Wood-Magic
There are three vines that belong to the ancient forest.Elsewhere they will not grow, though the soil prepared forthem be never so rich, the shade of the arbour built for themnever so closely and cunningly woven. Their delicate,thread-like roots take no hold upon the earth tilled andtroubled by the fingers of man. The fine sap that stealsthrough their long, slender limbs pauses and fails when theyare watered by human hands. Silently the secret of their liferetreats and shrinks away and hides itself.But in the woods, where falling leaves and crumblingtree-trunks and wilting ferns have been moulded by Nature intoa deep, brown humus, clean and fragrant--in the woods, wherethe sunlight filters green and golden through interlacingbranches, and where pure moisture of distilling rains andmelting snows is held in treasury by never-failing banks ofmoss--under the verdurous flood of the forest, like sea-weedsunder the ocean waves, these three little creeping vines putforth their hands with joy, and spread over rock and hillock andtwisted tree-root and mouldering log, in cloaks and scarves andwreaths of tiny evergreen, glossy leaves.One of them is adorned with white pearls sprinkled lightlyover its robe of green. This is Snowberry, and if you eat ofit, you will grow wise in the wisdom of flowers. You willknow where to find the yellow violet, and the wake-robin, andthe pink lady-slipper, and the scarlet sage, and the fringedgentian. You will understand how the buds trust themselves tothe spring in their unfolding, and how the blossoms trustthemselves to the winter in their withering, and how the busybands of Nature are ever weaving the beautiful garment of lifeout of the strands of death, and nothing is lost that yieldsitself to her quiet handling.Another of the vines of the forest is called Partridge-berry.Rubies are hidden among its foliage, and if you eat of thisfruit, you will grow wise in the wisdom of birds. You will knowwhere the oven-bird secretes her nest, and where the wood-cockdances in the air at night; the drumming-log of the ruffed grousewill be easy to find, and you will see the dark lodges of theevergreen thickets inhabited by hundreds of warblers. There willbe no dead silence for you in the forest, any longer, but youwill hear sweet and delicate voices on every side, voices thatyou know and love; you will catch the key-note of the silverflute of the woodthrush, and the silver harp of the veery, andthe silver bells of the hermit; and something in your heart willanswer to them all. In the frosty stillness of October nightsyou will see the airy tribes flitting across the moon, followingthe secret call that guides them southward. In the calmbrightness of winter sunshine, filling sheltered copses withwarmth and cheer, you will watch the lingering blue-birds androbins and song-sparrows playing at summer, while the chickadeesand the juncos and the cross-bills make merry in the windsweptfields. In the lucent mornings of April you will hear your oldfriends coming home to you, Phoebe, and Oriole, andYellow-Throat, and Red-Wing, and Tanager, and Cat-Bird. Whenthey call to you and greet you, you will understand that Natureknows a secret for which man has never found a word--the secretthat tells itself in song.The third of the forest-vines is Wood-Magic. It bears neitherflower nor fruit. Its leaves are hardly to be distinguishedfrom the leaves of the other vines. Perhaps they are a littlerounder than the Snowberry's, a little more pointed than thePartridge-berry's; sometimes you might mistake them for theone, sometimes for the other. No marks of warning have beenwritten upon them. If you find them it is your fortune; ifyou taste them it is your fate.For as you browse your way through the forest, nippinghere and there a rosy leaf of young winter-green, a fragrantemerald tip of balsam-fir, a twig of spicy birch, if by chanceyou pluck the leaves of Wood-Magic and eat them, you will notknow what you have done, but the enchantment of the tree-landwill enter your heart and the charm of the wildwood will flowthrough your veins.You will never get away from it. The sighing of the windthrough the pine-trees and the laughter of the stream in itsrapids will sound through all your dreams. On beds of silkensoftness you will long for the sleep-song of whispering leavesabove your head, and the smell of a couch of balsam-boughs. Attables spread with dainty fare you will be hungry for the joy ofthe hunt, and for the angler's sylvan feast. In proud cities youwill weary for the sight of a mountain trail; in great cathedralsyou will think of the long, arching aisles of the woodland; andin the noisy solitude of crowded streets you will hone after thefriendly forest.This is what will happen to you if you eat the leaves ofthat little vine, Wood-Magic. And this is what happened toLuke Dubois.
