CHAPTER XXV WE HAUNT THE WOODS
It seemed to me only five minutes before I heard someone whistling, "Early one morning and while the dew was shining," and there was my young master brushed and dressed and biting deep into a huge slice of bread and butter with yellow sugar on it, a dainty that the children often got from Bingi.
"Come on, Pony Boy, my dearest joy," he said, giving me a generous piece of his bread. "The quest is on."
I stepped out beside him. I shall never forget that particular early morning. I had never before seen the lake so lovely.
My young master, too, was admiring it. "Isn't that water exquisite, my Pony Prince?" he said. "Just like a dreamy big emerald set in a forest of green. Upon my word, when I got down to it in my bathing suit it was so beautiful that I could not go in. I turned back. I didn't feel I was a good enough boy."
This pleased me very much. What fine feeling for a lad!
"Now, Prince Fetlar," he went on, "I'm sorry that on this first morning of our search we have to turn our backs on the lake, but so it must be. Mothers first, lakes second. Here we go up Deer Trail," and he sprang in his own graceful way to my back.
He rode me until we got to the romantic sugaring-off place in a belt of maple bush.
Then he jumped off, looked reflectively at the enormous black pot hanging on the crane in the stone fire place and said, "Big Chief says I must be sure to come here next spring when they tap the trees. I should love to see the sap running. He has a hundred trees of his own and maple syrup is going to be marketed at five dollars a gallon."
I was very much amused. My young master was getting to be quite a little man of business.
Suddenly he turned to me, "What is sweeter than maple syrup, Fetlar?"
Of course I could do nothing but neigh excitedly, and he exclaimed, "Mothers! Come on, let's find mine," and he dashed down a steep side trail leading to the Merry Tongue River.
I followed him, picking my way carefully over soggy mats of dead leaves and round by enormous rocks and fallen trees. Oh! the firewood going to waste in this forest.
Something made me put my head down whenever we came to damp and marshy ground. I didn't know why I did it, but Dallas exclaimed when he turned round and saw me, "That's a Shetland trick. Your little ancestors used to smell out, or perhaps I should say feel, the safe places when they went to the peat bogs with the crofters to get fuel."
This was very interesting. How glad I was that my young master had brains and that he had become such an expert young woodsman, for without being able to see far ahead on account of the dense growth of trees he just seemed to choose easily the best way to get round obstacles.
There was a trail here, but so faint that we kept losing it. Nothing daunted the boy, and when he could not get on with two feet he fell on his hands and, imitating me, scrambled over steep rock faces where he would often pull up by the roots some young baby tree he was clinging to.
As he fell backward or sideways his concern was more for the uprooted thing than himself.
"I've killed it," he would say, "and it probably loves its home."
Then, if not too badly damaged, he would re-plant it, and by these delays our progress was rather slow.
Just before we got to the brawling little river that my master loved because it talked so sociably to its big brown stones as it dashed over them, we came to Poor Dog's Pool, so named on account of a favourite setter of the Devering children who had once fallen in there in a fit and drowned.
"The setter is happy now," said Dallas as he looked thoughtfully into the depths of the velvety pool set in its bed of ferns. "He will never drown again, and he is waiting for the children."
Then he repeated to me in his sweet ringing voice a favourite poem of his cousins' written by a young Irish-Canadian friend of theirs called Norah Holland.[1]
"High up in the courts of Heaven to-day,
A little dog-angel waits.
With the other angels he will not play,
But he sits alone at the gates;
'For I know that my master will come,' says he,
'And when he comes, he will call for me.'
"He sees the spirits that pass him by,
As they hasten towards the throne.
And he watches them with a wistful eye,
As he sits by the gates alone;
'But I know if I just wait patiently,
That some day my master will come,' says he.
"And his master, far on the earth below,
As he sits in his easy chair,
Forgets sometimes, and he whistles low,
For the dog that is not there;
And the little dog-angel cocks his ears,
And dreams that his master's call he hears.
"And I know when at length his master waits
Outside in the dark and cold,
For the hand of death to open the gates,
That lead to those courts of gold,
The little dog-angel's eager bark,
Will comfort his soul in the shivering dark."
When he finished the poem, I rubbed affectionately against the dark blue figure standing so straight and handsome in the depths of this green wood. With a boy's extravagance he had put on his very best suit of clothes to come and look for his mother, and a sad mess it was in.
I was pleased that he had taken the trouble to recite to me, and he knew it, but in the midst of a remark to me he began to yawn sleepily.
"Prince Fetlar," he said, "I'm going to have forty winks. I scarcely slept a bit last night," and he stepped back among the old pines that had watched the pool and its dark doings for many a year.
It was said to be bottomless, and when my master lay down to sleep he chose a nice fragrant bed of pine needles at the foot of a moss-grown boulder and at a safe distance from the treacherous waters of the pool.
"Watch a few minutes, Prince," he said, "it will only be a cat nap."
