Wonder, Hope, Love, and Loss

by Gene Stratton-Porter

  “None since she was my mother. I have some lovely girl photographs.”

  “Good!” cried the Harvester. “Exactly the thing! I have a picture of my mother when she was a pretty girl. We will select the best of yours and have them enlarged in those beautiful brown prints they make in these days, and we’ll frame one for each side of the mantel. After that you can decorate the other walls as you see things you want. Fifteen minutes gone; we are ready to take up the line of march to the dining-room. Oh I forgot my pillows! Here are a half dozen tan, brown, and blue for this room. Ruth, you arrange them.”

  The Girl heaped four on the couch, stood one beside the hearth, and laid another in a big chair.

  “Now I don’t know what you will think of this,” said the Harvester. “I found it in a magazine at the library. I copied this whole room. The plan was to have the floor, furniture, and casings of golden oak and the walls pale green. Then it said get yellow curtains bordered with green and a green rug with yellow figures, so I got them. I had green leather cushions made for the window seats, and these pillows go on them. Hang the saffron curtains, Rogers, and we will finish in good shape for dinner by six. By the way, Ruth, when will you select your dishes? It will take a big set to fill all these shelves and you shall have exactly what you want.”

  “I can use those you have very well.”

  “Oh no you can’t!” cried the Harvester. “I may live and work in the woods, but I am not so benighted that I don’t own and read the best books and magazines, and subscribe for a few papers. I patronize the library and see what is in the stores. My money will buy just as much as any man’s, if I do wear khaki trousers. Kindly notice the word. Save in deference to your ladyship I probably would have said pants. You see how elite I can be if I try. And it not only extends to my wardrobe, to a ‘yaller’ and green dining-room, but it takes in the ‘chany’ as well. I have looked up that, too. You want china, cut glass, silver cutlery, and linen. Ye! Ye! You needn’t think I don’t know anything but how to dig in the dirt. I have been studying this especially, and I know exactly what to get.”

  “Come here,” said the Girl, making a place for him beside her. “Now let me tell you what I think. We are going to live in the woods, and our home is a log cabin—”

  “With acetylene lights, a furnace, baths, and hot and cold water—” interpolated the Harvester.

  The Girl and the decorator laughed.

  “Anyway,” said she, “if you are going to let me have what I would like, I’d prefer a set of tulip yellow dishes with the Dutch little figures on them. I don’t know what they cost, but certainly they are not so expensive as cut glass and china.”

  “Is that earnest or is it because you think I am spending too much money?”

  “It is what I want. Everything else is different; why should we have dishes like city folk? I’d dearly love to have the Dutch ones, and a white cloth with a yellow border, glass where it is necessary, and silver knives, forks, and spoons.”

  “That would be great, all right!” endorsed the decorator. “And you have got a priceless old lustre tea set there, and your willow ware is as fine as I ever saw. If I were you, I wouldn’t buy a dish with what you have, except the yellow set.”

  “Great day!” ejaculated the Harvester. “Will you tell me why my great grandmother’s old pink and green teapot is priceless?”

  The Girl explained pink lustre. “That set in the shop I knew in Chicago would sell for from three to five hundred dollars. Truly it would! I’ve seen one little pink and green pitcher like yours bring nine dollars there. And you’ve not only got the full tea set, but water and dip pitchers, two bowls, and two bread plates. They are priceless, because the secret of making them is lost; they take on beauty with age, and they were your great-grandmother’s.”

  The Harvester reached over and energetically shook hands.

  “Ruth, I’m so glad you’ve got them!” he bubbled. “Now elucidate on my willow ware. What is it? Where is it? Why have I willow ware and am not informed. Who is responsible for this? Did my ancestors buy better than they knew, or worse? Is willow ware a crime for which I must hide my head, or is it further riches thrust upon me? I thought I had investigated the subject of proper dishes quite thoroughly; but I am very certain I saw no mention of lustre or willow. I thought, in my ignorance, that lustre was a dress, and willow a tree. Have I been deceived? Why is a blue plate or pitcher willow ware?”

  “Bring that platter from the mantel,” ordered the Girl, “and I will show you.”

