The Little Colonel in Arizona

by Annie F. Johnston

  CHAPTER VIII.

  IN THE DESERT OF WAITING

  LLOYD sat with her elbows on the white kitchen table, watching Joyce ather Saturday afternoon baking. Five busy days had passed since hercoming, and she felt almost as much at home in the Wigwam as any of theWares. Phil had been there every day. Mrs. Lee had invited her to theranch to tea, where she had met all the interesting boarders she hadheard so much about. Jack, Holland, and Norman devoted themselves to herentertainment, and Mary followed her so adoringly, and copied soadmiringly every gesture and intonation, that Holland called her "MissCopy-cat" whenever he spoke to her out of his mother's hearing.

  Lloyd could not fail to see how they all looked up to her, and it wasexceedingly pleasant to be petted and deferred to by everybody, and onall occasions. The novelty of the place had not yet worn off, and sheenjoyed watching Joyce at her housekeeping duties, and helped whenevershe would allow it.

  "How white and squashy that dough looks," she said, as Joyce turned itdeftly out on the moulding-board and began kneading it. "I'd like to putmy fingahs in it the way you do, and pat it into shape, and pinch in thecawnahs. I wish you'd let me try to make a loaf next week. Will you,Joyce?"

  "You may now, if you want to," said Joyce. Lloyd started to her tent towash her hands, but Jack's shout out in the road stopped her as shereached the door. He was galloping toward the house as fast asWashington could carry him, and she waited to hear what he had to say.

  "Get your rifle, quick, Lloyd!" he called, waving his hat excitedly."Chris says that the river is full of ducks. We can get over there andhave a shot at them before supper-time if we hurry. I'll catch your ponyand saddle him while you get ready."

  "How perfectly splendid!" cried Lloyd, her eyes shining with pleasure."I'll be ready in almost no time." Then, as he galloped on toward thepasture, she turned to Joyce. "Oh, I wish _you_ could go, too!"

  "So do I," was the answer; "but it's out of the question. We've only theone horse, you know, and I haven't any gun, and I can't leave thebaking, so there's three good reasons. But I'm glad you have the chance,Lloyd. Run along and get ready. Don't you bother about me."

  By the time Jack came back leading Lloyd's pony, she was ready andwaiting at the kitchen door, in her white sweater and brown corduroyriding-skirt. Her soft, light hair was gathered up under a littlehunting-cap, and she carried her rifle in its holster, ready to befastened to her saddle.

  "Oh, I wish you were going, too, Joyce!" she exclaimed again, as shestood up in the stirrups and smoothed the folds of the divided skirt.Settling herself firmly in the saddle and gathering up the reins withone hand, she blew her an airy kiss with the other, and started off atthe brisk pace Jack set for her on Washington.

  Joyce called a laughing good-bye after them, but, as she stood shadingher eyes with her hand to watch them ride away, all the brightnessseemed to die out of the mid-afternoon sunshine.

  "How much I should have enjoyed it!" she thought. "I could ride as wellas Jack if I had his pony, and shoot as well as Lloyd if I had herrifle, and would enjoy the trip to the river as much as either of themif I could only leave the work. But I'm like that old CamelbackMountain over there. I'll never get away. It will be this way all therest of my life."

  Through the blur of tears that dimmed her sight a moment, the oldmountain looked more hopeless than ever. She turned and went into thehouse to escape the sight of it. Presently, when the loaves were in theoven, and she had nothing to do but watch the baking, she brought herportfolio out to the kitchen and began looking through it for a sketchshe had promised to show to Lloyd. It was the first time she had openedthe portfolio since she had left Plainsville, and the sight of itscontents made her fingers tingle. While she glanced over the sketchesshe had taken such pleasure in making, both in water-colours and pen andink, her mother came into the kitchen.

  "Joyce," she said, briskly, "don't you suppose we could afford somecookies while the oven is hot? I haven't baked anything for so long thatI believe it would do me good to stir around in the kitchen awhile. I'llmake some gingersnaps, and cut them out in fancy shapes, with a boy andgirl apiece for the children, as I always used to make. Are there anyraisins for the eyes and mouths?"

  It seemed so much like old times that Joyce sprang up to give hermother a squeeze. "That will be lovely!" she cried, heartily. "Here's anapron, and I'll beat the eggs and help you."