IThe Cabin by the RiversTwo highways meet before the door, and a third reaches away tothe southward, broad and smooth and white. But there are notravellers passing by. The snow that has fallen during thenight is unbroken. The pale February sunrise makes blue shadowson it, sharp and jagged, an outline of the fir-trees on themountain-crest quarter of, a mile away.In summer the highways are dissolved into three wildrivers--the River of Rocks, which issues from the hills; theRiver of Meadows, which flows from the great lake; and theRiver of the Way Out, which runs down from their meeting-placeto the settlements and the little world. But in winter, whenthe ice is firm under the snow, and the going is fine, thereare no tracks upon the three broad roads except the paths ofthe caribou, and the footprints of the marten and the mink andthe fox, and the narrow trails made by Luke Dubois on his wayto and from his cabin by the rivers.He leaned in the door-way, looking out. Behind him in theshadow, the fire was still snapping in the little stove wherehe had cooked his breakfast. There was a comforting smell ofbacon and venison in the room; the tea-pot stood on the tablehalf-empty. Here in the corner were his rifle and some of histraps. On the wall hung his snowshoes. Under the bunk was apile of skins. Half-open on the bench lay the book that he hadbeen reading the evening before, while the snow was falling. Itwas a book of veritable fairy-tales, which told how men had madetheir way in the world, and achieved great fortunes, and wonsuccess, by toiling hard at first, and then by trading andbargaining and getting ahead of other men."Well," said Luke, to himself, as he stood at the door, "Icould do that too. Without doubt I also am one of the men whocan do things. They did not work any harder than I do. Butthey got better pay. I am twenty-five. For ten years I haveworked hard, and what have I got for it? This!"He stepped out into the morning, alert and vigorous,deep-chested and straight-hipped. The strength of the hillshad gone into him, and his eyes were bright with health. Hiskingdom was spread before him. There along the River ofMeadows were the haunts of the moose and the caribou where hehunted in the fall; and yonder on the burnt hills around thegreat lake were the places where he watched for the bears; andup beside the River of Rocks ran his line of traps, swinging backby secret ways to many a nameless pond and hiddenbeaver-meadow; and all along the streams, when the ice wentout in the spring, the great trout would be leaping in rapidand pool. Among the peaks and valleys of that forest-cladkingdom he could find his way as easily as a merchant walksfrom his house to his office. The secrets of bird and beastwere known to him; every season of the year brought him itsown tribute; the woods were his domain, vast, inexhaustible,free.Here was his home, his cabin that he had built with hisown hands. The roof was tight, the walls were well chinkedwith moss. It was snug and warm. But small--how pitifullysmall it looked to-day--and how lonely!His hand-sledge stood beside the door, and against itleaned the axe. He caught it up and began to split wood forthe stove. "No!" he cried, throwing down the axe, "I'm tiredof this. It has lasted long enough. I'm going out to make myway in the world."A couple of hours later, the sledge was packed with camp-gearand bundles of skins. The door of the cabin was shut; aghostlike wreath of blue smoke curled from the chimney. Lukestood, in his snowshoes, on the white surface of the River of theWay Out. He turned to look back for a moment, and waved hishand."Good-bye, old cabin! Good-bye, the rivers! Good-bye, thewoods!"
IIThe House on the Main StreetAll the good houses in Scroll-Saw City were different, in thenumber and shape of the curious pinnacles that rose from theirroofs and in the trimmings of their verandas. Yet they wereall alike, too, in their general expression of putting theirbest foot foremost and feeling quite sure that they made abrave show. They had lace curtains in their front parlourwindows, and outside of the curtains were large red and yellowpots of artificial flowers and indestructible palms andvulcanised rubber-plants. It was a gay sight.But by far the bravest of these houses was the residenceof Mr. Matthew Wilson, the principal merchant of Scroll-SawCity. It stood on a corner of Main Street, glancing slyly outof the tail of one eye, side-ways down the street, toward theshop and the business, but keeping a bold, complacent fronttoward the street-cars and the smaller houses across the way.It might well be satisfied with itself, for it had three morepinnacles than any of its neighbours, and the work of thescroll-saw was looped and festooned all around the eaves andporticoes and bay-windows in amazing richness. Moreover, inthe front yard were cast-iron images painted