Part 6

"She was oor only daughter," she said, "we never saw him. He stole oor lassie when she lookit jist as ye see yon ane, and nae aulder, an' because she wasna' o' his station, his graun' folk scorned her and her bairn. Aye, but he was true, tho', standing up for oor lassie till--till. Weel, there was a tragedy, an' he had to flee for his life. He gaed to the war somewhere--we never saw him--an' we dinna ken. Then she died, and syne we cam' here wi' Elsie."

I saw the tears start into her eyes. "E-lsie, E-lsie, here's our Mr. Jack come back," she called.

Instantly there was a flutter of feet withdrawn from the pool. The pitcher was left on the bank, and the hat also. She came running, her blue eyes smiling at me, quite unembarrassed, and even singularly calm.

She came up, put both her hands into mine, and her blue eyes flashed at me.

"Kiss him," laughed Marget, "it's oor ain Mr. Jack."

She instantly obeyed, touching me lightly on one cheek. Then in an earnest little voice she said, "Mr. Jack, I'm so glad you have come home. How I have missed you these four years!"

"If I had dreamed that you had grown to be so beautiful," I said teasingly, "I'd have come home sooner."

She glanced at me quickly and seriously. "Oh, I've forgotten my cream and it's time for breakfast," she said hastily, and ran back down the path.

"I should say so, Marget," I said. "How hungry I am!"

"It's good to be here again," I added, as I sat down to the little table; "and, Tammas, there is Elsie back with the cream. Put on some of that clotted cream in the pot, cream thick, for it is a long lost brother that I've been separated from."

"Ay, but the cottage cheese. Don't forget that is your appetizer," cried Marget authoritatively, as she pushed a great saucer, flaked up to white foaminess, toward me.

For answer I fell to.

"Hold!" cried Tammas, his hand going up and the great fun-loving mouth changing to quick solemnity. Often as a boy I had seen his hand raised most unexpectedly, and never had I failed to obey. My head bent. Then Tammas, his great knotted hand uplifted, prayed in Scotch, as was his wont:

"'Oh, Thou wha kindly dost provide, For every creature's want! We bless Thee, God o' Nature wide, For a' Thy goodness lent: An' gin it please Thee, heavenly guide, May never waur be sent; But whether granted or denied, Lord, bless us wi' content!'

And to-day thanks be added, greatest of all, that our Jackie is with us again. Amen!"

"Amen," chimed in Marget.

I looked over the table at the Scotch scones, the poached eggs, the funny little cuts of butter, miniature loaves of it pressed and decorated. "I see you've got the same bill of fare, Marget," I said.

"Well," she answered, falling again into English, "we are two old people set in our ways, and it seems to suit us."

"Noo, if you'd only told us you were coming," said Tammas, trying to speak ironically, "I'd 'a had some o' thae auld things ye're sae fond o', Jackie, such as sliced Indian turnips like ye got up in the lodge of the rocks on the hill yon day," and he laughed as he recalled the burning my lips got from the raw turnip.

I laughed. "Tammas, it must not go back to Aunt Lucretia that I ate my first breakfast with you."

"It's a mile to the hoose," said Marget, "an it's only sax o'clock, sae there's a graun' excuse for ye to eat anither breakfast, when ye gang back." She smiled with that funny little smile I had known of old when she wanted one to know that she was meaning the opposite, but was too Scotch to express it.

"Weel, we winna say onything about it," said Tammas. "Jackie, lad, if ye've got onything like ye're auld appetite, ye'll be ready for anither at the hoose when ye get back. Dae ye mind hoo ye used to dae that when ye were jist oor wee laddie, running aboot the dairy an' dipping your fingers on the sly in oor cream pots?"

So I let him launch into his favorite subject, the cows, and the wonderful record they had made since I left. Of Gladys Gaily, who had made her pound of butter from less than five pounds of milk.

"Aye, lad, 'tis the ould Top Sawyer bluid that's doing it," he said proudly. And that I would find it all in the last "Butter Tests of Jersey Cows." Several of my old friends had died and one--"Ou, but it hurts me sadly, my boy, to tell it--Gladys Gaily, herself, has passed with that milk fever. Aye, but it takes only the rich ones."

