"Th' crick 'll lead yo'. Nigh onto half mile frum here."

"I'm coming to see you and your granny some day soon. May I? You know it's lonesome for me out here. I'm not used to it. May I come?"

She gazed at me with steady gray eyes for a few moments.

"Ye-e-es; I s'pose so," she answered, reluctantly; "if yo' git lonesome.... Whut yo' keer'n' that jar fur?"

Her glance had just espied it, and now it was my turn to blush.

"I'll tell you--when I see you again," I compromised, laughing.

She started off, but stopped and turned.

"Live on Baldy, yo' say?"

"Yes; in the old log house there."

"I go thur sometimes. Maybe I'll come 'n' see you!"

"All right. You'll be mighty welcome."

"Good-by."

"Good-by."

She did not look back, and I stood with a distinct sensation enveloping me until her copper-gold head, crowned with the star-like dogwood, had pa.s.sed from view.

CHAPTER FIVE

IN WHICH I SAY WHAT I PLEASE

A prodigious miracle has happened.

It is not yet mid-April, but the Spirit of Life has stirred in every bole and bough; every twig and tendril. The awakening has been so gradual, so stealthy, so silent, that not until this afternoon did I notice that the far reaching brown world over which I daily looked, had changed.

I had been doing some rough carpentering--building a bench on either side of my doorway outside, using a broad plank I had found in the kitchen for the purpose. It is true I had chairs, and chairs are more comfortable, but it has struck me that the Lodge would look better with these benches in front; would have a more finished appearance. So I knocked them up quickly. Now on the further rim of my plateau grows a single pine; a tall, many-limbed, graceful tree. Somehow the thought was born that a bench under this pine would not be placed amiss, so I walked toward it to investigate the idea at close range. Its lowest branches shot out more than two feet over my head, and as I pa.s.sed under them I obtained a fresh and un.o.bstructed view of a tremendous reach of landscape. Instantly my mind received the impression that something had happened. The entire perspective was subtly transformed.

Before me was nothing but trees--a vast valley full; slopes clothed with them and peaks capped with them. And each tree was touched with mystery; the familiar, never to be understood trans.m.u.tation of sap to bud and leaf. The effect from where I stood was not beautiful only; it awoke a positive awe in my heart. The immense area comprehended by my gaze was undergoing resurrection. Painless, soundless, without effort, the ancient forest was coming back to life; to green, vigorous, waving and dancing life. The process was as yet scarcely begun, but already it was a veracious promise of perfect fulfillment. A tenuous, lacey veil of pale, elusive green seemed stretched over all growth within the scope of my vision. A misty, unreal something it appeared; a gossamer covering which would vanish before the first breath of wind, or touch of sun. But well I knew the truth! It was the sun, and the wind, and the rain which had compa.s.sed the wonder. Beneath their united power the sluggish sap had first stirred in the hidden roots, and when the insistent summons became more and more powerful, had mysteriously arisen through successive cells of fiber, up and up, into every branch, into every limb, into the smallest and most insignificant twig, where Nature's final marvelous alchemy was performed, and moisture turned to bud, and bud turned to leaf. A leaf perfectly shaped and veined, each to its own tree.

Dusk came upon me as I gazed, enraptured. Softly the light stole away, and the shadows came. Now the horizon range was a wall of gloom, and then, like billows which made no sound, velvety waves of darkness overflowed all before me, blotting it out. But I know that to-morrow the lacey veil would have a deeper shade, and that soon, with millions upon millions of leaves astir, the Harpist of the Wood, when he touched his responsive strings, would draw yet a grander measure.

No bench went under the pine tree that night, but the next day I builded it well. It is a fine spot to sit and dream--a pastime I love.

CHAPTER SIX

IN WHICH I MEET A SATYR

Two weeks have pa.s.sed since I talked with the dryad in the glade.

I am getting along splendidly. That is, my appet.i.te is good, I sleep the night through, and my trouble remains at a standstill. I'm not expecting this to leave me at once. I read some every night. The days I force myself to spend outdoors. If I do not go on a tramp, I prowl around my hill of refuge. Yesterday I found a creditable cave some score of rods from the Lodge, in about the same lat.i.tude. There is an irregular, outjutting ledge of rock here, and it was beneath a moss-splotched bowlder I found a hole leading into the k.n.o.b, its entrance large enough for me to stand erect in. I am not averse to a mild adventure, so I began a tentative exploration. I had proceeded but a few steps, however, when I stopped. I heard something. I had my revolver with me--I make a habit of taking it with me wherever I go--so I drew this and advanced a little further. The sound was repeated, louder and more menacing. I would have thought it the hiss of a serpent, but for its remarkable volume. I looked, but could see nothing. The pa.s.sage ended in darkness.

The floor was littered with small stones, and pebbles mixed with fine sand. I picked up one of the stones and tossed it sharply into the darkness ahead. The response was instantaneous. The hissing was renewed, but now it was accompanied by a scuffling sound, and I became aware that some formless thing was approaching me. I could see the bulk of it making for me--but that was enough! I turned and ran, ignominiously, forgetting my weapon in my fright. As I made my exit from the cave at full speed I grasped a near-by sapling desperately, described an erratic and ungraceful arc, thus saving myself from tumbling down the steep declivity which faced me, and finally brought up some score of feet away. I turned to see if I was pursued, but there was only an anxious and solicitous mother buzzard in the cave-mouth, her ugly neck outstretched toward me, and her broad wings bowed in anger. I laughed.

It was a little late for their nesting season, but this one doubtless had a pair of miserable little yellow goslings back in that hole.

I give this incident to show how quiet my life was up to this time, and how such a trifling occurrence really caused me much excitement.

I began my chronicle to-night by saying it had been two weeks since I talked with the dryad in the glade. Why should I reckon time from that?

