His eyes brightened at the sight. They were large blue eyes, with a cow’s calm and ruminative expression in their depths. There was nothing to indicate intelligence, nothing to inspire confidence; but a square view of them relieved the repulsive appearance he presented when his hat was drawn over his face.
“Looks like a snap,” he muttered in a hoarse, growling bass. “Folkses what live in such style as that ain’t likely to turn a pore man away hungry. But the time,” he added, glancing at the sun, “Ain’t strictly favorable. Say it’s two o’clock; prob’ly they’ll hev dinner at six, an’ that’s the right time fer me to turn up at the back door. If I likes their looks I may come the sick wife ‘n’ four children dodge, an’ git a basketful to carry away. Fortune knocks a good many times, an’ gits the best show-down.”
He looked around again, scratched his head reflectively and then, putting on his hat, deliberately stepped from the road to the grassy bank at the left.
“Hedges an’ I is old chums,” he muttered. “It’ll be cool an’ shady ‘longside o’ this one, an’ four hours’ sleep won’t hurt me a bit.”
It was but a few rods to the hedge, yet it took him a long time to reach it. Languidly he made for a big maple that stood beyond the hedge, but threw its leafy shade far into the lane. Here, the grass being thick and velvety, seemed an ideal spot for a summer’s nap.
Our traveler threw down his bundle, removed his coat and rolled it into a pillow for his head, and with a sigh of content reclined at full length in the shade. Sleep did not come to him, however. The place was quiet and peaceful enough. Insects chirped merrily in the grass about him; a tree-toad barked occasionally from above and the busy hum of bees came fitfully to his ears. From far across the meadow he heard the faint lowing of a heifer; but aside from these languorous sounds the whole world seemed to dream.
Yet sleep did not come, and he began to speculate concerning the reason.
“Le’s see; I climbed inter that haymow las’ night at about sundown, an’ slep’ til after the farmer had milked his cows an’ gone inter the field to work — ’bout fourteen hour I guess. I needed the rest. Then I got nine eggs from the hens’ nests, put ‘em in my pocket, an’ jogged along. I built a little fire in the woods back there an’ roasted the eggs fer breakfast. Then I jogged along an’ come here. Funny how I can’t sleep!”
He lay upon his side, resting his head upon his elbow and staring absently at the broad landscape before him. Then he tired of this position and turned upon the other side; but here the hedge obscured his range of vision. So he sat up, yawned, and pulled a soiled and torn newspaper from his pocket. Reposing again at full length, he flattened out the sheet and proceeded to read, following the lines carefully and slowly with his finger and moving his lips in formation of each word he spelled out.
The newspaper interested him. It mattered little what the date might be; sequence of events in the great world so far removed from his sphere was of no importance whatever. The world and he were two; nevertheless, he liked to peep at its doings occasionally.
After a period of laborious reading he laid the paper upon his knee.
“It’s queer,” he mused, “how they always hustle and bustle in the big cities; an’ how they sweats and worries and makes theirselves miser’ble, jest to earn a living. People gits rich, sometimes, a-wrastlin’ with business an’ stocks, an’ sich horrible tilings, but it don’r do ‘em no real good. They’re so busy they can’t spare a second to take life easy. For me, I don’t want no money myself; I’m better off as I am seein’ the world an’ makin’ the most of it. Money can’t buy this soft, cool grass all aroun’ me, the blue sky lookin’ down through the trees, ner them birds a-whisperin’ together at my elbow. I ain’t what you might call respectible; no, I s’pose not,” with a solemn shake of his head; “but I’m free an’ my own master, an’ when I wants ter travel I jes’ travel, an’ when I wants ter rest it’s nobody’s business but mine. City life may do fer nervous folks an’ idjits, but not a feller what knows real life.”
He brushed a fly from his nose, put the newspaper into his pocket, and, lying back upon his impoverished pillow, resigned himself to contemplation of nothing. The drowsy influence of the summer day finally stole over him; his eyes were closing, his senses deserting him, when suddenly he was aroused by a succession of unusual sounds.