*CHAPTER VIII*

*THE STONE-CROP*

I remember that April day when I first saw the stone-crop in bloom.

Across the valley from the dairy is the blue grass pasture of the cows; and on a hillside studded with dwarf cedars, Nature's first efforts to cover up her nakedness after man's ax has passed, runs a streak of bare, brown limestone, winding across the hills an acre wide. Above it the grass and cedars grew down to the bare rocks, and then they stopped short, for no soil was there. Years before, pioneer men, fighting, unthinking, world-conquering, with the primal instinct of the Aryan _wander-lust_ in their blood, had stripped that spot of earth of its clothing, leaving the naked ground beneath, lifeless and bare. In all the beautiful blue grass pasture this was the one scar: on this green shield of Nature, the one rent. The birds, which love the deep shade of the cedars, stopped at its borders and flew back from the strip of brown desert.

The rabbits, hiding in the tangled thickets above, and whose spring-water ran in the glen below, made a path around it, through the concealing grass and cedar boughs that brushed their furry coats. None would cross this bare spot, hot to their feet in summer and freezing to them in winter, where they would be stared at by every bird, or hunted by the eyes of men.

Even the crows drew their line there, and would not fly over it; for the crow makes no path in the sky above that does not parallel a path of supplies below. Often had I seen the Jersey herd, brown and gray and chocolate, browsing in a phalanx, following the earliest grass which grew closest to the rocks, come to the very border of this scar in the cheek of the earth and then in sudden anger plunge in and seek the cedars on the hill, anywhere to forget this outrage on Nature!

I remember the spring I first saw the stone-crop. The winter had been long and raw. Even the blue grass had had a struggle to keep green, and the cedars' stems had become black under the bite of frost. But blacker yet lay the earth's scar beyond them.

Then one day in the spring I went over the hill to Tammas's home. As I came up from the slope and out from the great lindens, and looked across at the other hill for the ugly scar, I stopped thrilled with a strange and nameless beauty. I have no word for the exultation that swept over me.

But I remembered when Elizabeth Browning was dying--she so unbeautiful in face and so star-like in mind,--she uttered a poem which seemed to me to surpass all that great woman ever wrote. For the characters in it were she, her husband, and her God: and the subject was The Beauty of Immortality.

"How do you feel, dearest?" he asked, holding her in his arms and looking into her dying face.

"Oh, I feel beautiful," she said, as she smiled back into his face and died.

Oh, frail little woman, who never wrote a weak line! O, earth-bound and earth-found one, who never created save of heaven! O, little homely one, whose portrait I did not till then even love to recall, so different it seemed from the soul which could write as it wrote: now it hangs the most beautiful thing on my study wall.

I stood there, looking, steeped in the thrill of it. I thought a pink rainbow had fallen across the hills.

Then the nobility of this pink flower went into me, for there is nobleness even among flowers and trees. The blue grass is the aristocrat, who sits only at the richest tables, with cedars to wait on him, refreshed with the waters of a thousand hills. The bermuda runs hither and yon, sending its stolons after the fat things of earth; and the redtop grows only where it can reach the richest granaries. The stone-crop alone clings to this bare brown rock, shielding its poverty.

Seeing this, I gloried in the chance that faced me, the chance to be another type of pioneer, and to undo the wrongs and ravages of my forbears. For this I had sacrificed the love of my grandsire, the General, who had wanted me to be a soldier, and of my Aunt Lucretia, and even of Eloise, it seemed, that one sweet dream of my life. For in the four years I had been gone from her I had lost my chance to win her. What did her talk of the night before mean but that she meant to wed another?

