But here the pudgy man, in his excitement, performed the feat of his life. He fell off the wall, giving an involuntary shout, and landed with a flop in the potato patch.
The brown giantess snarled. She hurled the little man from her and turned, with a toss of her disheveled locks, to face a new foe. The pudgy man quaked miserably and yelled an unintelligible explanation or apology or prayer. The brow of the giantess was black, and she strode with ferocious menace toward him.
The little man had fallen in a chaotic mass among the potato hills. He struggled to his feet. Somehow, his blood was hot in his veins, and he started to bristle courageously in reinforcement of his friend. But suddenly he changed his mind and made off at a high speed, leaving the pudgy man to his fate.
His unchosen course lay directly toward the seven babies who, in their anxiety to view the combat, had risen from the bench and were standing ready as a Roman populace to signify the little man’s death by rubbing their stomachs. Intent upon the struggle, they had forgotten to howl.
But when they perceived the headlong charge of the little man, they, as a unit, exploded. It was like the sudden clang of an alarm bell to the giantess. She wheeled from the pudgy man, who climbed the wall, fell off in his haste into the bushes on the other side, and, later, allowed but the top of his head to appear over the top of it.
The giantess perceived the little man about to assault her seven babies, whose mouths were in a state of eruption. She howled, grabbed a hoe from the ground, and pursued.
The little man shied from the protesting babies and ran like a greyhound. He flung himself over a high fence. Then he waited. Curiosity held him. He had been mopped and dragged, punched and pounded, bitten and scratched. He wished to know why.
The brown giantess, mad with rage, crashed against the fence. She shook her huge fist at the little man.
“Drat yeh!” she roared.
She began to climb the fence. It is not well to behold a woman climb a fence. The little man yelled and ran off.
He stumbled and fell through a brush lot, and bounced terrifically into the woods. As he halted to get breath, he heard, above the sound of the wind laughing in the trees, a final explosion by the seven babies, as, perhaps, they perceived the brown giantess returning empty-handed to the worn-out house.
As the little man went on into the woods, he perceived a crouching figure with terror—gleaming eyes. He whistled and drew near it. Directly, the little man, bedraggled, dirt-stained, bloody, and amazed, confronted the pudgy man, perspiring, limp, dust-covered, and astonished. They gazed at each other profoundly.
Finally the little man broke the silence.
“Devilish mysterious business,” he said, slowly. The pudgy man had a thousand questions in his eyes.
“What in Heaven’s name, Billie—” he blurted.
The little man waved his hand. “Don’t ask me. I don’t know anything about it.”
“What?”
“No more’n a rabbit. She said something about flypaper and the kids, that’s all I know.”
The pudgy man drew a long breath. “Great Lord,” he said. They sat down on a log and thought.
At last, the little man got up and yawned. “I can’t make head nor tail of the bloomin’ business,” he said, wearily. They walked slowly off through the day-gloom of the woods. “I wish she hadn’t called me a beast. I didn’t like that,” added the little man, musingly, after a time.
In a shady spot on a highway, they found their two companions, who were lazily listening to a short stranger who was holding forth at some length and with apparent enthusiasm. At the approach of the little man and the pudgy man, the short man turned to them with a smile.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I have here a wonder of the age, which I wish to present to your intelligent notice. Smither’s Eternal Fly Annihilating Paper is—”
The little man frothed at the mouth and cursed. Before his comrades could intervene he sprang forward and kicked the short man heavily in the stomach.
1892?
[The Home Magazine, Vol. 16 (January, 1901), pp. 77–80.]
* The Sullivan County Sketches.
THE MESMERIC MOUNTAIN*
A TALE OF SULLIVAN COUNTY
On the brow of a pine-plumed hillock there sat a little man with his back against a tree. A venerable pipe hung from his mouth, and smoke-wreaths curled slowly skyward. He was muttering to himself with his eyes fixed on an irregular black opening in the green wall of forest at the foot of the hill. Two vague wagon ruts led into the shadows. The little man took his pipe in his hands and addressed the listening pines.
