a
team of oxen. Till her you are GOING to fix it soon, and she'll come to
see if you've done it, if she has to be carried on a stritcher."

So they selected a spot that they thought would be all right for Mary,
and not close enough to disturb the Bass and the Kingfisher, rolled two
logs, and fished a board that had been carried by a freshet from the
water and laid it across them, and decided that would have to serve
until they could do better.

Then they sat astride the board, Dannie drew out a coin, and they
tossed it to see which was heads and tails. Dannie won heads. Then they
tossed to see which bank was heads or tails, and the right, which was
on Rainbow side, came heads. So Jimmy was to use the bridge. Then they
went home, and began the night work. The first thing Jimmy espied was
the barrel containing the milk pail. He fished out the pail, and while
Dannie fed the stock, shoveled manure, and milked, Jimmy pounded out
the dents, closed the bullet holes, emptied the bait into it, half
filled it with mellow earth, and went to Mary for some corn meal to
sprinkle on the top to feed the worms.

At four o'clock the next morning, Dannie was up feeding, milking,
scraping plows, and setting bolts. After breakfast they piled their
implements on a mudboat, which Dannie drove, while Jimmy rode one of
his team, and led the other, and opened the gates. They began on
Dannie's field, because it was closest, and for the next two weeks,
unless it were too rainy to work, they plowed, harrowed, lined off, and
planted the seed.

The blackbirds followed along the furrows picking up grubs, the crows
cawed from high tree tops, the bluebirds twittered about hollow stumps
and fence rails, the wood thrushes sang out their souls in the thickets
across the river, and the King Cardinal of Rainbow Bottom whistled to
split his throat from the giant sycamore. Tender greens were showing
along the river and in the fields, and the purple of red-bud mingled
with the white of wild plum all along the Wabash.

The sunny side of the hill that sloped down to Rainbow Bottom was a
mass of spring beauties, anemones, and violets; thread-like ramps rose
rank to the scent among them, and round ginger leaves were thrusting
their folded heads through the mold. The Kingfisher was cleaning his
house and fishing from his favorite stump in the river, while near him,
at the fall of every luckless worm that missed its hold on a
blossom-whitened thorn tree, came the splash of the great Black Bass.
Every morning the Bass took a trip around Horseshoe Bend food hunting,
and the small fry raced for life before his big, shear-like jaws.
During the heat of noon he lay in the deep pool below the stump, and
rested; but when evening came he set out in search of supper, and
frequently he felt so good that he leaped clear of the water, and fell
back with a splash that threw shining spray about him, or lashed out
with his tail and sent widening circles of waves rolling from his
lurking place. Then the Kingfisher rattled with all his might, and flew
for the tunnel in the embankment.

Some of these days the air was still, the earth warmed in the golden
sunshine, and murmured a low song of sleepy content. Some days the wind
raised, whirling dead leaves before it, and covering the earth with
drifts of plum, cherry, and apple bloom, like late falling snow. Then
great black clouds came sweeping across the sky, and massed above
Rainbow Bottom. The lightning flashed as if the heavens were being
cracked open, and the rolling thunder sent terror to the hearts of man
and beast. When the birds flew for shelter, Dannie and Jimmy unhitched
their horses, and raced for the stables to escape the storm, and to be
with Mary, whom electricity made nervous.

They would sit on the little front porch, and watch the greedy earth
drink the downpour. They could almost see the grass and flowers grow.
When the clouds scattered, the thunder grew fainter; and the sun shone
again between light sprinkles of rain. Then a great, glittering rainbow
set its arch in the sky, and it planted one of its feet in Horseshoe
Bend, and the other so far away they could not even guess where.

If it rained lightly, in a little while Dannie and Jimmy could go back
to their work afield. If the downpour was heavy, and made plowing
impossible, they pulled weeds, and hoed in the garden. Dannie
discoursed on the wholesome freshness of the earth, and Jimmy ever
waited a chance to twist his words, and ring in a laugh on him. He
usually found it. Sometimes, after a rain, they took their bait cans,
and rods, and went down to the river to fish.

