CHAPTER VII.
OAK LEAVES AND HAY.
HOW it did pour that afternoon! It was of no use to think of going into the woods for leaves, and the girls had just about given up all idea of decorating Pet’s room, when the kitchen window was obscured by a queer object.
Kittie came flying out from the sitting-room, closely followed by the rest.
“What can it be?” she cried. “O, I know! It’s Ruel—just see what he’s brought!”
Sure enough, the kindly trapper, who loved the young folks almost as if they were his own children, had tramped off quietly to the wood, gathered a huge armful of green oak boughs—and now stood, beaming out of the midst of them, like a good-natured Faun, fairly dripping from head to foot.
“I thought you mout like to be workin’ while your uncle was tellin’ stories,” he called out. “Where’ll you have em?”
“O, in the barn, the barn. We’ve been cooped up in the house all day, and I’m just longing for a breath of fresh air.”
Thus the energetic Bess.
“But the leaves are all wet,” objected Kittie. “Won’t they hurt the hay, Uncle?”
Mr. Percival smiled, and patted the eager brown head. “I guess they won’t spoil the whole mow,” he said. “But of course I can’t tell you any stories, because I’m going to toast my feet all the afternoon in the Den.”
Kittie saw a twinkle in his eye.
“Ah,” she said coaxingly, “you’re just teasing us. You’re going to come out where you can see to Tim and Ruel while they work, and then you’re going to climb up into the hay-mow and tell, while we make trimming—aren’t you, Uncle?”
“‘Aren’t you, Uncle?’” repeated Mr. Percival in a whimsical tone. “Why, if you’re such a very earnest little puss about it, I suppose—I must!”
It didn’t take long to prepare for the barn. Hooded and water-proofed, the girls ran across the little open space as fast as they could go, wagging in and out under a big umbrella, screaming and laughing, girl-fashion.
Tom and Randolph followed in more military style, double-quicking in fine order from porch to barn. The men were already there. In one of the broad bays on the ground level of the barn was a mow of new hay; and on the centre of this was deposited a huge heap of leaves, wet and shining, pretty material for busy fingers to transform into links and wreaths and festoons for Pet’s chamber.
Mr. Percival was soon made comfortable in a hay-nest especially hollowed out for him, and the rest seated themselves in a semi-circle before him. The boys were set to work at once, stripping off leaves.
“There,” said Bess, beginning to turn the stout stems and piercing the tough green tissue of the leaves, “this is really—”
“Nice,” furnished Randolph gravely. “That’s a good Boston word. Girls always say that the weather is nice, and ice cream is nice, and going to Europe is nice, and the sermon was nice, and—”
“O hear him, hear him!” interrupted Kittie. “I guess ‘nice’ is as good a word as ‘jolly.’ Boys all say that.”
“Many a nice time, yes, and jolly too,” said uncle Will, as he watched the swallows overhead, and listened with an amused smile to the children’s funning, “I’ve had in this barn, in old times.”
“Were there many fellows about here?” asked Tom.
“Not many, but perhaps we appreciated one another all the better. The district school was about a half a mile from the cross-roads, and we boys were always ready for a good time. Once, though, our sport came near turning out pretty seriously for me.”
“How was that, sir?” The rest looked up with interested faces, but kept on with their work.
“Why, it was on a Saturday afternoon, I remember, at about this time of year—no, it must have been later—in August, I think.
“There were seven of us, just out of school, and ready for anything in the shape of fun. It had been a clear race from the schoolhouse—we never could go anywhere without a run or a leap-frog, or something of the sort—till we reached the shade of an apple-tree, laughing, panting and eating apples. The ground was covered with small, juicy fruit, mellow on the upper side, and hard underneath. They were pretty sour, but we didn’t care.
“It was only half-past four, and we had two good hours before supper-time all to ourselves. So we lay there, filling our pockets with apples after we had eaten enough, and began to propose plans.
“‘Let’s go down to the mill and see ’em saw logs.’
“‘Too far.’
“Well, who says ‘I spy,’ then?
“This suggestion was well received, and I, who had made it, proceeded to count off, one dropping away every time until the last, who happened to be Bob Andrews—poor fellow, he was shot at Antietam!—was ‘It,’ and was posted against the tree with his eyes covered.
“‘Fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty—I’m comin’ when I get to three hundred!’ he shouted, as we scattered in all directions.
“At first I made for a low wall near the house, and had hardly time to gain it when Bob gave a flourish, and with a loud ‘Three hundred—comin’!’ started for his prey.
