A Maid of the Kentucky Hills. Edwin Carlile Litsey
'Crombie shook off the quiet mood he had shared with me the greater part of the journey, and became hilarious. He hallooed, laughed, joked and capered about like a schoolboy on a frolic, and not to hurt the dear fellow I pretended to fall in with his mood. I really felt as if the world was rapidly drawing to an end.
Last night we could do nothing but make ourselves comfortable as possible, and go to bed early. To-day we have worked hard, and obtained results. I couldn't have got settled without 'Crombie. He has tact, ingenuity, invention, and did most of the hard work. He said it would be better for me not to exert myself too much, which sounds silly, considering that my bodily measurements would have almost equaled his own.
Now he and the drivers and the horses and the wagons are gone. A half-hour ago I caught my last glimpse of him between a scrub oak and a cedar. He was looking back, saw me, waved his arm prodigiously, sent up a hearty hail, and disappeared. I stood for thirty minutes without stirring from my tracks. Then from afar off, through the wonderfully still twilight air, I heard a voice singing. The words were lost because of the distance, but the tune was familiar. It was a rollicking, foolish thing we had sung at college. 'Crombie was sending it to me as a last message, to cheer me up. I inclined my ear desperately to the welcome sound. I held my breath as it fell fainter and fainter, now broken, now barely audible. At length, strain my ears as I would, it was lost.
But another sound had taken its place. The sun was down, and now, at twilight, the Harpist of the Wood awoke and touched his multitudinous strings. He was in gentle mood to-day; a mood of dreams and revery. The melody was barely audible; just a stirring, a breath. But it stole upon my ears as something wonderful, and sweet, and holy. I had never heard anything at all similar. I stood entranced, listening to the ghostly gamut lightly plucked from the bare limbs and twigs of the hardy trees which had not yet responded to the season's call; from the slender green needles of the pine and the denser plumes which clothed the cedar, and offered to me. As I hearkened to the elfin harmony I became conscious of a certain peace. The boundless solitudes which stretched unbroken in every direction did not seem forbidding and oppressive as I had sensed them when traveling. A subtle kinship with the wind, and the trees, and the earth awoke in my mind, and in some vague way which brought a thrill with it I felt that I had come home. All these things which I had feared grew quite close at this twilight hour, and I imagined they came with pleading, welcoming hands, as to a long lost son or brother who was much beloved. Then as I raised my head a cool, soft breeze smote my face and rushed up my nostrils, and I smelt the elusive, invigorating tang of the evergreens. I smiled, and drew repeated draughts of the pure essence deep into my lungs, filling every cranny and corner again and again. When I finally turned and went back to the shack, I felt as if I had taken wine.
I lit a lamp, made a fire in my kitchen stove, prepared a frugal meal and ate it. Later I took a chair outside the door and sat for two hours, thinking. One very important thought came to me during that time. My book of fiction did not sell; perhaps a book of facts would. So I have decided to write a history of my exile. To-night it promises to be very prosy and uneventful. I cannot see how anything could possibly transpire which would interest a reader. But the task will provide employment for me, at least. So every night before I go to bed I shall make a record of anything which happened that day. If nothing occurs, I shall wait for the incident worth relating. To-night I shall tell of my new home, and its surroundings.
I have named my place the Wilderness Lodge, thinking how the ill-starred Byron would have joyed in just such a spot. We found it much as 'Crombie said it would be: a substantial, square room built of oak logs, with a floor of undressed planks. It is covered with clapboards, and the roof is rain-proof. The front door is heavy, and may be secured on the inside with a large beam which drops into iron brackets. There is a second door in the rear which leads into the kitchen, a room highly meriting the proverbial expression—"Not big enough to whip a cat in." There are two opposing windows, which are small. Each is provided with a shutter, hinged at the top. They are propped up with sticks slant-wise to admit light and air, and to keep rain out. A nice arrangement, I think. Facing the front door is the fireplace; a huge, rough stone affair, large enough to sleep in if one were so inclined. It has a broad stone hearth, and is fitted with black, squat andirons. Already I am planning the joy I shall derive from this fireplace when next winter comes. To-night I have built a brisk fire for cheer, company, and precaution, for the place has been uninhabited for years, and last night's warming did not drive out all the damp. It is wonderful how satisfying the dancing flames are; they seem to impart their glow and warmth to me.
My furniture is very simple, but enough. I have a cot with plenty of bedding; a table, several chairs, including a rocker; two trunks and some grass rugs for the floor. Of course, there are hundreds of lesser things which I could not get along without, but while they have their places, they are not worth cataloguing. It is also needless to say that one of the trunks is half full of books. Some of these have already found their way to the table; Stevenson, Hearn, Rabelais, Villon, Borrow and some others.
When I come to tell of my demesne I don't know where to draw the line, for there are no boundary marks, and I can easily fancy "I am monarch of all I survey." I suppose I have a yard, for I shall think of the plateau in that way. Whoever built the Lodge cleared the level place in front, and around, of all trees and bushes. It is dry and barren now, and covered with dead leaves, but soon there will be a prying and a pushing of little green heads and I shall be kept busy if I don't want to be overrun and driven out. Beginning a short distance back of the Lodge, and continuing upward for perhaps a hundred feet, a thick band of pines and cedars belt the hill with a zone of perpetual green. Beyond this the vegetation dwindles, becomes scarcer, and finally ceases, leaving the apex of the knob absolutely bare. Below my plateau, and around, everywhere, as far as I can see, are trees, trees, trees. Trees of every size and every kind indigenous to the climate. Evergreens predominate. There are millions of them, but there are also wide expanses of oak, ash, beech, sycamore, elm, walnut, dogwood. Most of these have as yet not put forth the tiniest shoot. But here and there in the dun, brown stretches a dogwood has joyously flung out a thousand gleaming stars which shine, white and radiant, a pledge and a promise of the general resurrection nearhand.
A moment gone I laid down my pen and stepped outside. How vast! How still! How illimitable! I had never felt my insignificance so keenly before. I seemed a tiny atom of dust. But as I stood and heard again those muffled chords from the mighty Harp, and saw the patient planets overhead again on guard, I suddenly knew that I was truly part and parcel of the Whole, and in my heart Hope gave birth to prayer.
Now to bed, tired, but at peace, with both windows flung wide—it is 'Crombie's orders.
CHAPTER FOUR
IN WHICH I MEET A DRYAD
A week has passed. Until to-day I had begun to fear that my proposed plan of making a book would come to naught. One would not care to read of a daily life consisting of getting up, eating, smoking, reading, strolling about and going to bed. That is all I have done until to-day, when something happened. But before I come to this, I must tell of the labor I undergo in procuring water.
I have spoken elsewhere of a sulphur spring. It is located in another ravine across the one lying at the foot of my knob. I have been drinking the water dutifully, because 'Crombie told me to, although to my mind it is vile stuff, and I can't see how anything with such a pronounced odor can be beneficial. I don't suppose I know. But I must have cooking and bath water as well, and this comes from the small stream which runs through the center of the nearest ravine. The distance would not be so great on a level, but to struggle up the steep slope with a bucket full of water in each hand is no fun. I have had to make two trips every day, much to my discomfort. This is a problem which I have to solve, or else go unwashed. Then, too, when the summer comes the stream below will most probably run dry, although 'Crombie assured me the sulphur water was plentiful the year round.
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