OUT OF THE MOUTH OF BABES
Perhaps it was a mere matter of nerves, but it seemed to me thatmorning that it was the cliffs of the Valley. Those mighty,overshadowing, everlasting walls and towers of the Yosemite seem to beendowed with the power to produce numberless changes of feeling.
Sometimes you gaze at them, and they lift up your spirit and hold italoft in the free air, and send it up, and up, and up, until it reachesthe very blue of heaven, and you know that you are free and powerfuland ennobled, made one with the saints and mighty ones of earth.
The next morning you go forth and look up at those silent graniteheights, and expect them to repeat their miracle. But they will not.They frown upon you and crush you down into the earth you are made of.Like an accusing conscience, they lift their stern, forbidding facesabove you on all sides and look you steadily in the eyes with theirinsistence upon your unworthiness, until, in despair, you are ready toshut yourself up to escape their persecutions.
Of course, as I said before, it may not be the cliffs at all. It maybe nothing but nerves. But I think it is the walls of the Valley.
On that particular morning they had made me bite the dust until I couldno longer endure the sight of them. To escape their solemn,contemptuous faces I ran down a little path which led into a densethicket of young pines and cedars. The trees grew so close togetherthat they shut out all view of everything beyond a few feet on eachside of the path. The ground was brown with their cast-off needles,and the air was pungent with their fragrance. Overhead there wereglimpses of a smiling blue sky, and the cool, fragrant shadows of thethicket were brightened by patches of gleaming sunshine. The friendlysounds of woodpeckers hammering the trees, and of birds singing amongthe branches, pleased my ears and diverted my thoughts.
The only reminder of those towering granite Preachers, with theireverlasting "All is vanity," was the roaring and crashing of theYosemite Falls, which filled the Valley with their thunder and made theair tremble.
The sights, the sounds, the odors, enveloped my senses and filled mewith delighted, languorous content. It was very comforting, and I satdown on a log in the edge of a little opening, all pink and fragrantwith wild roses, to enjoy the sensuous delight of it all and so takerevenge upon the great stone Preachers waiting for me outside thethicket.
Presently there came from beyond the glade a soft, crooning noise,which in an instant more became that sweetest of sounds, the voice of ahappy child alone with nature.
A little girl, perhaps four or five years old, came slowly down thepath. She was talking to herself and to the trees and birds andsquirrels, and even to the brown pine-needles under her feet. Her hat,which she had stuck full of wild roses, hung at the back of her head,the ends of her brown curls just peeping below it. Without the leasttrace of childish shyness she came straight to where I sat, mounted thelog beside me, and asked me to take a thorn from her finger.
"Did it hurt you?" I asked, as I patted the chubby brown fist after theoperation. "You are a very brave little girl not to cry."
"Yes, I know it," she replied, looking at me with big violet eyes,frank and confiding. She was a beautiful child, with a gloriousperfection of feature and complexion. "I 'm always brave. My papasays so, and my new mamma says so, too. I 've got two mammas--my newmamma and my gone-away mamma. But I like my new mamma best."
"Do you? Why?"
"'Cause she's always and always dust as good as she can be. And shenever and never says 'Stop this minute!' er 'at I make her head ache,er 'at I 'm naughty, er anything. She dust puts her arms all 'round meand says, 'Dear little girl.' An' 'en I 'm good. And I love my newmamma, I do, better than my gone-away mamma." And she gave a decidedlittle nod, as if in defiance of some privately urged claim.
"Where has your other mamma gone?" I asked, expecting to hear but theone answer. She raised her long lashes and looked at me seriously.
"You 're a tourist lady, ain't you? That's why you don't know. Well,it was a tourist man, 'at stayed a long time, who tooked my gone-awaymamma away."
"A tourist man? Why did he do that?"
"'Cause he did n't want me 'round, I guess. When the flowers was herethat other time he comed to the store where my mamma sold all thepretty things my papa made dust every day an' every day. An' I did n'tlike him a bit, I did n't."
"Why didn't you like him?"
"'Cause he did n't like me, and did n't want me 'round. When my mammawas there and I was there, he would come and talk to my mamma, an' 'enhe would tell her to send me away. An' 'en she would put me in theback room; an' if I cried an' kicked the door, she would put me in thecloset. If the tourist man wasn't there, she loved me most all thetime."
"Did n't she love you all the time, anyway?"
For answer the small maiden shut her eyes tightly and shook her headrapidly and decidedly.
"Why do you think she did n't love you all the time?"
"'Cause sometimes she was n't good to me."
"Did you love her all the time?"
Another decided head-shaking.
"You did n't? Why?"
"I did n't love her when she did n't love me. But my new mamma lovesme all the time an' all day an' all night an' every day an' every nightan' always. An' we dust have the bestest times togevver, an' I loveher dust all I can love anybody." She hugged her chubby arms close upto her breast as if she had them around the loved one's neck, screwedup her pretty face, and gave the little grunt with which childhoodexpresses the fulness of its affection.
"Did you see the tourist man take your gone-away mamma away?"
"No, I didn't see him, but he did, 'cause once she went to take a walkan' 'en he never came back any more."
"And did n't she ever come back?"
"'Course not!" She looked at me in wide-eyed amazement at myignorance. "One day she said for me to stay there 'cause she was goingto take a walk. An' I cried to go too, an' 'en she picked me up quickan' hugged me tight an' kissed me. An' 'en she put me down an' saidno, she was going too far. An' she took off her ring, her pretty goldring, 'at she never let me have before, an' said to play wif it andwhen papa come give it to him. An' I did, an' papa readed a letter 'atwas on the table, an' 'en he fell down on the bed an' cried. An' I putmy hand on his face an' said, 'Poor papa, what's 'e matter?' An' 'enhe took me up in his arms, an' we bofe cried, an' cried, an' cried.An' he said, 'Poor little girl!'"