*CHAPTER IX*

*THE TRANSPLANTED PINE*

Tradition, that greatest of all historians, had it, that the first settlers on the lands of The Home Stretch had been a young pioneer and his bride from Virginia; and that she, leaving her old home for a new one in the wilderness, yielded to the pretty sentiment of her girl's heart, and brought away with her a young pine from under her own roof tree. Nursed and watered through all the long journey, over mountains, wilderness and river, she planted it among the great oaks and poplars of her western home. Tradition told how, when the young husband had built his double log-cabin from the solid trunks of the black walnut and thatched it with the rich red hearts of the cedar shingles, the little bride cherished the pine. The story was full of pathos; she and her baby had died that first year, and both were buried in the same grave under the little pine. It was a great pine now, but lonely. It had been a great pine since I could remember. It had always appealed to me, standing alone amid the other trees. For miles I could see it, towering above all the others. And always a little tremor of loneliness came, as one who passes a deserted schoolhouse door where once children have played. The great trees around it, oaks, elms, poplars, maples, seemed at home. This was _their soil_, these were their friends and kindred. But the pine was not of them. It had been transplanted. Were trees men, the pine would be a Highlander of the clan McGregor. And away from its clan, in a valley where it belonged not, in soil that made for fatness and richness but not for religion and art, it was lonely. For trees are but men who are dumb.

Often, as a boy, staying with Dr. Gottlieb in his cabin, I would awake at night and hear the pine sighing. Once I remember there had been a fierce storm, and as it swept through the forest it maddened the other trees until they roared in their wrath. But the lonely pine tree had called above the roar of the others. One would not look in the Swiss mountains for the cherries of the valley, nor for the cedars of Lebanon in the rich loam of the rivers. This pine was the Scotch McGregor in an English court. It was Bonaparte on Elba. It was Thomas Carlyle in Gaiety street. It was a tree without a country....

Dr. Gottlieb lived among the trees in a double log-cabin, and had lived there since I could remember. My Aunt Lucretia's heart was as big as her farm, and for many years she and Dr. Gottlieb had been friends. He, being a scholar and a botanist, a very babe in a strange land in spite of all his learning, had been easily parted from what little he had brought to America, and had actually come to sickness and want. Then it was that my Aunt Lucretia took him in and gave him this cabin on her farm. Since then he had grown famous, and was known over two continents as one of the greatest living botanists. In fall and winter he was dean of that department in a noted college, but in spring and summer nothing could keep him from his walnut log-cabin by the great pine in the little valley, where his wild flowers grew in the hills behind him and the trees were his friends and comrades.

His story was like that of many who claim America as home. In the discontent of the Bavarians in their struggle for a more liberal government, many republican ideas were advanced. Gottlieb, then a student in Munich, with a number of other young men, attempted to celebrate Washington's birthday in the Bavarian capital with speeches so revolutionary that they brought on a riot. In the fighting his roommate and best friend killed a police officer. Gottlieb's family was influential and stood high in royal favor. But the boy who had done the killing was not so fortunate. To be found out meant certain death for him. So Gottlieb pleaded guilty for his friend's sake, and would have been executed, but for the influence of his family. Even they could not save him from banishment, and so he had lived with us, as great a patriot as I ever knew, loving his country so that the thought of it would bring tears to his eyes, loving his Fatherland, and yet himself a man without a country.

Now I stood looking down on the double log-cabin that was his home. All around it was peace and calmness. Here had I learned under Dr. Gottlieb to love the flowers, and the trees, and his books.

What a picture his home made! A great wooded blue grass hill rose gradually, slope on slope, above it, and on a little plateau sat the solid log-cabin. At the foot of the slope and running like a horseshoe around it, was a bubbling stream, coming from the hills to the north, circling around and running into the valley below. Over this, a rustic foot-bridge led to the house. The meadows lay in front of it all. I stood back and wondered how that young pioneer had known so accurately and artistically where to place this cabin? Had it been placed ten yards either way, to right or left, it would have ruined the center of the background of trees beyond, and fifty feet further in front would have placed it too far down the dead level of the center.

In stately distances around stood maples, beeches and poplars, some towering high above the cabin. Lengthwise to the rustic bridge it stood, a beautiful, solid home of walnut, and the red heart of the cedar, its dark, rich logs chinked with the white cement of the lime hills. Clear across the front ran the big porch, solid floored; both ends flanked with purple stars of clematis, hanging overhead, and drooping low over the entrance its great masses of bloom.

The orchard, of apple, peach, plum, and cherry trees, lay off to the right. The old-fashioned flowers were all to the right and the pine tree towered over them all.

