"Evening," said the boy, as he swung in the hammock, "evening in the woods--with a campfire and the dark of the shadows, and a best chum to talk to." And my heart echoed the words, for it was Indian summer, and the leaves were commencing to turn, and the listless southern breeze was beginning to have a tiny snap in it. I, too, thought of the woods at night, with the stars overhead and the soft sigh of the wind in the trees.
Have you ever felt the gypsy spirit--you people of the cities, who live in the midst of a very unimaginative and workaday world, and you of the country who scarcely realize the wonderful blessing of the great open spaces, and the joy of the growing things?
Just around the end of September the feeling begins to grow on us. There is something about the tragic splendor of the dying leaves and the fading summertime that touches a vagabond chord in the heart. Spring is beautiful, and summer is perfect for vacations, but autumn brings a longing to get away from the unreal things of life, out into the forest at night with a campfire and the rustling leaves.
I went to a dinner party lately given by a class of young people who were perhaps good examples of the rising generation. Somehow, we began talking of fairy godmothers, and a girl spoke up--beautiful, slender, a Tennyson princess. She said in her soft, musical voice:
"If a fairy godmother would give me bushels and bushels of money, I would have the largest house on Fifth Avenue, and the most expensive automobile, and the best servants money would buy! And I would be happy."
"And I," said the shabby little girl, who was going to be a genius some day, "I would go into the shops and buy clothes--dresses and furs and hats--and shoes! And then I would walk around and dazzle people!"
But the matter-of-fact boy surprised us. He looked far into the distance, over the top of our glittering table, and when his voice spoke, it was soft and wonderfully ringing.
"When I have lots of money," he told us, "I will chuck up the whole thing--the city with its crowds and artificial light, and the working for other men, and the asphalt sidewalks, and I will go out into the country, where the trees smell fresh at twilight!"
For it was Indian summer and the call of the gypsy was in his heart.
A few years ago a small boy lived near me. He was a pale youngster, with deep-set eyes and a charming smile that made his lean little face attractive. But people--unseeing mortals--called him "queer," because he sat looking up at the drifting clouds; and played with caterpillars and beetles; and recited little rhymeless verses. And the child looked around with hopeless eyes for a soul that could understand. But at last a day came--a day that was all blue and golden and gorgeous--a day when every flower beckoned and each breeze brought a message from Pan. So the little boy picked up a tiny bundle containing a fairy book, a tooth-brush and three cookies, and ran away.
They found him that night in a wood not far from his home--fast asleep. The fairy-book lay open by his side, and the cookies were all eaten. And his unromantic family, after they had sobbed together in their great relief, held a council of war, which resulted in a hard spanking for the small boy.
I saw him the next morning. He wore a chastened air, and his smile was only on the surface. Swinging on the garden gate, he told me the sad story:
"I was sittin' on the porch," he confided softly, "an' a little breeze came along. It blew my hair and whispered to me, "Johnny, there's fairies an' witches in the woods near your house.' But I said, 'Go away, bad breeze.' An' then another little breeze came along and it said: 'Johnny, there's tiny rabbits and squirrels in the woods!' An' so I went to find 'em--that's all."
For the little boy heard the call of the woods in his heart and he was answering it in his childish way. Perhaps some day he will be a great somebody; but his family will have to help him with understanding instead of with punishment.
I think that poets often feel the gypsy spirit, and I believe that their best verses are written at such times. Longfellow felt the call of the wind-swept forests and the calm of the sunset glow when he wrote "Hiawatha." I am sure that Kipling felt the same spirit in his heart when he put the swinging, care-free rhythm into his "Mandalay." And all through Stevenson's books--Stevenson, who was given "The Road of the Loving Heart"--there is a certain message from the great outdoors.
Some people look upon the gypsy spirit as a romantic, silly thing; but if taken in the right way, it is very right and true. Nobody can call the unkind voice that makes a man desert his family, or a young girl leave her home to go to the city, a true gypsy call; for that call is the call of selfishness. So many people confuse the two when they frown upon romance and the beauty of the great outdoors. And I want people to look at the thing in a sensible way.
God made the forests, the tiny stars, and the wild winds--and I think that he made them partly as a balance for that kind of civilization that would choke the spirit of joy out of our hearts. He made the great open places for the people who want to be alone with him and talk to him, away from the crowds that kill all reverence. And I think that he is glad at times to have us forget our cares and responsibilities that we may be nearer him--as Jesus was when he crept away into the wilderness to pray.
Can you think of any way in which you could be nearer God than just this?
"Evening in the woods--with a campfire--and the dark shadows--and the stars overhead."
- When the Indian crept through the thicket
- On noiseless and hurrying feet,
- And the Persian wrote in his garden
- 'Mid the blood of the rose-petals sweet,
- When the fauns and the dryads were singing
- The song that is sounding anew,
- They all helped to build up the message
- That the woodlands are calling to you.
More Margaret Elizabeth Sangster Short Stories
