Part 8 (2/2)

”Old as Jove, Old as Love'”

”I thought Love was young!”--Christine in a whisper aside.

”'Who of me Tells the pedigree? Only the mountains old, Only the waters cold, Only the moon and stars, My coevals are.'”

Moya sighed, and sank into prose again. ”There is a gaudy yellow moss in these woods that flecks the straight and mournful tree-trunks like a wandering glint of sunlight; and there is a crepe-like black moss that hangs funeral scarfs upon the boughs, as if there had been a death in the forest, and the trees were in line for the burial procession. The grating of our voices on this supreme silence reminds one of 'Why will you still be talking, Monsieur Bened.i.c.k?--n.o.body marks you.'

”There are silences, and again there are whole symphonies of sound. The winds smites the tree-tops over our heads, a surf-like roar comes up the slope, and the yellow pine-needles fall across the deepest darks as motes sail down a sunbeam. One wearies of the constant perpendicular, always these stiff, columnar lines, varied only by the melancholy incline where some great pine-chieftain is leaning to his fall supported in the arms of his comrades, or by the tragic prostration of the 'down timber'--beautiful straight-cut English these woodsmen talk.

”Last evening John and I sat by the stove in the men's tent, while the others were in the cabin playing penny-ante with the cook (a sodden brute who toadies to the Bowens, and sulks with John because he objected to our hiring the fellow--an objection which I sustained, hence his logical spite includes me). John was melting pine gum and elk tallow into a dressing for our boots. I took a mean advantage of him, his hands being in the tallow and the tent-flap down, and tried on him a little of--now, don't deride me!--'Wood Notes.' It is seldom one can get the comment of a genuine woodsman on Nature according to the poets.'”

Moya read on perfunctorily, feeling that she was not carrying her audience with her, and longing for the time when she could take her letter away and have it all to herself. If she stopped now, Christine, in this sudden new freak of distrustfulness, would be sure to misunderstand.

”'For Nature ever faithful is To such as trust her faithfulness.

When the forest shall mislead me, When the night and morning lie, When sea and land refuse to feed me, Will be time enough to die.

Then will yet my Mother yield A pillow in her greenest field; Nor the June flowers scorn to cover The clay of their departed lover.'”

”That is beautiful,” Mrs. Bogardus murmured hastily. ”Even I can understand that.” Moya thanked her with a glance.

”And what did the infallible John say?” Christine inquired.

”John looked at me and smiled, as at a babbling infant”--

”Good for John!”

”Christine, be still!”

”John looked at me and smiled,” Moya repeated steadily. Nothing could have stopped her now. She only hoped for some further scattering mention of that ”certain member” who had set them all at odds and spoiled what should have been an hour's pure happiness. ”'You'll get the pillow all right,' he said. 'It might not be a green one, nor I wouldn't bank much on the flowers; but you'll be tired enough to sleep without rocking about the time you trust to Nature's tuckin' you in and puttin' victuals in your mouth. I never _see_ nature till I came out here. I'd seen pretty woods and views, that a young lady could take down with her paints; but how are you going to paint that?'--he waved his tallow-stick towards the night outside. 'Ears can't reach the bottom of that stillness. That's creation before G.o.d ever thought of man. Long as I've been in the woods, I never get over the feeling that there's _something behind me_. If you go towards the trees, they come to meet you; if you go backwards, they go back; but you can't sit down and sit still without they'll come a-creeping up and creeping up, and crowding in'--

”He stirred his 'dope' awhile, and then he struck another note. 'I've wintered alone in these mountains,' he said, 'and I've seen snowslides pounce out of a clear sky--a puff and a flash and a roar; an' trees four foot across snappin' like kindlin' wood--not because it hit 'em; only the breath of it struck them; and maybe a man lying dead somewheres under his cabin timbers. That's no mother's love-tap. Pillows and flowers ain't in it. But it's good poetry,' he added condescendingly.

”I have not quoted him right, not being much of a snap-shot at dialect; and his is an undefined, uncla.s.sifiable mixture. Eastern farm-hand and Western ranchman, prospector, who knows what? His real language is in his eye and his rare, pure smile. And just as his countenance expresses his thoughts without circ.u.mlocution or attempt at effect, so his body informs his clothing. Wind and rain have moulded his hat to his head, his shoes grip the ground like paws; his buckskins have a surface like a cast after Rodin. They are repousseed by the hard bones and sinews underneath. I can think of nothing but the clothing of Millet's peasants to compare with this exterior of John's. He is himself a peasant of the woods. He has not the predatory instincts. If he could have his way, not a shot would be fired by any of us for the mere idle sport of killing.

Shooting these innocent, fearless creatures, who have not learned that we are here for their destruction, is too like murder and treachery combined. Hunger should be our only excuse. My forbearance, or weakness, is a sort of unspoken bond between us. But I am a peasant, too, you know. I do not come of the lordly, arms-bearing blood. I shoot at a live mark always under protest; and when I fairly catch the look in the great eye of a dying elk or black-tail, it knocks me out for that day's hunt.”

”Paul is perfectly happy!” Christine broke in. ”He has got one of his beloved People to grovel to. They can sleep in the same tent and eat from the same plate, if you like. Why, it's better than the East Side!

He'll be blood brother to Packer John before they leave the woods.”

Moya blushed with anger.

”You have said enough on that subject, Christine.” Mrs. Bogardus bent her dark, keen gaze upon her daughter's face. ”Come”--she rose. ”Come with me!”

Christine sat still. ”Come!” her mother repeated sternly. ”Moya,”--in a different voice,--”your letter was lovely. Shall you read it to your father?”

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