last night i went for a walk across the river, and little child went with me to the other end of the bridge.
i would have expected it to be impossible to come to the fourth chapter and to have said nothing of the river. but the reason is quite clear: for the setting of the stories of the village as i know them is pre?minently rambling streets and trim dooryards, and neat interiors with tidy centre-tables. nature is merely the necessary opera-house, not the intimate setting. nature's speech through the trees is most curiously taken for granted as being trees alone, and she is, as i have shown, sometimes cut off quite rudely in the midst of an elm or linden sentence and curtly interrupted by a sidewalk. if a grove of trees is allowed to remain in a north dooryard it is almost certainly because the trees break the wind. likewise, nature's unfoldings in our turf and clover we incline to regard as merely lawns, the results of seeds and autumn fertilizing. our vines[pg 44] are for purposes of shade, cheaper and prettier than awnings or porch rollers. with our gardens, where our "table vegetables" are grown, nature is, i think, considered to have little or nothing to do; and we openly pride ourselves on our early this and our prodigious that, quite as when we cut a dress or build a lean-to. we admit the rain or the sunny slope into partnership, but what we recognize is weather rather than the mighty spirit of motherhood in nature. indeed, our flower gardens, where are wrought such miracles of poppies and pinks, are perhaps the only threshold on which we stand abashed, as at the sound of a singing voice, a voice that sings believing itself to be alone.
these things being so, it is no wonder that the river has been for so long no integral part of village life. the river is accounted a place to fish, a place to bathe, a thing to cross to get to the other side, an objective point—including the new iron bridge—to which to take guests. but of the everyday life it is no proper part. on the contrary, the other little river, which strikes out silverly for itself to eastward, is quite a personality in the village, for on it is a fine fleet of little launches with which folk take delight. but this river of mine to the west is a thing of whims and eddies and shifting sand bars, and here not many boats adventure. so the river is accepted as a kind of pleasant hermit living on the[pg 45] edge of the village. it draws few of us as nature can draw to herself. we know the water as a taste only and not yet as an emotion. we say that we should enjoy going there if we had the time. i know, i know. you see that we do not yet live the river, as an ancient people would live their moor. but in our launches, our camping parties, our flights to a little near lake for dinner, in a tent here and a swing there, set to face riverward, there lies the thrill of process, and by these things nature is wooing us surely to her heart. already the pump pasture has for us the quality of individuality, and we have picnics there and speak of the pasture almost as of a host. presently we shall be companioned by all our calm stretches of meadow, our brown sand bars, our caledonia hills, our quiet lakes, our unnavigable river, as the northmen were fellowed of the sea.
little child has at once a wilder and a tamer instinct. she has this fellowship and the fellowship of more.
"where shall we go to-day?" i ask her, and she always says, "far away for a party"—in a combination, it would seem, of the blood of shepherd kings with certain corpuscles of modernity. and when we are in the woods she instances the same dual quality by, "now let's sit down in a roll and wait for a fairy, and be a society."
[pg 46]
we always go along the levee, little child and i, and i watch the hour have its way with her, and i do not deny that occasionally i try to improve on the hour by a tale of magic or by the pastime of teaching her a lyric. i love to hear her pretty treble in "who is sylvia? what is she?" and "she dwelt among th' untrodden ways," and "april, april, laugh thy girlish laughter," and in pippa's song. last night, to be sure, the lyrics rather gave way to some talk about the circus to be to-day, an unwonted benison on the village. but even the reality of the circus could not long keep little child from certain sweet vagaries, and i love best to hear her in these fancyings.
"here," she said to me last night, "is her sponge."
i had no need to ask whose sponge. we are always finding the fairy's cast-off ornaments and articles of toilet. on occasion we have found her crown, her comb, her scarf, her powder-puff, her cup, her plumed fan, her parasol—a skirtful of fancies which next day little child has brought to me in a shoe box for safe keeping so that "they" would not throw the things away: that threatening "they" which overhangs childhood, casting away its treasures, despoiling its fastnesses, laying a ladder straight through a distinct and recognizable fairy ring in the back yard. i can visualize that "they" as i[pg 47] believe it seems to some children, something dark and beetling and menacing and imminent, less like the family than like fate. is it not sad that this precious idea of the family, to conserve which is one of our chief hopes, should so often be made to appear to its youngest member in the general semblance of a phalanx?
we sat down for a little at the south terminal of the bridge, where a steep bank and a few desperately clinging trees have arranged a little shrine to the sunset. it was sunset then. all the way across the bridge i had been watching against the gold the majestic or apathetic or sodden profiles of the farmers jogging homeward on empty carts, not one face, it had chanced, turned to the west even to utilize it to forecast the weather. such a procession i want to see painted upon a sovereign sky and called "the sunset." i want to have painted a giant carpenter of the village as i once saw him, his great bare arms upholding a huge white pillar, while blue figures hung above and set the acanthus capital. and there is a picture, too, in the dull red of the butcher's cart halted in snow while a tawny-jerseyed boy lifts high his yellow light to find a parcel. some day we shall see these things in their own surprising values and fresco our village libraries with them—yes, and our drug stores, too.
