Читать книгу Samantha at Coney Island, and a Thousand Other Islands - Marietta Holley - Страница 7

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25

CHAPTER TWO

WE SET SAIL FOR THOUSAND ISLAND

PARK AND HAVE A REAL GOOD TIME,

BUT JOSIAH MURMURS ABOUT CONEY.

Soon after, Whitfield wuz obleeged to go to Canada agin on that bizness and go through them Thousand Islands, and said he felt like jumpin’ off the boat, swimmin’ ashore and buyin’ the hull on ’em, they wuz so entrancin’ly lovely. But by holdin’ onto his principles and patience (of course he’d got quite a lot of patience, he’d been married a number of years) he managed to git through without jumpin’ off the boat and tacklin’ the job of buyin’ ’em, but said to himself, “If my life is spared to finish up that bizness I’ll come back and buy ten or a dozen.”

So sure enough on his way back he stopped off at Alexandria Bay and tackled a real estate agent to see what he would ask for a few islands close to the beautiful Bay. He had a idee, I spoze, of locatin’ the relation on his side and hern round on the different Islands, mebby an 26 island apiece. But to his surprise and horrow he found that the price for the smallest one wuz appallin’. But he vowed that if it took every cent of money he had (and he’s quite well off) he would own a piece of one big enough for a house.

So, after searchin’ both by water and by land, he found a buildin’ spot he felt able to buy. It wuz on one end of an island that wuz called Shadow Island, mebby because the shadder of the tall trees upon it wuz mirrored so plain in the water, makin’ it look as if there wuz another and fairer isle below.

There wuz a big empty house standin’ on one end of the Island, the owner bein’ in Europe and not wantin’ to rent it. There wuz a portion of it smooth and grassy, though the grass wuz kinder thin in places, the rocks come up so clost to the surface. But as I told Whitfield, stun is cleaner than dirt, and more healthy, unless you have ’em both throwed at you, in that case dirt is more healthy. He said the spot wuz dry and there wuz some hemlock and pine trees standin’ on one end on’t, and under ’em wuz a carpet of the rich brown leaves and pine needles that Whitfield thought would be beautiful for little Delight to play in. 27

And on the spot he’d picked out for a house the soil wuz deep enough for a good suller. Tirzah Ann always did love sullers; she kinder took to ’em. She has to go down suller most the first thing when she comes home visitin’. She never seems to want anything, only to sort o’ look round. Some say her ma wuz so; but there is worse things to take to than sullers, and I wuz glad enough there wuz a place there where Tirzah Ann could have one.

Well, I declare I fell in love with the place myself. And he beset us to go out and see it, and early in the summer we sot sail, the hull on us, for the Thousand Island Park, a good noble campin’ ground, though middlin’ hot in some spots. I’ve been asked what made it so much hotter there round the Tabernacle than it was up to Summer Land, where the Universalists wuz encamped. And I don’t spoze it is because they believe in hotter places, but it kinder sets folks to thinkin’. Both places are pleasant and cool enough in moderate weather.

I hadn’t no idee that so beautiful a spot wuz so nigh us. For as near as we’ve lived to ’em, Josiah and I never laid eyes on them islands before. But I’ve hearn of folks that lived within’ hearin’ of Niagara Falls that never see 28 that grand and stupendous wonder of the world; they didn’t see it just because they could. Queer, hain’t it? But it is a law of nater, and can’t be changed.

So one warm lovely mornin’ we sot out. We went by way of Cape Vincent which we found afterwards wuzn’t the nearest way, but we didn’t care, for it gin us a bigger and longer view of the noble St. Lawrence. Cape Vincent is a good-lookin’ place, though like Josiah and myself, it looks as if it had been more lively and frisky in its younger days. Pretty soon the big boat hove in sight. We embarked and got good seats, Whitfield full of bliss to think he wuz started for his islands.

And sure enough, tongue can never tell the beauty and grandeur we floated by that afternoon; nor pen can’t, no, a quill pen made out of a eagle’s wing couldn’t soar high enough. And my emotions, as I took in that seen, would been a perfect sight if anybody could got holt of ’em, as I rode along on that mighty river that is more like a ocean than a river, holdin’ the water that flows from the five great inland seas of North America, the only absolutely tide-less river in the world. It is so immense in size that the spring freshets that disturbs other big 29 rivers has no effect on its mighty depths, though once in a while, every three years, I think it is, the river draws in her old breath in an enormous sithe two or three feet deep, and stays so for some time. I d’no what makes it nor nobody duz. But truly there is enough in this old world to sithe about, as deep sithes as a mortal or a river can heave.

