“I forgot that you were making sun-preserves and they didn’t require much cooking,” she said. “We should have waited for you.”
“Not at all!” answered Mrs. Comstock. “Have you found anything yet?”
“Nothing that I can show you,” said Elnora. “I am almost sure I have found an idea that will revolutionize the whole course of my work, thought, and ambitions.”
“‘Ambitions!’ My, what a hefty word!” laughed Mrs. Comstock. “Now who would suspect a little red-haired country girl of harbouring such a deadly germ in her body? Can you tell mother about it?”
“Not if you talk to me that way, I can’t,” said Elnora.
“Well, I guess we better let ambition lie. I’ve always heard it was safest asleep. If you ever get a bona fide attack, it will be time to attend it. Let’s hunt specimens. It is June. Philip and I are in the grades. You have an hour to put an idea into our heads that will stick for a lifetime, and grow for good. That’s the way I look at your job. Now, what are you going to give us? We don’t want any old silly stuff that has been hashed over and over, we want a big new idea to plant in our hearts. Come on, Miss Teacher, what is the boiled-down, double-distilled essence of June? Give it to us strong. We are large enough to furnish it developing ground. Hurry up! Time is short and we are waiting. What is the miracle of June? What one thing epitomizes the whole month, and makes it just a little different from any other?”
“The birth of these big night moths,” said Elnora promptly.
Philip clapped his hands. The tears started to Mrs. Comstock’s eyes. She took Elnora in her arms, and kissed her forehead.
“You’ll do!” she said. “June is June, not because it has bloom, bird, fruit, or flower, exclusive to it alone.
“It’s half May and half July in all of them. But to me, it’s just June, when it comes to these great, velvet-winged night moths which sweep its moonlit skies, consummating their scheme of creation, and dropping like a bloomed-out flower. Give them moths for June. Then make that the basis of your year’s work. Find the distinctive feature of each month, the one thing which marks it a time apart, and hit them squarely between the eyes with it. Even the babies of the lowest grades can comprehend moths when they see a few emerge, and learn their history, as it can be lived before them. You should show your specimens in pairs, then their eggs, the growing caterpillars, and then the cocoons. You want to dig out the red heart of every month in the year, and hold it pulsing before them.
“I can’t name all of them off-hand, but I think of one more right now. February belongs to our winter birds. It is then the great horned owl of the swamp courts his mate, the big hawks pair, and even the crows begin to take notice. These are truly our birds. Like the poor we have them always with us. You should hear the musicians of this swamp in February, Philip, on a mellow night. Oh, but they are in earnest! For twenty-one years I’ve listened by night to the great owls, all the smaller sizes, the foxes, coons, and every resident left in these woods, and by day to the hawks, yellow-hammers, sap-suckers, titmice, crows, and other winter birds. Only just now it’s come to me that the distinctive feature of February is not linen bleaching, nor sugar making; it’s the love month of our very own birds. Give them hawks and owls for February, Elnora.”
With flashing eyes the girl looked at Philip. “How’s that?” she said. “Don’t you think I will succeed, with such help? You should hear the concert she is talking about! It is simply indescribable when the ground is covered with snow, and the moonlight white.”
“It’s about the best music we have,” said Mrs. Comstock. “I wonder if you couldn’t copy that and make a strong, original piece out of it for your violin, Elnora?”
There was one tense breath, then— “I could try,” said Elnora simply.
Philip rushed to the rescue. “We must go to work,” he said, and began examining a walnut branch for Luna moth eggs. Elnora joined him while Mrs. Comstock drew her embroidery from her pocket and sat on a log. She said she was tired, they could come for her when they were ready to go. She could hear their voices around her until she called them at supper time. When they came to her she stood waiting on the trail, the sewing in one hand, the violin in the other. Elnora became very white, but followed the trail without a word. Philip, unable to see a woman carry a heavier load than he, reached for the instrument. Mrs. Comstock shook her head. She carried the violin home, took it into her room and closed the door. Elnora turned to Philip.
“If she destroys that, I shall die!” cried the girl.
