I had answered his “here, here—” until I was sure he understood the cordiality of my welcome, when I heard a fluttering among the serviceberry bushes and turned to see a sage thrasher fly out and soar aloft to a hemlock tree. I whistled. He answered with a beautiful song, and went on to imitate other birds’ songs, ending by emitting a sound that was strangely like the wail of a naughty youngster. I laughed outright, and it seemed to me he was attempting to imitate my laughter as I walked away. The birds were coming back in earnest. How glorious the early summer was! Was there ever such a rose-gold morning? I was overflowing with happiness. But when on my way to the spring I hailed Wanza, who was dipping water out of the big barrel by the kitchen door, and received a delicately frigid “good morning,” something rather strange came over me, my glowing heart congealed, and I went out to the yew grove, and sat down soberly on the railing of the small bridge that spanned the narrow mountain stream.
I had no quarrel with Wanza for her averted face. But I had a feeling that the blunder-god had unwarrantably interfered again, and a wish to lift my affairs up off the knees of the gods once and for all and swing them myself. I felt big enough to swing them, this morning. Only—I did not exactly understand the state of my own mind, and this was some slight detriment to clean swinging.
For one thing—after I had touched Wanza’s unwilling lips last night at Joey’s bidding, I had sat on the edge of my bunk in the darkness unable to forget the feeling of those warm lips against my own—feeling myself revitalized—made new. What had happened to me when I held the girl in my arms for that brief space? What was the answer?
I sat in deep thought, starting when a water ouzel swooped suddenly down past my face, and plunged into the water at my very feet. I watched it emerge, perch on a boulder further down stream, and spread its slaty wings to dry. The day was languorous, and very sweet. One of those perfect days that come early in June when the woods are flower-filled, and the trees full-leaved. The air was tangy with smells, the honeysuckle and balm o’ Gilead dripped perfume, the clover was bursting with sweetness, and the wild roses were faintly odorous; all the “buds and bells” of June were dewy and clean-scented. The nutty flavor of yarrow was in the air—Achillea millefolium—the plant which Achilles is said to have used in an ointment to heal his myrmidons wounded in the siege of Troy. I marked this last flavor well, separating it from the others. “Poor yarrow,” I said to myself, “content with spurious corners and waste portions of the earth, what a splendid lesson of perseverance you teach.” I thought of myself and of my struggle of the last eight years, and compared myself with the weed. I had not been content with the neglected corners of the earth; but I had honestly tried to make the best of the corners; I had attempted to improve them, and in so doing improve myself.
From that I came to Joey and the two women who had helped to make the waste places bloom; and like Byron I had a sigh for Joey and Wanza who loved me; and I had a tender smile for my dream woman—Haidee. She had come when, steeped in idealism, I was all prepared for the advent of the radiant creature who was to work a metamorphosis in my life. She had come, and I had hailed her Wonder Woman. It had been a psychological moment, and she had appeared. And I had loved her—let me not cheat myself into any contrary belief—surely I had loved her—surely; let me admit that. But no—I need not admit even that, since it was not the truth—since she knew it was not the truth. I had loved an ideal; not Judith Batterly, indeed, but a vague dream woman.
“There is no wonder woman,” I said to myself, thoughtfully.
Restless with my cogitations, I rose, left the bridge, and went through the yews to the workshop.
When in sight of the bed of clove pinks I pulled myself up smartly; Wanza knelt there. I was not too far away to see the glitter of tears on her cheeks; but in spite of the tears, she was smiling; her face was downbent, rose-flushed, to the new buds, her hands were clasped on her breast, she seemed lost in ecstatic revery, and on her head rested delicately a nuthatch.
“What a wonderful way Wanza has with the birds,” I said to myself. I turned this over in my mind. “I’ve long marked it,” I added. Presently still watching her, I decided, “She is a rather wonderful child.”
I continued to watch her.