“Ghlee — ghu — oo! Gwoo-oo-oo-ghu!”
The man raised his head and gazed about him in astonishment. There was nothing in sight, no beast or bird, that could have utter this incomprehensible language.
“Ee — yee! Oog — oo — ghu-ee!”
“Well, well! What in the dickens — ” He broke off short; a ray of intelligence crossed his vacant face and he nodded his head three times with much gravity.
“It’s t’other side the hedge. A calf; or a — owl — or, or — p’r’aps a — ”
“Gru — oo — oo — ee! Coo — goo — ewoo — ghu!”
“Blamed if it’s anything I ever hearn tell of! Mebbe it’s ghostes, or rats, or — or — Hm!”
He felt of his head, shook it with a bewildered air and glanced helplessly toward the hedge. There was a place near the ground where the evergreen had been broken or pushed aside which seemed sufficiently large for him to crawl through. Being at the moment of an investigating turn of mind, he rose on his hands and knees and crept softly toward the hole in the hedge. It was even larger than he had suspected. He crawled into it, thrust his head through to the other side and became motionless from surprise.
Three feet from his head was a baby, sitting on a thick blanket and playing with its bare toes. It was beautifully and richly dressed and chubby and sweet, with ringlets of fair hair framing its little face. A dozen yards away a hammock swung from between two dwarf apple-trees, and reclining within it was a young woman with a nurse’s cap upon her head and a white apron thrown over her face. Her book had fallen to the ground; she breathed heavily; evidently the dreamy quiet of the summer afternoon had wooed her to slumber.
The baby lifted its eyes suddenly and became aware of an enormous head projecting from the hedge and covered with matted hair and bristling whiskers, from which two mild blue eyes were staring fixedly into his own. The baby stared back. Its eyes were blue, too. They held a curious expression, as of surprise and awe and trust intermingled. Those innocent orbs were guiltless of fear, having known no evil within their brief experience.
The baby laughed, crowed, jumped its little body up and down ecstatically. Then it held out two tiny arms appealingly toward the tramp. It had found a new playfellow.
The man’s eyes fell; a ruddy glow suffused his face. Well, well! when had this creature blushed before? He looked uneasily toward the hammock. The little one crowed again — more imperatively — and reached his little hands as far as he was able toward his new acquaintance.
The expression of dismay upon the tramp’s face gave way to one of resolution. He extended two brawny hands, clasped the baby firmly, but gently, and drew it through the hedge to his own retreat.
The baby was delighted, and jumped and gurgled with joy. He had been left alone long enough, and here was a novel relief from playing with his rosy toes. The tramp smiled broadly and set the little one upon his knee, steadying it there while he gazed upon it admiringly. There were two great smudges on the dainty dress, where his grimy hands had touched it. He never noticed them. The baby never noticed them. Both were alike in this respect — they were wholly indifferent to dirt. They were equally unconventional, and each was pleased with the other at first sight.
The baby’s sleeves were pinned with two heavy gold clasps; another, set with glistening diamonds, fastened the little bib to its waist. The tramp’s eyes fell upon these baubles, admired them a moment and then came back to the face of his small comrade, whom he trotted gently upon his ragged knee.
The baby squealed rapturously; the blue eyes danced with joy and mischief, and suddenly he grasped a bunch of stubby whisker in each sturdy fist.
The tramp chuckled softly and shook his head. The baby jumped and crowed and held on bravely. The man laughed.
The baby laughed louder. The play was repeated again and again. But the wee infant was observing. He finally released one tiny hand, clutched at a white object in his friend’s vest pocket and drew forth a clay pipe. Relapsing into gravity, he examined it minutely. Then, as is the way with babes, he put it in his mouth and regarded his friend enquiringly.
