Witch Winnie Part 22

Miss Prillwitz pointed out more obscure plants, and gave us interesting bits of information in regard to them. Some had strangely human characteristics. The ca.s.sia, a shrinking sensitive-plant with yellow blossoms, was one of these, while the poison-ivy in its unctuous growth had an evil and malignant appearance which seemed to hint at its inimical nature. She told us how to tell the poisonous sumac from the harmless variety, the poisonous kind being the only one that has pendant fruit. She gave us also a little chat about parasitic plants, suggested by a _gerardia_, a little thief which draws its nutriment from the roots of huckleberry.

"I did not know that plants had so little conscience," said Winnie. "It reminds me of a guest a Southern gentleman had, who remained twelve years, and after the death of the host married his widow."

"Plants seem also to be cruel," said Miss Prillwitz. "Zere is ze _apocynum_, a carnivorous plant which eat ze insect. You should read of him by Darwin. He set a trap for ze fly wiz some honey, and when Mr. Fly tickle ze plant, quick he is caught, and Mr. Apocynum he eat him, and digest him at his leisures."

"Miss Prillwitz, you should write a book for young people, and call it 'Near Nature's Heart,'" I suggested.

"I would so like," replied Miss Prillwitz, "but if I waste my time to write, how should I earn my lifes? I have know many author, and very few do make their wealths by--by their authority."

Miss Prillwitz brought out the last word triumphantly, quite sure that she had achieved a success in our difficult language. I turned aside to Mr. Stillman, that she might not see my smile. "How interesting she makes our climb," I said, "and all these wayside weeds! 'She ill.u.s.trates the landscape.'"

"In my humble opinion it is Miss Sartoris who 'ill.u.s.trates the landscape,'" he replied. "See what a picture she makes reaching after those sweet-briar blossoms! I wish I had not left my detective at the station."

Miss Sartoris was indeed very pretty. It seemed to me that she grew younger and more bewitching with every day of our trip. Each changing pose as she leisurely picked the wild roses was full of grace, but I could hardly understand why Mr. Stillman should greatly regret not securing this particular view, when she had figured in at least half of the photographs which he had taken.

We reached the top of the mountain just at sunset. The west glowed with a yellow-green color. The strange clouds, which had been as white as curds in the afternoon, were now dark blue, lighted by flashes of heat lightning. They moved forward like the pillar which led the Israelites, great billowy ma.s.ses piled one on the other and toppling at the summit, while they melted at the base into a mist of rain. Behind them was the background of the sunset, like a plate of hammered gold dashed with that sinister green. There were threatening rumblings in the east also, and Amherst and its college buildings were blotted out by the rain clouds, which resembled the petals of a fringed gentian, and seemed to be traveling rapidly in our direction.

Father took a rapid view of the horizon. "There will be no fireworks display for us to-night," he said. "There are two showers which will meet in an hour's time, and Toby will be just about in the centre of the fracas. We had better hurry down the mountain if we want to escape a wetting."

Miss Sartoris gave a longing look at the beautiful panorama of nestling villages, forest and winding river (a view unsurpa.s.sed in Ma.s.sachusetts), and now glorified by the magnificent cloud effects. "Can we not rest for half an hour?" she asked.

"I think not," father replied, and we reluctantly retraced our steps.

When half-way down the mountain the wind, which preceded the march of the cloud battalion, caught up with us. The chestnuts crouched low and moaned, the poplars shivered and shook their white palms, and the hemlocks writhed and tossed their gaunt arms as though in agony. Then there was a hush, when they seemed to stand still from very fear, and a minute later the storm burst upon us. We were but a short distance from the station when this occurred, and the foliage which roofed the road was so dense that we were not very wet when we reached our shelter.

There was an invigorating scent of ozone in the air, and a certain exhilaration in being out in a storm, and in hearing the crash of falling limbs far back in the woods. We noticed the gentleness of the rain, which, though apparently fierce, did not break a single fragile wild-flower. Each leaf, sponged free from dust, brightened as though freshly varnished, and each blade of gra.s.s threaded its necklace of crystal beads. The cascade, swollen and turbid, roared angrily at our side, and a shallower rivulet made the path slippery as we hurried on; but a few moments of laughing scramble brought us panting into the dry station, safely housed for the night from the storm.

Father and Mr. Stillman arranged shelter for the horses by spreading the tent between the two carts, and we ate our supper at what had formerly been a refreshment counter. Then the ticket-office was a.s.signed to the gentlemen as their dormitory, and hammocks were hung for the rest of us in the ladies' waiting-room. We told ghost stories for a time by the light of a spirit-lamp and a few candles, but retired early, as we were thoroughly tired from our long walk, and were soon asleep, lulled by the monotone of the falling rain. We were not destined, however, to enjoy a night of undisturbed repose, for the princ.i.p.al adventure of our journey occurred that night.

I do not know how long we had slept when we were all suddenly awakened by a startling scream.

"What is it? Oh, what is it?" gasped Winnie.

"Is it a catamount?" asked Miss Sartoris.

