Читать книгу While the Story-Log Burns - Thornton Waldo Burgess - Страница 3
ОглавлениеThe Children’s Hour
The barn owl—Monkey-face the children called him—left the hollow oak far back on the ridge. On broad wings, as silently as one of his own downy feathers floating on still air, he drifted to his favorite perch, the top of a tall stub on the brow of Esker Hill. Since break of day he had slept. Now for a while he would sit here in idle comfort, his long wings lifted from his body ever so little, and his feathers slightly raised, in invitation to the languid breeze that feebly stirred the drooping leaves. And while he enjoyed his air bath he planned his night’s hunting and watched what went on below. He missed no slightest movement within the range of his vision, and that range was surprisingly good for one who is commonly supposed to be half blind by day. It is a mistake to think that an owl must wait for dusk in order to see well.
Below him was the Old House, the roof gray-green with moss, the wide throat of the great chimney black with the smoke of two hundred years. That chimney was the source of endless curiosity and provocative speculation to the big owl. It was topped with a huge capstone. Beneath, one on each side, were four openings, vents for the smoke. To one seeking dark seclusion during the hours of daylight each was an open invitation to enter. Alas, each held a screen of wire mesh that barred the way.
It was the children’s hour, that all too brief period at the close of day when time stands still and beyond the purpling hills the sinking sun holds back the curtain of the night. Like a benediction the hush of deep and tranquil peace lay over the land. On the eastern flank of Esker Hill the shadows gathered fast. Along its base for the whole length Laughing Brook rippled over pebbly shallows, gurgled around and under twisted old roots, or silently slipped beneath bending elder bushes weighed down by great clusters of rich wine-tinted fruit not yet fully ripe. In the cool blackness below, close to the bank, lay a trout waiting that which in time the water would bring him to satisfy his hunger.
At the end of the hill, as if minded to circle it, the brook began a turn, then abruptly resumed its former course to make its laughing way down past the Old House and so under the road and through the broad meadow beyond. Here and there along the banks cardinal flowers burned in the gathering dusk like votive candles on the altar of the night.
Within the Old House a merry group was gathered around the broad hearth of the great fireplace that occupied all the middle of one side of the long low-studded living room, its great timbers always a source of wonder to guests who never before had crossed the hospitable threshold. Tonight was story night, the first of the season, and the Storyteller was counting noses.
“All here but Jimmy Andrews,” said he. “I wonder if Jimmy isn’t coming.”
As if in answer the outer door opened and Jimmy entered. He was a bit breathless from running. His good-natured freckled face wore an engaging smile and his eyes danced with excitement. “Sorry I’m late,” he panted. “As I was coming across the bridge I looked up the brook and there was old Lightfoot drinking. I just had to stop and watch him. It’s the first time I’ve seen him this year. Gee, he’s handsome! I hope the hunters don’t get him this fall.”
“I don’t see how anyone can shoot a deer. I think it is wicked,” mumbled Jean, her mouth full of popcorn.
“It does seem wicked to destroy any living thing as beautiful as Lightfoot,” agreed the Storyteller. “We all hope with Jimmy that the hunters will never get him. He has been too smart for them in the past and we hope he will be too smart for them in the future. Was he still at the brook when you left, Jimmy?”
Jimmy’s face grew a bit red. “No. I scared him,” he confessed, then added hastily, “I guess he wasn’t really scared, just kind of surprised. I wanted to see him run, so after I had watched him a while I hit the rail of the bridge with a stick and hollered at him. You ought to have seen him jump. His head and his tail both came up as if somehow they were hitched together, and when he saw me he cleared that brook in one jump right at the widest part. Then he bounded off in high jumps just as if he had springs in his feet or landed on a springboard each time. After a few jumps he stopped and turned to stare at me. In a minute or two he gave a kind of whistling snort, jumped over some brush and went on up the hill. He took his time about it too, and his tail wasn’t up any longer so I guess he wasn’t much scared.”
“No, he wasn’t really frightened,” said the Storyteller. “He has gone up to one of his favorite feeding places and probably has forgotten all about you by this time, Jimmy. Did you see anyone else?”
“Only old Monkey-face. He was up on his watchtower when I came in,” replied Jimmy. “He makes me think of a cop on duty. Of what use is he anyway?”
The Storyteller laughed. “He is a sort of cop, I guess,” said he, “a feathered cop, one of Mother Nature’s G-men so to speak. As for his usefulness I know of no one among the feathered folk who renders more real service to man than does Monkey-face and the members of his family. He saved a lot of chickens for me this year, not to mention a ton or two of hay. If that isn’t being useful I don’t know what is.”
Instantly there was a chorus of demands for an explanation of how Monkey-face had saved chickens, and in what way he could possibly have saved hay. It was plain to the Storyteller that he was under suspicion. He was suspected of spoofing; of trying to fool his listeners. When at last he could make himself heard he declared that he wouldn’t tell them a word about Monkey-face that evening. “But,” he added, as he noted the disappointment in the faces around him, “next week when we meet you shall have all your questions answered, for we will have a visitor who knows more about owls, and Mother Nature and her children generally, than I do or ever will. You see he is a real naturalist. Now it is high time the story-log should be on the fire. Who brought it tonight?”
“I did,” cried Willis, stepping forward with a small log.
“Good for you, Willis,” exclaimed the Storyteller. “I didn’t think you would remember from way back last fall. To tell the truth I had forgotten myself whose turn it was to bring a log. Let me see it.”
Taking the log from the small boy, he pretended to examine it carefully. “Hm-m-m,” said he, “apple wood. Apple wood is good wood to burn. There won’t be many sparks but there will be a nice steady flame and that calls for a good story. I should say that this story-log is just right, Willis. Place it on the fire carefully. All of you watch for me to give you the signal and then together we will chant the invocation to the fire. I hope you remember it.”
This was Janet’s first story night. “What is a story-log?” she whispered to Rosemary.
“A log that burns while a story is being told. As soon as that log begins to burn the story will begin and it must end when that log burns out,” Rosemary whispered back.
Meanwhile Willis was carefully placing the small log on the fire. He stepped back. The Storyteller nodded and lifted one hand. The invocation began.
“Fire, fire burn my log!
Snap and crackle! Leap and glow!
Turn to smoke and ashes but
Not too fast and not too slow!
In its heart a story lies;
Only you can set it free.
Fire, fire burn my log
While the tale is told to me!”
Without the Old House the soft dusk had settled over the landscape. Lightfoot was contentedly browsing on the ridge back of Esker Hill. The watchtower of Monkey-face was deserted. The big owl, a moving shadow among other shadows, was soundlessly policing the meadow in search of the mice that always are his first choice to satisfy his hunger.
Within the Old House the flickering firelight made wavering shadows that deepened to almost darkness in the far corners of the big room. It brought into strong relief the half circle of intent faces watching the blaze. Abruptly the silence was broken by the startlingly sharp snap of a breaking stick as it burned through. A small tongue of yellow flame leaped up, vanished, leaped again. With a soft sigh the eager faces were turned to the Storyteller. The story-log had begun to burn.
