The Gnomemobile. Upton Sinclair
is the lumber business?” asked Bobo.
“It is the one that cuts down the trees.”
“Oh! Then it is a hateful business!”
“Yes, I have long had the same opinion. But my position is an awkward one, because it is my family’s business. My father is a lumberman, and so are some of my brothers.”
“How terrible!” The gnome looked as if he wanted to run away.
“Rodney can’t help it,” pleaded Elizabeth.
“No, Bobo, I assure you—I am the youngest son, and a little queer, and nothing I do or say counts in the least. My family goes on cutting down trees, and if they didn’t, other men would, so long as there was a single tree left on the surface of the earth.”
A look of horror came upon the gnome’s face. “Then Glogo and I are doomed!” he cried.
“No, no,” said Rodney hastily. “I said too much. I mean, any trees they can get at. Thank God, these redwoods are safe from them; this is a state park, and can never be cut. So you and your grandfather will always have a home—and people can come to visit you, if you will let them.”
“They do not want to be visited, Rodney,” explained Elizabeth. “Bobo only spoke to me because he is worried about Glogo.”
“What is the matter with Glogo?”
“It seems to be a case of neurasthenia,” replied Elizabeth, in her best bedside manner.
“What are the symptoms.”
“Well, he has lost his appetite for fern seed; he sits around and looks sad and does not say much.”
“But if he has nobody to talk to but Bobo, I should think he’d have said everything long ago. How old is he?”
“More than a thousand years.”
“Mightn’t it be just that he is aging, and is tired? Could we have a talk with him?”
“It’s not so easy,” said Bobo. “He has a dread of the big people, and has never let one see him in all his life.”
“But can’t you explain to him that we are not like most of the others? We love the trees and forests, and would not hurt anyone.”
“I am afraid he may be angry with me for having disobeyed him. He might disappear into the forest and never let me see him again.”
“My, that is a problem!” exclaimed Rodney.
“I have been thinking about it for three days,” continued the gnome, “and I have what I think will fix it. I beg you not to be frightened.” Then he did a surprising thing; he put his head low down, and drew up his knees, making a sort of ball of himself, and slid off the stump, and went rolling. The giant redwoods have a way of spreading out at the base, and the gnome hit upon one great lump of bark after another, and was rolled out, as if by a “shoot-the-chutes,” onto the forest floor. There he lay, while Elizabeth and Rodney gazed in dismay.
“Oh, are you hurt?” cried the girl, running to him.
“A little bit,” said Bobo, out of breath. “Quite some, but not too much.” Then he sat up and explained. “I would not tell Glogo anything that was not true. But now I can say that I fell out of a tree, and I was hurt, and you picked me up and helped me. So, of course, Glogo cannot blame me, and he will have to be polite to you.”
“A most ingenious idea!” said Rodney.
“If you will be so good as to carry me now—”
“Oh, let me do it!” exclaimed Elizabeth. Rodney carried the robe and the lunch basket, while Elizabeth took the little creature into her arms, very carefully, just as if he had been a baby. “How light you are, and how nice to carry, Bobo! You would make a lovely pet!”
“I might bite and scratch if I did not like it,” said Bobo; but he seemed to like it, and snuggled close and warm, just like a pet.
CHAPTER THREE
In Which Both Meet Glogo
Elizabeth, carrying Bobo, and Rodney, carrying the basket, went on deeper into the forest, following Bobo’s directions. The ferns grew thicker, and the silence deeper; until at last Bobo said: “Here.” Then he whispered: “Don’t put me down, because I have been hurt.” He raised his shrill little pipe: “Glogo! Glogo!”
There was a long silence. The two big people had no way of knowing that Glogo was anywhere near; but apparently Bobo had some way of knowing, for he began to talk. “Glogo, I fell out of a tree and hurt myself, and these big people have been helping me. They are very good and kind people; they love the trees, and help to take care of them, so please forgive me for letting them carry me.” Again a silence, and Bobo seemed to find something in it to frighten him, for he went on anxiously: “They are not at all like the other people, Glogo. They have never cut down a tree, and they have been so polite—please forgive them, Glogo.”
Again there was a pause; until from somewhere in a big clump of azaleas came a voice, deeper than Bobo’s, and stern, in spite of its lack of volume: “Tell the big people to put you down and go away.”
“But, Glogo, that is not polite.”
“The big people are never polite. They are murderers.”
“No, Glogo, these are very wise people. Rodney is a student, and can tell you many things about the world.” Again a pause. “Please answer, Glogo.”
“I do not want to know anything that the big people have to tell.”
“Believe me, Glogo, Rodney knows many useful things. He can tell you about this forest, that it is a state park and will never be destroyed.”
“He himself will be destroyed, and his state, and its parks.”
Again there was a silence. Bobo began to plead, with fear in his voice—thinking perhaps that these strange big people might take offense and go away. “Believe me, Glogo, these people have ways of learning many things; they have ways of going about—Rodney will take us, and help us to find some other gnomes in some other forest. They really want to help us.”
“The gnomes were happy and they did not have the help of the big people. All the big people can do for us is to go away, as far away as possible.”
Bobo looked up at Elizabeth, and she saw there were tears in his eyes. Rodney saw it too, and took a step forward. “Let me speak,” he said. And, addressing the clump of azaleas, he began:
“I know that we big people have been very stupid and cruel. There are a few of us trying to change that, and having an unhappy time. It may be that we shall fail entirely, I cannot promise. But I have tried in my feeble way. I bought one tract of these redwood forests, and gave it to the state, to be protected forever; I can take you and show you the place on the highway where my name is written on a bronze plate. So you ought to be a little grateful to me, Glogo, in spite of my having the misfortune to be born so big.”
Said the stern voice out of the azalea clump: “There is nothing I can do for you.”
“You are mistaken, Glogo. I am a student, and I have been visiting the forests, trying to learn to talk to the trees. You can teach me.”
“How do you know I can talk to the trees?”
“I know that no wise person like yourself can live in the forest for a thousand years without learning to talk to all living things. I know that the trees have souls like persons.”
“They are not at all like persons! Their souls are kind. When did a tree ever make a sharp ax to destroy things? A tree builds. It labors without rest, day and night. It performs mighty labors. It draws the sap up from the ground, and builds it into bark and heartwood and branches and leaves.”
“Yes, Glogo. And the greatest scientist