Part 4

Thereupon she helped him to place the stout sack of acorns upon his shoulders, and with a wave of the wand started him forth upon his pilgrimage. Smiling with joy to think that at last he was about to be of some use in the world, Karl bent his long frame under the heavy burden, and trudged out of the little wood. When he reached the highroad, he turned to wave a last farewell to the Dryad. But already she had retreated into her tree-cell, closing the door behind her so tightly that one would never know where it opened. It was to his friend the great oak, alone, that Karl bade his last good-by.

Thus Karl began his pilgrimage with the green sack of acorns on his back, and with neither penny nor crust in his pocket. He began his pilgrimage at dusk, when every one was indoors at the evening meal; so no one thought of him, or spied his doings. With great glee the simple fellow planted his first acorn in the heart of the village, just within sight of the parent oak. So long as light lasted he trudged on with a happier heart than he had ever known. He was being of some use to the world! He did not understand how, but he believed the gentle Dryad’s promise. At every hundred paces he planted an acorn, and he was so busy counting his steps between whiles that he forgot all his troubles. And this, too, the wise Dryad had foreseen.

At last, when the way had grown so dim that Karl could barely see to dig earth for the last planting, a wayfarer accosted him.

“What ho, Stranger! What are you doing there?” cried this man.

“I am planting an acorn,” said Karl simply.

“Ho ho! what an idea!” cried the fellow with a guffaw. “You’ll never live to enjoy the oak that grows from that acorn. Why do you take so much trouble for nothing, my funny fellow?”

Then Karl told him the whole story, as the Dryad had bade him do. And when he paused at the end, the man was silent for a little time.

“Poor fellow!” he said at last. “Simple, simple! What a story made of fool’s fancies! An oak tree--a maiden coming out of it--acorns to be planted along the road for shade and rest! Yet--there is something in that last thought. It might not be a bad thing to have trees along our highways, though I never before heard of such a thing. Whew! I know I should have been glad to-day for the shade of a tree when I ate my luncheon in the burning sun.--Have you supped? Where do you lodge to-night, lad?”

Karl dropped his foolish mouth and said blankly that he did not know. In truth, he had never thought of the matter until that minute. But the stranger clapped him on the shoulder and said,--

“Come home with me and I will give you a bed and a sup. Your wonderful story deserves so much reward.”

So Karl fared well that night, and on the morrow once more started happily forth upon his mission. Thus indeed he fared wherever he went. At first folk laughed at the story which he told. But when they came to think it over, they found it not so ridiculous. Looking at the poor fool’s eager face and watching his tireless labor for the good of people whom he would never see, their hearts smote them for their own selfishness, and they were ashamed. They treated him well. Karl never lacked for a meal or a bed; the telling of his story always earned either. Yet he never expected this reward, but was continually wondering why folk were so good to him. He thanked them humbly for their charity, and when he was refreshed, went forth again upon his pilgrimage with no care for the morrow or for the next meal. Karl was indeed a simpleton.

The days and the weeks and the years went by, and Karl still wandered, planting the acorns as he went. He never retraced his steps, but went on and on, down new roads, new avenues, new boulevards, into new countries. He never was curious to see how his work was faring. He was too simple to think of that. He had been told what he must do in order to be useful in the world; that was enough. The Power that watches over little acorns and great oaks, over simpletons and wise men, would take care of the work which Karl had begun.

Mile after mile he traversed, country after country he visited; the years passed over his head, silvering his hair and bending still more his tall frame. As Karl grew older the burden on his shoulders became lighter to carry; but very gradually. The sack made from the Dryad’s mantle must have had magic woven in its tissue. For that first stock of acorns from the old oak tree lasted throughout the entire pilgrimage, during the whole of Karl’s life, so that he had no need to return to the unfriendly village for a fresh supply. On and on he went, and behind him for miles and miles through the countries and the years stretched rows of little oak saplings, of various heights and sizes, and full of promise,--the beginning of a wonderful arched avenue. For after he had passed out of sight, the people of every village, remembering his strange words and his wild story, began to think of him as a holy man, and to look upon the acorns which he had planted as holy things. So the sprouts were cherished carefully and more carefully as the years went by.

Now at last, after many years, Karl was grown old and feeble, and the acorns were few in the bottom of the Dryad’s green sack; and he knew that his pilgrimage was almost over. He was many, many miles from home, and for the first time he thought of returning, longing for the Tree, his friend. He was now bowed and white-haired. A snowy beard descended to his waist; his garments were in rags and his shoes were mere strips of leather bound around his bare feet. But he was very happy, for he knew his work was done.

