That Little Girl of Miss Eliza's: A Story for Young People
Page 13
CHAPTER XIII.
"I'm to be your neighbor for the winter," he said. "My experience ashouse-keeper is limited. I set up my Lares and Penates to-day and forgotthat man must eat. Will you sell me bread and fresh eggs?"
"Lares and Penates," both Eliza and Beth knew the meaning of thosewords. Roman mythology! A strange tramp, indeed, who could quote this.
"Will you come in?" asked Eliza. Tramp or not, his clear gray eyes weretoo fine and commanding to permit his being kept outside the door.
He entered and took the proffered seat before the grate in which a fewchunks of wood were smoldering.
"These wood-fires are delightful," he said. "I do not wonder that theage of poetry and romance have passed away. It was one with the opengrate. What mind of man can conceive of poetry being written before aregister or radiator?"
Eliza had nothing to say to this. The conversation was not just what sheexpected from a tramp. She went to the kitchen and counted out the eggsand took a loaf of fresh bread from the box. She was sorry for the man.He looked so fine and interesting. It was to be regretted that heallowed himself to be a wanderer. Miss Eliza felt a sense of duty. Itgrieved her to see one who appeared so bright and attractive waste hislife wandering upon the earth. When she heard him sing and whistle inthe woods that afternoon, she had thought him a young man. There was thejoyousness and buoyancy of youth in his looks and voice. To-night,however, she saw that he was not a boy, but a man fully her own age. Sheprepared his basket for him, while her heart was heavy.
He arose when she re-entered the living-room and extended his hand forthe basket, at the same time laying out a dollar upon the table.
Miss Eliza was surprised. "I--I--did not think of pay," she stammered.
"Surely," he said. "You do not think that I came up to beg. While we areon the subject, I'd like to settle about getting milk, eggs and breadregularly from you. I should like plenty of them. I find they are aboutthe only reliable things one can find in tramping over the country. Allcooks are not like our blessed Yankee ones."
"You intend to stay about here?"
"Until spring is fairly settled. I've a little place down here in thewoods. I'm sure that I shall be mighty comfortable there all winter.When the weather permits, I suppose I'll wander forth again to find newexperiences. When the wanderlust takes possession of one--" He waved hishand as though the subject were not worth continuing.
"It must be a very unprofitable life," said Eliza. "You look so well andstrong, I should think you would settle down to some useful work. Youdon't look a bit like a tramp."
"Ah--a--h," the word came from the stranger's lips slowly. A peculiartwinkle shone in his eyes, and for a moment his lips curled into asmile. He controlled himself, however, and said, "But what a gay life itis! One can see so much--now as to the eggs and milk."
Miss Eliza promised that he could get them daily.
"My name is Hillis," he said. Again the amused expression came to him."Even a tramp must have a name, you know."
He was gone, leaving Miss Eliza wondering what strange circumstance madesuch a man a wanderer upon the face of the earth. Thereafter he cameevery morning for milk. During the week, he had fresh bread and eggs. Healways paid for them as he received them.
In personal appearance he was the most exquisite tramp that Eliza hadever seen. She laid it down to the fact that her acquaintance in theline had been limited. He always sang or whistled as he came up thehill, and after a while, Eliza found herself expecting him at a regulartime in the morning and listening for the song which never failed. Suchsongs as they were! She could not have believed that words and air couldbe so exquisitely sweet. The tears actually came to her eyes when sheheard, for the first time, his voice ringing through the woods:
"I hear you calling me. Through all the years, dear one, I hear you calling me."
One afternoon as he was passing, he paused to speak to Miss Eliza, whowas plucking the last of her chrysanthemums.
"You should see them in Japan," he said. "We cannot raise them here asthe Japanese do. There's something lacking, either in our skill or oursoil. You should see the real Japanese flower."
He continued in this strain for some time, during which Miss Elizalearned about soils, and chemical compounds and fertilization. She hadlived among farmers all her life, but never realized that in the fieldslay a study for a lifetime, and that the soil needed as scientifictreatment as a child. It was to be fed, to be rested, to be worked, allwith judgment and science. All this, she learned from the tramp. Sheattributed his knowledge to the fact that he had traveled widely, andbeing naturally of a keen mind, had picked up information from all partsof the globe.
During the winter, he fell into the habit of bringing magazines to MissEliza. They opened a new world to her--a world of flowers and sunshine;the world where the artist soul expresses itself in making the worldbeautiful in color and form. He sometimes lingered to explain some plantor variety of flowers of which the magazines treated. Beth would sit andlisten with open eyes. Sometimes she took part in the conversation. Onceshe laughingly said in connection with some story of his, "That makes methink of the poppy story Adee told me when I was a little girl."
