by Peggy Bacon
It was exciting to sense that near at hand many other creatures lurked unseen: foxes in burrows, owls in hollow trees, skunks and weasels, snakes wound up in crannies, and doubtless, higher in the craggy hills, wildcats and bears. But hidden away, unbeknownst to the twins, was another sort of animal altogether, nearly as shy and wild as any of them. He was an old hermit called Batsy Diggs, who lived in the forest, no one knew where. As the twins pressed on along the trail, little by little they were drawing closer to Batsy Diggs’s domain.
Batsy was known and yet he was not known. He was seen in the village, but not often. The countryfolk said that Batsy was “peculiar,” by which they meant that he wasn’t very smart. But he was smart enough to live by his wits, all alone out there in the wilderness, hunting and foraging, setting traps for rabbits, snares for wild fowl, fishing the rivers and lakes. It was true that he couldn’t read or write, but he was as crafty a woodsman as Daniel Boone.
People said too that Batsy was “light-fingered,” which means that he would take things if no one was looking — not much and nothing very valuable. He might pluck an egg from under a setting hen and pop it into the burlap bag he carried; he might pick a carrot or an ear of corn from somebody’s garden, or reach through a dairy window for a cheese.
On the rare occasions when Batsy appeared in the shops, he had some small coins to spend, and everyone knew that he could not have come by them honestly since he never earned a penny in his life. He would buy candles, matches, chewing tobacco, and he might go to the baker’s for some bread. When he came out he would have the loaf he had paid for and a couple of rolls he had pilfered from the counter; upon his return to the woods, his sack might contain some kidney beans from the barrel in the grocery store, a bit of salt pork from the butcher, as well as a fishhook, a piece of twine and a few nails which he had managed to swipe from the hardware man. Nobody ever caught him in the act, for he was as quick as a juggler. The tradesmen marveled at his deft performance; and what he stole was of so little importance, save to himself, that nobody really cared. And so this primitive individual was allowed to go his own way unmolested, along with the other lawless untamed beasts.
The sun, like a fiery balloon, was gliding downward toward the hills; the air was freshening. Patrick and Pelley had traveled several miles from home. In the distant village the conscientious clock in the church tower struck the hours and rang the quarters regularly, more and more faintly, it seemed, as the day wore on, and at last it was too far away to hear. Long since, the boys had forgotten to listen to it; they had forgotten their grandfather’s orders. They were too busy to worry about the time.
They had come down the trail to a shadowy region, a deep valley already steeped in twilight. Now came the first of the early evening sounds: the clear, cool, three-note call of the whippoorwill.
With one accord, the twins took out their whistles, which they had hung on strings around their necks, and answered the bird, who answered back again. Then the cries of “whip-poor-will” resounded for a while along the dusky vale. But if the boys had hoped to coax the whippoorwill into the open, where they could look at him, they were disappointed, for the bashful little bird kept his distance, flitting about invisibly and gradually retreating through the treetops.
The whippoorwill reminded the twins of their game. Leaving the trail, they played hide-and-seek, dodging from tree to tree, eluding each other, depending on their whistles to bring them together. However, a moment came when the silver whistles were no longer a reliable guide. The sun had set, the witching hour had come — the hour when nocturnal birds foregather to tune up for the evening musicale. Now, in half a dozen different places, the whippoorwills were practicing their notes.
Misled by the whippoorwills, confusing their song with the sound of their own whistles, frequently running in opposite directions, the boys became separated. Rapidly it grew dark, and the heedless children were startled to discover that night had come.
Somewhere in that vast trackless area, each boy halted and looked about him fearfully, suddenly aware that he was lost. He had lost track of his brother, lost the trail and didn’t know which way to turn.
A woodland, cheerful and alive by day, changes its personality at night. It is like a friend in deep disguise, a girl or boy you think you know quite well, who dons a thick black cloak and frightful mask and creeps up on you, uttering moans and groans.