In a little village of the far South country he planted the last acorn, and sank upon the spot, unable to go any farther. The towns-folk gathered around him, saying, “Who is this? What holy man is this?” For his face was indeed that of a blessed saint. Then once more, for the last time, he told his story. He told it in a faint and faltering voice, and it was so sad, so sweet, that every one wept to hear it, and marveled greatly, saying,--

“Surely, he is indeed a holy man! See, the green wonder-sack is empty. This is the end of his pilgrimage. Our village is blest and shall be famous as the end of his pilgrimage. We will set up a shrine in his honor where the last acorn is planted. But first we must take him home.”

“Yes, take me home!” said Karl, who understood only this word of all the praise they gave him.

They laid him on the green mantle and started gently to carry him where he would be. He could not tell them the name of the place, but they traced the way by the acorns which he had planted and which had sprung up in his honor. As they went from village to village, folk came out who remembered the holy pilgrim who had passed erewhile, telling his quaint story; and they claimed a share in bearing the blessed burden. So that poor Karl had a continually growing company of people ministering to his wants and doing him the kindnesses of love. But he did not know why, thinking only that the world was grown wondrously kind since the days of his boyhood. As they passed on, the wonder grew at the length of his pilgrimage and the extent of Karl’s work. For the journey was not a matter of days but of months, even at the steady pace they held. And as they measured back mile after mile, the planting of Karl became still more wonderful to see. From little sprouts the acorns had now grown tiny treelets. Further on the saplings were waist-high, shoulder high, above the heads of the tallest. In lands where he had passed years before grew rows of tall, beautiful oaks on either side of the road. But it was when the goodly company entered at last the Flat Land itself that they saw the trees become so sturdy and so broad that already it was a fair avenue down which Karl was borne. It was many, many years since he had passed that way. He himself was forgotten, but there remained the tradition of a simple lad who had once gone by, planting the blessed oaks which were now the pride of the land. And his own countrymen joined the company in greater numbers than any heretofore. For now the wisdom of the planting began to be seen. The trees were so tall and so broad-limbed that already they cast a grateful shade, under which the pilgrims rested at every stage. Men, women, and children, even the animals whom they passed, taking shelter from the summer heat under these same trees, blessed the wisdom which had done this thing. But Karl knew nothing of all this. He only knew that he was going home; and he slept, being very weary.

At last they came to the village where Karl was born; but he did not know it for such, he was so simple. Nor did the people who flocked to praise him remember Karl, he was so changed. They only knew him for the unnamed benefactor and friend who had made their town the fairest and most famous in the whole land. Among them were the very children, now grown old like him, who had teased and tormented him that woeful day. But now they crowded around the green litter as it was borne along, seeking to kiss the hand of the wise man who had given them shade and shelter on their weary way to and from the market. The company of pilgrims bore Karl past and under the trees which had sprung up to mark his passing from the town. They came to the last tree, the first which Karl had planted in the heart of the village on that first day, and here they paused, troubled. For they said,--

“The avenue ends here. Whither shall we now carry the holy man, and what would he have us do? For he has spoken no word since we began the journey.”

But under this last tree Karl opened his eyes, and raising himself on his litter stretched out his arms to the East. Gazing whither he pointed, the company saw a little wood, and rising out of it a single giant oak, greater than all the others which Karl had planted,--greater than any which those men had seen.

“There, there!” cried Karl, with joy in his voice. “Take me there! Home, home!”

Wondering, they bore him to the great oak and laid him on the greensward beneath the tree. Then a marvelous thing happened. In the sight of all the people a little door opened in the side of the oak, and out stepped a maiden dressed all in brown, with a girdle of green and with a crown of oak leaves on her head. She bore a branch of the tree in her hand, which she waved gently as she stepped towards Karl.

“Welcome home!” she cried sweetly, smiling upon him. “Welcome home, dear friend. You have had your task and it is ended. Your wish is fulfilled. You have been of great use to the world, and it will bless your name more and more as the years go by. Come, now, and rest.” Tenderly she took him by the hand, aiding him to rise. He lifted himself, feebly at first, but seeming to gain strength from her touch. The Dryad wrapped her green mantle around his shoulders, leading him towards the oak. And lo! When they reached the little door, he turned and smiled at the company, waving his hand in a last farewell, but speaking no word. And they looked at him amazed, such a change seemed to have passed over him; but they could not say how, save that the weight of years, the weariness, the sorrow, the yearning, seemed to have slipped away. He smiled at them, and it was not the smile of a simpleton, but of one who knew the meaning of strange things. Then the Dryad drew him gently after her and they passed in through the little door, into the heart of the great oak tree. Noiselessly it closed behind them, leaving not a crack to show where it had been. And this was the last ever seen of Karl and the Dryad.

