when the river is low, a broad, flat stone lying a little way from shore at the foot of our lawn becomes an instrument of music. in the day it plays now a rhapsody of sun, now a nocturne of cloud, now the last concerto, opus eternal. in the night it becomes a little friendly murmur, a cradle song, slumber spell, neighbour to the dark, the alien dark who very likely grows lonely, being the silent sister, whereas the light goes on blithely companioned of us all. but if i were the dark and owned the stars, and the potion which quickens conscience, and the sense of the great spirit brooding, brooding, i do not know that i would exchange and be the light. still, the light has rainbows and toil and the sun and laughter.... after all, it is best to be a human being and to have both light and darkness for one's own. and it is concerning this conclusion that the river plays on its instrument of music, this shallow river
"—to whose falls
melodious birds sing madrigals."
[pg 310]
i have heard our bank cat-birds in the willows sing madrigals to the stone-music until i wanted to be one of them—cat-bird, madrigal, shallows, or anything similar. but the human is perhaps what all these are striving to express, and so i have been granted wish within wish, and life is very good.
life was very good this summer afternoon when half the village gathered on our lawn above the singing stone, at miggy's and peter's "announcement supper." to be sure, all friendship village had for several days had the news and could even tell you when the betrothal took place and where; but the two were not yet engaged, as miggy would have said, "out loud."
"what is engaged?" asked little child, who was the first of my guests to arrive, and came bringing an offering of infinitesimal flowers which she finds in the grass where i think that they bloom for no one else.
"it means that people love each other very much—" i began, and got no further.
"oh, goody grand," cried little child. "then i'm engaged, aren't i? to everybody."
whenever she leads me in deep water, i am accustomed to invite her to a dolphin's back by bidding her say over some song or spell which i have taught her. this afternoon while we waited on the lawn and her little voice went among the charmed[pg 311] words, something happened which surely must have been due to a prank of the dolphin. for when she had taken an accurate way to the last stanza of "lucy," little child soberly concluded:—
"'she lived unknown, and few could know
when lucy ceased to be;
but she is in her grave, and what's
the difference to me!'"
but, even so, it was charming to have had the quiet metre present.
i hope that there is no one who has not sometime been in a company on which he has looked and looked with something living in his eyes; on a company all of whom he holds in some degree of tenderness. it was so that i looked this afternoon on those who came across the lawn in the pleasant five o'clock sun, and i looked with a difference from my manner of looking on that evening of my visit to the village, when i first saw these, my neighbours. then i saw them with delight; now i see them with delight-and-that-difference; and though that difference is, so to say, partly in my throat, yet it is chiefly deep in my understanding. there came my mis' amanda toplady, with her great green umbrella, which she carries summer and winter; mis' postmaster sykes, with the full-blooming stalk of her tuberose pinned on her left shoulder; mis' holcomb-that-was-mame-bliss in the pink nun's veiling of the post-office hall[pg 312] supper; and my neighbour, who had consented to come, with: "i donno as that little thing would want i should stay home. oh, but do you know, that's the worst—knowin' that the little thing never saw me and can't think about me at all!" and there came also those of whom it chances that this summer i have seen less than i should have wished: the liberty sisters, in checked print. "it don't seem so much of a jump out of mournin' into wash goods as it does into real dress-up cloth," gentle miss lucy says. and abigail arnold, of the home bakery, who sent a great sugared cake for to-day's occasion. "birthday cakes is correct," she observed, "an' weddin' cake is correct. why ain't engagement cakes correct—especially when folks get along without the ring? i donno. i always think doin' for folks is correct, whether it's the style or whether it ain't." and mis' photographer sturgis, with a new and upbraiding baby; mis' fire chief merriman in "new black, but not true mournin' now, an' anyway lit up by pearl buttons an' a lace handkerchief an' plenty o' scent." and mis' "mayor" uppers who, the "mayor" not returning to his home and the tickets for the parlour clock having all been sold, to-day began offering for sale tickets on the "parlour 'suit,' brocade' silk, each o' the four pieces a differ'nt colour and all as bright as new-in-the-store." and though we all understood what she was doing and she knew[pg 313] that we all knew, she yet drew us aside, one after another, to offer the tickets for sale privately, and we slipped the money to her beneath our handkerchiefs or our fans or our sewing.
we all had our sewing—even i have become pleasantly contaminated and have once or twice essayed eyelets. though there was but an hour to elapse before supper-time and the arrival of the "men-folks," we settled ourselves about the green, making scallops on towels, or tatting for sheet hems, or crocheted strips for the hems of pillow-slips. mis' sykes had, as she almost always does have, new work which no one had ever seen before, and new work is accounted of almost as much interest as a new waist and is kept for a surprise, as a new waist should be kept. little child, too, had her sewing; she was buttonhole-stitching a wash-cloth and talking like a little old woman. i think that the little elf children like best to pretend in this way, as regular, arrant witches feign old womanhood.
