Upon the barn Ajax spread and exulted in glittering plumage, and screamed viciously. He was sending a wireless plea to the forests of Ceylon for a gray mate to come and share the ridge pole with him, and help him wage red war on the sickening love making of the white doves he hated.
Everything was beautiful, some of it was amusing, all instructive, and intensely interesting. The Girl wanted to know about the brown, yellow, and black butterflies sailing from flower to flower. She watched big black and gold bees come from the forest for pollen and listened to their monotonous bumbling. Her first humming bird poised in air, and sipped nectar before her astonished eyes. It was marvellous, but more wonderful to the Girl than anything she saw or heard was the fact that because of the Harvester’s teachings she now could trace through all of it the ordained processes of the evolution of life. Everything was right in its way, all necessary to human welfare, and so there was nothing to fear, but marvels to learn and pictures to appreciate. She would have taken Belshazzar and gone out, but the Harvester had exacted a promise that she would not. The fact was, he could see that she was coming gradually to a sane and natural view of life and living things, and he did not want some sound or creature to frighten her, and spoil what he had accomplished. So she swayed in the swing and watched, and tried to interpret sights and sounds as he did.
Before an hour she realized that she was coming speedily into sympathy with the wild life around her; for, instead of shivering and shrinking at unaccustomed sounds, she was listening especially for them, and trying to arrive at a sane version. Instead of the senseless roar of commerce, manufacture, and life of a city, she was beginning to appreciate sounds that varied and carried the Song of Life in unceasing measure and absorbing meaning, while she was more than thankful for the fresh, pure air, and the blessed, God-given light. It seemed to the Girl that there was enough sunshine at Medicine Woods to furnish rays of gold for the whole world.
“Bel,” she said to the dog standing beside her, “it’s a shame to separate you from the Medicine Man and pen you here with me. It’s a wonder you don’t bite off my head and run away to find him. He’s gone to bring more things to make life beautiful. I wanted to go with him, but oh Bel, there’s something dreadfully wrong with me. I was afraid I’d fall on the streets and frighten and shame him. I’m so weak, I scarcely can walk straight across one of these big, cool rooms that he has built for me. He can make everything beautiful, Bel, a home, rooms, clothing, grounds, and life—above everything else he can make life beautiful. He’s so splendid and wonderful, with his wide understanding and sane interpretation and God-like sympathy and patience. Why Belshazzar, he can do the greatest thing in all the world! He can make you forget that the grave annihilates your dear ones by hideous processes, and set you to thinking instead that they come back to you in whispering leaves and flower perfumes. If I didn’t owe him so much that I ought to pay, if this wasn’t so alluringly beautiful, I’d like to go to the oak and lie beside those dear women resting there, and give my tired body to furnish sap for strength and leaves for music. He can take its bitterest sting—from death, Bel—and that’s the most wonderful thing—in life, Bel—”
Her voice became silent, her eyes closed; the dog stretched himself beside her on guard, and it was so the Harvester found them when he drove home from the city. He heaped his load in the dining-room, stabled Betsy, carried the things he had brought where he thought they belonged, and prepared food. When she awakened she came to him.
“How is it going, Girl?” asked the Harvester.
“I can’t tell you how lovely it has been!”
“Do you really mean that your heart is warming a little to things here?”
“Indeed I do! I can’t tell you what a morning I’ve had. There have been such myriad things to see and hear. Oh, Harvester, can you ever teach me what all of it means?”
“I can right now,” said the Harvester promptly. “It means two things, so simple any little child can understand—the love of God and the evolution of life. I am not precisely clear as to what I mean when I say God. I don’t know whether it is spirit, matter, or force; it is that big thing that brings forth worlds, establishes their orbits, and gives us heat, light, food, and water. To me, that is God and His love. Just that we are given birth, sheltered, provisioned, and endowed for our work. Evolution is the natural consequence of this. It is the plan steadily unfolding. If I were you, I wouldn’t bother my head over these questions, they never have been scientifically explained to the beginning; I doubt if they ever will be, because they start with the origin of matter and that is too far beyond man for him to penetrate. Just enjoy to the depths of your soul—that’s worship. Be thankful for everything—that’s praising God as the birds praise him. And ‘do unto others’ that’s all there is of love and religion combined in one fell swoop.”