Where Patrick stood, the trees grew close together, surrounded by clotted shadows like black velvet. The branches overhead were interwoven, so that the darkness seemed to be complete. The air was overburdened with queer noises — peeping, scratching, honking, shuffling, hooting, and the eerie, mournful cries of the whippoorwills. In vain he blew his whistle; the answering cries had grown in number and came from every quarter. He shouted “Pelley!” at the top of his lungs; but the only response was an instant scuttle in the bushes directly behind him. That and the violence of his own voice made his scalp prickle and he caught his breath.
Here he was, hungry, tired, alone, ever so far from home and human beings, from family, food and bed! Another awful thought occurred to him: he and Pelley were already late, hopelessly, unforgivably late for dinner! If he could find his twin, if they found the trail, even if by some miracle they managed to retrace their steps for miles through the perils of the night, they would be faced with Grandpa’s dreadful wrath!
Fireflies were drifting here and there, winking, flashing their white lights on and off. Pretty little midgets, fireflies! Alas, the merest ornaments to darkness! Fireflies will not light you on your way.
“If only fireflies would leave their lights on!” Patrick wished. Watching the fireflies appearing and disappearing made him dizzy. Exactly then, he noticed that one firefly did stay lit and did not shift about; and it didn’t seem to be quite as white as the rest. Was it a firefly? Of course it wasn’t! Then what could it possibly be?
It was no bigger than a firefly, no more than a trifling pinpoint in the dark. As Patrick fixed his eyes on the yellowish spark, he saw that it flickered like a candle or a lantern. Such things as those are lit by human hands.
Whatever it was, Patrick must try to reach it. If there were anybody living in these parts, he must appeal for help to find his brother and beg for food and shelter overnight.
Still he hung back. Perhaps the tiny light was simply a star reflected in a pool, or phosphorus shining on a rotten log. And all that lay between him and the light was black and quiet — for a pause had come; the denizens of the night had fallen silent, as though the forest pricked its ears to listen. Pat shivered. In the lull, from up the valley, he heard the lone cry of a whippoorwill.
Again the cry! It came from a great distance, off in the direction of the light. Halfheartedly, Pat blew his whistle twice and thought he heard two answering “whip-poor-wills” — or were there two birds calling to each other? He blew three times. Faintly but distinctly, three cries of “whip-poor-will” returned to him. Excitedly, Pat blew four piercing blasts and, to his joy, received four swift replies. Birds are unable to count! Pat took courage. With hands outstretched to ward off boughs and brambles, he felt his way forward, keeping his eyes on the light.
Pelley had been luckier. Night overtook him in an upland meadow, on a sloping hillside, bathed in pallid starlight. Below him, smoke rose from a clump of trees and there was a glimmer of light. As he ran down the hill and through the grove, he smelled something delicious. Emerging into a clearing beside a brook, he saw that the smoke, the light and the tempting odor came from a fire crackling in a ring of stones. A wrought-iron garden gate rested on the stones. Upon this makeshift grill, two ducks were broiling. A rugged old vagabond, hairy and tattered, crouched by the fire, stoking it with faggots and watching Pelley’s approach warily out of the corner of his eye.
“Hello! Have you seen my brother?” Pelley cried eagerly, charging up to him and stopping short.
Instead of replying, the old man turned away, shook his head irritably and scowle
d at the fire. Within a tangled shrubbery of whiskers, his small cheeks shone as pink as crab apples and his eyes glittered in the firelight like chips of china.
“We were having a game of hide-and-seek,” Pelley explained, “and now he’s gone too far and I can’t find him.”
Silence. Ignoring Pelley, the man flung some twigs on the blaze.
“Maybe if you’d help me, we could find him,” Pelley suggested hopefully.
“G’wan along!” the hairy one muttered, shrinking into himself.
“Please come along and help me find him,” the boy implored.
“Naw! G’wan along!”
“But I’ve got to find my brother!” Pelley insisted.
“‘Tain’t my business!” Seeing that the boy continued to stand his ground, the old man turned on him in a burst of temper: “Quit botherin’ me! G’wan along, I’m tellin’ yer! Shoo!!”— and he whirled his arms like a windmill.