white: a stagreposing on a door-mat; Diana properly dressed and returningfrom the chase; a small iron boy holding over his head aparasol from the ferrule of which a fountain squirted. Thepaths were of asphalt, gray and gritty in winter, but now, inthe summer heat, black and pulpy to the tread.There were many feet passing over them this afternoon, forMr. and Mrs. Matthew Wilson were giving a reception tocelebrate the official entrance of their daughter Amanda into asocial life which she had permeated unofficially for severalyears. The house was sizzling full of people. Those who werejammed in the parlour tried to get into the dining-room, andthose who were packed in the dining-room struggled to escape,holding plates of stratified cake and liquefied ice-cream highabove their neighbours' heads like signals of danger anddistress. Everybody was talking at the same time, in a loud,shrill voice, and nobody listened to what anybody else wassaying. But it did not matter, for they all said the same things."Elegant house for a party, so full of--" "How perfectlylovely Amanda Wilson looks in that--" "Awfully warm day!Were you at the Tompkins' last--" "Wilson's Emporium must bedoing good business to keep up all this--" "Hear he's goingto enlarge the store and take Luke Woods into the--""Shouldn't wonder if there might be a wedding here beforenext--"The tide of chatter rose and swelled and ebbed andsuddenly sank away. At six o'clock, the minister and twomaiden ladies in black silk with lilac ribbons, laid down theirlast plates of ice-cream and said they thought they must begoing. Amanda and her mother preened their dresses and pattedtheir hair. Come into the study," said Mr. Wilson to Luke. "Iwant to have a talk with you."The little bookless room, called the study, was the onethat kept its eye on the shop and the business, away down thestreet. You could see the brick front, and the plate-glasswindows, and part of the gilt sign."Pretty good store," said Mr. Wilson, jingling the keys inhis pocket, "does the biggest trade in the county, biggest butone in the whole state, I guess. And I must say, Luke Woods,you've done your share, these last five years, in building itup. Never had a clerk work so hard and so steady. You've gotgood business sense, I guess.""I'm glad you think so," said Luke. "I did as well as Icould.""Yes," said the elder man, "and now I'm about ready totake you in with me, give you a share in the business. I wantsome one to help me run it, make it larger. We can double it,easy, if we stick to it and spread out. No reason why youshouldn't make a fortune out of it, and have a house just likethis on the other corner, when you're my age."Luke's thoughts were wandering a little. They went outfrom the stuffy room, beyond the dusty street, and thejangling cars, and the gilt sign, and the shop full ofdry-goods and notions, and the high desks in the office--outto the dim, cool forest, where Snowberry and Partridge-berryand Wood-Magic grow. He heard the free winds rushing over thetree-tops, and saw the trail winding away before him in thegreen shade."You are very kind," said he, "I hope you will not bedisappointed in me. Sometimes I think, perhaps--""Not at all, not at all," said the other. "It's allright. You're well fitted for it. And then, there's anotherthing. I guess you like my daughter Amanda pretty well. Eh?I've watched you, young man. I've had my eye on you! Now, ofcourse, I can't say much about it--never can be sure of thesekind of things, you know--but if you and she--"The voice went on rolling out words complacently. Butsomething strange was working in Luke's blood,and other voices were sounding faintly in his ears. He heardthe lisping of the leaves on the little poplar-trees, thewhistle of the black duck's wings as he circled in the air,the distant drumming of the grouse on his log, the rumble ofthe water-fall in the River of Rocks. The spray cooled hisface. He saw the fish rising along the pool, and a stagfeeding among the lily-pads."I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Wilson," said he atlast, when the elder man stopped talking. "You have certainlytreated me most generously. The only question is, whether--But to-morrow night, I think, with your consent, I will speakto your daughter. To-night I am going down to the store;there is a good deal of work to do on the books."But when Luke came to the store, he did not go in. Hewalked along the street till he came to the river.The water-side was strangely deserted. Everybody was atsupper. A couple of schooners were moored at the wharf. ThePortland steamer had gone out. The row-boats hung idle at theirlittle dock. Down the river, drifting and dancing lightly overthe opalescent ripples, following the gentle turns of the currentwhich flowed past the end of the dock where Luke was standing,came a white canoe, empty and astray.