“She won’t!” said Philip. “You misunderstand her. She wouldn’t have said what she did about the owls, if she had meant to. She is your mother. No one loves you as she does. Trust her! Myself—I think she’s simply great!”
Mrs. Comstock returned with serene face, and all of them helped with the supper. When it was over Philip and Elnora sorted and classified the afternoon’s specimens, and made a trip to the woods to paint and light several trees for moths. When they came back Mrs. Comstock sat in the arbour, and they joined her. The moonlight was so intense, print could have been read by it. The damp night air held odours near to earth, making flower and tree perfume strong. A thousand insects were serenading, and in the maple the grosbeak occasionally said a reassuring word to his wife, while she answered that all was well. A whip-poor-will wailed in the swamp and beside the blue-bordered pool a chat complained disconsolately. Mrs. Comstock went into the cabin, but she returned immediately, laying the violin and bow across Elnora’s lap. “I wish you would give us a little music,” she said.
Chapter 17
Wherein Mrs. Comstock Dances in the Moonlight, and Elnora Makes a Confession
Billy was swinging in the hammock, at peace with himself and all the world, when he thought he heard something. He sat bolt upright, his eyes staring. Once he opened his lips, then thought again and closed them. The sound persisted. Billy vaulted the fence, and ran down the road with his queer sidewise hop. When he neared the Comstock cabin, he left the warm dust of the highway and stepped softly at slower pace over the rank grasses of the roadside. He had heard aright. The violin was in the grape arbour, singing a perfect jumble of everything, poured out in an exultant tumult. The strings were voicing the joy of a happy girl heart.
Billy climbed the fence enclosing the west woods and crept toward the arbour. He was not a spy and not a sneak. He merely wanted to satisfy his child-heart as to whether Mrs. Comstock was at home, and Elnora at last playing her loved violin with her mother’s consent. One peep sufficed. Mrs. Comstock sat in the moonlight, her head leaning against the arbour; on her face was a look of perfect peace and contentment. As he stared at her the bow hesitated a second and Mrs. Comstock spoke:
“That’s all very melodious and sweet,” she said, “but I do wish you could play ‘Money Musk’ and some of the tunes I danced as a girl.”
Elnora had been carefully avoiding every note that might be reminiscent of her father. At the words she laughed softly and began “Turkey in the Straw.” An instant later Mrs. Comstock was dancing in the moon light. Ammon sprang to her side, caught her in his arms, while to Elnora’s laughter and the violin’s impetus they danced until they dropped panting on the arbour bench.
Billy scarcely knew when he reached the road. His light feet barely touched the soft way, so swiftly he flew. He vaulted the fence and burst into the house.
“Aunt Margaret! Uncle Wesley!” he screamed. “Listen! Listen! She’s playing it! Elnora’s playing her violin at home! And Aunt Kate is dancing like anything before the arbour! I saw her in the moonlight! I ran down! Oh, Aunt Margaret!”
Billy fled sobbing to Margaret’s breast.
“Why Billy!” she chided. “Don’t cry, you little dunce! That’s what we’ve all prayed for these many years; but you must be mistaken about Kate. I can’t believe it.”
Billy lifted his head. “Well, you just have to!” he said. “When I say I saw anything, Uncle Wesley knows I did. The city man was dancing with h
er. They danced together and Elnora laughed. But it didn’t look funny to me; I was scared.”
“Who was it said ‘wonders never cease,’” asked Wesley. “You mark my word, once you get Kate Comstock started, you can’t stop her. There’s a wagon load of penned-up force in her. Dancing in the moonlight! Well, I’ll be hanged!”
Billy was at his side instantly. “Whoever does it will have to hang me, too,” he cried.
Sinton threw his arm around Billy and drew him closely. “Tell us all about it, son,” he said. Billy told. “And when Elnora just stopped a breath, ‘Can’t you play some of the old things I knew when I was a girl?’ said her ma. Then Elnora began to do a thing that made you want to whirl round and round, and quicker ’an scat there was her ma a-whirling. The city man, he ups and grabs her and whirls, too, and back in the woods I was going just like they did. Elnora begins to laugh, and I ran to tell you, cos I knew you’d like to know. Now, all the world is right, ain’t it?” ended Billy in supreme satisfaction.