“You should go before the world and tell every one that!”
“No! It isn’t my vocation,” said the Harvester. “My work is to provide pain-killer. I don’t believe, Ruth, that there is any one on the footstool who is doing a better job along that line. I am boastfully proud of it—just of sending in the packages that kill fever, refresh poor blood, and strengthen weak hearts; unadulterated, honest weight, fresh, and scrupulously clean. My neighbours have a different name for it; I call it a man’s work.”
“Every one who understands must,” said the Girl. “I wish I could help at that. I feel as if it would do more to wipe out the pain I’ve suffered and seen her endure than anything else. Man, when I grow strong enough I want to help you. I believe that I am going to love it here.”
“Don’t ever suppress your feelings, Ruth!” hastily cried the Harvester. “It will be very bad for you. You will become wrought up, and ‘het up,’ as Granny Moreland says, and it will make you very ill. When we drive the fever from your blood, the ache from your bones, the poison of wrong conditions from your soul, and good, healthy, red corpuscles begin pumping through your little heart like a windmill, you can stake your life you’re going to love it here. And the location and work are not all you’re going to care for either, honey. Now just wait! That was not ‘nominated in the bond.’ I’m allowed to talk. I never agreed not to SAY things. What I promised was not to DO them. So as I said, honey, sit at this table, and eat the food I’ve cooked; and by that time the furniture van will be here, and the men will unload, and you shall reign on a throne and tell me where and how.”
“Oh if I were only stronger, David!”
“You are!” said the Harvester. “You are much better than you were yesterday. You can talk, and that’s all that’s necessary. The rooms are ready for furniture. The men will carry it where you want it. A decorator is coming to hang the curtains. By night we will be settled; you can lie in the swing while I read to you a story so wonderful that the wildest fairy tale you ever heard never touched it.”
“What will it be, David?”
“Eat all the red raspberries and cream, bread and butter, and drink all the milk you can. There’s blood, beefsteak, and bones in it. As I was saying, you have come here a stranger to a strange land. The first thing is for you to understand and love the woods. Before you can do that you should master the history of one tree; just the same as you must learn to know and love me before your childlike trust in all mankind returns again. Understand? Well, the fates knew you were on the way, coming trembling down the brink, Ruth, so they put it into the heart of a great man to write largely of a wonderful tree, especially for your benefit. After it had fallen he took it apart, split it in sections, and year by year spread out history for all the world to read. It made a classic story filled with unsurpassed wonders. It was a pine of a thousand years, close the age of our mother tree, Ruth, and when we have learned from Enos Mills how to wrest secrets from the hearts of centuries, we will climb the hill and measure our oak, and then I will estimate, and you will write, and we will make a record for our tree.”
“Oh, I’d like that!”
“So would I
,” said the Harvester. “And a million other things I can think of that we can learn together. It won’t require long for me to teach you all I know, and by that time your hand will be clasped in mine, and our ‘hearts will beat as one,’ and you will give me a kiss every night and morning, and a few during the day for interest, and we will go on in life together and learn songs, miracles, and wonders until the old oak calls us. Then we will ascend the hill gladly and lie down and offer up our bodies, and our children will lay flowers over our hearts, and gather the herbs and paint the pictures? Amen. I hear a van on the bridge. Just you go to your room and lie down until I get things unloaded and where they belong. Then you and the decorator can make us home-like, and to-morrow we will begin to live. Won’t that be great, Ruth?”
“With you, yes, I think it will.”
“That will do for this time,” said the Harvester, as he opened the door to her room. “Lie and rest until I say ready.”