"Tell it to me," he said, seating himself by the fireside. "I fancy MissEliza would have a story worth telling."
For some reason which she could not explain, Eliza's face grew crimsonat something in his voice, rather than his words, and hurriedly excusedherself and went into the kitchen.
"Adee always told me stories when I was little. Because she had neverread any children's stories, she had to make them up."
Beth began the story of the poppy, and the "tramp" listened withinterest. When she had finished, he said simply, "Tell me more that MissEliza told you."
Beth was only too glad to do so. She began at once. Eliza was back inthe room before she had finished.
"Where did you get such fairy-tales?" asked the tramp. "I've read allthat ever came in book form, but I missed these."
Eliza tapped her forehead. "Here," she said. "Don't you think it was apleasure to get them out?"
"Have you written them?" It was surprising how concise, how direct thetramp could be when he chose.
"Write them? I never thought of such a thing. I made up the storiessimply to please Beth. I am not an author."
"You don't know what you are," he said. "You have never found yourself,Miss Eliza. No one knows how great a thing he may be. In each soul liesan unexplored country. Be a Columbus to your own soul."
He took up his hat and moved to the door. "I want you to write downthese stories Beth told me. Don't bother trying to make them fine.Scribble them. This is not a request, Miss Eliza. This is a command."
Eliza had no time to remonstrate. The tramp was gone before she couldreply.
"I would do it, Adee." Beth smiled whimsically to herself and added, asshe did when she was a baby, "Please, pretty lady."
It was impossible to withstand both of these. Eliza began the very nextday when Beth was away at school. She took tablet and pencil and,sitting down by the open grate, wrote just as she had told the storiesto Beth. There was no attempt at fine writing. Her language was simpleas a child's. There were even quite serious mistakes in grammar andpunctuation. The hours passed quickly. Beth was home from school beforeEliza realized it. She had been happy all afternoon--happy in adifferent way from what she had been all these years.
"I am expressing myself. I am finding my own soul," she told herself.She smiled at her own egotism, as she added, "What, if like Columbus, Ishould find a great undiscovered country?"
She laid the stories away. What simple little things they were! Thestory of an ambitious little seed which was unhappy because it had beentied up in a paper all winter and then hidden in the ground. It wantedto do something great. It did not wish to hide from life and light. Butas the days passed, it crept up from the earth into a life of whosebeauty it had no conception. It cast shade and perfume on all about it.It burst in a hundred glorious
flowers. Then it learned that its own waywould have made it a failure, that there is something in one which mustsuffer and die before one can be a power.
The following afternoon she wrote again. There was little chance ofinterruption, for neighbors were at a distance, and the people ofShintown did not give themselves to bodily exertion.
One evening she handed them to the tramp when he came for his eveningsupply of milk and eggs.
"Quite a package," he said. "Is this all you can think of, or have youmore in that head of yours?"
"More! My head has turned into a veritable widow's cruse. The instant Itake out one story, another one slips in to take its place. I do notknow where they come from. I am sure I do not try to think of them. Theyjust pop in."
"Let them pop, and keep on writing," replied the man. "I came acrossseveral books I think you'd like, and a magazine article on thepossibilities of the so-called worked out farm."
He laid them on the table, took up his milk-pail and went his way downthe slope. His voice rang out clear and strong:
"Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I'll not ask for wine."
"I wonder where he found all his songs. Hundreds of them I think I'veheard him sing this winter."
"He must have picked them up tramping about," said Beth.
Moving to the table, Eliza took up the books and magazines which he hadleft her. The book was one on the wild flowers and weeds of theAlleghanies. It was handsomely illustrated and most comprehensive,dealing with their medicinal as well as floral values.
"It's written by Joseph Barnes Hillis," she said. "Isn't it strange thatit should be the same name as the tramp's? The article in the magazineis by the same writer. How strange! I'll--"
She did not finish the sentence, for Sam Houston and old Squire Stoutentered without knocking--one of the irregularities of social conventionin the locality.
"Good evening, folks," said Sam. "Eliza, I've come over on strangebusiness. It's queer how things do happen."
The squire took the most comfortable seat in the room and leaned back inhis chair. "It's certainly a most curious circumstance," he said. Heopened his coat and took from his pocket a weather-beaten, worn oldleather purse.