“You just bet it is!” said Wesley.
Billy looked steadily at Margaret. “Is it, Aunt Margaret?”
Margaret Sinton smiled at him bravely.
An hour later when Billy was ready to climb the stairs to his room, he went to Margaret to say good night. He leaned against her an instant, then brought his lips to her ear. “Wish I could get your little girls back for you!” he whispered and dashed toward the stairs.
Down at the Comstock cabin the violin played on until Elnora was so tired she scarcely could lift the bow. Then Philip went home. The women walked to the gate with him, and stood watching him from sight.
“That’s what I call one decent young man!” said Mrs. Comstock. “To see him fit in with us, you’d think he’d been brought up in a cabin; but it’s likely he’s always had the very cream o’ the pot.”
“Yes, I think so,” laughed Elnora, “but it hasn’t hurt him. I’ve never seen anything I could criticise. He’s teaching me so much, unconsciously. You know he graduated from Harvard, and has several degrees in law. He’s coming in the morning, and we are going to put in a big day on Catocalae.”
“Which is—?”
“Those gray moths with wings that fold back like big flies, and they appear as if they had been carved from old wood. Then, when they fly, the lower wings flash out and they are red and black, or gold and black, or pink and black, or dozens of bright, beautiful colours combined with black. No one ever has classified all of them and written their complete history, unless the Bird Woman is doing it now. She wants everything she can get about them.”
“I remember,” said Mrs. Comstock. “They are mighty pretty things. I’ve started up slews of them from the vines covering the logs, all my life. I must be cautious and catch them after this, but they seem powerful spry. I might get hold of something rare.” She thought intently and added, “And wouldn’t know it if I did. It would just be my luck. I’ve had the rarest thing on earth in reach this many a day and only had the wit to cinch it just as it was going. I’ll bet I don’t let anything else escape me.”
Next morning Philip came early, and he and Elnora went at once to the fields and woods. Mrs. Comstock had come to believe so implicitly in him that she now stayed at home to complete the work before she joined them, and when she did she often sat sewing, leaving them wandering hours at a time. It was noon before she finished, and then she packed a basket of lunch. She found Elnora and Philip near the violet patch, which was still in its prime. They all lunched together in the shade of a wild crab thicket, with flowers spread at their feet, and the gold orioles streaking the air with flashes of light and trailing ecstasy behind them, while the red-wings, as always, asked the most impertinent questions. Then Mrs. Comstock carried the basket back to the cabin, and Philip and Elnora sat on a log, resting a few minutes. They had unexpected luck, and both were eager to continue the search.
“Do you remember your promise about these violets?” asked he. “To-morrow is Edith’s birthday, and if I’d put them special delivery on the morning train, she’d get them in the late afternoon. They ought to keep that long. She leaves for the North next day.”
“Of course, you may have them,” said Elnora. “We will quit long enough before supper to gather a large bunch. They can be packed so they will carry all right. They should be perfectly fresh, especially if we gather them this evening and let them drink all night.”
Then they went back to hunt Catocalae. It was a long and a happy search. It led them into new, unexplored nooks of the woods, past a red-poll nest, and where goldfinches prospected for thistledown for the cradles they would line a little later. It led them into real forest, where deep, dark pools lay, where the hermit thrush and the wood robin extracted the essence from all other bird melody, and poured it out in their pure bell-tone notes. It seemed as if every old gray tree-trunk, slab of loose bark, and prostrate log yielded the flashing gray treasures; while of all others they seemed to take alarm most easily, and be most difficult to capture.
Philip came to Elnora at dusk, daintily holding one by the body, its dark wings showing and its long slender legs trying to clasp his fingers and creep from his hold.
“Oh for mercy’s sake!” cried Elnora, staring at him.
“I half believe it!” exulted Ammon.
“Did you ever see one?”
“Only in collections, and very seldom there.”