  "No, I want to do it all myself," Mrs. Ware protested. "And I want youto take your sketching outfit, and go down to the clump of willows whereJack put the rustic bench for me. There are lovely reflections in theirrigating canal now, and the shadows are so soft that you ought to geta very pretty picture. You haven't drawn any since we left home, and I'mafraid your hand will forget its cunning if you never practise."

  "What's the use," was on the tip of Joyce's tongue, but she could notdim the smile on her mother's face by her own hopeless mood, andpresently she took her box of water-colours and started off to the seatunder the willows. Mary and Norman, like two muddy little beavers, wereusing their Saturday afternoon playtime in building a dam across thelateral that watered the side yard. Joyce stood watching them a moment.

  "What's the use of your doing that?" she asked, impatiently. "It can'tstay there. You'll have to tear it down when you stop playing, and thenthere'll be all your work for nothing."

  "We don't care, do we, Norman?" answered Mary, cheerfully. "It's funwhile we're doing it, isn't it, Norman?"

  As Joyce walked on, Mary's lively chatter followed her, and she couldhear her mother singing as she moved about the kitchen. She was gladthat they were all happy, but somehow it irritated her to feel that shewas the only discontented one. It made her lonely. She opened her boxand spread out her material, but she was in no mood for painting. Shecouldn't get the right shade of green in the willows, and thereflections in the water were blotchy.

  "It's no use to try," she said, finally. "Mamma was right. My hand hasalready lost its cunning."

  Leaning back on the rustic seat, she began idly tracing profiles on thepaper, scarcely conscious of what she was doing. People's faces atfirst, then the outline of Camelback Mountain. Abstractedly, time aftertime, she traced it with slow sweeps of her brush until more than ascore of kneeling camels looked back at her from the sheet of paper.

  Presently a cough just behind her aroused her from her fit ofabstraction, and, turning hastily, she saw Mr. Ellestad, the oldNorwegian, coming toward her along the little path from the house. Hehad been almost a daily visitor at the Wigwam since they moved into it,not always coming in, usually stopping for only a moment's chat underthe pepper-trees, as he strolled by. But several times he had spent anentire morning with them, reading aloud, while Joyce ironed and hermother sewed, and Norman built block houses on the floor beside them.Once he had taken tea with them. He rarely came without bringing a bookor a new magazine, or something of interest. And even when he wasempty-handed, his unfailing cheerfulness made his visits a benefaction.Mary and Norman called him "Uncle Jan," such a feeling of kinship hadgrown up between them.

  "Mary said you were here," he began, in his quaint, hesitating fashion,"so I came to find you. I have finished my legend at last,--the legend Ihave made about Camelback Mountain. You know I have always insisted thatthere should be one, and as tradition has failed to hand one down to us,the task of manufacturing one has haunted me for three winters. Always,it seems, the old mountain has something to say to me whenever I look atit, something I failed to understand. But at last I have interpreted itsmessage to mankind."

  With a hearty greeting, Joyce moved over to make room for him upon thebench, and, as he sat down, he saw the sheet of paper on her lapcovered with the repeated outlines of the old mountain.

  "Ah! It has been speaking to you also!" he exclaimed. "What did it say?"

  "Just one word," answered Joyce,--"'_Hopeless_!' Everything out here ishopeless. It's useless to try to do anything or be anything. If fate hasbrought you here, kneel down and give up. No use to struggle, no use tohop
e. You'll never get away."

  He started forward eagerly. "At first, yes, that is what I thought itsaid to me. But now I know it was only the echo of my own bitter mood Iheard. But it is a mistake; that is not its message. Listen! I want toread it to you."

  He took a note-book from his pocket. "Of course, it is crude yet. Thisis only the first draft. I shall polish it and study every word, and fitthe sentences into place until the thought is crystallized as a reallegend should be, to be handed down to future generations. Then peoplewill not suspect that it is a home-made thing, spun from the fancy ofone Jan Ellestad, a simple old Norwegian, who had no other legacy toleave the world he loved. This is it:

  "'Once upon a time, a caravan set out across the desert, laden withmerchandise for a far-distant market. Some of the camels bore in theirpacks wine-skins that held the richest vintage of the Orient. Some boretapestries, and some carried dyestuffs and the silken fruits of theloom. On Shapur's camel was a heavy load of salt.