Pelley backed away a step or two. “But I’ve got to find him! Can’t you understand? We’ve got to get home! We’re terribly late already!”
The old fellow grunted. His anger seemed to subside and he heaved a sigh of annoyed resignation. “Likely he left without yer. G’wan home and see.”
“He wouldn’t do that!” cried Pelley. “I know he wouldn’t!”
The strange old creature twitched his shoulders uncomfortably and threw another sidelong glance at the boy.
“Anyway, now it’s dark,” Pelley pursued, “he’d never find the trail, no more than I can.”
“Ah! It’s too dark for yer,” the other murmured. “Yep, I reckon it is.” With a sharp stick he prodded each duck in several places, releasing streams of hot fat which popped and sizzled in the leaping flames. “Them ducks is nigh done,” he whispered to himself.
“Oh, what’s happened to Pat? Where can he be?” Pelley’s voice rose to a wail.
“Easy now!” the old man urged hastily. “Don’t yer go takin’ on, ‘cause ‘tain’t no use.” Then, as Pelley sobbed in open despair, he added, not unkindly: “Mebbe he’ll see the fire, same as you did. Try hollerin’ fer him, why don’t yer?”
Pelley yelled: “Patrick! Patrick! — You see? He doesn’t hear me! The whistles we’ve got carry further than our voices, only you can’t tell them from the whippoorwills.”
“What yer talkin’ about?”
Lifting the whistle from within his shirt, the boy blew a long drawn-out “whip-poor-will.”
The old man suddenly cackled with delight. “Ef that ain’t somethin’! Lemme see that contraption! Gimmie it here!”
Obligingly, Pelley handed over the whistle to his companion who examined it curiously, set it to his lips and blew. Grinning and clucking with satisfaction, he said: “Thought there was a powerful lot o’ whippoorwills out this evenin’ — more’n I ever heard. There’s one now, answerin’ me real proper!”
The wonderful toy had thawed the old curmudgeon. He blew it again twice.
Three calls came from the valley.
“Hear that bird! Fools him, don’t it?”
Pelley snatched back the whistle, blew three times and counted four replies. He jumped up and down, “That’s no bird! That’s Pat!” He blew four blasts. “I must go meet him! I’ll run down and fetch him!”
A furry hand shot out and caught his wrist. “No, yer don’t! You set right in one spot, so’s yer don’t go flounderin’ round the woods, missin’ each other again. Jest keep blowin’ that whistle now and then, so’s he’ll know where to come. You kin have a hunk o’ duck while yer waitin’.”
This advice being obviously sensible, Pelley was glad to accept the invitation. The old man cut up a duck with a jack knife, gave a piece to Pelley and helped himself. Pelley settled down on the turf beside him, blowing the whistle between bites and chattering about the farm, the cows, the horses, the birthday party, the musical birthday presents, the chickens that hated music and wouldn’t lay eggs. “And that’s why Pat and I were sent to the village, to spend a week with Grandpa Cumberland.”
When Patrick finally stumbled into the clearing, he found his twin feasting by the fire, already on intimate terms with Batsy Diggs. In consequence, Pat got a warmer welcome from Batsy than Pelley had at first received.
“Two of yer!” Batsy pronounced affably, after the greetings and introductions were over. “Like as two chipmunks, y’are! Set yer down, Pat, and chaw on this.” Spearing some duck on his knife, he thrust it at Patrick, who thanked him and attacked the meat hungrily, joining his brother in exclamations of praise.
Batsy had never before had any guests and he was discovering the pleasures of hospitality. As guests, the twins were very satisfactory — to Batsy Diggs, at least, though not to Grandpa. This was the best food they had ever eaten, they declared with evident sincerity. They had never tasted anything like it. They smacked their lips and chortled happily.
Indeed, from their point of view, the meal was perfect. For one thing, there were no vegetables. The twins considered all vegetables a nuisance. For another thing, there was no soup or salad to prevent them from devoting their entire attention to the succulent wild birds. There was a dipper of ice-cold water from the brook to quench their thirst, and there were some enormous green gage plums, which happened to have come from the Cumberland orchard, though the twins didn’t know that. There were no plates, no knives or forks to manage, and nobody to criticize their table manners — there was no table, of course — and their host was tearing the duck to pieces with his fists, stuffing his mouth, chewing noisily, licking his fingers, wiping them on his shirt and breaking all the rules.