I raised the latch and entered. Dr. Gottlieb stood before me, framed by shelves of dried flowers and herbs, a small man with a large head, kind blue eyes. The broad brow wrinkled into its smile as he saw me. I pointed to the stone-crop running across the hill. "Oh, Dr. Gottlieb," I cried, "what is it that in one night makes the bare spots so beautiful?"

He quit his books and came forward, taking both of my hands in his. "Jack, Jack, my boy, you have come back to us again--and from the Fatherland--the Fatherland! ... Let me hold your hand--it has touched the soil of the Fatherland--let me look into your eyes, they have seen the Rhine!" There were tears in his blue eyes.

"Do you remember how it changes every spring, Dr. Gottlieb?" I asked, pointing to the distant crowned hills, the rainbow of stone-crop beneath, and the level stretches of pasture land.

He smiled as he looked across at the crimson covering of the bare hillside. "Ay; but I've not been idle, Jack, since you left. You remember what I had done before you went away--fifteen hundred species all catalogued in my book." He turned and pointed to the glass shelves around. "Now I have added four hundred more."

We talked long over our pipes. He had saved some rare old German ale in cobwebbed bottles, and these we broke in honor of my return. I had to go over my entire life in Germany, and all the four years' work there. As I dwelt on this, as I told of the old places and scenes, he sat with his head down, and I suspected tears.

I cannot remember when Dr. Gottlieb was not in love with my Aunt Lucretia, though he had never spoken to her on the subject. He spoke only to me, and that always in the same way. So I knew what was coming. I had heard it before, and when I arose to go I could not help but smile as he said, "Ah, Jack, but your Aunt Lucretia! That most beautiful and charming of women! Did you know that each of us has our prototype in a plant or flower; did you know that she resembles the great red wood lily--_lilium Philadelphicum_? Ah, Jack, it has always been my favorite."

*CHAPTER X*

*CONQUERING SATAN*

Eloise and I had always enjoyed riding over The Home Stretch with Aunt Lucretia. Since I could remember she had ridden the same horse, a great raw-boned sorrel pacer, full seventeen hands high, and so powerful that he carried my aunt, large woman though she was, as if she had been a child. "His beauty is in his gait," she used to say; "there is but one saddle gait fit for business, and that is the nodding fox-trot, and Tempest has that perfectly."

It was amusing to watch them in action. With his head down and nodding with every stride, Tempest seemed fairly to butt his way into space, reeling off the miles like a great machine in motion, and Aunt Lucretia, in her great, high-pommeled side saddle, double girthed and double decked, sat him as comfortably as if she were in her rocker.

Her saddle-bags, thrown over the saddle, were in themselves unusual, for they held everything needed in an emergency on the farm. In one pocket were the hatchet and nails, for she never rode by a loose plank but she nailed it on again, and in the other were her medicines, everything needed on the farm from a hypodermic syringe to a package of salts.

The day after I came home I rode over the farm with her. "It's good to ride Little Sister," I said, stroking her crest. "What a beautiful saddle mare she has made."

"Eloise did it," said my Aunt. "Jack, do you know she was always foolish about that mare after you left?"

She squared her big horse up to me. "Jack," she whispered, "I don't believe in the stuff, of course. It is all foolishness and not fit to marry on, but there is a great vein of sentiment in that girl in spite of her make-believe and her indifference. After you left she wouldn't ride anything but that mare and I knew it was because of you, and the clever way you did up those two old braggarts of ours in that race."

"Did she, Aunt Lucretia?"

She looked at me cuttingly and then burst into a laugh. "Jack, what shall I do with you? You are so in love with Eloise that it's positively painful. You must overcome it before you marry her; it's not good policy, not manly nor becoming. The greatest race of men was in the days when a man took his wife by force, conquered her and beat her into submission. He couldn't own her until he proved he was a better man than she. Now, the woman rules in everything. Take your silly weddings; they're a glorification of the bride. To see them one would think the poor devil of a groom was a kind of matrimonial valet, a second fiddler, used chiefly to make a background for the bride to show off on--he is not marrying--oh, no, it is the woman--and it's the same everywhere. The women are writing our novels, our magazines, our poetry, running our conventions, starring in our theatres and churches, and doing everything else worth while except making the money. The men have become unconsciously so enslaved that the few of them who do write novels or poetry write effeminate things because the age is under the influence of woman. There is no man-poetry any longer, that's why I never read it. If we don't get a man-age into the world again," she added vehemently, "we are all going to the devil, going to be wiped out by some heathen man-race of the Nibelungen woods, not yet born!"