If one could not go, the other religiously refrained from casting bait
into the pool where the Black Bass lay. Once, when they were fishing
together, the Bass rose to a white moth, skittered over the surface by
Dannie late in the evening, and twice Jimmy had strikes which he
averred had taken the arm almost off him, but neither really had the
Bass on his hook. They kept to their own land, and fished when they
pleased, for game laws and wardens were unknown to them.

Truth to tell, neither of them really hoped to get the Bass before
fall. The water was too high in the spring. Minnows were plentiful, and
as Jimmy said, "It seemed as if the domn plum tree just rained
caterpillars." So they bided their time, and the signs prohibiting
trespass on all sides of their land were many and emphatic, and Mary
had instructions to ring the dinner bell if she caught sight of any
strangers.

The days grew longer, and the sun was insistent. Untold miles they
trudged back and forth across their land, guiding their horses, jerked
about with plows, their feet weighted with the damp, clinging earth,
and their clothing pasted to their wet bodies. Jimmy was growing
restless. Never in all his life had he worked so faithfully as that
spring, and never had his visits to Casey's so told on him. No matter
where they started, or how hard they worked, Dannie was across the
middle of the field, and helping Jimmy before the finish. It was always
Dannie who plowed on, while Jimmy rode to town for the missing bolt or
buckle, and he generally rolled from his horse into a fence corner, and
slept the remainder of the day on his return.

The work and heat were beginning to tire him, and his trips to Casey's
had been much less frequent than he desired. He grew to feel that
between them Dannie and Mary were driving him, and a desire to balk at
slight cause, gathered in his breast. He deliberately tied his team in
a fence corner, lay down, and fell asleep. The clanging of the supper
bell aroused him. He opened his eyes, and as he rose, found that Dannie
had been to the barn, and brought a horse blanket to cover him. Well as
he knew anything, Jimmy knew that he had no business sleeping in fence
corners so early in the season. With candor he would have admitted to
himself that a part of his brittle temper came from aching bones and
rheumatic twinges. Some way, the sight of Dannie swinging across the
field, looking as fresh as in the early morning, and the fact that he
had carried a blanket to cover him, and the further fact that he was
wild for drink, and could think of no excuse on earth for going to
town, brought him to a fighting crisis.

Dannie turned his horses at Jimmy's feet.

"Come on, Jimmy, supper bell has rung," he cried. "We mustn't keep Mary
waiting. She wants us to help her plant the sweet potatoes to-nicht."

Jimmy rose, and his joints almost creaked. The pain angered him. He
leaned forward and glared at Dannie.

"Is there one minute of the day whin you ain't thinkin' about my wife?"
he demanded, oh, so slowly, and so ugly!

Dannie met his hateful gaze squarely. "Na a minute," he answered,
"excepting when I am thinking about ye."

"The Hell you say!" exploded the astonished Jimmy.

Dannie stepped out of the furrow, and came closer. "See here, Jimmy
Malone," he said. "Ye ain't forgot the nicht when I told ye I loved
Mary, with all my heart, and that I'd never love another woman. I sent
ye to tell her fra me, and to ask if I might come to her. And ye
brought me her answer. It's na your fault that she preferred ye.
Everybody did. But it IS your fault that I've stayed on here. I tried
to go, and ye wouldna let me. So for fifteen years, ye have lain with
the woman I love, and I have lain alone in a few rods of ye. If that
ain't Man-Hell, try some other on me, and see if it will touch me! I
sent ye to tell her that I loved her; have I ever sent ye to tell her
that I've quit? I should think you'd know, by this time, that I'm na
quitter. Love her! Why, I love her till I can see her standin' plain
before me, when I know she's a mile away. Love her! Why, I can smell
her any place I am, sweeter than any flower I ever held to my face.
Love her! Till the day I dee I'll love her. But it ain't any fault of
yours, and if ye've come to the place where I worry ye, that's the
place where I go, as I wanted to on the same day ye brought Mary to
Rainbow Bottom."