“Peeping through a crevice in the wall, and finding he was coming in my direction, I hurriedly glanced about for a new hiding-place.
“At that moment a red squirrel bounded lightly along the tops of the stones, and disappeared in a crevice between two boards of the barn.
“Instantly I followed the hint. Creeping on my hands and knees, I soon reached the corner of the old gray building, and a moment later was in the centre of the mow, burrowing down out of sight, until I was pretty confident that it would take a smarter boy than Bob Andrews to find me that time.
“It was remarkably comfortable in that mow. The hay was fresh on top, and although I had reached the under layer of last year’s crop, I took care not to disturb it much, so that the dust did not trouble me. I could hear the shouts of the boys as they were discovered, one after the other, and the complaining tones of Bob, who, to my great satisfaction, was ransacking every nook and corner of the place except the right one.
“A couple of swallows flew in and out over my head, twittering softly. Perhaps they were returning for a last look at their old home, for it was almost time they were away.
“Whether it was the soft August air, or the distant, faint shouts of the boys, or the voice of the swallows, I never knew; but when I roused myself to climb down and have my laugh at the rest of the fellows, to my surprise I found it was quite dark. At the same time I began to experience a smothering sensation, and an almost unbearable heat.
“I put up my hand. It instantly came into contact with hay so dry that it made me sneeze.
“I tried to push it aside and to rise; but, to my dismay, found myself held down tightly by an immovable mass above, below, on all sides. I had at first supposed the hay had tumbled or been thrown down for fun upon me; but all in a flash, I realized the truth. I had fallen asleep, and while unconscious, had been covered, by some of the farm-hands, who, I remembered, had been directed that very morning to pitch the entire contents of another mow upon this, as the flooring of the first needed repairs.
“I was sixteen, then, and pretty rugged for a boy of my years; but I confess I felt a lump in my throat and a faint, dizzy terror sweep over me from head to foot.
“Buried alive in a hay-mow! For a few minutes I was quite frantic. I shrieked for help; I dug furiously with hands and kicked with feet, until my smarting eyes, nostrils and throat, half-choked with fine hay-dust, compelled me to desist.
“Then I began to plan more deliberately. It was pitch-dark, remember, and so close that I could hardly breathe. The perspiration, too, was streaming from every pore. If I had known my points of compass, I could have made a bee-line for the nearest limit of the mow, but I had turned in sleeping, and struggled so violently afterward, that I was as completely lost as though I had been in the Maine wilderness.
“There was no time to spare. My breath came in a quick, heavy panting. I felt my strength growing plainly less. At the same time, I began to be hungry and thirsty. How much time had elapsed since I had hidden away I could not tell. Perhaps it was supper-time.
“What would I have given to have been sitting in the smooth-floored, old kitchen, with my bowl of bread and milk before me, relating my strange adventure to the half-sympathizing, half-laughing faces around the table?
“I began slowly to loosen the hay upon my right side, which I judged was toward the centre of the barn. If so, my course would bring me out through the side of the mow, twenty feet above the floor.
“It was tedious work, for I dared not hurry lest I should be overcome with heat and the dust, which kept me coughing almost incessantly.
“Handful after handful I pulled out and crowded behind me. Every muscle ached with the cramped position, and the air became more and more close. Still, I worked on steadily, desperately. How long it was I cannot tell—I never knew.
“I was drawing away the tightly-packed masses of hay, a small bunch at a time, when the air suddenly became perceptibly cooler and sweeter. I dug at the cruel hay wall more furiously. Somewhere beneath me I heard a slight scrambling and rustling, which soon ceased.
“A moment later, my finger-ends struck the rough surface of boards, and, as they did so, a cold, delicious draught of air, like spring-water in a desert, blew upon my hot cheek.
“I felt about eagerly, still seeing nothing, and soon came upon a small hole or interstice, with roughened sides, as if gnawed by some animal, between the edges of two of the boards which formed the partition I had met. It did not take me long, country boy as I was, to reason out the nature of that opening. It was a squirrel’s hole, without doubt the very spot where my bushy-tailed guide had disappeared, as I watched him from behind the stone wall.
“I put my eye to the opening, and looked out. To my astonishment, the stars were shining brightly. Yes, and the moon! By its position in the eastern sky—for it was past the full—I knew at last how long I had been in that hay-mow. It was between twelve and one o’clock, and for eight hours I had been buried, lost, in the hay.