the story that i told little child while we rested[pg 48] had the symbolism which i often choose for her: that of a girl keeping a garden for the coming of a child. all her life she has been making ready and nothing has been badly done. in one green room of the garden she has put fair thoughts, in another fair words, and in the innermost fastnesses of the garden fair deeds. here she has laid colour, there sweet sound, there something magic which is a special kind of seeing. when the child comes, these things will be first toys, then tools, then weapons. sometimes the old witch of the wood tries to blow into the garden a thistle of discord or bubbles of delight to be followed, and these must be warded away. all day the spirit of the child to come wanders through the garden, telling the girl what to do here or here, keeping her from guile or from idleness-without-dreams. she knows its presence and i think that she has even named it. if it shall be a little girl, then it is to be dagmar, mother of day, or dawn; but if a little boy, then it shall be called for one whom she has not yet seen. meanwhile, outside the door of the garden many would speak with the girl. on these she looks, sometimes she even leans from her casement, and once, it may be, she reaches out her hand, ever so swiftly, and some one without there touches it. but at that she snatches back her hand and bars the garden, and for a time the spirit of the little child does not[pg 49] come very near. so she goes serenely on toward the day when a far horn sounds and somebody comes down the air from heaven, as it has occurred to nobody else to do. and they hear the voice of the little child, singing in the garden.
"the girl is me," says little little child, as she always says when i have finished this story.
"yes," i tell her.
"i'd like to see that garden," she says thoughtfully.
then i show her the village in the trees of the other shore, roof upon roof pricked by a slim steeple; for that is the garden.
"i don't care about just bein' good," she says, "but i'd like to housekeep that garden."
"for a sometime-little-child of your own," i tell her.
"yes," she assents, "an' make dresses for."
i cannot understand how mothers let them grow up not knowing, these little mothers-to-be who so often never guess their vocation. it is a reason for everything commonly urged on the ground of conduct, a ground so lifeless to youth. but quicken every desert space with "it must be done so for the sake of the little child you will have some day," and there rises a living spirit. morals, civics, town and home economics, learning—there is the concrete reason for them all; and the abstract understanding[pg 50] of these things for their own sakes will follow, flower-wise, fruit-wise, for the healing of the times.
i had told to that old aunt effie who keeps house for miggy and little child something of what i thought to do—breaking in upon the old woman's talk of linoleum and beans and other things having, so to say, one foot in the universe.
"goodness," that old woman had answered, with her worried turn of head, "i'm real glad you're going to be here. i dread saying anything."
here too we must look to the larger day when the state shall train for parenthood and for citizenship, when the schools and the universities shall speak for the state the cosmic truths, and when by comparison botany and differential calculus shall be regarded as somewhat less vital in ushering in the kingdom of god.
the water reservoir rose slim against the woods to the north; to the south was a crouching hop house covered with old vines. i said to little child:—
"look everywhere and tell me where you think a princess would live if she lived here."
she looked everywhere and answered:—
"in the water tower in those woods."
"and where would the old witch live?" i asked her.
"in the barden's hop house," she answered.
[pg 51]
"and where would the spirit of the little child be?" i tested her.
she looked long out across the water.
"i think in the sunset," she said at last. and then of her own will she said over the sunset spell i have taught her:—
"i love to stand in this great air
and see the sun go down.
it shows me a bright veil to wear
and such a pretty gown.
oh, i can see a playmate there
far up in splendour town."
i could hardly bear to let her go home, but eight o'clock is very properly little child's bedtime, and so i sent her across the bridge waving her hand every little way in that fashion of children who, i think, are hoping thus to save the moment that has just died. i have known times when i, too, have wanted to wave my hand at a moment and keep it looking at me as long as possible. but presently the moment almost always turned away.
last night i half thought that the sunset itself would like to have stayed. it went so delicately about its departure, taking to itself first a shawl of soft dyes, then a painted scarf, then frail iris wings. it mounted far up the heavens, testing its strength for flight and shaking brightness from its garments. and it slipped lingeringly away as if the riot of[pg 52] colour were after all the casual part, and the real business of the moment were to stay on with everybody. in the tenuity of the old anthropomorphisms i marvel that they did not find the sunset a living thing, tender of mortals, forever loth to step from out one moment into the cherishing arms of the next. think! the sunset that the greeks knew has been flaming round the world, dying from moment to moment and from mile to mile, with no more of pause than the human heart, since sunset flamed for hero and helen and ariadne.
if the sunset was made for lovers, and in our midland summers lingers on their account, then last night it was lingering partly for miggy and peter. at the end of the bridge i came on them together.
miggy did not flush when she saw me, and though i would not have expected that she would flush i was yet disappointed. i take an old-fashioned delight in women whose high spirit is compatible with a sensibility which causes them the little agonizings proper to this moment, and to that.
but miggy introduced peter with all composure.