As he went to meet the men, she could hear him singing lustily, “Praise God from whom all blessings flow.”
“What a child he is!” she said. “And what a man!”
For an hour heavy feet sounded through the cabin carrying furniture to different rooms. Then with a floor brush in one hand, and a polishing cloth in the other, the Harvester tapped at her door and helped the Girl upstairs. He had divided the space into three large, square sleeping chambers. In each he had set up a white iron bed, a dressing table, and wash stand, and placed two straight-backed and one rocking chair, all white. The walls were tinted lightly with green added to the plaster. There was a mattress and a stack of bedding on each bed, and a large rug and several small ones on the floors. He led her to the rocking chair in the middle room, where she could see through the open doors of the other two.
“Now,” said the Harvester, “I didn’t know whether the room with two windows toward the lake and one on the marsh, or two facing the woods and one front, was the guest chamber. It seemed about an even throw whether a visitor would prefer woods or water, so I made them both guest chambers, and got things alike for them. Now if we are entertaining two, one can’t feel more highly honoured than the other. Was that a scheme?”
“Fine!” said the Girl. “I don’t see how it could be surpassed.”
“‘Be sure you are right, then go ahead,’” quoted the Harvester. “Now I’ll make the beds and Mr. Rogers can hang the curtains. Is white correct for sleeping rooms? Won’t that wash best and always be fresh?”
“It will,” said the Girl. “White wash curtains are much the nicest.”
“Make them short Mr. Rogers; keep them off the floor,” advised the Harvester. “And simple—don’t arrange any thing elaborate that will tire a woman to keep in order. Whack them off the right length and pin them to the poles.”
“How about that, Mrs. Langston?” asked the decorator.
“I am quite sure that is the very best thing to do,” said the Girl; and the curtains were hung while the mattress was placed.
“Now about this?” inquired the Harvester. “Do I put on sheets and fix these beds ready to use?”
“I would not,” said the Girl. “I would spread the pad and the counterpane and lay the sheets and pillows in the closet until they are wanted. They can be sunned and the bed made delightfully fresh.”
“Of course,” said the Harvester.
When he had finished, he spread a cover on the dressing table and laid out white toilet articles and grouped a white wash set with green decorations on the stand. Then he brushed the floor, spread a big green rug in the middle and small ones before the bed, stand, and table, and coming out closed the door.
“Guest chamber with lake view is now ready for company,” announced the Harvester. “Repeat the operation on the woods room, finished also. Why do some people make work of things and string them out eternally and fuss so much? Isn’t this simple and easy, Ruth?”
“Yes, if you can afford it,” said the Girl.
“Forbear!” cried the Harvester. “We have the goods, the dealer has my check. Excuse me ten minutes, until I furnish another room.”
The laughing Girl could catch glimpses of him busy over beds and dresser, floor and rugs; then he came where she sat.
“Woods guest chamber ready,” he said. “Now we come to the interior apartment, that from its view might be called the marsh room. Aside from being two windows short, it is exactly similar to the others. It occurred to me that, in order to make up for the loss of those windows, and also because I may be compelled to ask some obliging woman to occupy it in case your health is precarious at any time, and in view of the further fact that if any such woman could be found, and would kindly and willingly care for us, my gratitude would be inexpressible; on account of all these things, I got a shade the best furnishings for this room.”
The Girl stared at him with blank face.
“You see,” said the Harvester, “this is a question of ethics. Now what is a guest? A thing of a day! A person who disturbs your routine and interferes with important concerns. Why should any one be grateful for company? Why should time and money be lavished on visitors? They come. You overwork yourself. They go. You are glad of it. You return the visit, because it’s the only way to have back at them; but why pamper them unnecessarily? Now a good housekeeper, that means more than words can express. Comfort, kindness, sanitary living, care in illness! Here’s to the prospective housekeeper of Medicine Woods! Rogers, hang those ruffled embroidered curtains. Observe that whereas mere guest beds are plain white, this has a touch of brass. Where guest rugs are floor coverings, this is a work of art. Where guest brushes are celluloid, these are enamelled, and the dresser cover is hand embroidered. Let me also call your attention to the chairs touched with gold, cushioned for ease, and a decorated pitcher and bowl. Watch the bounce of these springs and the thickness of this mattress and pad, and notice that where guests, however welcome, get a down cover of sateen, the lady of the house has silkaline. Won’t she prepare us a breakfast after a night in this room?”
