Continued from page 254, May number 



[Editors' Note: The author of these "confessions" is now well-known as an amateur gardener, and writes with such genuine humor as proves 

 of the "cure". Who she is we do not say at this time, but the future may reveal it.] 



efficacy 



Chapter IX — Continued 



I HAD no idea so much skill and deft- 

 ness was necessary in turning around 

 and starting the furrow again. It 

 was nearly ten when he unhitched 

 the horses from the plow, wiped his fore- 

 head which was curiously white, threw the 

 extra whiffle tree into the wagon, and 

 began fastening the horses back into their 

 old places. 



"I have delayed you greatly, I'm afraid," 

 I said, "shall you be too late for loading 

 the wood?" 



He hesitated, looked at me keenly a 

 moment, glanced nervously toward the 

 house, then a sudden smile broke, he 

 grinned like a boy, showing very white 

 teeth and his blue eyes laughed. 



"The logging's an excuse," he said softly. 

 "When it comes May, I just have to go to 

 the woods, the trees are calling — I can't 

 help it any more than those Hamelin 

 children could help going after the Piper. 

 Soon as the maples are out they fairly 

 holler to me — I just take a week or so 

 and say nothing to anybody. I have to go 

 just like the bees go to that old orchard 'way 

 up the hill; when it's in blossom, it calls 

 them and they come. There's no one in 

 Enderby Hollow knows what the May 

 woods are like but me! All the men-folks 

 are plowing and planting; all the women- 

 folks are house-cleaning. It's only the 

 children that'd answer. They hear the 

 woods calling plain enough ; but them, they 

 keep shut up in school 'cept Saturday, and 

 then they get chores enough to keep them 

 busy — so they don't get too close to the 

 Lord's miracle. And they teach them 

 Easter and the Resurrection shut up in- 

 doors out of a Quarterly, when the blood- 

 root on the hillside is white as the gar- 

 ments of the Resurrection Angel, and every 

 tree in the wood is a-tremble with the 

 mystery of death transfigured into life! 

 They're blind and deaf, those people down 

 there!" he said, passionately, pointing over 

 toward the little town that lay below. 

 "The only part of the Lord's miracle that 

 they care about is that that helps 'em feed 

 their bodies — they never think of feeding 

 their souls with it! 'Eyes have they, but 

 they see not, ears have they but they hear 

 not, neither can they understand.' They 

 drive the wild loveliness from the roadside 

 as if it were pestilence. Do you think 

 they'll see the gold in the streets of the new 



Jerusalem if they can't see the gold there? " 

 he pointed to a great oak, leaning toward 

 us from the ravine. "Do you think they 

 could see the Lord in any flaming bush if 

 they can't see him yonder?" 



I saw the tree he meant, far up the hill- 

 side — a maple, glowing crimson against 

 the dark pines. 



" It's a wonderful place up there," he 

 said softly, "no one goes to it but me. 

 That tree is high on a ledge of rock — very 

 high; underneath it now the ground is all 

 soft moss and violets — violets so thick you 

 can't help but step on them. Later there's 

 a single columbine, just at the edge of the 

 rock — it stands out clear against the sky, 

 as you lie under the tree. You go up there 

 very early — all below is mist, like a sea — 

 a wonderful radiant sea and the sun just 

 touches the mountains beyond — then 

 they become the Delectable Mountains. 

 It's as if " 



He stopped abruptly. "I beg your par- 

 don," he said in his embarrassed, hesita- 

 ting way, " — I forgot. It's — it's so 

 beautiful — and they don't see it — none 

 of them!" 



I looked at him for a moment in silence 

 and felt as if I had always known him, just 

 as I felt I had always known the little 

 house and the apple trees — this strange 

 shy fellow with his uncouthness and his 

 fineness, his hesitancy and his sudden 

 vehemence. 



"I came up here," I said slowly, "be- 

 cause I wanted to see the trees come alive. 

 I think I must have heard them calling. 

 Will you take me up the hill some day?" 



"Yes," he said. 



He looked off again to the hillside, pulled 

 the old felt hat from his head. "If ever 

 the time comes when I can't see wonder 

 and loveliness in the springtime but only 

 the deadening round of monotonous work 

 — may the Lord blind my eyes and stop 

 my ears!" 



I sat for a long time, that evening, after 

 I saw McLeod pass down the hill, through 

 the gate; picking up a clod of the soft earth 

 he had plowed, and crumbling it in my 

 fingers, I looked off toward Stephen 

 McLeod's Delectable Mountains. A thrush 

 deep in the ravine uttered his note, another 

 answered; then, far down the hill in the 

 woods into which McLeod had disappeared 

 another, faint in the distance, but very 

 clear; then an answer to that. 



"He's right," I said, "the wonder and 



309 



the loveliness is the chief thing. I've been 

 blind and deaf all my life! " 



Chapter X 



For some reason Clarky's garden did 

 better than mine. I mean her garden bed 

 with the retaining wall and the muck from 

 the ravine for soil. The young wild things 

 in it looked cheerful and sprightly; the 

 ferns she had brought up the hill in the 

 little cart grew as luxuriantly as if trans- 

 planting had never happened — they 

 didn't turn a hair; the pansies I had 

 set there throve lustily and began to 

 blossom in lovely colors — they and the 

 maiden hair ferns got on together charm- 

 ingly. And yet the only thing Clarky 

 did for the bed was to give it pail after pail 

 of water. 



Mine was different; the little plants 

 came up joyfully enough; the poppies 

 changed from a soft green fu?z to real 

 seedlings ; the cornflowers were two or three 

 inches high and had long narrow gray- 

 green leaves with a silvery tinge. 



Suddenly one after another of them 

 flopped — toppled over as if suddenly 

 faint. They didn't crumple in a heap as 

 I did when I felt tired but fell full 

 length, like an iSth century novel heroine. 

 1 had no idea what ailed them; I sat on 

 my cushion by the flower bed and stared 

 at them in dismay; then I lifted one poor 

 little cornflower carefully and tried to help 

 it up, thinking it had simply fainted; but it 

 was no use; it couldn't stand. 



Just then Mrs. Tarbox came out; 

 she had a couple of dish towels in her hand 

 which she hung irreverently on the fragrant 

 lilac that was coming into magnificent 

 bloom. 



"What's the matter?" she asked. "You 

 look kinder peaked, Caroline." 



"What's the matter with them?" I said, 

 almost tearfully. 



She bent laboriously, poked the poor 

 limp things casually with a fat forefinger, 

 then righted herself again. "Cutwoims," 

 she said — "cutworms; bit the stems 

 right off." 



" But what can you do for them? " 



"Cuss," responded Mrs. Tarbox briefly. 

 "That's what folks does mostly." 



"Isn't there anything else you can do?" 

 I said in despair. 



"Oh, yes, they's plenty of things you 

 might do. But you don't notice the pesky 

 things till they've up an' done it — bit 