I thought of the railroad track, which ran close beside us, and suggested that it might be the shriek of a pa.s.sing engine, when suddenly it came again on the side of the station opposite to the track. Father sprang up, exclaiming, "Something is the matter with the horses!"

The rain was still pouring, and a dim light from the swinging lantern illumined the room. As father spoke, one of the windows, which had been left open for ventilation, was suddenly filled by an uncouth form, which, with much scrambling and snorting, was proceeding to force an entrance.

"It is a bear!" shrieked Winnie; and so it was. Mr. Stillman rushed forward with his rifle. There was a loud report, and a heavy fall on the outside.

"Horses can scent bears at a distance," said father, as he took down the lantern; "but who would have thought there were any such creatures in these woods?"

"Perhaps it has broken away from the circus," suggested Mr. Stillman, reloading his rifle; for there was an ominous growling outside. Human voices were presently heard whose intonations were almost as harsh as those of the brute. Father unbarred the door, and we saw two men bending over the wounded bear, which he now saw was muzzled, and the property of the men, who had evidently heard of the old station, and had thought to take refuge in it from the storm.

"Here's a pretty state of things!" father exclaimed, with a whistle.

"You have shot a performing bear, Stillman, and these showmen will probably make us pay dearly for the mistake."

We had all been terribly frightened; but we recovered instantly on this announcement, and hurriedly dressing, we peered out at the men as they stood about the wounded animal and discussed the situation. One of the showmen was a foreigner, who swore and grumbled in some strange language, which Miss Prillwitz afterward told us was Russian. The other was unmistakably a Jew, and he took a Jewish advantage of the accident.

"You haf ruined our pizness--dot bear he wort one, two hundert dollar!"

"Nonsense!" replied father, as confidently as if he were accustomed to trade in that species of live-stock; "he's dear at fifty. Besides, he isn't dead, nor anything like it. Hold him with this halter, you two, and I'll examine him. There! I told you so; it's only a flesh wound in the right foreleg. There are no bones broken. He will be ready for travel in a week. All you've got to do is to stay here for a few days--and where could you be better off? We leave in the morning, and no one will dispute your possession of this house. I will leave you enough provisions to keep you until you are ready for the road again."

The men talked it over in Russian, and seemed far from satisfied, though Mr. Stillman offered to give them twenty dollars as an equivalent for what they would have gained during the next week, and father added his remaining stock of small tinware, which, he explained, they could easily sell from door to door at the farm-houses and villages in the vicinity.

He was tired of his occupation as a tin-peddler, and glad to get rid of the obnoxious soldering furnace, as well as the patty-pans and m.u.f.fin-rings. A settlement was finally effected when, in addition to this, Mr. Stillman agreed to their demand for fifty dollars cash indemnity.

There was no more sleep for us that night, and it was with rueful countenances that we discussed the adventure among ourselves.

"To think," lamented Winnie, "that, just as we were congratulating ourselves on gaining so much money for the Home, we should be obliged to pay it all out, and more besides, to these wretched men, and all for nothing too!"

"Yes," replied Mr. Stillman, "that is the provoking part. If I had only killed the creature we might have bear-steak for breakfast (though it would have been pretty expensive meat), and I could have had his hide mounted as a rug, and have exhibited it to my friends with truthful braggadocio as one of my hunting trophies."

I sympathized with Winnie in regard to the depleted condition of our treasury; but Miss Prillwitz remarked, enigmatically, that the adventure might not prove to be such a losing one as we imagined. We begged her to explain; but she bade us wait until we were at least ten miles from our encampment.

We relinquished the station to the showmen after a very early breakfast, and drove away with lightened carts and subdued spirits.

The rain had ceased, but was likely to begin again at any moment, for the sky was thickly overcast, and father suggested that, as this was a famous trout region, we might do well to spend the morning in fishing.

This plan pleased all but Miss Prillwitz, who whispered to father that she had particular reasons for reaching a telegraph station as soon as possible, and we accordingly directed our course at a rattling pace toward the shire town of Greenfield. On the way Miss Prillwitz confided to us her suspicions; and in order that the reader may understand them, I must antic.i.p.ate the events which are to be related in the next chapter, and explain that, after the explosion at Rickett's Court, Solomon Meyer and one of the anarchists had disappeared from New York, and Mr. Armstrong had offered a reward for their apprehension.

The anarchist was known to be a Russian, and though Miss Prillwitz had never seen Solomon Meyer, she felt sure, from Lovey Trimble's description of him, that he had decided to avoid the ordinary routes of travel, and to journey toward Canada on foot, disguised as an itinerant showman. She had more proofs of his ident.i.ty than these suspicions. The men had conversed very freely with each other in Russian, never dreaming that there was any one present who could understand the language. The Russian had complained bitterly that this accident would delay their journey to Canada, and the Jew had replied that it might be as well to lie hidden until the search was over.

Arrived at Greenfield, Miss Prillwitz telegraphed to Mr. Armstrong, and in two hours received the following reply: "Have the local authorities arrest the parties and detain them until I can reach Greenfield."