This was too much for the tramp, who possessed a keen sense of the ridiculous. He lay back and shook with silent laughter, not daring to obey the impulse to roar aloud because of the occupant of the neighboring hammock; but the baby’s face was so droll that he found it almost impossible to control himself within safe bounds. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve, raised his head and saw the child make a wry face, look at the pipe doubtfully and throw it down. It didn’t taste good. The tramp shook again with merriment, finding the act inexpressibly comical. Me gave the baby a bear-like hug that was still tender, and when the child struggled to be free the man got upon his hands and knees and swung the youngster upon his back.
A pair of fat hands instantly fastened themselves in his shaggy locks, and then solemnly and slowly he moved around in a circle, the soft grass making a cushion for his hands, the baby swaying from side to side and crowing jubilantly at this improvised circus. Was ever so jolly and so docile a comrade known? The baby jerked at the thick hair all unreproved; he kicked his little bare heels into his friend’s ribs and no murmur arose in protest. The “horsey” was the most gentle and agreeable horsey in the world.
But babies like change. The tramp put him on the ground; he espied the red bundle and reached both hands toward it, glancing into his companion’s face with his sharp, peremptory “Ghoo!’ The tramp nodded, smiled, and gave him the bundle. The little hands turned it over and over and fumbled at the knots. Then he threw it down with a small show of temper. The tramp laughed, reached within the bundle and brought out a bread-crust. This the baby seized, put it to his mouth, evidently favored the strange morsel and smiled again with ineffable sweetness upon his benefactor.
A heavy sigh from the hammock behind the hedge fell upon the tramp’s ear. He started, glanced guiltily around, became reassured and turned to his playfellow with a smile. The little one was nibbling the bread contentedly. The man looked thoughtful and played with the diamond brooch, turning it so that a stray sunbeam caught it and made it sparkle. Then he looked bashfully into the baby’s face, hesitated, put up both his brown hands and pressed the whiskers away from his mouth in all directions, and then — he leaned forward and gently kissed the baby’s soft white cheek.
Again the red blood surged to his forehead. He took the little one in his arms, crawled through the hedge, and placed the child upon its blanket, regarding it with a smile of amusement as it continued to maintain its interest in the crust. Then he crawled back again and gathered up his belongings.
* * *
The maid awoke with a start, looked quickly toward her charge, became reassured and stood up to stretch herself with a regretful yawn. Her eyes reached above the hedge and caught the roadway beyond.
A tramp was jogging along through the dust, holding a small red bundle under his arm. He whistled as he walked, and the notes were borne indistinctly to her ear through the clear atmosphere. She gave a little shiver of repugnance.
“Thank goodness he didn’t come this way!” she exclaimed.
The Yellow Ryl
I cannot understand how this furniture gets in such disorder every time I go shopping,” said Mrs. Blandford, severely. “I do wish, Joslyn Stanton Blandford, you would be more careful and less mischievous.”
Joslyn looked at his mother with round, grave eyes. He knew that when she called him “Joslyn Stanton” she was quite provoked, and it grieved him to be so misjudged.
“It was the same way when I was at the matinee the other day,” she continued. “Everything topsy turvy and out of place when I came home. How in the world do you manage to do it, Joslyn Stanton Blandford?”
“I don’t, Mama,” said Joslyn, softly. “I haven’t been into the living room while you were away.”
“Don’t tell me that!” exclaimed Mrs. Blandford, irritably. “Do you want me to believe the furniture joggles itself out of place?” Joslyn was silent. He could not explain the disorder in the living room, for he knew nothing about it.
“I shall ask your father to talk to you,” said his mother, removing her wraps. “I can understand boys getting into mischief; but it horrifies me, Joslyn, to find you so obstinate and sullen and daring to deny you are to blame. Why don’t you own up to it, in a manly way?”
“I didn’t do it, Mama!” was all the little boy could say; and then he ran away to his own room and cried, for this was a sad homecoming after waiting so long for his dear mother to return from her shopping expedition. He had been all the afternoon in his play room, cutting pictures of figures out of magazines and fitting clothes to them, and except that he had run frequently to the hall window to see if mama was coming, he had not left this room once while she had been gone. Yes; once he had asked Suzanne for a glass of water; but that was all.