  "'The hope of each merchant was to reach the City of his Desire beforethe Golden Gate should close. There were other gates by which they mightenter, but this one, opening once a year to admit the visiting rajahsfrom the sister cities, afforded a rare opportunity to those fortunateenough to arrive at the same time. It was the privilege of any who mightfall in with the royal retinue to follow in its train to the rulingrajah's palace, and gain access to its courtyard. And wares displayedthere for sale often brought fabulous sums, a hundredfold greatersometimes than when offered in the open market.

  "'Only to a privileged few would the Golden Gate ever swing open at anyother time. It would turn on its hinges for any one sent at a king'sbehest, or any one bearing something so rare and precious that onlyprinces could purchase. No common vender could hope to pass its shiningportal save in the rear of the train that yearly followed the rajahs.

  "'So they urged their beasts with all diligence. Foremost in thecaravan, and most zealous of all, was Shapur. In his heart burned thedesire to be first to enter the Golden Gate, and the first one at thepalace with his wares. But, half-way across the desert, as they pausedat an oasis to rest, a dire lameness fell upon his camel, and it sankupon the sand. In vain he urged it to continue its journey. The poorbeast could not rise under its great load.

  "'Sack by sack he lessened its burden, throwing it off grudgingly andwith sighs, for he was minded to lose as little as possible of hisprospective fortune. But even rid of its entire load, the camel couldnot rise, and Shapur was forced to let his companions go on without him.

  "'For long days and nights he watched beside his camel, bringing itwater from the fountain and feeding it with the herbage of the oasis,and at last was rewarded by seeing it struggle to its feet and take afew limping steps. In his distress of mind at being left behind by thecaravan, he had not noticed where he had thrown the load. A tiny rill,trickling down from the fountain, had run through the sacks anddissolved the salt, and when he went to gather up his load, only apaltry portion was left, a single sackful.

  "'"Now, Allah has indeed forgotten me!" he cried, and cursing the daythat he was born, he rent his mantle, and beat upon his breast. Even ifhis camel were able to set out across the desert, it would be useless toseek a market now that he had no merchandise. So he sat on the ground,his head bowed in his hands. Water there was for him to drink, and thefruit of the date-palm, and the cooling shade of many trees, but hecounted them as naught. A fever of unrest consumed him. A baffledambition bowed his head in the dust.

  "'When he looked at his poor camel kneeling in the sand, he cried out:"Ah, woe is me! Of all created things, I am most miserable! Of all doomsmine is the most unjust! Why should I, with life beating strong in myveins, and ambition like a burning simoom in my breast, be left herehelpless on the sands, where I can achieve nothing, and can make noprogress toward the City of my Desire?"

  "'One day, as he sat thus under the palms, a bee buzzed about him. Hebrushed it away, but it returned so persistently that he looked up withlanguid interest. "Where there are bees, there must be honey," he said."If there be any sweetness in this desert, better that I should go inits quest than sit here bewailing my fate."

  "'Leaving the camel browsing by the fountain, he followed the bee. Formany miles he pursued it, till far in the distance he beheld thepalm-trees of another oasis. He quickened his steps, for an odour rareas the perfumes of Paradise floated out to meet him. The bee had led himto the Rose Garden of Omar.

  "'Now Omar was an alchemist, a sage with the miraculous power oftransmuting the most common things of earth into something precious. Thefame of his skill had travelled to far countries. So many pilgrimssought him to beg his wizard touch that the question, "Where is thehouse of Omar?" was heard daily at the gates of the city. But for ageneration that question had remained unanswered. No man knew the placeof the house of Omar, since he had taken upon himself the life of ahermit. Somewhere, they knew, in the solitude of the desert, he waspractising the mysteries of his art, and probing deeper into itssecrets, but no one could point to the path leading thither. Only thebees knew, and, following the bee, Shapur found himself in the oldalchemist's presence.

  "'Now Shapur was a youth of gracious mien, and pleasing withal. Withstraightforward speech, he told his story, and Omar, who could read theminds of men as readily as unrolled parchments, was touched by his tale.He bade him come in and be his guest until sundown.