"aunt effie is sick," little child was telling mis' toplady; "she is sick from her hair to her slippers."
i had a plan for little child and for us all; that after supper she should have leaves in her hair and on her shoulders and should dance on the singing stone in the river. and miggy, whose shy independence is now become all shyness, was in the[pg 314] house, weaving the leaves, and had not yet appeared at her party at all.
then one of those charming things happened which surely have a kind of life of their own and wake the hour to singing, as if an event were a river stone, and more, round which all manner of faint music may be set stirring.
"havin' a party when i ain't lookin'!" cried somebody. "my, my. i don't b'lieve a word of what's name—this evolution business. i bet you anything heaven is just gettin' back."
and there was calliope, in her round straw hat and tan ulster, who in response to my card had hastened her imminent return.
"yes," she said, when we had greeted her and put her in a chair under the mulberry tree, "my relation got well. at least, she ain't sick enough to be cross, so 'most anybody could take care of her now."
calliope laughed and leaned back and shut her eyes.
"land, land," she said, "i got so much to tell you about i don't know where to begin. it's all about one thing, too—somethin' i've found out."
mis' amanda toplady drew a great breath and let fall her work and looked round at us all.
"goodness," she said, "ain't it comfortable—us all settin' here together, nobody's leg broke, nobody's house on fire, nor none of us dead?"
[pg 315]
"'us all settin' here together,'" calliope repeated, suddenly grave amid our laughter, "that's part of what i'm comin' to. i wonder," she said to us, "how you folks have always thought of the city? up till i went there to stay this while i always thought of it as—well, as the city an' not so much as folks at all. the city always meant to me big crowds on the streets—hurryin', hurryin', eatin', eatin', and not payin' much attention to anything. one whole batch of 'em i knew was poor an' lookin' in bakery windows. one whole batch of 'em i knew was rich an' sayin' there has to be these distinctions. and some more i knew was good—i always see 'em, like a pretty lady, stoopin' over, givin'. and some more i knew was wicked an' i always thought of them climbin' in windows. and then there was the little bit o' batch that knows the things i want to know an' talks like i'd like to talk an' that i'd wanted an' wanted to go up to the city an' get with.
"well, then i went. an' the first thing, i see my relative wa'n't rich nor poor nor bad nor good nor—the way i mean. nor her friends that come to see her, they wan't either. the ones i took for rich talked economy, an' the ones i thought was poor spent money, an' the good ones gossiped, an' they all jabbered about music and pictures that i thought you couldn't talk about unless you knew[pg 316] the 'way-inside-o'-things, like they didn't know. the kinds seemed all mixed up, and all of 'em far away an' formal, like—oh, like the books in a library when you can't think up one to draw out. i couldn't seem to get near to anything.
"then one night i done what i'd always wanted to do. i took two dollars an' went to the theatre alone an' got me a seat. i put on the best i had, an' still i didn't feel like i was one of 'em, nor one of much of anybody. the folks on the car wasn't the way i meant, an' i felt mad at 'em for bein' differ'nt. there was a smilin' young fellow, all dressed black an' expensive, an' i thought: 'put you side of peter cary an' there wouldn't be anybody there but peter.' and when i got inside the theatre, it was just the same: one awful collection of dressed-up hair an' dressed-down backs an' everybody smilin' at somebody that wasn't me and all seemin' so sure of themselves. specially the woman in front of me, but i guess it always is specially the woman in front of you. she was flammed out abundant. she had trimmin's in unexpected places, an' a good many colours took to do it, an' a cute little chatter to match. it come to me that she was more than different from me: she was the otherest a person can be. an' i felt glad when the curtain went up.
"well, sir," calliope said, "it was a silly little play—all about nothin' that you could lay much[pg 317] speech to. but oh, they was somethin' in it that made you get down on your hands and knees in your own heart and look around in it, and look. they was an old lady and a young mother and a child and a man and a girl—well, that don't sound like much special, does it? and that's just it: it wasn't much special, but yet it was all of everything. it made 'em laugh, it made 'em cry, it made me laugh and cry till i was ashamed and glad and grateful. and when the lights come up at the end, i felt like i was kind of the mother to everything, an' i wanted to pick it up an' carry it off an' keep care of it. and it come over me all of a sudden how the old lady and the young mother an' man an' girl, man an' girl, man an' girl was right there in the theatre, near me, over an' over again; an' there i'd been feelin' mad at 'em for seemin' far off. but they wasn't far off. they'd been laughin' and cryin', too, an' they knew, just like i knew, what was what in the world. my, my. if it'd been friendship i'd have gone from house to house all the way home, shakin' hands. an' as it was, i just had to speak to somebody. an' just then i see the flammed-out woman in front of me, that her collar had come open a little wee bit up top—not to notice even, but it give me an excuse. and i leaned right over to her and i says with all the sympathy in me:—
[pg 318]
"'ma'am, your neck is peepin'."