"Bless him," I said to myself, "he's safe for a couple of hours," and I, not feeling at all sleepy, placed myself in a bed of brakes behind him and stood stock still planning to see what I could see.
As long as we had been moving we saw nothing but the still life of the woods. The breaking of branches and the sound of my master's voice had kept every shy wild thing from us. They were not afraid that we would kill them, for Mr. Devering and the Good American allowed no shooting on their timber limits. They were just naturally averse to the near presence of human beings, but I knew they were all peeping at us as we went by.
As soon as my young master fell asleep some timid wood birds who haunted this pool began to talk to each other about the abundance of food this year and the easiness of the task of bringing up young ones.
Then a funny young Canadian bear came by, pad-padding along and stopping a few feet from me to sit down and leisurely scratch his ear. However, he caught our odour and away he went, he, too, looking for home and mother.
While I stood thinking what a lovely and pleasant thing it was that my young master and I, too, had no fear of these wild creatures about us now that we knew there was not one of them that would do us harm, I bent my head to rub off some little ants that were wandering about my fetlocks. There, almost nestling against my pastern, was a hen partridge, or perhaps I should say grouse.
She looked up at me with a bright and trusting eye, but decided she had better move along now that she was discovered. However, she made no haste about it and reminded me of some tame partridges in Maine whose backs a master I had then used to tickle with his fishing rod.
"Oh! how wild things would love man if he would not hunt them," and just as I was saying this to myself I lifted up my eyes and there at a little distance stood a beautiful white ghost among the pines.
"Good morning, comely one," I said when the White Phantom came gracefully near. "Pardon me for not going to meet you. My master sleeps and I am on guard."
"I know it," she said prettily. "A little chickadee told me. If he had been awake I would not have come near."
"But he never hurts anything," I said.
"I know that, but I seek no human beings except my two loved masters. I have seen quite nice boys and men jump at wild things even when they did not shoot. They like to see us run."
"They do not know what timid hearts you wild things have," I said consolingly.
"You creatures called domestic know nothing of the fears of untamed creatures," she said. "Our lives are one long misery if thoughtless human beings control us."
"That is very sad," I replied.
"But not too sad," she went on, "for the Good Highlander tells us that we have another life, and such a long one that this life is only a dream compared with it. In that other life we shall be perfectly happy, for no one will hunt us."
"So you, too, know the Good Highlander," I exclaimed joyfully.
"Quite well, and he is so clear to me that the other animals tell me I must soon be going to join his band of happy creatures."
"What do you mean by that?" I asked.
"That all the animals that ever lived in these woods are here still, though we do not see them."
"Can that be possible! Is this wonderful forest to be your deer heaven, lovely doe?"
"I hope so. I should like to keep near my masters and I feel that I will, for that wolf cub with the Highlander is one who once lived back of the mountain."
"You recognise him?"
"Yes, for he hunted me cruelly. He was with his mother, the fiercest old wolf witch of this district. It was one day on the ice. I was crossing the lake to go home. Something told me they were coming. I was as fleet as the wind in those days, but they swept close to me, one on each side. I felt their hot breath——"
She paused an instant and I shuddered. I could see her in my mind's eye bounding up the frozen lake in her graceful manner, her heart pounding, her strength failing, the two fierce creatures about to leap on her and tear her to pieces.
"Do you know," she said quietly, "that just when I was about to sink to the ice something very strange happened."
"What was it?" I asked eagerly.
"It was the first time I saw the Highlander," she replied, "and then he was only the faintest mistiest shape to me, but he was there. He floated by me and the wolves fell dead."
"Had he killed them?" I asked.
"I do not know. My master suddenly appeared skating round the bend of the river, his gun on his shoulder. The Highlander was not there when he arrived and my master bent over the wolves' bodies, then lifted his puzzled face to me as I struggled toward home at a little distance from them."
"'But it is astonishing!' he said. Then later he skinned the wolves, but that young one who is with the Good Highlander when he haunts these woods is the wicked cub who hunted me with his mother."
"But he is a good cub now," I said.
"He has a heart of gold," she replied. "I have seen him beside a dying fawn."
"I'm puzzled," I said. "Wolves have to get their living in this world. Yet we blame them for killing creatures who wish to live. However, there's one thing sure, lovely Phantom—when we animals die many things will be explained that we do not understand now."
"Sometimes when I am very frightened I wish to go to the Good Highlander and live that life where I shall be as bold as a wolf," she replied dreamily, "and that reminds me—I have sought you out to-day to thank you for what you did that afternoon the poachers shot me."
"Oh! Phantom," I said, "I could not bear to see you die."
"I was quite willing," she said dreamily. "I seemed to be drifting into a safe, soft black forest, but when you said my masters would be grieved I gladly came back."
"And you, dear one," I said, "be careful. Do not roam far from home in future. You court danger when you do so."
