Читать книгу Love of the Wild - Archie P. McKishnie - Страница 3

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The hazy October sunlight sifted through the trees and lay, here and there, golden bits of carpet on the mossy woodland. A glossy black squirrel paused on one of these splashes of sunlight, and, sitting erect, preened his long fur; then as the harsh scolding of a red squirrel fell on his ears he sank on all fours again, and bounded into the heavy shadows of the wood. A pair of pursuing red squirrels sprang from an opposite grove and with shrill chidings crossed the open to the snake fence. By taking this fence they might intercept the quarry’s flight, their object being to make short work of the black, whom they hated with an hereditary hatred harking back to the dim past.

In and out they flashed, their yellow-red bodies painting zigzag streaks of gold upon the forest background of green. Suddenly they halted and with tails slashing angrily poured out a tirade of abuse upon the human frustrator of their designs.

He stood leaning against the fence, his young face moody, his eyes focused somberly on the new schoolhouse with its unpainted boards, hanging to the face of the hill across the creek. He turned now, his tall form erect, accusation in his glance. Nineteen years among the wild of the wild had schooled him in the knowledge of signs such as that which confronted him, and which were forerunners of the tragedies so numerous in the wooded fastness. “So you would, eh?” he grated, “you little murderers, you.”

At the sound of his voice the male squirrel, less courageous than his mate, sprang to earth and scurried up a scraggy beech. The female, not to be cheated out of her wicked pleasure, attempted the old ruse of dropping to the bottom rail of the fence and darting past the boy in this way. But the boy had learned the ways of squirrels as he had learned the ways of all the things of the wild, and as the little animal sprang forward his tall body bent earthward. A muffled squeal came from the buckskin cap he held in his hand, and when he arose his brown fingers nipped the animal securely by the back of its neck.

“So it’s you who’ve been drivin’ the black squirrels out of the bush?” he said. “Well, you won’t drive any more out, I guess. You’ve had your last run except the one me and pup’ll give you, and that won’t be a very long one. Here, Joe,” he called, “come here, old feller; I’ve got something for you.”

From the far end of a long fallow came loping a gaunt Irish setter. He hurled his shaggy form upward, but the boy held the prize out of his reach.

“Come into the clearin’ and we’ll have a chase, pup,” he said. They passed over to an open spot in the wood and the boy turned the captive about so that it faced him.

“Now, Joe,” he said, “I’ll just——” He broke off and stood gazing at the animal which had ceased to struggle and now hung passive, its little heart throbbing under its white breast-fur.

“Joe,” whispered the boy, “she’s got young ’uns somewhere.”

The dog sprawled on the warm moss and rolled over and over.

“I reckon some little codgers’ll be missin’ their mammy, pup.”

Joe cocked his ears and looked up at his master.

“They’ll be lookin’ to see her maybe by now,—but,” savagely, “ain’t never goin’ to see her no more.”

The squirrel twisted and attempted to dig its long yellow teeth into the hand that held it prisoner.

“She’s just like everythin’ else that has babies,” frowned the lad, “savage and foolish. Here, you,” he called to the dog, “where are you goin’, Joe?”

The setter was trotting slowly away.

“What’s got into him, I wonder,” muttered the young man; “never knowed Joe to run away from sport before, unless it was that time the old she-’coon slashed his nose, after we’d cut down her tree and found her babies.”

Once more he turned the animal about and looked into its big soft eyes.

“I’m goin’ to give you another chance,” he said. “Pup don’t seem to hanker for your life, and I guess if a dog thinks that way about it I ought to think the same way. It’s a mighty good thing for you that you’ve got young ’uns. And now, you thievin’, murderin’ little devil—get.”

He tossed the squirrel on the moss. The frantic thing crouched for a second, then sprang away and sought the sheltering branches of a nearby tree. From this secure refuge she cursed the boy viciously in squirrel language. The boy nodded, then scowled.

“You’re quite welcome, I’m sure,” he said, and cramming his hands deep into the pockets of his buckskin trousers he walked thoughtfully back to his old post.

Slowly he climbed the fence and perched himself on its topmost rail, his knees drawn up, his chin sunk in his hands. Once more he gazed somberly across the stumpy clearing to the new schoolhouse on the hill. He hated it; hated the brazen sound of its bell. Mentally he combated it as he combated other elements of civilization. All the young soul of him rebelled against what he considered the defacing of Nature. Those wide swaths which man had mowed through the forest to him meant no advancement. They were scars made by interlopers upon the face of a great sweet mother. Nature had endowed the boy’s spirit with her own moods. His soul held the shadows of her quiet places as it retained the records of her swishing songs of trees and waterfalls. He knew no order save that of the great Brotherhood of the Untamed. His was a broad kingdom. It was being usurped and would soon be a toppling power.

Moody and unmoving be sat until the gold splashes crept from the open spaces of the wood and the patches of the yellow-tops of the slashing turned from yellow to bronze-brown and from bronze-brown to gray. A covey of brown quail scurried from a tangled patch of rag-weed to a dry water-run, to scuttle, a long animated line, to the thicket of sumach. Far down in the corner of the fallow another scattered brood were voicing the shrill, mellow call of retreat, and all throughout the darkening wood there sounded the medley of harmonious voices of wild things in twilight song. Only in the soul of the boy was there a discord that rose and fell and disturbed an old-time restfulness that had been his for nineteen years. Perhaps the indefinable something that whispered to him pitied him also, for resentment and combativeness sank away from his heart with the hazy glow of day. Like his great Wild that nestled in the peace of twilight, his soul threw off its struggles and seemed to rest. When darkness came he climbed down from the fence. Through the forest-trees murmured the low song of early night-breezes, and to him they voiced a prophecy. Something brushed against him, and the boy bent down and drew the shaggy head of a dog over against his breast.