  The Harvester obeyed and followed the finger that traced the design.

  “That’s a healthy willow tree!” he commented. “If Loon Lake couldn’t go ahead of that it should be drained. And will you please tell me why this precious platter from which I have eaten much stewed chicken, fried ham, and in youthful days sopped the gravy—will you tell me why this relic of my ancestors is called a willow plate, when there are a majority of orange trees so extremely fruitful they have neglected to grow a leaf? Why is it not an orange plate? Look at that boat! And in plain sight of it, two pagodas, a summer house, a water-sweep, and a pair of corpulent swallows; you would have me believe that a couple are eloping in broad daylight.”

  “Perhaps it’s night! And those birds are doves.”

  “Never!” cried the Harvester. “There is a total absence of shadows. There is no moon. Each orange tree is conveniently split in halves, so you can see to count the fruit accurately; the birds are in flight. Only a swallow or a stork can fly in decorations, either by day or by night. And for any sake look at that elopement! He goes ahead carrying a cane, she comes behind lugging the baggage, another man with a cane brings up the rear. They are not running away. They have been married ten years at least. In a proper elopement, they forget there are such things as jewels and they always carry each other. I’ve often looked up the statistics and it’s the only authorized version. As I regard this treasure, I grow faint when I remember with what unnecessary force my father bore down when he carved the ham. I’ll bet a cooky he split those orange trees. Now me—I’ll never dare touch knife to it again. I’ll always carve the meat on the broiler, and gently lift it to this platter with a fork. Or am I not to be allowed to dine from my ancestral treasure again?”

  “Not in a green and yellow room,” laughed the Girl. “I’ll tell you what I think. If I had a tea table to match the living-room furniture, and it sat beside the hearth, and on it a chafing dish to cook in, and the willow ware to eat from, we could have little tea parties in there, when we aren’t very hungry or to treat a visitor. It would help make that room ‘homey,’ and it’s wonderful how they harmonize with the other things.”

  “How much willow ware have I got to ‘bestow’ on you?” inquired the Harvester. “Suppose you show me all of it. A guilty feeling arises in my breast, and I fear me I have committed high crimes!”

  “Oh Man! You didn’t break or lose any of those dishes, did you?”

  “Show me!” insisted the Harvester.

  The Girl arose and going to the cupboard he had designed for her china she opened it, and set before him a teapot, cream pitcher, two plates, a bowl, a pitcher, the meat platter, and a sugar bowl. “If there were all of the cups, saucers, and plates, I know where they would bring five hundred dollars,” she said.

  “Ruth, are you getting even with me for poking fun at them, or are you in earnest?” asked the Harvester.

  “I mean every word of it.”

  “You really want a small, black walnut table made especially for those old dishes?”

  “Not if you are too busy. I could use it with beautiful effect and much pleasure, and I can’t tell you how proud I’d be of them.”

  The Harvester’s face flushed. “Excuse me,” he said rising. “I have now finished furnishing a house; I will go and take a peep at the engine.” He went into the kitchen and hearing the rattle of dishes the Girl followed. She stepped in just in time to see him hastily slide something into his pocket. He picked up a
half dozen old white plates and saucers and several cups and started toward the evaporator. He heard her coming.

  “Look here, honey,” he said turning, “you don’t want to see the dry-house just now. I have terrific heat to do some rapid work. I won’t be gone but a few minutes. You better boss the decorator.

  “I’m afraid that wasn’t very diplomatic,” he muttered. “It savoured a little of being sent back. But if what she says is right, and she should know if they handle such stuff at that art store, she will feel considerably better not to see this.”

  He set his load at the door, drew an old blue saucer from his pocket and made a careful examination. He pulled some leaves from a bush and pushed a greasy cloth out of the saucer, wiped it the best he could, and held it to light.

  “That is a crime!” he commented. “Saucer from your maternal ancestors’ tea set used for a grease dish. I am afraid I’d better sink it in the lake. She’d feel worse to see it than never to know. Wish I could clean off the grease! I could do better if it was hot. I can set it on the engine.”

  The Harvester placed the saucer on the engine, entered the dry-house, and closed the door. In the stifling air he began pouring seed from beautiful, big willow plates to the old white ones.