Jimmy's gray jaws fell open. Jimmy's sullen eyes cleared. He caught
Dannie by the arm.

"For the love of Hivin, what did I say, Dannie?" he panted. "I must
have been half asleep. Go! You go! You leave Rainbow Bottom! Thin, by
God, I go too! I won't stay here without you, not a day. If I had to
take my choice between you, I'd give up Mary before I'd give up the
best frind I iver had. Go! I guess not, unless I go with you! She can
go to----"

"Jimmy! Jimmy!" cautioned Dannie.

"I mane ivery domn word of it," said Jimmy. "I think more of you, than
I iver did of any woman."

Dannie drew a deep breath. "Then why in the name of God did ye SAY that
thing to me? I have na betrayed your trust in me, not ever, Jimmy, and
ye know it. What's the matter with ye?"

Jimmy heaved a deep sigh, and rubbed his hands across his hot, angry
face. "Oh, I'm just so domn sore!" he said. "Some days I get about
wild. Things haven't come out like I thought they would."

"Jimmy, if ye are in trouble, why do ye na tell me? Canna I help ye?
Have'nt I always helped ye if I could?"

"Yes, you have," said Jimmy. "Always, been a thousand times too good to
me. But you can't help here. I'm up agin it alone, but put this in your
pipe, and smoke it good and brown, if you go, I go. I don't stay here
without you."

"Then it's up to ye na to make it impossible for me to stay," said
Dannie. "After this, I'll try to be carefu'. I've had no guard on my
lips. I've said whatever came into my heid."

The supper bell clanged sharply a second time.

"That manes more Hivin on the Wabash," said Jimmy. "Wish I had a bracer
before I face it."

"How long has it been, Jimmy?" asked Dannie.

"Etarnity!" replied Jimmy briefly.

Dannie stood thinking, and then light broke. Jimmy was always short of
money in summer. When trapping was over, and before any crops were
ready, he was usually out of funds. Dannie hesitated, and then he said,
"Would a small loan be what ye need, Jimmy?"

Jimmy's eyes gleamed. "It would put new life into me," he cried.
"Forgive me, Dannie. I am almost crazy."

Dannie handed over a coin, and after supper Jimmy went to town. Then
Dannie saw his mistake. He had purchased peace for himself, but what
about Mary?



Chapter VI

THE HEART OF MARY MALONE

  "This is the job that was done with the reaper,
  If we hustle we can do it ourselves,
  Thus securing to us a little cheaper,
  The bread and pie upon our pantry shelves.

  Eat this wheat, by and by,
  On this beautiful Wabash shore,
  Drink this rye, by and by,
  Eat and drink on this beautiful shore."


So sang Jimmy as he drove through the wheat, oats and rye accompanied
by the clacking machinery. Dannie stopped stacking sheaves to mop his
warm, perspiring face and to listen. Jimmy always with an eye to the
effect he was producing immediately broke into wilder parody:

  "Drive this mower, a little slower,
  On this beautiful Wabash shore,
  Cuttin' wheat to buy our meat,
  Cuttin' oats, to buy our coats,
  Also pants, if we get the chance.

  By and by, we'll cut the rye,
  But I bet my hat I drink that, I drink that.
  Drive this mower a little slower,
  In this wheat, in this wheat, by and by."

The larks scolded, fluttering over head, for at times the reaper
overtook their belated broods. The bobolinks danced and chattered on
stumps and fences, in an agony of suspense, when their nests were
approached, and cried pitifully if they were destroyed. The chewinks
flashed from the ground to the fences and trees, and back, crying
"Che-wink?" "Che-wee!" to each other, in such excitement that they
appeared to be in danger of flirting off their long tails. The quail
ran about the shorn fields, and excitedly called from fence riders to
draw their flocks into the security of Rainbow Bottom.