"she looked around su'prised and then she smiled—smiled 'most into laughin'. and she thanked me sweet as a friend an' nodded with it, an' i thought: 'why, my land, you may have a baby home.' i never had thought of that. an' then i begun lookin' at folks an' lookin'. an' movin' up the aisles, there wasn't just a theatre-lettin'-out. they was folks. and all over each one was the good little things they'd begun rememberin' now that the play was over, or the hurt things that had come back onto 'em again.... an' out on the street it was the same. the folks had all got alive and was waitin' for me to feel friendly to 'em. friendly. the young fellows in the cars was lovers, just like peter. an' everybody was just like me, or anyhow more alike than differ'nt; and just like friendship, only mebbe pronouncin' their words some differ'nt an' knowin' more kinds of things to eat. it seems to me now i could go anywhere an' find folks to be nice to. i don't love friendship village any the less, but i love more things the same way. everything, 'most. an' i tell you i'm glad i didn't die before i found it out—that we're all one batch. do you see what i mean—deep down inside what i say?" calliope cried. "does it sound like anything to you?"
to whom should it sound like "anything" if not to us of friendship village? we know.
[pg 319]
"honestly," said that great mis' amanda toplady, trying to wipe her eyes on her crochet work, "whoever god is, i don't believe he wants to keep it a secret. he's always 'most lettin' us know. i 'most knew who he is right then, while calliope was talkin'."
"i 'most knew who he is right then, while calliope was talkin'." ... i said the words over while the men crossed the lawn, all arriving together in order to lighten the trial of guesthood: dear doctor june, little timothy toplady, eppleby holcomb, postmaster sykes, photographer jimmie sturgis, peter, and timothy, jr., and the others. liva vesey was already in the kitchen with miggy and elfa, and i knew that, somewhere invisible, nicholas moor was hovering, waiting to help dish the ice-cream. when the little tables, each with its bright, strewn nasturtiums, were set about the lawn, miggy reluctantly appeared from the kitchen. she was in the white frock which she herself had made, and she was, as i have said, a new miggy, not less merry or less elfin, but infinitely more human. it was charming, i thought, to see how she and peter, far from tensely avoiding each other, went straight to each other's side. with them at table were liva and timothy, jr., now meeting each other's eyes as simply as if eyes were for this purpose.
[pg 320]
"i 'most knew who he is right then, while calliope was talkin'" ... i thought again as we stood in our places and doctor june lifted his hands to the summer sky as if he were there, too.
"father," he said, "bless these young people who are going to belong to each other—thou knowest their names and so do we. bless our being together now in their honour, and be thou in our midst. and bless our being together always. amen."
and that was the announcement of miggy's and peter's betrothal, at their engagement party.
little child, who was sitting beside calliope, leaned toward her.
"how long will it take for god to know," she asked, "after doctor june sent it up?"
calliope put her arm about her and told her.
"then did he get here since doctor june invited him?" little child asked.
"you think, 'way deep inside your head, an' see if he isn't here," i heard calliope say.
little child shut her eyes tightly, and though she did open them briefly to see what was on the plate which they set before her, i think that she found the truth.
"i 'most know," she said presently. "pretty near i know he is. i guess i'm too little to be sure nor certain. when i'm big will i know sure?"[pg 321]
"yes," calliope answered, "then you'll know sure."
"i 'most knew who he is while calliope was talkin'" ... i said over once more. and suddenly in the words and in the homely talk and in the happy comradeship i think that i slipped between the seeing and the knowing, and for a moment stood very near to the custodian—himself. the custodian who is in us all, who speaks, now as you, now as i, most clearly in our human fellowship, in our widest kinship, in the universal togetherness. truly, it is not as my neighbour once said, for i think that god has many and many to "neighbour with," if only we would be neighbours.
presently, as if it knew that it belonged there, the sunset came, a thing of wings and doors ajar. then miggy fastened the leaves in little child's hair and led her down to dance on the broad, flat stone which is an instrument of music. above the friendly murmur of the shallows the little elf child seemed beckoning to us others of the human voices on the shore. and in that fair light it was as if the river were some clear highway, leading from friendship village to splendour town, where together we might all find our way.