“Damn ’em,” he cried chokingly, and shook a clenched fist toward the swaths of civilization. Then slowly he passed out into the darkness, the dog at his heels.

At the edge of the hill he halted and gazed down the long dark hollow of the creek-bed to where a white splash of water slept beneath the rising moon. All along the wooded vista whip-poor-wills piped their wakeful joy-notes, and the musical whistle of migrating woodcock made a shrill treble note to the harsher wing-song of incoming wild ducks. Dew-mists, laden with the scent of dead leaves and moldy woods, crept to him, and he breathed the sweetness in long, sensuous breaths. But all the while the boy looked toward the bay and the golden trail of moonlight across it, to the uneven, scrag-line of Point aux Pins Forest, and wondered vaguely at the savagery of civilization that sought, as it was seeking, to destroy God’s life and beauty.

A pair of woodcock arose from a swale and passed between him and the water. Against the moonlight their bronze breasts flashed out for a second and faded, and their mellow wing-notes reverberated dyingly from the shadow. Right across their track a flock of ducks came speeding, their goal the reedy ponds of Rond Eau Bay.

“Joe,” the young man said wistfully, “it’s funny, isn’t it, now? Some goin’ and some comin’. Woodcock flyin’ south ’cause they hate the cold; ducks flyin’ north ’cause they love it.”

They passed on, the dog taking the lead. At the edge of a wide clearing they paused alert. The dim outline of a log-house lay before them. From the windows streamed the glow of candlelight. Across the open from the house a figure was advancing, and to the dog’s low growl the boy chided a whispered, “Be still, Joe.” When the figure came close to where they waited the boy stepped out and stood before it. His arms were folded tight across his breast and his mouth narrowed to a thin line.

“Did you tell her?” he questioned quietly. The tall man thus accosted stepped back with a startled exclamation.

“Well, Boy McTavish, is it you?”

Young McTavish half crouched, then quickly drew himself up again.

“Yes, it’s me, teacher,” he said. “What I want to know is, did you tell her?”

“Yes, I told her.”

“All right, get out of my way, then.”

“Wait a moment, Boy,” returned the man. “You understand, don’t you, that it is my duty to report all pupils who do not attend school regularly?”

The boy changed his position so that the moonlight would fall full upon the face of the man before him.

“Do you suppose I care for your reportin’ me?”

The tone was wondering, contemptuous.

“Why, teacher, you can’t hurt me, and you know it. Do you suppose I was thinkin’ of myself when I asked you not to tell her? And do you suppose any man would have done what you’ve done?”

“Hush,” warned the other, “I can’t let you talk to me in this way, Boy. Remember who I am. I won’t have it, I say.”

“Well, I can’t see how you’re goin’ to help it. I want to tell you somethin’, Mr. Simpson, and you’ve got to listen. Don’t you move or by God I’ll sic Joe on to you. I’m goin’ to tell you again what I told you before. Ma’s sick in bed and maybe she ain’t never goin’ to get up no more. I told you that, remember?”

“Yes, you told me that—well?”

“Well, she’s been thinkin’ that I’ve been to school and you and me know I haven’t. I couldn’t stay in your school and live, but I was willin’ to take the hick’ry or anythin’ you said, if you wouldn’t tell her.”

The teacher was silent.

“Pup,” said the boy, “see that he answers up better.”

The dog growled, and the man spoke quickly.

“I was only doing my duty.”

“And it’s your duty to tell a dyin’ mother that her boy’s goin’ to hell—I say goin’ to hell, and her so near the other place? Do you call that duty?” demanded the boy bitterly.

The moon floated further into the open, lighting up the two; the boy erect and accusing with the shaggy dog beside him, and the tall man before them in an attitude half defiant, half ashamed.

“I didn’t quite understand, Boy,” apologized Simpson. “I am sorry; believe me, I am. No, I didn’t understand.”

“And you never will understand. You’re maybe all right in your own world, teacher, but you ain’t at home in ours. You don’t fit this place, and there ain’t no use of your ever tryin’ to understand it or us. Teacher, you take my advice—go back to the clearin’.”

The boy spoke slowly, weighing each word and closely watching the face upon which the white moonlight fell. It was a young face, not many years older than his own. But it was weak and conceited. It grew sullen now, as the significance of young McTavish’s words became apparent.

The man turned toward the path to the creek, and the boy stood tall and straight before him.

“Of course, you understand why us Bushwhackers can’t just be friends with you, teacher,” said the boy. “It’s because you are one of them—and they are doin’ all they can to break into our little world.”

He pointed toward the open.

“Out there is where they belong; them and you. Go back there, teacher, and tell them to go. It’s best, I tell you—best for everybody.”

Away down across the clearing on the far bank of the creek, a burst of yellow-red light fluctuated against the skies, and the metallic ring of a saw twanged out, silencing the whip-poor-will’s call. Colonel Hallibut’s mill was running overtime. All this stimulated that restlessness that had lately been born in the soul of the young Bushwhacker. He stepped out from the shadow and shook his fist at the red glow.

“Damn ’em,” he cried. And paying no heed to the figure which stood, with bowed head, on the path, he stepped away across the clearing toward the pale light streaming from the log-house window.