Frightened hares bounded through the wheat, and if the cruel blade
sheared into their nests, Dannie gathered the wounded and helpless of
the scattered broods in his hat, and carried them to Mary.

Then came threshing, which was a busy time, but after that, through the
long hot days of late July and August, there was little to do afield,
and fishing was impossible. Dannie grubbed fence corners, mended
fences, chopped and corded wood for winter, and in spare time read his
books. For the most part Jimmy kept close to Dannie. Jimmy's temper
never had been so variable. Dannie was greatly troubled, for despite
Jimmy's protests of devotion, he flared at a word, and sometimes at no
word at all. The only thing in which he really seemed interested was
the coon skin he was dressing to send to Boston. Over that he worked by
the hour, sometimes with earnest face, and sometimes he raised his
head, and let out a whoop that almost frightened Mary. At such times he
was sure to go on and give her some new detail of the hunt for the
fifty coons, that he had forgotten to tell her before.

He had been to the hotel, and learned the Thread Man's name and
address, and found that he did not come regularly, and no one knew when
to expect him; so when he had combed and brushed the fur to its finest
point, and worked the skin until it was velvet soft, and bleached it
until it was muslin white, he made it into a neat package and sent it
with his compliments to the Boston man. After he had waited for a week,
he began going to town every day to the post office for the letter he
expected, and coming home much worse for a visit to Casey's. Since
plowing time he had asked Dannie for money as he wanted it, telling him
to keep an account, and he would pay him in the fall. He seemed to
forget or not to know how fast his bills grew.

Then came a week in August when the heat invaded even the cool retreat
along the river. Out on the highway passing wheels rolled back the dust
like water, and raised it in clouds after them. The rag weeds hung
wilted heads along the road. The goldenrod and purple ironwort were
dust-colored and dust-choked. The trees were thirsty, and their leaves
shriveling. The river bed was bare its width in places, and while the
Kingfisher made merry with his family, and rattled, feasting from Abram
Johnson's to the Gar-hole, the Black Bass sought its deep pool, and lay
still. It was a rare thing to hear it splash in those days.

The prickly heat burned until the souls of men were tried. Mary slipped
listlessly about or lay much of the time on a couch beside a window,
where a breath of air stirred. Despite the good beginning he had made
in the spring, Jimmy slumped with the heat and exposures he had risked,
and was hard to live with.

Dannie was not having a good time himself. Since Jimmy's wedding, life
had been all grind to Dannie, but he kept his reason, accepted his lot,
and ground his grist with patience and such cheer as few men could have
summoned to the aid of so poor a cause. Had there been any one to
notice it, Dannie was tired and heat-ridden also, but as always, Dannie
sank self, and labored uncomplainingly with Jimmy's problems. On a
burning August morning Dannie went to breakfast, and found Mary white
and nervous, little prepared to eat, and no sign of Jimmy.

"Jimmy sleeping?" he asked.

"I don't know where Jimmy is," Mary answered coldly.

"Since when?" asked Dannie, gulping coffee, and taking hasty bites, for
he had begun his breakfast supposing that Jimmy would come presently.

"He left as soon as you went home last night," she said, "and he has
not come back yet."

Dannie did not know what to say. Loyal to the bone to Jimmy, loving
each hair on the head of Mary Malone, and she worn and neglected; the
problem was heartbreaking in any solution he attempted, and he felt
none too well himself. He arose hastily, muttering something about
getting the work done. He brought in wood and water, and asked if there
was anything more he could do.

"Sure!" said Mary, in a calm, even voice. "Go to the barn, and shovel
manure for Jimmy Malone, and do all the work he shirks, before you do
anything for yoursilf."