  “About the time I have ruined you,” he said to a white plate, “some one will pop up and discover that the art of making you is lost and you are priceless, and I’ll have been guilty of another blunder. Now there are the dishes mother got with baking powder. She thought they were grand. I know plenty well she prized them more than these blue ones or she wouldn’t have saved them and used these for every day. There they set, all so carefully taken care of, and the Girl doesn’t even look at them. Thank Heaven, there are the four remaining plates all right, anyway! Now I’ve got seed in some of the saucers; one is there; where on earth is the last one? And where, oh unkind fates! are the cups?”

  He found more saucers and set them with the plates. As he passed the engine he noticed the saucer on it was bubbling grease, literally exuding it from the particles of clay.

  “Hooray!” cried the Harvester. He took it up, but it was so hot he dropped it. With a deft sweep he caught it in air, and shoved it on a tray. Then he danced and blew on his burned hand. Snatching out his handkerchief he rubbed off all the grease, and imagined the saucer was brighter.

  “If ‘a little is good, more is better,’” quoted the Harvester.

  Wadding the handkerchief he returned the saucer to the engine. Then he slipped out, dripping perspiration, glanced toward the cabin, and ran into the work room. The first object he saw was a willow cup half full of red paint, stuck and dried as if to remain forever. He took his knife and tried to whittle it off, but noticing that he was scratching the cup he filled it with turpentine, set it under a work bench, turned a tin pan over it, and covered it with shavings. A few steps farther brought one in sight, filled with carpet tacks. He searched everywhere, but could find no more, so he went to the laboratory. Beside his wash bowl at the door stood the last willow saucer. He had used it for years as a soap dish. He scraped the contents on the bench and filled the dish with water. Four cups held medicinal seeds and were in good condition. He lacked one, although he could not remember of ever having broken it. Gathering his collection, he returned to the dry-house to see how the saucer was coming on. Again it was bubbling, and he polished off the grease and set back the dish. It certainly was growing better. He carried his treasures into the work room, and went to the barn to feed. As he was leaving the stable he uttered a joyous exclamation and snatched from a window sill a willow cup, gummed and smeared with harness oil.

  “The full set, by hokey!” marvelled the Harvester. “Say, Betsy, the only name for this is luck! Now if I only can clean them, I’ll be ready to make her tea table, whatever that is. My I hope she will stay away until I get these in better shape!”

  He filled the last cup with turpentine, set it with the other under the work bench, stacked the remaining pieces, polished the saucer he was baking, and went to bring a dish pan and towel. He drew some water from the pipes of the evaporator, put in the soap, and carried it to the work room. There he carefully washed and wiped all the pieces, save two cups and one saucer. He did not know how long it would require to bake the grease from that, but he was sure it was improving. He thought he could clean the paint cup, but he imagined the harness oil one would require baking also.

  As he stood busily working over the dishes, with light step the Girl came to the door. She took one long look and understood. She turned and swiftly went back to the cabin, but her shoulders were shaking. Presently the Harvester came in and explained that after finishing in the dry-house he had gone to do the feeding. Then he suggested that before it grew dark they should go through the rooms and see how they appeared, and gather the flowers the Girl wanted. So together they decided everything was clean, comfortable, and harmonized.

  Then they went to the hillside sloping to the lake. For the dining-room, the Girl wanted yellow water lilies, so the Harvester brought his old boat and gathered enough to fill the green bowl. For the living-room, she used wild ragged robins in the blue bowl, and on one end of the mantel set a pitcher of saffron and on the other arrowhead lilies. For her room, she selected big, blushy mallows that grew all along Singing Water and around the lake.

  “Isn’t that slightly peculiar?” questioned the Harvester.

  “Take a peep,” said the Girl, opening her door.

  She had spread the pink coverlet on her couch, and when she set the big pink bowl filled with mallows on the table the effect was exquisite.

  “I think perhaps that’s a little Frenchy,” she said, “and you may have to be educated to it; but salmon pink and buttercup yellow are colours I love in combination.”