I smiled guiltily, for I saw Eloise coming out of the house and my heart fluttered queerly at sight of her. She came forward and I saw Goff's roses pinned on her breast.

"This is like old times, Jack," she said laughing, "but where is my horse?" She looked around, glancing at the little pony-mare we had saddled for her.

"I thought you'd like to ride the pony-mare again," said Jim, who stood holding the reins, "like you useter ride with Mr. Jack," he added.

Eloise tossed her head. "No, no; now, Jim, you may saddle Satan for me. Why, I've been dreaming of this for months, a chance to show the splendid fellow and his paces to Jack. I wouldn't miss it for anything."

Jim stood scratching his chin thoughtfully. "Dat devil horse, he ain't a good horse, this mohnin', ma'am, 'specially for ladies."

"Jim," she said sternly, "look me in the eye! What have you been doing to Satan?"

Jim grinned apologetically. "I had to ride him las' night for some med'cine for my sick chile."

"And I told you never to ride him, that he hated the very smell of a negro."

Jim still grinned.

"But you tried him?" she went on.

"Yes'um, and he flung me!"

Eloise laughed. "Served you right. You know that horse doesn't like you."

"An' when I went into the stall to saddle him, he remembered it."

"Of course he did. I told him never to let you or anyone else ride him--no one but me."

"That horse," said Aunt Lucretia, as we followed Eloise to the barn, "is dangerous. I have been expecting to hear of him killing her. It's all in his pedigree, Jack; he can't help being mean. His sire was a rattle-headed but game and iron horse--fast, but utterly unreliable. You may remember how fast he was, but would go crazy, and ran away in a race, running into another horse and getting a sulky shaft driven through his heart. All of his colts I ever saw are crazy, fast and game--but cruelly mean when roused. Still I'm to blame for this one. I thought Little Sister's brain and sweet temper might overcome it in the sire."

"Little Sister is his dam, then?" I said, patting the neck of the mare I was riding.

"Yes, he was foaled the year after you left for school, and is now three," she answered.

I heard Satan before I saw him. He was walking the length of his halter, now and then neighing, then whinnying to Eloise softly. It was the sound of her voice that had softened him. Above the anger which shook his frame, maddened at the sight of the groom who had offended him, he had heard the soothing voice of Eloise, and responded with a gentle whinny.

She smiled. "Just listen to him! Dangerous--he's an angel! Bring him out, Jim." She winked at Aunt Lucretia and me.

Jim grinned sillily. "'Scuse me, Miss 'Leeze; you's jes' sayin' that to guy me. He loves my leetle boy, an' he feeds him an' keers for 'im," he added, "but it looks like he thinks I put an insultment on him. 'Scuse me, Miss Leeze, but I wouldn't go in there for no money."

It was true. At the sound of Jim's voice, Satan's eyes had kindled, and he threw back his head, trying to break his halter to get to him.

"You try him, Jack," said Eloise; "I'm sure he loves you. I never knew one that didn't."

I opened the door. Never had I looked upon so superb a horse: a great star stood out beneath the tangled foretop of his mane, on a great square, broad forehead, so black it was silken. The rest of him, too, was midnight, except one white satin foot. His tail was a heavy hemp of black, shiny silk; his shoulders sloped in the line of strength. His chest was splendid, his muscles, fore and aft, bunched above the cleanest of bony legs. There was great strength, brain, and self-will in his head.

He was watching me keenly, as a wild beast eyes a new keeper. An animal knows friend or foe instantly. Their instinct is unerring and surpasses man's reason. I saw his eyes light up doubtfully, hesitate, and then gleam when I put my hands out and rubbed his cheek. "You splendid fellow; mean? It's not true. Did Jim put an insultment on you, old boy?" I laughed.

Then he rubbed my shoulder with his clean-cut nose.