Dannie always had admitted that he did not understand women, but he
understood a plain danger signal, and he almost ran from the cabin. In
the fear that Mary might think he had heeded her hasty words, he went
to his own barn first, just to show her that he did not do Jimmy's
work. The flies and mosquitoes were so bad he kept his horses stabled
through the day, and turned them to pasture at night. So their stalls
were to be cleaned, and he set to work. When he had finished his own
barn, as he had nothing else to do, he went on to Jimmy's. He had
finished the stalls, and was sweeping when he heard a sound at the back
door, and turning saw Jimmy clinging to the casing, unable to stand
longer. Dannie sprang to him, and helped him inside. Jimmy sank to the
floor. Dannie caught up several empty grain sacks, folded them, and
pushed them under Jimmy's head for a pillow.

"Dannish, didsh shay y'r nash'nal flowerish wash shisle?" asked Jimmy.

"Yes," said Dannie, lifting the heavy auburn head to smooth the folds
from the sacks.

"Whysh like me?"

"I dinna," answered Dannie wearily.

"Awful jagsh on," murmured Jimmy, sighed heavily, and was off. His
clothing was torn and dust-covered, his face was purple and bloated,
and his hair was dusty and disordered. He was a repulsive sight. As
Dannie straightened Jimmy's limbs he thought he heard a step. He lifted
his head and leaned forward to listen.

"Dannie Micnoun?" called the same even, cold voice he had heard at
breakfast. "Have you left me, too?"

Dannie sprang for a manger. He caught a great armload of hay, and threw
it over Jimmy. He gave one hurried toss to scatter it, for Mary was in
the barn. As he turned to interpose his body between her and the
manger, which partially screened Jimmy, his heart sickened. He was too
late. She had seen. Frightened to the soul, he stared at her. She came
a step closer, and with her foot gave a hand of Jimmy's that lay
exposed a contemptuous shove.

"You didn't get him complately covered," she said. "How long have you
had him here?"

Dannie was frightened into speech. "Na a minute, Mary; he juist came in
when I heard ye. I was trying to spare ye."

"Him, you mane," she said, in that same strange voice. "I suppose you
give him money, and he has a bottle, and he's been here all night."

"Mary," said Dannie, "that's na true. I have furnished him money. He'd
mortgage the farm, or do something worse if I didna; but I dinna WHERE
he has been all nicht, and in trying to cover him, my only thought was
to save ye pain."

"And whin you let him spind money you know you'll never get back, and
loaf while you do his work, and when you lie mountain high, times
without number, who is it for?"

Then fifteen years' restraint slid from Dannie like a cloak, and in the
torture of his soul his slow tongue outran all its previous history.

"Ye!" he shouted. "It's fra Jimmy, too, but ye first. Always ye first!"
Mary began to tremble. Her white cheeks burned red. Her figure
straightened, and her hands clenched.

"On the cross! Will you swear it?" she cried.

"On the sacred body of Jesus Himself, if I could face Him," answered
Dannie. "Anything! Everything is fra ye first, Mary!"

"Then why?" she panted between gasps for breath. "Tell me why? If you
have cared for me enough to stay here all these years and see that I
had the bist tratemint you could get for me, why didn't you care for me
enough more to save me this? Oh, Dannie, tell me why?"

And then she shook with strangled sobs until she scarce could stand
alone. Dannie Macnoun cleared the space between them and took her in
his arms. Her trembling hands clung to him, her head dropped on his
breast, and the perfume of her hair in his nostrils drove him mad. Then
the tense bulk of her body struck against him, and horror filled his
soul. One second he held her, the next, Jimmy smothering under the hay,
threw up an arm, and called like a petulant child, "Dannie! Make shun
quit shinish my fashe!"

And Dannie awoke to the realization that Mary was another man's, and
that man, one who trusted him completely. The problem was so much too
big for poor Dannie that reason kindly slipped a cog. He broke from the
grasp of the woman, fled through the back door, and took to the woods.

He ran as if fiends were after him, and he ran and ran. And when he
could run no longer, he walked, but he went on. Just on and on. He
crossed forests and fields, orchards and highways, streams and rivers,
deep woods and swamps, and on, and on he went. He felt nothing, and saw
nothing, and thought nothing, save to go on, always on. In the dark he
stumbled on and through the day he staggered on, and he stopped for
nothing, save at times to lift water to his parched lips.