“I say had been, for now I felt quite at ease. No more exploring for me that night! When morning came, I could easily call through my squirrel’s front-door, and the men who came out early to milk would pitch off the hay, and release me.
“The only trouble was hunger and thirst, which, now that I had time to think of them, oppressed me more than ever. Then I remembered those apples. I suppose nothing will ever taste so good as that sour, hard apple did that night. After I had made a bountiful lunch, I enlarged my quarters a little, settled back comfortably, and waited for milking-time.
“That’s all there really is to tell. In due time, the stars faded, one by one; the sky flushed all sorts of lovely roses and pinks; the cattle began to stir about uneasily underneath; a distant door creaked, and heavy boots slowly approached.
“I placed my lips to the crack, and called in a low tone. You see, I didn’t want to rouse all the folks. I knew they wouldn’t be worried, because I had planned to go over to Merritt’s and stop with him that very night.
“Well, ten minutes later I stood on the barn-floor, brushing the hay-seed from my hair and clothes, and stretching my aching limbs. I found the witch-grass had cut my fingers a little, and that was about all the harm that came of it.
“I expected them all to laugh at the breakfast-table, and told my story rather sheepishly; but when I got through, and looked round, the folks had anything but smiling faces, and two of them passed me the doughnuts, both at once. Mother cried outright.
“‘If he hadn’t taken the right direction,’ she said, ‘or had kept going in a circle’—
“Then she stopped; and so will I.”
“Ah,” said Kittie, drawing a long breath, “that was a narrow escape. It makes me feel stifled just to think of it.”
“Was it this very barn, Uncle?”
“Yes, Tom; and that further mow on the other side, where Kittie found the man last winter, and had such a fright.”
The trimming was nearly completed, but it still needed to be brought into better shape, and a special yard or two of smaller leaves made for the looking-glass, Bess said. “And can’t you tell us one more hay-mow story, uncle Will.”
“Let me speak to Tim a minute,” said Mr. Percival. “After I’ve given him some directions, I’ll see if I can remember one.
“It was a warm day in the early part of April,” he began, as soon as he returned. “The air was mild, the sky was blue, with sunlight, and the gentle spring breezes were full of all sorts of nice smells of fresh earth and green, growing turf. The turf was in the moist places on the sunny side of the old wall; above it, in their willow-baskets, pussies were beginning to stretch out their little gray paws sleepily, as they awoke one by one from their long nap.
“As Zip spattered along the muddy roadside on his way home from Sunday-school, he thought the world a pretty nice place to live in, on the whole. ‘Zip,’ by the way, was short for ‘Zephaniah,’ which was his long name. Folks only called him that when they were full of fun or very cross; indeed, you could generally tell which by their tone.
“A robin in the overhanging boughs of an apple-tree whistled cheerily as Zip drew near. Instantly the boy seized a stone, and threw it at the red feathers. The bird uttered a shrill cry of alarm, but flew away unharmed, and presently was heard again far away in the orchard. Zip was rather glad of this, after all. He wasn’t a cruel boy, but whenever he saw a bird or a squirrel, something in him, he couldn’t tell what, made him throw stones at it.
“Now Zip, as I said, had just been to Sunday-school, and had been thinking almost all the way home of the lesson. It was the story of the very first Christian people, who started so bravely to be good and true, and who tried to do just as Christ of Nazareth had taught them and their fathers a few years before.
“‘What a beautiful world it would be,’ the teacher had said, at the close of school, ‘if everybody tried to do so now!’
“Zip was only twelve years old, and didn’t know much about the world any way, but he had seen some acts that were quite unlike those of the apostles so long ago. His father and mother were plain country people, working hard from morning till night, and giving no anxious thought to the morrow, but a great deal to to-day, which was pretty much the same thing, only they were one day behind, and somehow could never catch up. The hard-featured man at the counter of his country store, and the tired-looking woman in the kitchen, each spent their lives, it seemed to Zip, in getting dinner or clearing it away. So it happened that the boy was glad enough of his Sunday afternoon, when, after returning from school, he had three hours to himself before supper.
“As he neared home he saw the small cattle-door of the barn left invitingly open. He turned aside, picking his way among the brown pools and streamlets that dimpled and twinkled in the sunlight, and entered the great fragrant cave, lighted only by cracks between the uneven boards, and a knot-hole here and there far above his head. The oxen raised their broad foreheads, knocking their horns against the stanchions. Zip gave them each a little pat between their meek brown eyes, and scrambled up the ladder into the hay-mow.