"this," she said, "is peter. his last name is cary."
"how do you do, peter?" i said very heartily.
i thought that peter did something the rationale of which might have been envied of courts. he turned to miggy and said "thank you." secretly[pg 53] i congratulated him on his embarrassment. in a certain milieu social shyness is as authentic a patent of perception as in another milieu is taste.
"come home with me," i besought them. "we can find cake. we can make lemonade. we can do some reading aloud." for i will not ask the mere cake and lemonade folk to my house. they must be, in addition, good or wise or not averse to becoming either.
i conceived peter's evident agony to rise from his need to reply. instead, it rose from his need to refuse.
"i take my violin lesson," he explained miserably.
"he takes his violin lesson," miggy added, with a pretty, somewhat maternal manner of translating. i took note of this faint manner of proprietorship, for it is my belief that when a woman assumes it she means more than she knows that she means.
"i'm awful sorry," said peter, from his heart; "i was just having to go back this minute."
"to-morrow's his regular lesson day," miggy explained, "but to-morrow he's going to take me to the circus, so he has his lesson to-night. go on," she added, "you'll be late and you'll have to pay just the same anyway." i took note of this frank fashion of protection of interests, for it is my belief that matters are advancing when the lady practises economics in courtship. but i saw that[pg 54] miggy was manifesting no symptoms of accompanying peter, and i begged them not to let me spoil their walk.
"it's all right," miggy said; "he'll have to hurry and i don't want to go in yet anyway. i'll walk back with you." and of this i took note with less satisfaction. it was as if miggy had not come alive.
peter smiled at us, caught off his hat, and went away with it in his hand, and the moment that he left my presence he became another being. i could see by his back that he was himself, free again, under no bondage of manner. it is a terrific problem, this enslavement of speech and trivial conduct which to some of us provides a pleasant medium and for some of us furnishes fetters. when will they manage a wireless society? i am tired waiting. for be it a pleasant medium or be it fetters, the present communication keeps us all apart. "i hope," i said once at dinner, "that i shall be living when they think they get the first sign from mars." "i hope," said my companion, "that i shall be living when i think i get the first sign from you—and you—and you, about this table." if this young shelley could really have made some sign, what might it not have been?
"everybody's out walking to-night," miggy observed. "there's liva vesey and timothy toplady ahead of us."
[pg 55]
"they are going to be married, are they not?" i asked.
miggy looked as if i had said something indelicate.
"well," she answered, "not out loud yet."
then, fearing that she had rebuked me, "he's going to take her to the circus to-morrow in their new buckboard," she volunteered. and i find in friendship that the circus is accounted a kind of official trysting-place for all sweethearts.
we kept a little way back of the lovers, the sun making liva vesey's pink frock like a vase-shaped lamp of rose. timothy was looking down at her and straightway looking away again when liva had summoned her courage to look up. they were extremely pleasant to watch, but this miggy did not know and she was intent upon me. she had met little child running home.
"she's nice to take a walk with," miggy said; "but i like to walk around by myself too. only to-night peter came."
"miggy," said i, "i want to congratulate you that peter is in love with you."
she looked up with puzzled eyes.
"why, that was nothing," she said; "he seemed to do it real easy."
"but it is not easy," i assured her, "to find many such fine young fellows as peter seems to be. i hope you will be very happy together."
[pg 56]
"i'm not engaged," said miggy, earnestly; "i'm only invited."
"ah, well," i said, "if i may be allowed—i hope you are not sending regrets."
miggy laughed out suddenly.
"married isn't like a party," she said; "i know that much about society. party you either accept or regret. married you do both."
i could have been no more amazed if the rosewood clock had said it.
"who has been talking to you, child?" i asked in distress.
"i got it out of living," said miggy, solemnly. "you live along and you live along and you find out 'most everything."
i looked away across the pump pasture where the railway tracks cut the plank road, that comes on and on until it is modified into daphne street. i remembered a morning of mist and dogwood when i had walked that road through the gateway into an earthly paradise. have i not said that since that time we two have been, as it were, set to music and sung; so that the silences of separation are difficult to beguile save by the companionship of the village—the village that has somehow taught miggy its bourgeoise lesson of doubt?
my silence laid on her some vague burden of proof.
[pg 57]
"besides," she said, "i'm not like the women who marry people. most of 'em that's married ain't all married, anyway."
"what do you mean, child?" i demanded.