“I wonder what the devil it leads to,” said he.
A gray, fat rabbit came lazily from a thicket and sat in the opening. Softly stroking his stomach with his paw, he looked at the little man in a thoughtful manner. The little man threw a stone, and the rabbit blinked and ran through an opening. Green, shadowy portals seemed to close behind him.
The little man started. “He’s gone down that roadway,” he said, with ecstatic mystery, to the pines. He sat a long time and contemplated the door to the forest. Finally, he arose, and awakening his limbs, started away. But he stopped and looked back.
“I can’t imagine what it leads to,” muttered he. He trudged over the brown mats of pine needles to where, in a fringe of laurel, a tent was pitched and merry flames caroused about some logs. A pudgy man was fuming over a collection of tin dishes. He came forward and waved a plate furiously in the little man’s face.
“I’ve washed the dishes for three days. What do you think I am—” He ended a red oration with a roar: “Damned if I do it any more.”
The little man gazed dim-eyed away. “I’ve been wonderin’ what it leads to.”
“What?”
“That road out yonder. I’ve been wonderin’ what it leads to. Maybe some discovery or something,” said the little man.
The pudgy man laughed. “You’re an idiot. It leads to ol’ Jim Boyd’s over on the Lumberland Pike.”
“Ho!” said the little man, “I don’t believe that.”
The pudgy man swore. “Fool, what does it lead to, then?”
“I don’t know just what, but I’m sure it leads to something great or something. It looks like it.”
While the pudgy man was cursing, two more men came from obscurity with fish dangling from birch twigs. The pudgy man made an obviously herculean struggle, and a meal was prepared. As he was drinking his cup of coffee, he suddenly spilled it and swore. The little man was wandering off.
“He’s gone to look at that hole,” cried the pudgy man.
The little man went to the edge of the pine-plumed hillock and, sitting down, began to make smoke and regard the door to the forest. There was stillness for an hour. Compact clouds hung unstirred in the sky. The pines stood motionless, and pondering.
Suddenly the little man slapped his knee and bit his tongue. He stood up and determinedly filled his pipe, rolling his eye over the bowl to the doorway. Keeping his eyes fixed, he slid dangerously to the foot of the hillock and walked down the wagon ruts. A moment later he passed from the noise of the sunshine to the gloom of the woods.
The green portals closed, shutting out live things. The little man trudged on alone.
Tall tangled grass grew in the roadway, and the trees bent obstructing branches. The little man followed on over pine-clothed ridges and down through water-soaked swales. His shoes were cut by rocks of the mountains, and he sank ankle-deep in mud and moss of swamps. A curve just ahead lured him miles.
Finally, as he wended the side of a ridge, the road disappeared from beneath his feet. He battled with hordes of ignorant bushes on his way to knolls and solitary trees which invited him. Once he came to a tall, bearded pine. He climbed it, and perceived in the distance a peak. He uttered an ejaculation and fell out.
He scrambled to his feet and said: “That’s Jones’s Mountain, I guess. It’s about six miles from our camp as the crow flies.”
He cha
nged his course away from the mountain, and attacked the bushes again. He climbed over great logs, golden-brown in decay, and was opposed by thickets of dark-green laurel. A brook slid through the ooze of a swamp; cedars and hemlocks hung their sprays to the edges of pools.
The little man began to stagger in his walk. After a time he stopped and mopped his brow.
“My legs are about to shrivel up and drop off,” he said. “… Still, if I keep on in this direction, I am safe to strike the Lumberland Pike before sundown.”
He dived at a clump of tag-alders and, emerging, confronted Jones’s Mountain.
The wanderer sat down in a clear place and fixed his eyes on the summit. His mouth opened widely, and his body swayed at times. The little man and the peak stared in silence.