But the people were left staring at one another, as folk do when they have seen something that they cannot understand.

TREES

However little I may be, At least I too can plant a tree.

And some day it will grow so high That it can whisper to the sky,

And spread its leafy branches wide To make a shade on every side.

Then on a sultry summer day, The people resting there will say,--

“Oh, good and wise and great was he Who thought to plant this blessed tree!”

THE INDIAN FAIRY

[Illustration]

THE INDIAN FAIRY

I

“Katie has been complaining again of the queer noises in the cellar,” said Rob’s mother, as she passed the coffee cup to her husband across the breakfast table.

“It must be rats,” said Rob’s papa. “We will get a trap.”

“It is very strange,” said Mamma again, “the girls declare that the noises seem to come from the old well. That is what all our servants have said for years. You know some of them have been so frightened that they gave us notice, because of the noises in the well. They think it is bewitched.”

“What is ‘bewitched,’ Mamma?” asked Rob.

“Pooh, pooh!” said Rob’s papa. “It is only rats, I know, and the noises do not come from the well, but from the wall. There must be a rat’s nest in the wall close by the well. I have heard about those noises ever since I was a little boy. Sometimes I used to think that I heard them myself, and I fancied all sorts of queer things. But of course it was nothing but rats.”

Rob had been listening with round eyes, and now he cried eagerly, “O Papa! I did not know that there was a well under the house. How did it come there, and what is it for?”

“Oh, yes, there is an old well,” said his papa. “It has been down there longer than I can remember, for it is even older than the house,--older than the city, too, I daresay. It was an Indian spring, and my great-grandfather built the house over it, so as to have fresh water always conveniently at hand. It is covered now with a trapdoor, so that no one can fall in by mistake. That is why you never saw it, Rob.”

“An old Indian spring!” cried Rob excitedly, “and we drink that very same water every day! How splendid!” He sipped some water from his glass and smacked his lips.

“Oh, no,” said his papa laughing. “This is ordinary spring water bought at the store. Our old well has not been used for years and years. Since the city has been built up so closely around our house, which was one of the first ones here on the Hill, we have not dared to use the well water, because it might not be clean. I daresay the well is quite dry by this time. I have not looked into it for years.”

“O Papa! I want to look down into the well!” cried Rob.

“Well, you shall do so some time,” said his papa as they rose from the table. “But I am in a hurry now. Good-by, Mamma. Good-by, Rob. I will buy a trap on my way down town to-day, and we will put an end to the noises in the cellar which trouble Katie.”

Now of course Rob was very anxious to see that well, for he loved everything that had to do with Indians. He thought that he could not wait for his father to show it to him. He ran into the kitchen and began to bother Katie.

“Katie, Katie,” he begged. “Please come into the cellar and show me the old well. I want to look down into it.”

“The Saints preserve us!” cried Katie, lifting up her hands in horror. “What for do ye want to be lookin’ into the well? No, me b’y! It’s I that will be kapin’ away from that same, and thank ye kindly. ’Tis bewitched it is, what with the funny little noises a-comin’ out of it day and night.”

“What funny little noises, Katie?” asked Rob. “Papa says it is rats. He is going to buy a trap to catch them.”

“Rats! A trap!” sniffed Katie scornfully. “’Tis no rats at all do be makin’ them quare little noises. ’Tis bewitched, I tell ye. ’Tis stark bewitched, that well. And I wouldn’t go near it at all for the promise of a new bonnet.”

“What does ‘bewitched’ mean, Katie?” asked Rob again.

Katie wagged her head and mysteriously made the sign of the cross.

“Oh, who will be tellin’ ye that? If it was in the owld country I’d say it was Fairies or maybe the Leprechaun himself. But I never heard tell o’ Fairies in this land, at all. Maybe ’tis something worse. But oh! The funny little noises!”

“_What_ noises, Katie?” begged Rob.

“Oh, the little whinin’ and sobbin’, like one wantin’ to get out. ’Tis no rats live in the owld well. Would _rats_ be whimperin’ and beggin’ like?”

“Begging, Katie!” cried Rob. “Oh, what do they say? Please, please tell me quickly.”