"they're not," protested miggy. "they marry like they pick out a way to have a dress made when they don't admire any of the styles very much, and they've wore out everything else. women like some things about somebody, and that much they marry. then the rest of him never is married at all, and by and by that rest starts to get lonesome."
"but miggy," i said to all this, "i should think you might like peter entirely."
she surprised me by her seriousness.
"anyhow, i've got my little sister to bring up," she said; "aunt effie hasn't anything. and i couldn't put two on him to support."
i wondered why not, but i said nothing.
"and besides," miggy said after a pause, "there's peter's father. you know about him?"
i did know—who in the village did not know? since my neighbour had told me of him i had myself seen him singing through the village streets, shouting out and disturbing the serene evenings, drunken, piteous....
"peter has him all the time," i suggested.
she must have found a hint of resistance in my voice, for her look questioned me.
[pg 58]
"i never could stand it to have anybody like that in the house," she said defensively. "i've told peter. i've told him both reasons...." miggy threw out her arms and stood still, facing the sunset. "anyway, i want to keep on feeling all free and liberty-like!" she said.
this intense individualism of youth, passioning only for far spaces, taking no account of the common lot nor as yet urgent to share it is, like the panther grace in the tread of the cat, a survival of the ancient immunity from accountabilities. to note it is to range down the evolution of ages. to tame it—there is a task for all the servants of the new order.
miggy was like some little bright creature caught unaware in the net of living and still remembering the colonnades of otherwhere, renowned for their shining. she was looking within the sunset, where it was a thing of wings and doors ajar and fair corridors. i saw the great freedoms of sunset in her face—the sunset where little child and i had agreed that a certain spirit lived.... perhaps it was that that little vagrant spirit signalled to me—and the custodian understood it. perhaps it was that i saw, beneath the freedoms, the woman-tenderness in the girl's face. in any case i spoke abruptly and half without intention.
"but you don't want to be free from little child.[pg 59] it is almost as if she were your little girl, is it not?" i said.
miggy's eyes did not leave the sunset. it was rather as if she saw some answer there.
"well, i like to pretend she is," she said simply.
"that," i said quietly, "is pleasant to pretend."
and now her mood had changed as if some one had come to take her place.
"but if she was—that," she said, "her name, then, would most likely be margaret, like mine, wouldn't it?"
"it would be very well to have it margaret," i agreed.
her step was quickened as by sudden shyness.
"it's funny to think about," she said. "sometimes i most think of—her, till she seems in the room. not quite my sister. i mean margaret."
it made my heart beat somewhat. i wondered if anything of my story to little child was left in my mind, and if subconsciously miggy was reading it. this has sometimes happened to me with a definiteness which would be surprising if the supernatural were to me less natural. but i think that it was merely because miggy had no idea of the sanctity of what she felt that she was speaking of it.
"how does she look?" i asked.
"like me," said miggy, readily; "i don't want her to either. i want her to be pretty and i'm[pg 60] not. but when i think of her running 'round in the house or on the street, i always make her look like me. only little."
"running 'round in the house." that was the way my neighbour had put it. perhaps it is the way that every woman puts it.
"does she seem like you, too?" i tempted her on.
"oh, better," miggy said confidently; "learning to play on the piano and not much afraid of folks and real happy."
"don't you ever pretend about a boy?" i asked.
she shook her head.
"no," she said; "if i do—i never can think him out real plain. margaret i can most see."
and this, too, was like the girl in the garden and the spirit of that one to be called by a name of one whom she had not seen.
i think that i have never hoped so much that i might know the right thing to say. and when most i wish this i do as i did then: i keep my impulse silent and i see if that vague custodian within, somewhere between the seeing and the knowing, will not speak for me. i wonder if she did? at all events, what either she or i said was:—
"miggy! look everywhere and tell me the most beautiful thing you can see."
she was not an instant in deciding.
[pg 61]
"why, sunset," she said.
"promise me," said i—said we!—"that you will remember now. and that after to-night, when you see a sunset—always, always, till she comes—you will think about her. about margaret."
because this caught her fancy she promised readily enough. and then we lingered a little, while the moment gave up its full argosy. i have a fancy for these times when i say "i will remember," and i am always selecting them and knowing, as if i had tied a knot in them, that i will remember. these times become the moments at which i keep waving my hand in the hope that they will never turn away. and it was this significance which i wished the hour to have for miggy, so that for her the sunset should forever hold, as little child had said that it holds, that tiny, wandering spirit....
liva vesey and timothy had lingered, too, and we passed them on the bridge, he still trying to win her eyes, and his own eyes fleeing precipitantly whenever she looked up. the two seemed leaning upon the winged light, the calm stretches of the pump pasture, the brown sand bar, the caledonia hills. and the lovers and the quiet river and the village, roof upon roof, in the trees of the other shore, and most of all miggy and her shadowy margaret seemed to me like the words of some mighty cosmic utterance, with the country evening for its tranquil voice.