A lazy lake lay asleep near the foot of the mountain. In its bed of water-grass some frogs leered at the sky and crooned. The sun sank in red silence, and the shadows of the pines grew formidable. The expectant hush of evening, as if something were going to sing a hymn, fell upon the peak and the little man.
A leaping pickerel off on the water created a silver circle that was lost in black shadows. The little man shook himself and started to his feet, crying: “For the love of Mike, there’s eyes in this mountain! I feel ’em! Eyes!”
He fell on his face.
When he looked again, he immediately sprang erect and ran.
“It’s comin’!”
The mountain was approaching.
The little man scurried, sobbing, through the thick growth. He felt his brain turning to water. He vanquished brambles with mighty bounds.
But after a time he came again to the foot of the mountain.
“God!” he howled, “it’s been follerin’ me.” He groveled. Casting his eyes upward made circles swirl in his blood. “I’m shackled, I guess,” he moaned.
As he felt the heel of the mountain about to crush his head, he sprang again to his feet. He grasped a handful of small stones and hurled them. “Damn you!” he shrieked loudly. The pebbles rang against the face of the mountain.
The little man then made an attack. He climbed with hands and feet wildly. Brambles forced him back and stones slid from beneath his feet. The peak swayed and tottered, and was ever about to smite with a granite arm. The summit was a blaze of red wrath.
But the little man at last reached the top. Immediately, he swaggered with valor to the edge of the cliff. His hands were scornfully in his pockets.
He gazed at the western horizon, edged sharply against a yellow sky. “Ho!” he said. “There’s Boyd’s house and the Lumberland Pike.”
The mountain under his feet was motionless.
1892?
[Last Words. London: Digby, Long & Co.
(March, 1902), pp. 225–230.]
* The Sullivan County Sketches.
THE HOLLER TREE*
A SULLIVAN COUNTY SKETCH
As they went along a narrow woodpath, the little man accidentally stumbled against the pudgy man. The latter was carrying a basket of eggs, and he became angry.
“Look out, can’t you! Do you wanta break all these eggs? Walk straight—what’s the matter with you?” he said and passed on.
The little man saved his balance with difficulty. He had to keep from spilling a pail of milk. “T’blazes with your old eggs,” he called out.
The pudgy man spoke over his shoulder. “Well, you needn’t have any when we get to camp, then,” he said.
“Who wants any of your infernal old eggs. Keep your infernal old eggs,” replied the little man.
The four men trudged on into the forest until presently the little man espied a dead tree. He paused. “Look at that tree,” he said.
They scrutinized it. It was a tall, gaunt relic of a pine that stood like a yellow warrior still opposing an aged form to blows in storm-battles.
“I bet it’s got lots of nests in it and all sorts of things like that,” murmured the little man. The pudgy man scoffed. “Oh, fudge,” he said.
“Well, I bet it has,” asserted the other.
The four men put down their loads of provisions and stood around and argued.
“Yes, I bet it’s a cornerstone with an almanac in it and a census report and a certified list of the pew-holders,” said the pudgy man to the little man.
The latter swore for some time. “Put up even money,” he demanded in conclusion. “Put up even money.”
“Look out—you’ll kick over the eggs,” replied the pudgy man.
“Well, put up even money. You daren’t.”
The pudgy man scornfully kicked a stone. “Oh, fudge. How you going to prove it? Tell me that.”
The little man thought. “Well,” he said, eventually, “I’ll climb up. That’s how.”
The pudgy man looked at the tree and at the little man. He thought.
“I’ll cover you,” he suddenly decided.
The little man laid down his pipe, tightened his belt, and went off and looked at the tree.
“Well—” he began, coming back.
“Go on and climb it,” said the pudgy man. “You said you’d climb it.”
The little man went off and looked at the tree again. “Well, I will,” he said, finally. The pudgy man giggled. The little man tightened his belt more. He approached and put both arms around the tree.
“Say,” he said, turning round. “You—I—”
“Go on and climb it,” interrupted the pudgy man. “You said you’d climb it.”