“It was a delicious place for a quiet Sunday afternoon. He waded over to the very centre of the mow, dug a little hollow with his hands, and cuddled down into it. Over his head were the dark beams with their dusty webs and last year’s swallow’s nests; beneath him he could hear the cattle munching away at their hay and grain, and now and then putting down a heavy foot on the floor of their stalls. A dozen hens were stalking about, picking wisely at various bits of grass-seed, and clucking in soft tones. All around was the sweet scent of the hay.
“As Zip lay in his snug nest he thought drowsily of what the teacher had said about everybody being good. How comfortable and happy it would be! The more he thought about it the pleasanter it seemed. Just then there came a long, low note from one of the hens on the wide floor below. The sound had so many quirks and turns in it, that Zip half thought for a moment that it was some one speaking to him, and started up to answer. Then he remembered it was only a hen, and leaned back with a smile.
“Presently he heard the same hen clucking, or cackling, again, and so slowly and clearly did the notes come that he could have stated to a positive certainty that something had been said down there on the barn-floor, and that, too, about himself. He crept to the edge of the mow and looked over. There were the hens just as he had often seen them, only looking wiser than ever. Even while he looked the brown pullet gave a vigorous scratch or two, pecked at the dusty boards once or twice, shook her feathers, and said distinctly,
“‘If they only knew!’
“Zip stared. Then a deep, soft voice, hardly more than a long, long sigh, came from directly beneath him, ‘They would soon learn to be as quiet as we are.’
“It was Star, the off-ox; there couldn’t be a doubt of it.
“‘I don’t know,’ answered the brown pullet, winking upside-down after her custom, ‘you great things are almost too quiet. One has to be lively to get one’s supper, you know.’
“As she spoke she made a quick run after a tiny insect which had been called out of its cranny by the warm sun, caught it on the wing, and went on with what she had been saying.
“‘In the first place, Star,’ she said, more gravely, ‘no one would be angry without good reason, and then they wouldn’t beat animals for nothing, would they, Billy?’
“The horse who was thus addressed seemed to shake his mane, and said something which Zip took to be a very prolonged ‘nay,’ but he wasn’t quite sure he answered at all.
“‘Nobody would be selfish, and everybody would be kind,’ continued Brown Pullet, ‘and trying to please others instead of themselves. They wouldn’t hurt the feelings of anybody nor any thing. There’s Zip, now, he wouldn’t throw stones at a robin; he would think how the poor little bird-heart was beating faster and faster, and the soft red feathers throbbing on her breast, as the ugly stone came whizzing through the air to take her life!’
“Zip did think, and was sorry he threw the stone. It was a comfort that he didn’t hit the bird, however, and he made up his mind to throw out some crumbs on the well-curb that very night.
“‘I declare,’ said Brown Pullet, with her feathers just a bit ruffled, ‘when I think of how pleasant and kind and polite and gentle folks might be, and how they do say sharp, hurtful things (which I’ve heard people say do bruise one more even than rocks), it makes me really—there!’ she interrupted herself, ‘I declare, I’m getting angry myself, which don’t help matters much. The best way for me to bring on the good times is to begin myself. Speckle, Speckle,’ she called to one of her companions, ‘here’s the plumpest barleycorn I’ve found to-day. I sha’n’t have any peace till I see you eat it, to make up for my being cross to you this morning when you tipped the water over on my toes. It was cold, to be sure, but ’twas all an accident, and I oughtn’t to have pecked you for it. Dear, dear, how late it’s getting! It’s quite dark, da-a-rk, da-r-r-rk!’
“Zip gave a little jump, he hardly knew why, and looked about him. The hens were still walking about the floor below, for he heard them as plainly as before, only he couldn’t seem to make out what they said, and somehow, too, he was back in his soft hay-nest again. He rubbed his eyes, and stretched his sturdy little arms, found his way down the ladder, and looked hard at the brown pullet. But she merely clucked in her old way, and, turning her head on one side, looked up at him curiously out of her wise, round eyes.
“Zip then went over to see the two oxen, but they only lifted their heads and watched him in silence for a moment, then gave two great, soft, sweet-breathed sighs, and went on eating their hay.”
The oak-leaf decorations were now quite finished. The remainder of the day, until dark, was spent in festooning them about Pet’s room, over the doorways, and even in the chamber to be occupied by poor little Bridget Flanagan, the unrecognized heroine of the Summer Street fire.
Ruel, coming in to supper, reported bright streaks in the west, and predicted fair cool weather on the morrow.