"I know it," she said, lowering her snowy head among the pines to touch something at her feet, "but I have a guard now."
"Who is it?" I asked.
"The good Ravaud, the warden's hound. Our master has told him to accompany me wherever I go. He is getting another dog to go on government trips."
"Hello! old fellow," I said, "come out here and speak to me. You were very short the first day I saw you."
The long-eared hound came out from behind the doe, curling his lip in a dog smile.
"Duty first, Pony friend," he said. "That doe has been a sister to me. How could I speak to a stranger when I thought she lay dying?"
"You were quite right," I said. "Now you just keep your eye on her, for she doesn't seem to mind a bit the idea of stepping out of this old world, which is after all a pleasant place."
"Right you are," said Ravaud in his deep hollow voice, and he looked at her anxiously. Then he added, "She has quite a good appetite."
I burst out laughing. I could not help it and the offended doe turned to leave me.
"Beautiful one," I said, "I am delighted to hear that your appetite matches your perfect body, and now before you go please let me say something to you."
"Certainly, Pony friend," she replied, turning her mild eyes on me.
"It is about something a toad told me," I said, "old Hoppy Go-Slow. I suppose you don't know him."
"I don't care for reptiles," she said a little ungraciously, "nor any creature who can live either on land or in the water. They seem unnatural to me, and I have no acquaintances among them."
"Now, graceful one," I said cautiously and admiringly, "I see you are sensitive, but please do not be offended with me. I just wish to ask you why you jump on snakes and destroy them."
She shuddered. "I can not tell. I hate them. Do you think I am wrong?"
"Snakes do much good to the farmer," I said. "Don't you know that they eat insect pests that are injurious to plant life?"
"I have heard that," she replied carelessly. "It did not impress me."
"A snake loves to live," I went on. "Why kill him?"
"Do they suffer?" she asked in a horrified tone. "Do they feel as I do when the hunters drive me through the bush?"
"Probably they do not suffer as much as you do, for you kill quickly, but they do suffer and flee from you, for they have complained to the toads about you."
"I have always stamped on them," she said. "I have cut them to pieces with the sharp hoofs of my fore-feet, little Pony. It did not take long."
"Ah! well, lovely one, in future leave in peace all the harmless green and brown gliding things. Kill only rattlesnakes."
"I will kill none at all," she said with sudden heat. "I see that life is sweet even to snakes."
I was about to tell her that it is necessary sometimes to kill quickly and mercifully lest we should have too much animal life on the earth, then I thought I would only mix her up, so I forbore.
"Before I go, Pony Prince," she said, "I must tell you that your boy's mother is in the wood."
"Is she?" I said eagerly. "What is she like?"
The White Phantom spoke in a mysterious voice. "She is slender and youthful looking. Her dress is the color of green leaves and she has a veil wound round her head. Alas! she is beautiful."
"Why alas!" I asked.
"Because all things beautiful are hunted. They have no peace. I wish I had been born very, very ugly and warty like a toad. It is fatiguing to be so sought after."
"I never thought of that before," I said, "but I suppose it is true. Where is the boy's mother now?"
"Down by the river, but she is coming this way. She is slipping behind the tree trunks. She is hoping to see her son before he sees her."
"I dread the shock for him," I said, anxiously gazing toward the sleeping boy.
"The shock will not hurt him, Prince Pony, for it will be all joy. Her shock will be partly pain."
"But, but," I stammered, "she is his mother—he is her son."
"They have lived apart, Pony. She allowed her old aunt to coax her away from her boy."
"How do you know all this?" I asked wonderingly.
"Creatures of the wildwood are not shut off from knowledge of human beings. Birds of the air carry news, and do I not go into the house and eat bread from my master's table? Then your boy's uncle loves my master and often they sit by the river for hours talking of things that are in their minds while I am hidden in the willows nearby."
"I didn't think the warden was a talker," I said.
"Dentais does not talk to the world, but only to his friend Mr. Devering, who once saved his life in a bad storm on a distant lake."
"Stop one instant," I said. "Is the beautiful lady staying with the Good Americans?"
"Yes—she is a child of the forest like her brother. They met last night in the shack by the river and he told her of her boy. She is weary of cities where she lost her lovely voice."
"Is her voice gone?" I asked in dismay.
"Yes, the cruel war hunted her as the poachers hunted me. She wore her life out over the wounded and her voice was frightened away. Then she ran to her husband."
"White Phantom!" I exclaimed, "what are you telling me? Is the boy's father also in this wood?"
"Husband and wife are always together now," said the doe gently. "She would be afraid without him. Now she is coming—the beautiful lady. Don't you hear the trees whispering? They are pleased that her gown is the same color as theirs, and they call her the Green Lady. Take good care of yourself, Pony friend, and run often round the lake to see me. For your sake I will kill no more snakes," and she glided away accompanied by a faint rustling that meant the close following of the faithful hound Ravaud.