Suzanne had been in the kitchen ironing her aprons, or doing other work. She was an unsociable maid and did not like children very well, so Joslyn seldom bothered her, even when he was left alone.
Mrs. Blandford was not usually so cross with her little son. She had had a trying day, vainly endeavoring to match some dress goods, and so her temper was rather irritable when she returned home. A glance into the big living room had shown her that her carefully arranged furniture was considerably out of place. Even the piano had been moved out and stood with one end against the wall and the other far away. The table cover was wrinkled and half off and one of the china shepherdesses on the mantle was so near the edge it was a wonder it had not fallen and smashed to pieces.
She knew she had left the room in perfect condition when she went away, for she was a careful housekeeper; so only Joslyn, she thought, could be to blame for the disorder.
After a little her mother’s heart reproached her for being so severe with her only child and she went to his room and tried to get him to admit his fault. But the boy was really sullen now, resenting the fact that his word had been doubted, so it was a hapless hour for both mother and son before the father and husband came home to dinner.
Mr. Blandford was a jovial man and very fond of his family. When he asked what was the matter with Joslyn, his wife, despite her threat, refrained from telling him how bad his boy had been. Joslyn ate little and was silent and very still, but he went to bed soon after dinner and forgot all his troubles in sleep, as a boy will.
Next morning only a recollection of his unhappiness remained to disturb him and he was almost his old self again by the time breakfast was over. Nor did Mrs. Blandford refer to the affair again until after luncheon, when Joslyn saw her putting on her things.
“Are you going out again, Mama?” he asked.
“Yes, dear; our bridge club meets at Mrs. Boothe’s this afternoon,” she replied. Then she bent down to kiss him and added: “Be a good boy, Joslyn, and don’t get boisterous. I don’t want to find the house in the condition I did yesterday. If you need anything, go to Suzanne. She will be in her room mending.”
Then, as the boy stood silent, with a little frown upon his brow, she walked into the hall and drew together the sliding doors that shut off the living room — almost together, that is, for these doors would never come quite together, for some reason. She next pulled the heavy drapery across the rod above the door, as an additional barrier to the room.
Joslyn watched her, and so did the cat — a lean, sleek yellow animal that had come uninvited to the house several days before and had been adopted by Joslyn at once. Mrs. Blandford did not tell her little son not to enter the living room while she was gone, but he gathered a hint as to her wishes when she tried to close the sliding doors and afterwards drew the drapery o
ver them.
When she had gone Joslyn still stood in the hall.
The cat had circled herself up under the table and pretended to be asleep. She was not a sociable companion, and although the boy had taken her into his house and fed her liberally the lean yellow creature would not play with him, but stole through the rooms like a shadow and devoted herself only to her own comfort.
Joslyn went into his play room across the hall and sat down upon the floor to cut out pictures. Then he began to wonder how the furniture in the big living room could have become so disordered two separate times without anyone having entered the place while his mother was away. He had himself been accused, yet he knew very well he was innocent. Suzanne seldom came into that part of the house. Who, then, could have been the mischief-maker? — unless it was the cat.
He glanced up and found he could see through his open door across the dim hall to where the cat lay curled up asleep. No; so small a creature could not possibly have moved all the furniture. Had not mama complained that even the big piano had been dragged out of place?
Had she stopped to think, she might have known even Joslyn could not do that. But as he looked thoughtfully into the hall he saw the cat slowly arise, glance around her, and then stealthily creep behind the drapery that shut off the living room. So slyly had she moved that not a sound was heard; but he could see the curtain wave gently as she crawled behind it to the opening between the partly closed doors.
The boy was now curious, and on hands and knees he crept forward as softly as possible and crossed the hall to the thick drapery. He crawled behind it as the cat had done and then found that the sliding doors had been left several inches apart. So he sat down, with the drapery at his back and his eyes commanding all the interior of the room, and looked to see what was going on.
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 867