The Blue Flower [30]
it would be worse for her alone at
home, than if we took her with us.
It was incredible how the path seemed to lengthen. Graham
watched the girl's every step, helping her over the difficult
places, pushing aside the tangled branches, his eyes resting
upon her as frankly, as tenderly as a mother looks at her
child. In single file we marched through the gray morning,
clearing cold after the storm, and the silence was seldom
broken, for we had little heart to talk.
At last we came to the high, lonely ridge, the dwarf
forest, the huge, couchant bulk of Spy Rock. There, on the back
of it, with his right arm hanging over the edge, was the outline
of Edward Keene's form. It was as if some monster had seized him
and flung him over its shoulder to carry away.
We called to him but there was no answer. The doctor
climbed up with me, and we hurried to the spot where he was
lying. His face was turned to the sky, his eyes blindly
staring; there was no pulse, no breath; he was already cold in
death. His right hand and arm, the side of his neck and face
were horribly swollen and livid. The doctor stooped down and
examined the hand carefully. "See!" he cried, pointing to a
great bruise on his wrist, with two tiny punctures in the
middle of it from which a few drops of blood had oozed, "a
rattlesnake has struck him. He must have fairly put his hand
upon it, perhaps in the dark, when he was climbing. And,
look, what is this?"
He picked up a flat silver box, that lay open on the rock.
There were two olive-green pellets of a resinous paste in it.
He lifted it to his face, and drew a long breath.
"Yes," he said, "it is Gunjab, the most powerful form of
Hashish, the narcotic hemp of India. Poor fellow, it saved
him from frightful agony. He died in a dream."
"You are right," I said, "in a dream, and for a dream."
We covered his face and climbed down the rock. Dorothy
and Graham were waiting below. He had put his coat around
her. She was shivering a little. There were tear-marks on
her face.
"Well," I said, "you must know it. We have lost him."
"Ah!" said the girl, "I lost him long ago."
WOOD-MAGIC
There are three vines that belong to the ancient forest.
Elsewhere they will not grow, though the soil prepared for
them be never so rich, the shade of the arbour built for them
never so closely and cunningly woven. Their delicate,
thread-like roots take no hold upon the earth tilled and
troubled by the fingers of man. The fine sap that steals
through their long, slender limbs pauses and fails when they
are watered by human hands. Silently the secret of their life
retreats and shrinks away and hides itself.
But in the woods, where falling leaves and crumbling
tree-trunks and wilting ferns have been moulded by Nature into
a deep, brown humus, clean and fragrant--in the woods, where
the sunlight filters green and golden through interlacing
branches, and where pure moisture of distilling rains and
melting snows is held in treasury by never-failing banks of
moss--under the verdurous flood of the forest, like sea-weeds
under the ocean waves, these three little creeping vines put
forth their hands with joy, and spread over rock and hillock and
twisted tree-root and mouldering log, in cloaks and scarves and
wreaths of tiny evergreen, glossy leaves.
One of them is adorned with white pearls sprinkled lightly
over its robe of green. This is Snowberry, and if you eat of
it, you will grow wise in the wisdom of flowers. You will
know where to find the yellow violet, and the wake-robin, and
the pink lady-slipper, and the scarlet sage, and the fringed
gentian. You will understand how the buds trust themselves to
the spring in their unfolding, and how the blossoms trust
themselves to the winter in their withering, and how the busy
bands of Nature are ever weaving the beautiful garment of life
out of the strands of death, and nothing is lost that yields
itself to her quiet handling.
Another of the vines of the forest is called Partridge-berry.
home, than if we took her with us.
It was incredible how the path seemed to lengthen. Graham
watched the girl's every step, helping her over the difficult
places, pushing aside the tangled branches, his eyes resting
upon her as frankly, as tenderly as a mother looks at her
child. In single file we marched through the gray morning,
clearing cold after the storm, and the silence was seldom
broken, for we had little heart to talk.
At last we came to the high, lonely ridge, the dwarf
forest, the huge, couchant bulk of Spy Rock. There, on the back
of it, with his right arm hanging over the edge, was the outline
of Edward Keene's form. It was as if some monster had seized him
and flung him over its shoulder to carry away.
We called to him but there was no answer. The doctor
climbed up with me, and we hurried to the spot where he was
lying. His face was turned to the sky, his eyes blindly
staring; there was no pulse, no breath; he was already cold in
death. His right hand and arm, the side of his neck and face
were horribly swollen and livid. The doctor stooped down and
examined the hand carefully. "See!" he cried, pointing to a
great bruise on his wrist, with two tiny punctures in the
middle of it from which a few drops of blood had oozed, "a
rattlesnake has struck him. He must have fairly put his hand
upon it, perhaps in the dark, when he was climbing. And,
look, what is this?"
He picked up a flat silver box, that lay open on the rock.
There were two olive-green pellets of a resinous paste in it.
He lifted it to his face, and drew a long breath.
"Yes," he said, "it is Gunjab, the most powerful form of
Hashish, the narcotic hemp of India. Poor fellow, it saved
him from frightful agony. He died in a dream."
"You are right," I said, "in a dream, and for a dream."
We covered his face and climbed down the rock. Dorothy
and Graham were waiting below. He had put his coat around
her. She was shivering a little. There were tear-marks on
her face.
"Well," I said, "you must know it. We have lost him."
"Ah!" said the girl, "I lost him long ago."
WOOD-MAGIC
There are three vines that belong to the ancient forest.
Elsewhere they will not grow, though the soil prepared for
them be never so rich, the shade of the arbour built for them
never so closely and cunningly woven. Their delicate,
thread-like roots take no hold upon the earth tilled and
troubled by the fingers of man. The fine sap that steals
through their long, slender limbs pauses and fails when they
are watered by human hands. Silently the secret of their life
retreats and shrinks away and hides itself.
But in the woods, where falling leaves and crumbling
tree-trunks and wilting ferns have been moulded by Nature into
a deep, brown humus, clean and fragrant--in the woods, where
the sunlight filters green and golden through interlacing
branches, and where pure moisture of distilling rains and
melting snows is held in treasury by never-failing banks of
moss--under the verdurous flood of the forest, like sea-weeds
under the ocean waves, these three little creeping vines put
forth their hands with joy, and spread over rock and hillock and
twisted tree-root and mouldering log, in cloaks and scarves and
wreaths of tiny evergreen, glossy leaves.
One of them is adorned with white pearls sprinkled lightly
over its robe of green. This is Snowberry, and if you eat of
it, you will grow wise in the wisdom of flowers. You will
know where to find the yellow violet, and the wake-robin, and
the pink lady-slipper, and the scarlet sage, and the fringed
gentian. You will understand how the buds trust themselves to
the spring in their unfolding, and how the blossoms trust
themselves to the winter in their withering, and how the busy
bands of Nature are ever weaving the beautiful garment of life
out of the strands of death, and nothing is lost that yields
itself to her quiet handling.
Another of the vines of the forest is called Partridge-berry.