She paused a moment, and then, with the air of one summing up a longdiscourse, she exclaimed, "An' that's why I 've got a gone-away mamma!"
I stroked the little one's hand, which nestled confidingly in mine, andsaid, half absently, "And she never came back?"
The child had fallen into a reverie, her big violet eyes fastened onthe ground at our feet, but my words roused her into sociability againand she chattered on:
"No, 'course not, she never comed back. But one day 'ere was a letter,all alone dust for me, an' my papa called me an' said, 'Here is aletter for my little girl; now, I wonder who it's from?' She said thiswith the quaintest imitation of grown-up condescension addressing achild, waited a moment, as if to give to suspense its proper effect,and then went on:
"He tored it open an' inside the en'lope was dust a tiny bit of aletter wif just a little bit of reading and writing on it. An' 'en mypapa dropped it 's if it was a yellow-jacket an' he said, great big an'loud, 'Money! from them! Don't touch it, child!' An' he frowed it inthe fire. But I did n't see no money and I wanted to keep my letter,'cause it was all mine. But I had my new mamma then, an' when I criedshe writed me another letter."
"Yes," I said, "it's very queer to have two mammas, is n't it? Butwhen did you get your new mamma?"
"Well, one day, after there was n't any more snow, we all went tochurch. And I had on my new white dress--it's awful pretty--and a newribbon on my hair, and a new hat--not this old one--prettier than this,lots, with pretty flowers on it. And papa and--and--_her_, they stoodup and talked wif the preacher, an' I would n't sit still. I d
ustrunned right up side of my papa and held on to his leg all the time.An' when the preacher did n't talk any more she picked me up an' huggedme tight, an' kissed me an' said, 'I 'm going to be your mamma now,darling.'
"An' she 's been my new mamma ever since, an' I 'm going to keep herfor my mamma always and always, and I don't want my gone-away mammaever to come back, 'cause I love my new mamma best."
Just then there burst upon the warm, soft air a babel of shouts andyells and loud hurrahs. The wee maiden turned a brightening face inthe direction of the uproar, and announced:
"That's wecess. I must go now. I 'spect my mamma will want me. Sheis n't dust my new mamma, she is n't. She's the teacher, too. An' Igo to school wif her every day. But I don't have to stay in theschoolhouse 'less I want to."
She slipped off the log and started down the path, and then came backto kiss me good-bye. The hurried tread of a woman rustled through thethicket, and a Madonna-like face appeared between the branches.
"Come, dearie," she called, and the child ran across the glade, jumpedinto her arms and nestled upon her neck with a cry of delight.
Months afterward, in a city on the other side of the continent, I met abeautiful woman. She was a little overdressed and over-jewelled, but Ithought as I talked with her that never before had I seen a woman ofsuch glorious perfection of features and complexion and figure.
My visit to the Yosemite, the previous summer, chanced to be mentioned,and at once she began to ask me question after question about theValley, and about those who live in it and cater to the comfort oftravellers. Her husband, tall, athletic-looking, and handsome, leanedupon the back of her chair and made tactful efforts to divert theconversation into other channels. She yielded for the moment, but soonmanaged to lead me away to a quiet nook where she at once re-commencedher inquiries. Her beautiful face haunted and teased me withsuggestions of previous sight. But I could not recall any formermeeting, and so I decided that some chance street view of hercountenance had impressed its beauty upon my memory.
As she rapidly poured forth question after question, I could not helpnoticing and wondering about the pathetic wistfulness in her eyes andthe nervous eagerness of her manner. Presently she said she hoped tovisit the Yosemite herself some time, and then hurriedly asked if I hadseen any of the people who live there during the winter, and if any ofthem had children, and if the little ones, too, were subjected to thathardship.
There was intense longing in her lovely violet eyes as she asked thesequestions, but she quickly dropped her lids, and only her hands,trembling in her lap, betrayed that she felt more than casual interest.
I told her everything I could remember, facts, incidents, andanecdotes, that I thought would interest her. It did not occur to methat her eagerness for information was anything more than an unusuallykeen curiosity about a mode of life so different from her own.Chancing to recall my adventure with the little maid I told her aboutit.
I dwelt on the child's beauty and precocity, and repeated her accountof why she had two mammas. The red blood was dyeing my listener's facea deep crimson, but still I did not understand, and went on lightly--
"She was as charming a little thing as I ever saw, but she was not atall complimentary to the 'gone-away mamma,' for she declared,emphatically, that she loved her new mamma best, and meant to keep heralways, and did n't want her gone-away mamma ever to come back, becausethe new mamma loved her so much, and they had such good times together."
The surging color flowed in a quick tide from her face and left there agray pallor, like that of granite cliffs when the sun goes down, andher hands were so tightly locked that her fingers looked white andghastly. I thought it was indignation against that distant and unknownwoman who had yielded to temptation that was moving her so strongly,and expected to hear from her parted lips some sweeping sentence offiery feminine scorn and contempt.
But it was a low moan that came through their paling curves as sheswayed once in her chair and then fell to the floor.
The physician, who was hurriedly summoned, said that it was a case ofheart failure, and that she must have died instantly from some suddenshock.
And then, looking again at the beautiful, cold face, I understood atlast. For death had completed the likeness which life had onlysuggested, and the faultless features, lying now in their eternal,expressionless calm, were exactly those of the beautiful child.
Her friends wondered much at her strange and sudden death. But I knewthat remorse had had its perfect work, and that the sudden vision of asweet child-face out of whose rosy lips came the accusing words, "Ilove my new mamma best, and I don't want my gone-away mamma ever tocome back," had pierced her heart through and through.
Emerson's Wife and Other Western Stories Page 12