The old hermit was also enjoying himself — he who had avoided people for years! He always felt that the adults were poking fun at him and he had become rather afraid of children. Whenever he went to the village of Heatherfield, a crowd of young rascals would follow him down the street, jeering at him for his long hair and beard, his tattered clothes, some of them even throwing stones. But the twins were a different sort entirely. Batsy found them pleasant company and he commenced to expand.
Haltingly at first, he spoke of things that he had noticed in his native forest during a long and solitary life. Batsy was more familiar with the wilderness and its ways than many a famous naturalist. Seeing that the boys were interested, he was soon regaling them with tales of wild animals: of how he outwitted a bear to get the honey which the bear had found; of how a skunk had routed a mountain lion; of a snapping turtle that triumphed over a rattler; of a wily old trout he had tried in vain to hook. The boys listened excitedly, their eyes round and shiny with admiration. Batsy Diggs was leading the ideal life! He seemed to the twins a marvelous combination of the primeval hunter, the pioneer and the dauntless Indian brave.
This picnic by the campfire, under the stars, was a delightful occasion for all three.
The fire died to a rosy bed of embers. There was a long pause. Patrick and Pelley were feeling warm and drowsy when Batsy stood up, kicked the ashes over the smoldering coals and announced: “I’ll be takin’ yer home.”
The words immediately reminded the twins of the punishment still hanging over them and conjured up a picture of their infuriated grandfather waiting in the hall with a riding whip.
“Do we have to go now?” Patrick groaned.
“It’s so far!” moaned Pelley.
‘Tain’t so far, as the crow flies,” Batsy asserted. “You come the longest way, by the trail. I got a shortcut.”
“But the woods are so dark!” Pat protested.
“Shucks!” said Batsy stoutly. “I kin lead yer.”
“Can’t we stay here with you?” Pelley pleaded.
“Couldn’t we stay till tomorrow?” Pat put in.
“Mother and Father often let us sleep out.”
“It’s a warm night.”
“Couldn’t we stay with you till we go the farm?”
“That’s only four more days,” Pelley wheedled.
“We won’t be any trouble,” Patrick coaxed.
“We can help you gather firewood.”
“We’ll help you fish.”
“We can go hunting with you!”
“Oh, please let us stay!”
“Please do! Oh, please!”
Batsy was astonished, also flattered. He scratched his head and scrabbled in his beard. “I thought yer had to go home.”
“But it’s too late.”
Batsy was puzzled. “What yer mean, too late?”
“Dinner was over long ago,” said Pelley.
“Yer et, didn’t yer?” Batsy sounded injured. “Didn’t yer git enough?”
“Yes, of course! But Grandpa will thrash us.”
“Thrash yer! What for?”
“For being late to dinner.”
“Thrash yer fer nothin’ but that?” Batsy was shocked.
If the twins found it hard to understand why they should have to be on time for meals, it was utterly incomprehensible to Batsy Diggs, who had never owned a clock. Batsy’s dinner was a three-act play: he caught it, then he cooked it, then he ate it, no matter what the hour happened to be. He knew that the villagers lived otherwise, buying their food lazily in shops and eating regularly three times a day — a greedy, pampered contemptible way of life it seemed to Batsy Diggs, child of nature.
Had he been able to observe the to-do that went on in the Cumberland dining room at seven o’clock each night, he would have been even more baffled: the table spread with damask and loaded with silver, crystal, porcelain, flowers, lighted candelabra; the constant changing of plates, the many courses served by the lordly butler and liveried footman, the lace doilies, the finger bowls, the peppermints! And Mr. and Mrs. Cumberland presiding, like human peacocks in their fuss and feathers! Knowing nothing of the worldly customs that made the dinner hour so important, Batsy concluded that Mr. Cumberland must be an unreasonable man with a cruel disposition.