“David, are you in earnest?” gasped the Girl.
“Don’t these things prove it?” asked the Harvester. “No woman can enter my home, when my necessities are so great I have to hire her to come, and take the worst in the house. After my wife, she gets the best, every time. Whenever I need help, the woman who will come and serve me is what I’d call the real guest of the house. Friend? Where are your friends when trouble comes? It always brings a crowd on account of the excitement, and there is noise and racing; but if your soul is saved alive, it is by a steady, trained hand you pay to help you. Friends come and go, but a good housekeeper remains and is a business proposition—one that if conducted rightly for both parties and on a strictly common-sense basis, gives you living comfort. Now that we have disposed of the guests that go and the one that remains, we will proceed downward and arrange for ourselves.”
“David, did you ever know any one who treated a housekeeper as you say you would?”
“No. And I never knew any one who raised medicinal stuff for a living, but I’m making a gilt-edged success of it, and I would of a housekeeper, too.”
“It doesn’t seem—”
“That’s the bedrock of all the trouble on the earth,” interrupted the Harvester. “We are a nation and a part of a world that spends our time on ‘seeming.’ Our whole outer crust is ‘seeming.’ When we get beneath the surface and strike the being, then we live as we are privileged by the Almighty. I don’t think I give a tinker how anything seems. What concerns me is how it IS. It doesn’t ‘seem’ possible to you to hire a woman to come into your home and take charge of its cleanliness and the food you eat—the very foundation of life—and treat her as an honoured guest, and give her the best comfort you have to offer. The cold room, the old covers, the bare floor, and the cast off furniture are for her. No wonder, as a rule, she gives what she gets. She dignifies her labour in the same ratio that you do. Wait until we need a housekeeper, and then gaze with awe on the one I
will raise to your hand.”
“I wonder—”
“Don’t! It’s wearing! Come tell me how to make our living-room less bare than it appears at present.”
They went downstairs together, followed by the decorator, and began work on the room. The Girl was placed on a couch and made comfortable and then the Harvester looked around.
“That bundle there, Rogers, is the curtains we bought for this room. If you and my wife think they are not right, we will not hang them.”
The decorator opened the package and took out curtains of tan-coloured goods with a border of blue and brown.
“Those are not expensive,” said the Harvester, “but to me a window appears bare with only a shade, so I thought we’d try these, and when they become soiled we’ll burn them and buy some fresh ones.”
“Good idea!” laughed the Girl. “As a house decorator you surpass yourself as a Medicine Man.”
“Fix these as you did those upstairs,” ordered the Harvester. “We don’t want any fol-de-rols. Put the bottom even with the sill and shear them off at the top.”
“No, I am going to arrange these,” said the decorator. “You go on with your part.”
“All right!” agreed the Harvester. “First, I’ll lay the big rug.”
He cleared the floor, spread a large rug with a rich brown centre and a wide blue border. Smaller ones of similar design and colour were placed before each of the doors leading from the room.
“Now for the hearth,” said the Harvester, “I got this tan goat skin. Doesn’t that look fairly well?”
It certainly did; and the Girl and the decorator hastened to say so. The Harvester replaced the table and chairs, and then sat on the couch at the Girl’s feet.
“I call this almost finished,” he remarked. “All we need now is a bouquet and something on the walls, and that is serious business. What goes on them usually remains for a long time, and so it should be selected with care. Ruth, have you a picture of your mother?”
The Best of Gene Stratton-Porter Page 84