But to resoom forwards. The beautiful river bore us onwards, the green shores receedin’ on each side till pretty soon it got to be not much shore but seemin’ly all river, all freshness and freedom and blue sparklin’ water, and blue sky above. Nater wuz foldin’ us in her faithful arms and sweepin’ us away from the too civilized world into the freshness and onstudied beauty of her own hants.

I sot there perfectly entranced, and nothin’ occurred to break my rapt musin’s save my pardner’s request for a nut cake and a biled egg, and a longin’ murmer about Coney Island and a wish that he wuz started for there. But that didn’t seem to quell my emotions down. I handed the food to him with a hand that seemed some distance off from my real self.

The first big island we went by wuz called Carleton. Standin’ on it, loomin’ up tall and 30 solemn and mysterious, wuz some high stun towers. They stood up there as if tellin’ us how little we knew. They looked like great exclamation points set there to express the futility of our boasted knowledge.

Who built them chimblys? Who started the fires under ’em? Who drinked the tea that wuz steeped there? What kind of tea wuz it? Did the water bile? How did them tea drinkers feel and look and act while them chimblys carried off the smoke of their fire? What wuz their highest aspirations and idees? What wuz their deepest joy and keenest pain? What goles did they see ahead on ’em, and did they ever set down on them goles? I can’t tell nor Josiah can’t. A hundred years ago one moulderin’ old head-stun leaned over the grave of one of that company. Wuz it a glad or a sad heart that rested there in that ancient grave? Well, the sadness or the joy is jest as much lost and forgot as the smoke that wafted up towards the sky on the June and December mornin’s of 1600 odd.

As I thought of all these things, them lofty towers riz up like gigantick skeleton fingers outstretched mockin’ly. They seemed to be sayin’ to me and Josiah and the world at large, “You 31 may boast of your inventions, your marvels of this age, your civilization, your glory, your pryin’ into dark continents and unexplored regions of land and science. But what do you know anyway? Of what consequence are you? How soon your life and your memory will be utterly wiped out and forgotten. How soon the careless sun will forget the shadow you cast on the earth’s bosom. How soon the green grass of the forgettin’ earth will grow fresh and untrodden and cover up the traces of your eager footsteps, no matter how deep you thought you had made the track you walked in. How soon it is all wiped away as if it had never been. And Mom Nater, instead of weepin’ over your loss, goes on wreathin’ new flowers for new hands to gather, and mebby forgits to drop even a bud on the dusty mound where you lay sleepin’—the sleep of long forgetfulness.

“Of what account are you anyway? Poor blind voyagers, floatin’ by me jest as so many generations have gone past—canoe and white sails floatin’ along, floatin’ along, comin’ in view of me in the fur blue hazy distance, comin’ into the broad light before me and glidin’ off and disappearin’ in the shadows. Forever and ever, new ones comin,’ comin’, goin’, goin’, year after 32 year, generation after generation. And here we have stood calm, settled down, pintin’ up into the heavens where our history is gathered up, where the ones that made our history are gathered like the drops of spray from the river that has washed on the shores at our feet, and then evaporated up agin into the blue sky.”

And as I lost sight of them stun towers in the distance, they seemed to say, “Float on, poor voyagers; float along with your pitiful little crumbs of knowledge and wisdom carried so proudly. How soon the shadows will drift apart to take you into ’em and then close up and hold you there forever. And out of the shinin’ west new faces will come growin’ plainer and plainer as the boat draws near; they will shine out full and clear in front of me and then glide away into the mist—I shall lose sight of ’em jest as I do of you to-day. Comin’! comin’! goin’! goin’! They will look at me and wonder jest as you do to-day, and I will say to ’em jest as I do to you, ‘Hail and farewell!’ ”

Oh what emotions I did have! And I hadn’t more’n got to this pint in my meditatin’, when I hearn a voice on the off side on me (Josiah wuz on the nigh side).

The voice said, “Oh how I wish I could be 33 put back there jest a minute and see what them tall towers see when they wuz built!”

I felt that here wuz a congenial soul and I felt friendly to him as one would hail a familiar sail when they wuz floatin’ on foreign waters. The voice went on:

“Oh how I wish I could be a fly, and fly back there for a hour.”

Instinctively I looked round. The speaker weighed three hundred pounds if he did an ounce, and the idee of his bein’ turned into a fly seemed to bring down my soarin’ emotions more than considerable. Truly, we ort to be careful how we handle metafors. If he’d said he wanted to be changed into a elephant or a camel, or even a horse, it wouldn’t have seemed so curious, but a fly!!! Dear me!

Clayton is a good-lookin’ drowsy sort of a place, and kinder mixed up lookin’ from the aft forecastle, where I stood; but at last the little foot bridge that connected us with the shore wuz took up, the old boat gin a loud yell to skair the children and young folks back from the water’s edge, and the boat riders from fallin’ off the boat, and we sot out agin and floated along.