The bushes took his hat, the thorns ripped his shirt, the water soaked
his shoes and they spread and his feet came through and the stones cut
them until they bled. Leaves and twigs stuck in his hair, and his eyes
grew bloodshot, his lips and tongue swollen, and when he could go no
further on his feet, he crawled on his knees, until at last he pitched
forward on his face and lay still. The tumult was over and Mother
Nature set to work to see about repairing damages.

Dannie was so badly damaged, soul, heart, and body, that she never
would have been equal to the task, but another woman happened that way
and she helped. Dannie was carried to a house and a doctor dressed his
hurts. When the physician got down to first principles, and found a
big, white-bodied, fine-faced Scotchman in the heart of the wreck, he
was amazed. A wild man, but not a whiskey bloat. A crazy man, but not a
maniac. He stood long beside Dannie as he lay unconscious.

"I'll take oath that man has wronged no one," he said. "What in the
name of God has some woman been doing to him?"

He took money from Dannie's wallet and bought clothing to replace the
rags he had burned. He filled Dannie with nourishment, and told the
woman who found him that when he awoke, if he did not remember, to tell
him that his name was Dannie Macnoun, and that he lived in Rainbow
Bottom, Adams County. Because just at that time Dannie was halfway
across the state.

A day later he awoke, in a strange room and among strange faces. He
took up life exactly where he left off. And in his ears, as he
remembered his flight, rang the awful cry uttered by Mary Malone, and
not until then did there come to Dannie the realization that she had
been driven to seek him for help, because her woman's hour was upon
her. Cold fear froze Dannie's soul.

He went back by railway and walked the train most of the way. He
dropped from the cars at the water tank and struck across country, and
again he ran. But this time it was no headlong flight. Straight as a
homing bird went Dannie with all speed, toward the foot of the Rainbow
and Mary Malone.

The Kingfisher sped rattling down the river when Dannie came crashing
along the bank.

"Oh, God, let her be alive!" prayed Dannie as he leaned panting against
a tree for an instant, because he was very close now and sickeningly
afraid. Then he ran on. In a minute it would be over. At the next turn
he could see the cabins. As he dashed along, Jimmy Malone rose from a
log and faced him. A white Jimmy, with black-ringed eyes and shaking
hands.

"Where the Hell have you been?" Jimmy demanded.

"Is she dead?" cried Dannie.

"The doctor is talking scare," said Jimmy. "But I don't scare so easy.
She's never been sick in her life, and she has lived through it twice
before, why should she die now? Of course the kid is dead again," he
added angrily.

Dannie shut his eyes and stood still. He had helped plant star-flowers
on two tiny cross-marked mounds at Five Mile Hill. Now, there were
three. Jimmy had worn out her love for him, that was plain. "Why should
she die now?" To Dannie it seemed that question should have been, "Why
should she live?"

Jimmy eyed him belligerently. "Why in the name of sinse did you cut out
whin I was off me pins?" he growled. "Of course I don't blame you for
cutting that kind of a party, me for the woods, all right, but what I
can't see is why you couldn't have gone for the doctor and waited until
I'd slept it off before you wint."

"I dinna know she was sick," answered Dannie. "I deserve anything ony
ane can say to me, and it's all my fault if she dees, but this ane
thing ye got to say ye know richt noo, Jimmy. Ye got to say ye know
that I dinna understand Mary was sick when I went."

"Sure! I've said that all the time," agreed Jimmy. "But what I don't
understand is, WHY you went! I guess she thinks it was her fault. I
came out here to try to study it out. The nurse-woman, domn pretty
girl, says if you don't get back before midnight, it's all up. You're
just on time, Dannie. The talk in the house is that she'll wink out if
you don't prove to her that she didn't drive you away. She is about
crazy 

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