  "'So Shapur sat at his board and shared his bread, and rose refreshed byhis wine and his wise words. And at parting, the old man said, with akeen glance into his eyes: "Thou thinkest that because I am Omar, withthe power to transmute all common things to precious ones, how easily Icould take the remnant of salt that is still left to thee in thy sackand change it into gold. Then couldst thou go joyfully on to the City ofthy Desire, as soon as thy camel is able to carry thee, far richer forthy delay."

  "'Shapur's heart gave a bound of hope, for that is truly what he hadbeen thinking. But at the next words it sank.

  "'"Nay, Shapur, each man must be his own alchemist. Believe me, for theethe desert holds a greater opportunity than kings' houses could offer.Give me but thy patient service in this time of waiting, and I willshare such secrets with thee that, when thou dost finally win to theGolden Gate, it shall be with wares that shall gain for thee a royalentrance."

  "'Then Shapur went back to his camel, and, in the cool of the evening,urged it to its feet, and led it slowly across the sands. And because itcould bear no burden, he lifted the remaining sack of salt to his ownback, and carried it on his shoulders all the way. When the moon shonewhite and full in the zenith over the Rose Garden of Omar, he knocked atthe gate, calling: "Here am I, Omar, at thy bidding, and here is theremnant of my salt. All that I have left I bring to thee, and standready now to yield my patient service."

  "'Then Omar bade him lead his camel to the fountain, and leave him tobrowse on the herbage around it. Pointing to a row of great stone jars,he said: "There is thy work. Every morning before sunrise, they must befilled with rose-petals, plucked from the myriad roses of the garden,and the petals covered with water from the fountain."

  "'"A task for poets," thought Shapur, as he began. "What more delightfulthan to stand in the moonlighted garden and pluck the velvet leaves."But after awhile the thorns tore his hands, and the rustle and hissunderfoot betrayed the presence of serpents, and sleep weighed heavilyupon his eyelids. It grew monotonous, standing hour after hour,stripping the rose-leaves from the calyxes until thousands and thousandsand thousands had been dropped into the great jars. The very sweetnessof the task began to cloy upon him.

  "'When the stars had faded and the east begun to brighten, old Omar cameout. "Tis well," he said. "Now break thy fast, and then to slumber withthee, to prepare for another sleepless night."

  "'So long months went by, till it seemed to Shapur that the garden mustsurely become exhausted. But for every rose he plucked, two bloomed inits stead, and night after night he filled the jars.

  "'Still he was learning no secrets
, and he asked himself questionssometimes. Was he not wasting his life? Would it not have been better tohave waited by the other fountain until some caravan passed by thatwould carry him out of the solitude to the dwellings of men? Whatopportunity was the desert offering him greater than kings' houses couldgive?

  "'And ever the thorns tore him more sorely, and the lonely silence ofthe nights weighed upon him. Many a time he would have left his task hadnot the shadowy form of his camel, kneeling outside by the fountain,seemed to whisper to him through the starlight: "Patience, Shapur,patience!"

  "'Once, far in the distance, he saw the black outline of a distantcaravan passing along the horizon where day was beginning to break. Hedid no more work until it had passed from sight. Gazing after it with afierce longing to follow, he pictured the scenes it was movingtoward,--the gilded minarets of the mosques, the deep-toned ringing ofbells, the cries of the populace, and all the life and stir of themarket-place. When the shadowy procession had passed, the great silenceof the desert smote him like a pain.

  "'Again looking out, he saw his faithful camel, and again it seemed towhisper: "Patience, Shapur, patience! So thou, too, shalt fare forth tothe City of thy Desire."

  "'One day in the waning of summer, Omar called him into a room in whichhe had never been before. "Now at last," said he, "hast thou proventhyself worthy to be the sharer of my secrets. Come! I will show thee!Thus are the roses distilled, and thus is gathered up the precious oilfloating on the tops of the vessels.

  "'"Seest thou this tiny vial? It weighs but the weight of one rupee,but it took the sweetness of two hundred thousand roses to make theattar it contains, and so costly is it that only princes may purchase.It is worth more than thy entire load of salt that was washed away atthe fountain."

  "'Shapur worked diligently at the new task till there came a day whenOmar said to him: "Well done, Shapur! Behold the gift of the desert, itsreward for thy patient service in its solitude!"

  "'He placed in Shapur's hands a crystal vase, sealed with a seal andfilled with the precious attar.