  She closed the door and went to find something to eat, and then to the swing, where she liked to rest, look, and listen. The Harvester suggested reading to her, but she shook her head.

  “Wait until winter,” she said, “when the days are longer and cold, and the snow buries everything, and then read. Now tell me about my hedge and the things you have planted in it.”

  The Harvester went out and collected a bunch of twigs. He handed her a big, evenly proportioned leaf of ovate shape, and explained: “This is burning bush, so called because it has pink berries that hang from long, graceful stems all winter, and when fully open they expose a flame-red seed pod. It was for this colour on gray and white days that I planted it. In the woods I grow it in thickets. The root bark brings twenty cents a pound, at the very least. It is good fever medicine.”

  “Is it poison?”

  “No. I didn’t set anything acutely poisonous in your hedge. I wanted it to be a mass of bloom you were free to cut for the cabin all spring, an attraction to birds in summer, and bright with colour in winter. To draw the feathered tribe, I planted alder, wild cherry, and grape-vines. This is cherry. The bark is almost as beautiful as birch. I raise it for tonics and the birds love the cherries. This fern-like leaf is from mountain ash, and when it attains a few years’ growth it will flame with colour all winter in big clusters of scarlet berries. That I grow in the woods is a picture in snow time, and the bark is one of my standard articles.”

  The Girl raised on her elbow and looked at the hedge.

  “I see it,” she said. “The berries are green now. I suppose they change colour as they ripen.”

  “Yes,” said the Harvester. “And you must not confuse them with sumac. The leaves are somewhat similar, but the heads differ in colour and shape. The sumac and buckeye you must not touch, until we learn what they will do to you. To some they are slightly poisonous, to others not. I couldn’t help putting in a few buckeyes on account of the big buds in early spring. You will like the colour if you are fond of pink and yellow in combination, and the red-brown nuts in grayish-yellow, prickly hulls, and the leaf clusters are beautiful, but you must use care. I put in witch hazel for variety, and I like its appearance; it’s mighty good medicine
, too; so is spice brush, and it has leaves that colour brightly, and red berries. These selections were all made for a purpose. Now here is wafer ash; it is for music as well as medicine. I have invoked all good fairies to come and dwell in this hedge, and so I had to provide an orchestra for their dances. This tree grows a hundred tiny castanets in a bunch, and when they ripen and become dry the wind shakes fine music from them. Yes, they are medicine; that is, the bark of the roots is. Almost without exception everything here has medicinal properties. The tulip poplar will bear you the loveliest flowers of all, and its root bark, taken in winter, makes a good fever remedy.”

  “How would it do to eat some of the leaves and see if they wouldn’t take the feverishness from me?”

  “It wouldn’t do at all,” said the Harvester. “We are well enough fixed to allow Doc to come now, and he is the one to allay the fever.”

  “Oh no!” she cried. “No! I don’t want to see a doctor. I will be all right very soon. You said I was better.”

  “You are,” said the Harvester. “Much better! We will have you strong and well soon. You should have come in time for a dose of sassafras. Your hedge is filled with that, because of its peculiar leaves and odour. I put in dogwood for the white display around the little green bloom, lots of alder for bloom and berries, haws for blossoms and fruit for the squirrels, wild crab apples for the exquisite bloom and perfume, button bush for the buttons, a few pokeberry plants for the colour, and I tried some mallows, but I doubt if it’s wet enough for them. I set pecks of vine roots, that are coming nicely, and ferns along the front edge. Give it two years and that hedge will make a picture that will do your eyes good.”

  “Can you think of anything at all you forgot?”

  “Yes indeed!” said the Harvester. “The woods are full of trees I have not used; some because I overlooked them, some I didn’t want. A hedge like this, in perfection, is the work of years. Some species must be cut back, some encouraged, but soon it will be lovely, and its colour and fruit attract every bird of the heavens and butterflies and insects of all varieties. I set several common cherry trees for the robins and some blackberry and raspberry vines for the orioles. The bloom is pretty and the birds you’ll have will be a treat to see and hear, if we keep away cats, don’t fire guns, scatter food, and move quietly among them. With our water attractions added, there is nothing impossible in the way of making friends with feathered folk.”