Elnora studied the black wings intently. “I surely believe that’s Sappho,” she marvelled. “The Bird Woman will be overjoyed.”
“We must get the cyanide jar quickly,” said Philip.
“I wouldn’t lose her for anything. Such a chase as she led me!”
Elnora brought the jar and began gathering up paraphernalia.
“When you make a find like that,” she said, “it’s the right time to quit and feel glorious all the rest of that day. I tell you I’m proud! We will go now. We have barely time to carry out our plans before supper. Won’t mother be pleased to see that we have a rare one?”
“I’d like to see any one more pleased than I am!” said Philip Ammon. “I feel as if I’d earned my supper to-night. Let’s go.”
He took the greater part of the load and stepped aside for Elnora to precede him. She followed the path, broken by the grazing cattle, toward the cabin and nearest the violet patch she stopped, laid down her net, and the things she carried. Philip passed her and hurried straight toward the back gate.
“Aren’t you going to—?” began Elnora.
“I’m going to get this moth home in a hurry,” he said. “This cyanide has lost its strength, and it’s not working well. We need some fresh in the jar.”
He had forgotten the violets! Elnora stood looking after him, a curious expression on her face. One second so—then she picked up the net and followed. At the blue-bordered pool she paused and half turned back, then she closed her lips firmly and went on. It was nine o’clock when Philip said good-bye, and started to town. His gay whistle floated to them from the farthest corner of the Limberlost. Elnora complained of being tired, so she went to her room and to bed. But sleep would not come. Thought was racing in her brain and the longer she lay the wider awake she grew. At last she softly slipped from bed, lighted her lamp and began opening boxes. Then she went to work. Two hours later a beautiful birch bark basket, strongly and artistically made, stood on her table. She set a tiny alarm clock at three, returned to bed and fell asleep instantly with a smile on her lips.
She was on the floor with the first tinkle of the alarm, and hastily dressing, she picked up the basket and a box to fit it, crept down the stairs, and out to the violet patch. She was unafraid as it was growing light, and lining the basket with damp mosses she swiftly began picking, with practised hands, the best of the flowers. She scarcely could tell which were freshest at times, but day soon came creeping over the Limberlost and peeped at her. The robins awoke all their neighbours, and a babel of bird notes filled the air. The dew was dripping, while the first strong
rays of light fell on a world in which Elnora worshipped. When the basket was filled to overflowing, she set it in the stout pasteboard box, packed it solid with mosses, tied it firmly and slipped under the cord a note she had written the previous night.
Then she took a short cut across the woods and walked swiftly to Onabasha. It was after six o’clock, but all of the city she wished to avoid were asleep. She had no trouble in finding a small boy out, and she stood at a distance waiting while he rang Dr. Ammon’s bell and delivered the package for Philip to a maid, with the note which was to be given him at once.
On the way home through the woods passing some baited trees she collected the captive moths. She entered the kitchen with them so naturally that Mrs. Comstock made no comment. After breakfast Elnora went to her room, cleared away all trace of the night’s work and was out in the arbour mounting moths when Philip came down the road. “I am tired sitting,” she said to her mother. “I think I will walk a few rods and meet him.”
“Who’s a trump?” he called from afar.
“Not you!” retorted Elnora. “Confess that you forgot!”
“Completely!” said Philip. “But luckily it would not have been fatal. I wrote Polly last week to send Edith something appropriate to-day, with my card. But that touch from the woods will be very effective. Thank you more than I can say. Aunt Anna and I unpacked it to see the basket, and it was a beauty. She says you are always doing such things.”
“Well, I hope not!” laughed Elnora. “If you’d seen me sneaking out before dawn, not to awaken mother and coming in with moths to make her think I’d been to the trees, you’d know it was a most especial occasion.”
Then Philip understood two things: Elnora’s mother did not know of the early morning trip to the city, and the girl had come to meet him to tell him so.
“You were a brick to do it!” he whispered as he closed the gate behind them. “I’ll never forget you for it. Thank you ever so much.”
The Best of Gene Stratton-Porter Page 49