And now pretty soon the islands grew closter 34 and closter together, and we wouldn’t no more than go by one lovely one, than another more perfect lookin’ hove in sight, and then another and another, each one seemin’ly more beautiful than the last.

Some times we would go clost up to the shore, by islands whose green forests swep’ clear down to the water’s edge, makin’ the water look green and cool and shady, and the water would narrow itself down between two houses seemin’ly jest to be accomodatin’, and run along between ’em like a little rivulet with water lilies and buttercups dippin’ down into it on each side and boys wadin’ acrost. Jest think on’t, that big noble-sized river, dwindlin’ itself down jest to obleege somebody.

And sometimes big houses would loom up jest above the water’s edge, their daintily shaded winders lookin’ down into the green waves and reflected there, anon a stately mansion would set back a little with towers and pinnacles risin’ above the green trees, and cool shady walks windin’ by summer houses and bright posy beds, and gayly dressed folks walkin’ along the beautiful paths, and mebby a pretty girl settin’ in a boat, and a hull fleet of boats filled with gay pleasure seekers would glide along like gayly 35 plumed sea birds, and fur in the distance and on every side white sails would sail on like bigger birds of white plumage, all set out for the Isle of Happiness.

I pinted out the metafor to Josiah.

“Isle of Happiness?” he sez, sort o’ dreamy like. “That’s right. Serenus sez its everywhere, all over the place.”

“What place?” sez I, suspicion darkenin’ my foretop.

“Why, Coney Island,” sez he, “that’s the only Isle of Happiness I ever hearn tell on.”

I gin him a look. “Would you compare Coney Island with the beautiful Isle of Happiness that the poets sing on?” I sez, severe like.

“Where is it?” sez he.

“Why,” sez I, “It ain’t ennywheres. Its a metafor of the brain.”

“Is it ketchin’?” sez he. “Seems to me I’ve hearn tell of that disease before!” And then before I could gin him an indignant response, he stuck his fingers in his ears and sot there grinnin’ like a jimpanzee all the time I wuz speakin’ out my mind. But to resoom.

Anon a bridge would rise up its fairy arch and connect two islands together, each one holdin’ a mansion that looked like a palace, 36 and the bright awnin’s of the winders, the pillars and pinnacles, and gay colors, reflected in the water makin’ fairy palaces below as well as above, and made the hull seen as we journeyed on one of enchantment, that would made the grand Vizier of Bagdad turn green with envy. And every palace, mansion, and cottage had its pretty boat-house, with the water layin’ there smooth and invitin’ waitin’ for the boats to be lanched on its bosom, actin’ for all the world like a first class family stream, warranted to carry safe and not kick and act in the harness. And then mebby the very next minute it would swell itself out agin, and be twenty or thirty milds acrost, rushin’, hurryin’, and dashin’ itself along, hastenin’ to the sea.

Actin’ as if it had sunthin’ dretful pressin’ and important to tell it, and mebby it had. Who knows the language of the liquid waves as they whisper to each other on sunny beaches and at the meetin’ of placid waters, makin’ love to each other like as not—one tellin’ the other of the sweet cow-slip and ferny medders it had to leave at the loud call of its love, the River. The River murmuring back deep words of worship and gratitude at the feet of its newly arrived love. 37

And then mebby the comin’ rivulet complains, moanin’ kinder low and sorrowful, as it swashes up on sharp stuny beaches, for what it left behind. Meadows and orchards full of May’s rosy blossoms, low grassy shores fringed with flowers and fresh, shinin’ grasses. And white, dimpled baby feet mebby that waded out in its cool shallows. Pretty faces that bent over its sheltered pools, as in a lookin’ glass, wavin’ locks that scattered gold light down into the water, bright eyes that shone like stars above it. I shouldn’t wonder a mite if it missed ’em and tried to say so in its gentle, pensive swish, swash, swish.

And then mebby the River resented it and kinder roared at it; mebby that is what it is sayin’ in its louder and more voylent tones, upbraidin’ it for lookin’ back to its more single and lonesome career, when it now has Him! Him! Rush! Roar! Crush! Roar! Roar!

We can’t tell what the river is talkin’ about, in its calm gentle moods or its voylent ones. Who knows what the loud angry scream and screech of the deep waves say as the tempest and storm presses down on ’em and the Deep answers back in a voice of thunder, with its great heart beatin’ and heavin’ up and throbbin’ 38 in its mad pain and frenzy? Who knows what it is roarin’ out, as it meets opposin’ forces, wave and rock, and dashes aginst ’em—fightin’ and dashin’ and tryin’ to vanquish ’em like as not? Who can translate the voice of the waters? I can’t, nor Josiah, nor nobody.