I wrote the sentence unconsciously. Now, when I come to think about it, I realize that the dryad has been in my mind a very great deal during the last fortnight. You must know there is to be no concealment in this narrative. It is to be a record of absolute truth. Not only what I do, but what I think and feel, shall be faithfully set down. She--I don't even know her name! I can't see why I should have parted from her without asking her name, since I shall in all likelihood see her many times during the coming year. Perhaps it was her eyes which made me forget such an important question. I have never seen eyes like hers--never. They are the Irish gray. That's a different gray from all others, as I suppose you know. Don't ask me how they are different, for I don't propose to attempt an explanation. But they are, and especially is this true in women's eyes. A woman with Irish gray eyes can be dangerous if she wants to. In addition to their remarkable color, the dryad's eyes have very white lids which droop the least bit, perpetually shading the iris. She is something of a paradox. She has small feet, smooth hands and carefully kept nails, but her language, while spoken in a peculiarly pleasing voice, is so ungrammatical and colloquial that it makes rigors creep over me. I told her that I was coming to see her and her granny, but I haven't gone. Why haven't I? I told her I was coming to see her because I got lonely. Have I been lonely? Yes; very. Three days ago I bravely started for the glade where I had found her, intending to follow the guiding creek on to Lizard Point. I turned off before I reached the creek and went ten miles in another direction. Why did I do that? I want to see the dryad again. She interests me; I feel that we shall be good friends. She has a bright and ready mind, and is absolutely natural. She says what she wants to, laughs when she wants to, does what she wants to. I verily think she would be incapable of deception or guile, but I may be wrong in this. I suspect I am. Such things are not conditions resultant from culture and refinement; they belong to the human organism, and so, by virtue of her being, the dryad must possess them.

To-morrow I am going to Lizard Point.

This afternoon I came in before sunset from a very leisurely tramp of about four hours. Whenever I stir abroad my pint Mason jar full of fresh water goes with me, for I have banished all doubt, and believe steadfastly in the life-plant. You may be sure I am always looking, always watching. That is my sole object in life just now. I feel that I will find the thing if it grows in this part of the world, for my search is to be most thorough. Thus far I have discovered nothing whatever to arouse hope or antic.i.p.ation.

I came home early to-day because I am to have a garden. I decided upon this last night after I was abed. Just before I toppled over into sleep I remembered that the ground to the left of the Lodge was loamy, with few rocks, and not many stumps. So to-day I despatched an early supper, took a rake and began to clear the ground. It was nice, easy work, and I soon discovered that my garden would run sixty feet one way by forty-five or fifty the other. There was a heavy layer of decaying leaves to sc.r.a.pe away, a number of loose stones, and quant.i.ties of sticks fallen or blown from trees. I stopped in about fifteen minutes to refill my pipe, found that I had left my tobacco on one of the benches, and went and helped myself. As I touched match to bowl I heard a high, harsh voice singing in the most dolorous key imaginable the following doggerel couplet:

"Rabbit in th' log.

Ain't got no rabbit dog."

I stopped drawing on the stem, and turned my head in the direction of the sound. The burning splinter of pine nipped my fingers, and I dropped it. The crazy tune came from down the road, which curved not a great distance away. Again, louder, and in a more positive tone, some one declared:

"Rabbit in th' log, Ain't got no rabbit dog.

Chick'n on my back, Houn' on my track, I'm a-makin' fur my shanty-- G.o.d knows!"

The last word was carried through fluctuations which would almost have stood for a cadenza in a music score, and as it trailed off into silence the singer appeared from around the bend.

In the half light he presented a strange, almost a grotesque figure, as he toiled up the road repeating over and over his peculiar lines. I stood perfectly quiet, and watched his approach. There was a certain limp to his gait, coupled with a decided unsteadiness, which made his seeming yet more uncouth as he drew nearer and nearer through the gloaming. His head was bent, and he was unaware of my presence until he reached the plateau, and advanced some distance across it. Then he looked up, saw me, and came to a standstill with a jerky motion. He was perhaps twenty feet from me, as we stood and exchanged stares.

An exceedingly tall, loose-jointed individual faced me. His clothing was nondescript, mostly rags and tatters. His trousers, frayed at the ends, came to an abrupt stop several inches above the tops of his run-down, rusty shoes, and the s.p.a.ces between showed a dust-begrimed skin. He wore a coat of the Prince Albert pattern, much too small. Beneath this was some sort of shirt which would not admit of description. His face was gaunt and hairy. I will not say he wore a beard; the term would be incorrect. The hair grew in patches; sickly, stringy strands, with an extra tuft on the chin which curved sideways. I was forcibly reminded of a goat when I saw this chin-tuft. He wore a colorless, conical felt hat, broad-brimmed and bandless. The brim continued the slope of the crown in an unbroken line, producing a startling effect. There came to my mind the headgear of Hendrik Hudson's crew as depicted in the play of Rip Van Winkle. This specter-like apparition might well have been a ghost, but for the recent evidence of a strong pair of lungs. Beneath one arm, hugged to his side, the figure carried a bundle covered with oilcloth.

For the length of a half-dozen breaths we stood motionless and speechless. Then the figure began to nod its head at me, slowly, soberly, up and down, up and down, and with each movement the curved chin-tuft would shake. This senseless action irritated me. I don't know why, for it might just as well have caused amus.e.m.e.nt. But for some reason I felt anger rising within me; not violent, but enough to barb my tongue.

"Who are you, and what do you want?"

My words were sharp, but that they did not cut I knew from the sprightly reply.

"I'm a fiddler, 'n' I don't want nothin'!"

Still the head bobbed, and the goat-tuft shook.

"You're nothing of the sort," I retorted; "you're a satyr, and you want a drink of whiskey!"