  "'"Wherever thou goest this sweetness will open for thee a way and winfor thee a welcome. Thou camest into the desert a vender of salt. Thoushalt go forth an apostle of my alchemy. Wherever thou seest a heartbowed down in some Desert of Waiting, thou shalt whisper to it:'Patience! Here, if thou wilt, in these arid sands, thou mayst find thyGarden of Omar, and from these daily tasks that prick thee sorest distilsome precious attar to sweeten all life!' So, like the bee that led theeto my teaching, shalt thou lead others to hope."

  "'Then Shapur went forth with the crystal vase, and his camel, healed inthe long time of waiting, bore him swiftly across the sands to the Cityof his Desire. The Golden Gate, that would not have opened to thevender of salt, swung wide for the Apostle of Omar.

  "'Princes brought their pearls to exchange for his attar, and everywherehe went its sweetness opened for him a way and won for him a welcome.Wherever he saw a heart bowed down in some Desert of Waiting, hewhispered Omar's words and tarried to teach Omar's alchemy, that fromthe commonest experiences of life may be distilled its greatestblessings.

  "'At his death, in order that men might not forget, he willed that histomb should be made at a place where all caravans passed. There, at thecrossing of the highways, he caused to be cut in stone that emblem ofpatience, the camel, kneeling on the sand. And it bore this inscription,which no one could fail to see, as he toiled past toward the City of hisDesire:

  "'"Patience! Here, if thou wilt, on these arid sands, thou mayst findthy Garden of Omar, and even from the daily tasks which prick theesorest mayst distil some precious attar to bless thee and thy fellowman."

  "'A thousand moons waxed and waned above it, then a thousand, thousandmore, and there arose a generation with restless hearts, who set theirfaces ever westward, following the sun toward a greater City of Desire.Strange seas they crossed, new coasts they came upon. Some weresatisfied with the fair valleys that tempted them to tarry, and builtthem homes where the fruitful hills whispered stay. But always the sonsof Shapur pushed ahead, to pitch their tents a day's march nearer theCity of their Desire, nearer the Golden Gate, which opened every sunsetto let the royal Rajah of the Day pass through. Like a mirage thatvision lured them on, showing them a dream gate of opportunity, alwaysjust ahead, yet ever out of reach.

  "'As in the days of Shapur, so it was in the days of his sons. Therewere those who fell by the way, and, losing all that made life dear,cried out as the caravan passed on without them that Allah had forgottenthem; and they cursed the day that they were born, and laid hopelessheads in the dust.

  "'But Allah, the merciful, who from the beginning knew what Desert ofWaiting must lie between every son of Shapur and the City of his Desire,had long before stretched out His hand over one of the mountains of Hiscontinent. With earthquake shock it sank before Him. With countlesshammer-strokes of hail and rain-drops, and with gleaming rills hechiselled it, till, as the centuries rolled by, it took the semblanceof that symbol of patience, a camel, kneeling there at the passing ofthe ways. And to every heart bowed down and hopeless, it whispers dailyits message of cheer:

  "'"_Patience! Thou camest into the desert a vender of salt, thou maystgo forth an Alchemist, distilling from Life's tasks and sorrows suchprecious attar in thy soul that its sweetness shall win for thee awelcome wherever thou goest, and a royal entrance into the City of thyDesire!_"

  There was a long silence when Mr. Ellestad closed his note-book. Joycehad turned her face away to watch the mountain while he read, so hecould not see whether the little tale pleased her or not. But suddenly atear splashed down on the paper in her lap, and she drew her handhastily across her eyes.

  "You see, it seems as if you'd written that just for me," she said,trying to laugh. "I think it's beautiful! If ever there was a heartbowed down in a desert of waiting, I was that one when I came out herethis afternoon. But you have given a new meaning to the mountain, Mr.Ellestad. How did you ever happen to think of it all?"

  "A line from Sadi, one of the Persian poets, started me," he answered."'_Thy alchemist, Contentment be._' It grew out of that--that and myown unrest and despondency."

  "Look!" she cried, excitedly. "Do you see that? A bee! A bee buzzingaround my head, as it did Shapur's, and I can't drive him away!"

  She flapped at it with her handkerchief. "Oh, there it goes now. Iwonder where it would lead us if we could follow it?"

  "Probably to some neighbour's almond orchard," answered Mr. Ellestad.