“La, no! Master Rob,” said Katie, looking sidewise at the little boy, “your Mamma wouldn’t want me to be frightenin’ ye with tales the likes o’ these.”

“But I’m not frightened, Katie,” said Rob eagerly. “I’m just _interested_.”

“H’m,” said Katie doubtfully, glancing at the clock. “Whisht! Master Rob! ’Tis a quarter to nine, and time for you to be startin’ for school, or you’ll be late.”

And indeed, Rob had to run all the way, and reached school barely in time.

Rob’s papa did not forget to bring home a rat-trap that night, and after dinner he said,--

“Now, Rob, I am going down cellar to set the trap, and if you want to come with me I will show you the old well.”

Of course Rob wanted to go. So Rob’s papa took a lighted candle in one hand, and the rat-trap nicely baited with cheese in the other, and they descended the steep cellar stairs together. It was very dark in the cellar, and the candle made queer flares on the walls and ceiling, and lighted up corners which Rob had never before seen. In the very darkest and dimmest corner of all, away in the back cellar, Rob’s papa paused, and then Rob saw that in the floor there was a trapdoor with an iron ring, quite like the Arabian Nights!

“It is from somewhere hereabout that Katie says she hears the noises,” said Papa. “We will set the trap on the floor, close beside the wall, and I warrant we shall catch a big rat before many nights are over.” So he set the trap with the spring ready to catch the first greedy rat who should try to steal the cheese.

“Now let us look into the well,” said Rob’s papa. “I haven’t lifted this cover for years. Ugh! It is heavy enough!” He tugged at the iron ring and presently the cover flew back. Down below yawned a great black hole, very deep and seemingly quite empty.

“Here, Rob, take hold of my hand,” said his papa, “and you can look down.” Rob held tightly to his father’s hand, and bending over, peered into the well. The candle which his father held flickered and flamed and shot a shaft of light down into the strange hole.

“I can’t see anything,” said Rob, disappointed. “I don’t think there is any water there. But--but I think I hear something! A queer little noise like water trickling, or somebody whispering very softly.”

“The spring may be bubbling yet,” said his father. “Katie, O Katie!” he called upstairs. “Please bring me a tin pail and a ball of stout twine. We will see whether the Indian spring has run dry or not.”

“The Saints preserve us!” Rob heard Katie cry in the kitchen above, as she went about to do as she was bid. And again Rob thought he heard a murmuring in the well.

“There is the queer noise again, Papa!” he cried. “It sounds like some one talking a long way off.”

“Pooh, pooh!” said Papa. (He was always saying, “Pooh, pooh” at Rob’s queer notions.) “Run and get the pail and the cord, Sonny. Katie is afraid to come near the well. Ah! Now we shall soon know.”

He tied the cord to the handle of the pail, while Rob held the candle and they watched the pail descend. Down, down it went, until it disappeared into the blackness. “Well, well!” said his father. “Ten, twenty, I must have paid out thirty feet of cord already. I had forgotten that the well was so deep. Hello! There was a splash; hear it, Rob?”

Rob heard,--a quick splash, and again the queer little noise, a tinkle, a trickle, a rustle, a whisper.

“O Papa,” he cried, “let me draw up the pail, please.”

“Well, be very careful, Son,” said his father. And Rob began to pull on the cord, while his father held tightly to his jacket so that he should not fall down into the deep, black hole. The pail was rather heavy. It bumped against the sides of the well, tinkling and jingling as it came up. Rob thought that it jerked and wobbled strangely. But perhaps his hand was not quite steady, he was so excited. At last the pail came in sight, full of water. They drew it over the edge, Rob stooping eagerly to see. Filled to the brim it was, and running over.

“Clear water, as cold as ice,” said Rob’s Papa, dipping in his finger. “Let us take it upstairs and see it in a better light. I would not have believed that the old spring was still bubbling.”

Very carefully Rob carried the pail of water up the cellar stairs. “Katie, O Katie!” he called. “See the water from the old well! From thirty feet down in the darkness it came.”

“The Saints preserve us!” cried Katie. (She was always saying that.) “I wouldn’t touch water from the witch-well for any money ye could offer.”

“It is clear and bright as glass,” said Rob’s papa.

“O Papa! Let me drink some,” cried Rob. “I should so love to taste water from a real Indian spring.”

“O Mr. Evans! Don’t let the b’y taste it!” begged Katie, clasping her hands. “It will kill him, the p’isen water!”