Accordingly Mr. Stillman and father, with a sheriff and a constable, drove back toward Mount Toby in a sort of picnic wagon. Father advised us to await him at Deerfield, one of the most interesting villages in the Connecticut Valley--both from its intrinsic beauty and its historic a.s.sociations. We engaged lodgings at the small hotel, where we found but one other traveler, a dejected book-agent. It was nearly dinner-time, and the landlord looked rather alarmed by the unexpected arrival of so many hungry-looking guests, but he soon set before us a capital dinner of broiled chicken, and after a little rest we took a stroll through the beautiful old town. We were informed that the Memorial Hall, a museum of antique furniture, books, costumes, and other curiosities, was well worth visiting; and so, indeed, we found it. One object which greatly interested me was an old spinnet, with a quaint collection of music, both sacred and secular. Here was a great ba.s.s-viol which formerly groaned out an accompaniment to the male voices of the choir as they took their part in such strange, metrical arrangements as

"Come, my beloved, haste away, Cut short the hours of thy delay; Fly like a youthful hart or roe, Over the hills where spices grow."

The Library, too, a collection of "the (literary) remains" of many celebrated doctors of divinity, was a fascinating room, and one in which we would have enjoyed prowling for a long time. Hawthorne has given such an admirable description, in his "Old Manse," of just such a library, that I cannot forbear quoting it here.

"The old books would (for the most part) have been worth nothing at an auction. They possessed an interest quite apart from their literary value; many of them had been transmitted down through a series of consecrated hands from the days of the mighty Puritan divines. A few of the books were Latin folios written by Catholic authors; others demolished papistry as with a sledgehammer, in plain English. A dissertation on the book of Job, which only Job himself could have had the patience to read, filled at least a score of small, thick-set quartos, at the rate of two or three volumes to a chapter. Then there was a vast folio 'Body of Divinity.' Volumes of this form dated back two hundred years and more, and were generally bound in black leather, exhibiting precisely such an appearance as we should attribute to books of enchantment. Others equally antique were of a size proper to be carried in the large waistcoat pockets of old times: diminutive, but as black as their bulkier brethren. These little old volumes impressed me as if they had been intended for very large ones, but had been, unfortunately, blighted at an early stage of their growth. Then there were old newspapers, and still older almanacs, which reproduced the epochs when they had issued from the press with a distinctness that was altogether unaccountable. It was as if I had found bits of magic looking-gla.s.s among the books, with the images of a vanished century in them."

We lingered long in the Library, and in the Indian Room, where stands an old door gashed by the tomahawks of the Indians who, with a company of French, in 1704, surprised Deerfield, ma.s.sacred a great part of the inhabitants, and carried a hundred and twelve as prisoners to Canada.

Yellow and crumbling letters, uncertainly spelled and quaintly phrased, hung around the room, telling how perilous such a driving-tour as we had just taken would have been in those pioneer days. One, dated 1756 and written to Captain John Burt in the Crown Point Army, read as follows:

"Dear Husband.

"It is a Crasie time in this place. There is but little Traviling by the Ma.s.sachusetts Fort which makes it more difficult to send letters. Capt. Chapin and Chidester and his Son were killed and scalpt by the Enemy near the new foort at Hoosack."

Sarah Williams, of Roxbury, in 1714 announces to her friends at Deerfield the expected return of many of their friends who had been carried off in different raids--"We have had news that Unkel is Coming with one hundred and fifty Captives."

The number dwindled, and many who were carried away on that dreary march through the winter snow never returned, but among the relics preserved in the archives of Memorial Hall is a pathetic little red shoe which walked all the way from Hatfield to Canada and back, on the foot of little Sally Colman. It is hardly more than a tiny sole, with a rag of the scarlet upper clinging to it, but it tells the story of the cruel march, and the heroic efforts of the n.o.ble men who effected the rescue of their friends, better than many a page of print.

We were so much interested in Memorial Hall that it was long past supper-time before we thought of leaving. The book-agent advised us to visit the old burying-ground, and, after supper, offered to show us the way. We found it gra.s.s-grown and neglected; in some portions, a thicket of climbing vines and tangling briers. Indeed, the entire G.o.d's acre was so given over to nature that the birds built undismayed, while the squirrel frisked impudently on the headstones, and the woodchuck burrowed beside the tombs. It had not been used for many years; a newer cemetery raised its white monuments on the hillside, while here lichens nearly filled the carving, and the stones leaned at tipsy angles, proving that grief for any buried here had been long a.s.suaged, that the very mourners had pa.s.sed away, and it was doubtful whether a single aged man still lingered in the town of whom it could be said that

"These mossy marbles rest On the lips which he has pressed In their bloom.

And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb."

As Miss Sartoris remarked, the place did not suggest sadness, but gentle retrospection, while curiosity provoked the fancy to fill out the histories so provokingly suggested in the inscriptions. Here was buried Mrs. Williams, whom her epitaph declares to be "the virtuous and desirable consort of Mr. John Williams," and Mr. Mehuman Hinsdale, who was "twice captivated by the barbarous savages."