  "Oh, dear!" sighed Joyce. "I wish that there was a bee that I couldfollow, and a real rose garden that I could find. It sounds so beautifuland easy to say, 'Out of life's tasks and sorrows distil a preciousattar in thy soul,' and I'd like to, heaven knows, but, when it comes tothe point, how is one actually to go about it? If it were something thatI could do with my hands, I'd attempt it gladly, no matter how hard; butdoing the things in an allegory is like trying to take hold of the girlin the mirror. You can see her plainly enough, but you can't touch her.I used to feel that way about 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and think that if Ionly had a real pack on my back, as Christian had, and could start offon a real road, that I could be sure of what I was doing and theprogress I was making. I wish you'd tell me how to begin really livingup to your legend."

  She spoke lightly, but there was a wistful glance in the laughing eyesshe turned toward him.

  "You will first have to tell me what is the City of your Desire."

  "Oh, to be an artist! It has always been that. To paint beautifulpictures that will live long after I am gone, and will make peoplebetter and happier. Then the work itself would be such a joy to me. Eversince I have been old enough to realize that I will have to do somethingto earn my own living, I've hoped that I could do it in that way. I havehad lessons from the best teachers we could get in Plainsville, andCousin Kate took me to the finest art galleries in Europe, and promisedto send me to the Art League in New York if I finished my high schoolcourse creditably.

  "But we had t
o come out here, and that ended everything. I can't helpsaying, like Shapur, 'Why should I, with life beating strong in myveins, and ambition like a burning simoom in my breast, be left herehelpless on the sands, where I can achieve nothing and make no progresstoward the City of my Desire?' It seems especially hard to have all thisprecious time wasted, when I had counted so much on the money Iexpected to earn,--enough to keep mamma comfortable when she grows old,and to give the other children all sorts of advantages."

  "And you do not believe that these 'arid sands' hold anything for you?"said Mr. Ellestad.

  Joyce shook her head.

  "It takes something more than a trained hand and a disciplined eye tomake an artist," he answered, slowly. "Did you ever think that it is thesoul that has to be educated? That the greater the man behind the brush,the greater the picture will be? Moses had his Midian before he wasworthy to be 'Lawgiver' to his people. Israel had forty years ofwilderness-wandering before it was fit for its Promised Land. David wastrained for kingship, not in courts, but on the hillsides with hisflocks.

  "This is the secret of Omar's alchemy, to gather something from everyperson we meet, from every experience life brings us, as Omar gatheredsomething from the heart of every rose, and out of the wide knowledgethus gained, of human weaknesses and human needs, to distil in our ownhearts the precious oil of sympathy. That is the attar that will win forus a welcome wherever we go,--sympathy. The quick insight and deepunderstanding that help us to interpret people. And nobody fills hiscrystal vase with it until he has been pricked by the world'sdisappointments and bowed by its tasks. No masterpiece was ever paintedwithout it. A man may become a fine copyist, but he can never makeanything live on canvas until he has first lived deeply himself.

  "Do not think your days wasted, little friend. Where could you learnsuch lessons of patience and courage as here on this desert where somany come to die? Where could you grow stronger than in the faithfuldoing of your commonplace duties, here at home, where they all need youand lean upon you?

  "You do not realize that, if you could go on now to the City of yourDesire, the little you have to offer the world would put you in the rankof a common vender of salt,--you could only follow in the train ofothers. Is not waiting worth while, if it shall give you wares withwhich to win a _royal_ entrance?"

  "Oh, yes," answered Joyce, in a quick half-whisper, as the musical voicepaused. She was looking away toward the mountain with a rapt expressionon her uplifted face, as of one who sees visions. All the discontenthad vanished now. It was glowing with hope and purpose.

  As Mr. Ellestad rose to go, she turned impulsively to thrust bothoutstretched hands into his. "I can never thank you enough!" sheexclaimed. "Old Camelback will be a constant inspiration to me afterthis instead of an emblem of hopelessness. _Please_ come in and read thelegend to mamma! And may I copy it sometime? Always now I shall think ofyou as _Omar_. I shall call you that in my thoughts."

  "Thank you, little friend," he said, softly, as they walked on towardthe house. "I have failed to accomplish many things in life that I hadhoped to do, but the thought that one discouraged soul has called me itsOmar makes me feel that I have not lived wholly in vain."