The little man began to climb schoolboy fashion. He found many difficulties. The wood crumbled and rubbed into his clothes. He felt smeared. Besides, there was a horrible strain upon his legs.
When about halfway, he ceased wriggling and turned his head cautiously. “Say—”
The three men had been regarding him intently. They then burst out. “Go on! Go on! You’ve got that far—what’s the use of stopping? I believe you’re gettin’ scared! Oh, my!”
He swore and continued up. Several times he seemed about to fall in a lump. The three below held their breath.
Once, he paused to deliver an oration and forgot his grip for a moment. It was near being fatal.
At last, he reached the top. “Well?” said the pudgy man. The little man gazed about him. There was a somber sea of pines, rippling in a wind. Far away, there was a little house, and two yellow fields.
“Fine scenery up here,” he murmured.
“Oh, bother,” said the pudgy man. “Where’s your nests and all that? That’s what I wanta know.”
The little man peered down the hollow trunk. “They’re in there.”
The pudgy man grinned. “How do you know?”
The little man looked down the hole again. “It’s all dark,” he said.
The pudgy man complacently lit a fresh pipe. “Certainly, it is,” he remarked. “You look great up there, don’t you? What you goin’ to do now, eh?”
The little man balanced himself carefully on the ragged edge and looked thoughtfully at the hole. “Well, I might slide down,” he said in a doubtful voice.
“That’s it,” cried the other. “That’s what you wanta do! Slide down!”
“Well,” said the little man, “it looks pretty dangerous.”
“Oh, I see! You’re afraid!”
“I ain’t!”
“Yes, you are, too! Else why don’t you slide down?”
“Well, how th’ devil do I know but what something’s down there?” shouted the little man in a rage.
His companion replied with scorn. “Pooh! Nothin’ but a hollow tree! You’re afraid of the dark!”
“You must take me for a fool! What th’ blazes do I wanta be slidin’ down every hollow tree I see for?”
“Well, you climbed up, didn’t you? What are you up there for? You can’t find your little nests and things just settin’ there an’ cursin’, can you? You’re afraid, I bet!”
“You make—”
“Oh, yes, you are. You know you are.”
The
little man flung his legs over and slid down until only his head and his gripping fingers appeared. He seemed to be feeling about with his feet.
“There’s nothing to climb down with,” he said, finally.
“Certainly not. Did you hope for a stairway? You’re afraid.”
The little man’s face flushed and his eyes grew like beads. He glared from out of the hole.
“I am not, you big—”
“Oh, yes, you are. Anyone can see it.”
“Thunderation, you’re th’—”
“Oh, come, Billie, either climb down th’ outside or slide down th’ inside. There’s no use of you sittin’ up there, you know, if you ain’t going to do something. You’re afraid, that’s what.”
“I tell you I ain’t. What th’ devil—?”
“Oh, yes, you are, too. You’re pale with fright, Billie. We can see it down here. Oh, my! I’m surprised.”
The little man raised a fist. “Thunder and blazes—”
He vanished down the hole.
The wood had crumbled and broken under the strain of the one hand. Hollow sounds of scratchings and thumpings came to the ears of his three companions. In agitation they ran about the vibrating trunk and called to their comrade in many voices. They were fearful he had met his time.
Presently, they heard a muffled noise of swearing. They listened. Down near the ground, the little man was cursing under forced draft. The old tree shook like a smokestack.
The pudgy man approached and put near his ear.
“Billie!”
“What?”
“Are you inside the tree?”
The little man began to kick and clamor. His voice came in a dull roar. “Certainly I’m inside the tree. Where th’ devil did you suppose I was? What th’—?”
His voice died away in smothered thunder.
“Well, but, Billie,” asked the pudgy man anxiously, “how you going to get out?”
The little man began to rage again. “What a fool you are. I don’t know how I’m going to get out. Don’t suppose I’ve got plans made already, do you?”
The Complete Short Stories and Sketches of Stephen Crane Page 13