IIIThe White Canoe"That looks just like my old canoe," said he. "Somebody musthave left it adrift up the river. I wonder how it floateddown here without being picked up." He put out his hand andcaught it, as it touched the dock.In the stern a good paddle of maple-wood was lying; in themiddle there was a roll of blankets and a pack of camp-stuff; inthe bow a rifle."All ready for a trip," he laughed. "Nobody going but me?Well, then, au large!" And stepping into the canoe hepushed out on the river.The saffron and golden lights in the sky diffusedthemselves over the surface of the water, and spread from the bowof the canoe in deeper waves of purple and orange, as he paddledswiftly up stream. The pale yellow gas-lamps of the town fadedbehind him. The lumber-yards and factories and disconsolatelittle houses of the outskirts seemed to melt away. In a littlewhile he was floating between dark walls of forest, through theheart of the wilderness.The night deepened around him and the sky hung out itsthousand lamps. Odours of the woods floated on the air: thespicy fragrance of the firs; the breath of hidden banks oftwin-flower. Muskrats swam noiselessly in the shadows, divingwith a great commotion as the canoe ran upon them suddenly.A horned owl hooted from the branch of a dead pine-tree; farback in the forest a fox barked twice. The moon crept upbehind the wall of trees and touched the stream with silver.Presently the forest receded: the banks of the river grewbroad and open; the dew glistened on the tall grass; it wassurely the River of Meadows. Far ahead of him in a bend ofthe stream, Luke's ear caught a new sound: SLOSH, SLOSH, SLOSH,as if some heavy animal were crossing the wet meadow. Then agreat splash! Luke swung the canoe into the shadow of the bankand paddled fast. As he turned the point a black bear came outof the river, and stood on the shore, shaking the water aroundhim in glittering spray. Ping! said the rifle, and the bearfell. "Good luck!" said Luke. "I haven't forgotten how,after all. I'll take him into the canoe, and dress him up atthe camp."Yes, there was the little cabin at the meeting of therivers. The door was padlocked, but Luke knew how to pry offone of the staples. Squirrels had made a litter on the floor,but that was soon swept out, and a fire crackled in the stove.There was tea and ham and bread in the pack in the canoe.Supper never tasted better. "One more night in the old camp,"said Luke as he rolled himself in the blanket and droppedasleep in a moment.The sun shone in at the door and woke him. "I must havea trout for breakfast," he cried, "there's one waiting for meat the mouth of Alder Brook, I suppose." So he caught up hisrod from behind the door, and got into the canoe and paddledup the River of Rocks. There was the broad, dark pool, like alittle lake, with a rapid running in at the head, and closebeside the rapid, the mouth of the brook. He sent his fly out bythe edge of the alders. There was a huge swirl on the water, andthe great-grandfather of all the trout in the river washooked. Up and down the pool he played for half an hour,until at last the fight was over, and for want of a net Lukebeached him on the gravel bank at the foot of the pool."Seven pounds if it's an ounce," said he. "This is mylucky day. Now all I need is some good meat to provision thecamp."He glanced down the river, and on the second point belowthe pool he saw a great black bullmoose with horns five feetwide.Quietly, swiftly, the canoe went gliding down the stream;and ever as it crept along, the moose loped easily before it,from point to point, from bay to bay, past the little cabin,down the River of the Way Out, now rustling unseen through abank of tall alders, now standing out for a moment bold andblack on a beach of white sand--so all day long the moose lopeddown the stream and the white canoe followed. Just as thesetting sun was poised above the trees, the great bull stoppedand stood with head lifted. Luke pushed the canoe as near as hedared, and looked down for the rifle. He had left it at thecabin! The moose tossed his huge antlers, grunted, and steppedquietly over the bushes into the forest.Luke paddled on down the stream. It occurred to him,suddenly, that it was near evening. He wondered a little howhe should reach home in time for his engagement. But it didnot seem strange, as he went swiftly on with the river, to seethe first houses of the town, and the lumber-yards, and theschooners at the wharf.He made the canoe fast at the dock, and went up the MainStreet. There was the old shop, but the sign over it read,"Wilson and Woods Company, The Big Store." He went on to thehouse with the white iron images in the front yard. Diana wasstill returning from the chase. The fountain still squirtedfrom the point of the little boy's parasol.On the veranda sat a stout man in a rocking chair, reading thenewspaper. At the side of the house two little girls withpig-tails were playing croquet. Some one in the parlour wasexecuting "After the Ball is Over" on a mechanical piano.Luke accosted a stranger who passed him. "Excuse me, butcan you tell me whether this is Mr. Matthew Wilson's house?""It used to be," said the stranger, "but old man Wilsonhas been dead these ten years.""And who lives here now?" asked Luke."Mr. Woods: he married Wilson's daughter," said thestranger, and went on his way."Well," said Luke to himself, "this is just a littlequeer. Woods was my name for a while, when I lived here, butnow, I suppose, I'm Luke Dubois again. Dashed if I canunderstand it. Somebody must have been dreaming."So he went back to the white canoe, and paddled away upthe river, and nobody in Scroll-Saw City ever set eyes on himagain.
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