No More Learning

Fritz Müller's Lantana is yellow on its first day, orange on its
second, and purple on the third. The whole family of Boraginacea
begin by being pink and end with being blue. The garden con-
volvulus opens a blushing white and passes into full purple. In
all these and many other cases the general direction of the
changes is the same. They are usually set down as due to vary-
ing degrees of oxidation in the pigmentary matter.
If this be so,
there is a good reason why bees should be specially fond of blue,
and why blue flowers should be specially adapted for fertilization
by their aid. For Mr. A. R. Wallace has shown that color is
most apt to appear or to vary in those parts of plants or animals
which have undergone the highest amount of modification. The
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CHARLES GRANT ALLEN
markings of the peacock and the argus pheasant come out upon
their immensely developed secondary tail-feathers or wing-plumes;
the metallic hues of sun-birds, or humming-birds, show them-
selves upon their highly specialized crests, gorgets, or lappets. It
is the same with the hackles of fowls, the head ornaments of
fruit-pigeons, and the bills of toucans. The most exquisite colors
in the insect world are those which are developed on the greatly
expanded and delicately feathered wings of butterflies; and the
eye-spots which adorn a few species are usually found on their
very highly modified swallow-tail appendages. So too with flow-
ers: those which have undergone most modification have their
colors most profoundly altered. In this way, we may put it down
as a general rule (to be tested hereafter) that the least developed
flowers are usually yellow or white; those which have undergone
a little more modification are usually pink or red; and those which
have been most highly specialized of any are usually purple, lilac,
or blue. Absolute deep ultramarine probably marks the highest
level of all.
On the other hand, Mr. Wallace's principle also explains why
the bees and butterflies should prefer these specialized colors to
all others, and should therefore select those flowers which display
them by preference over any less developed types; for bees and
butterflies are the most highly adapted of all insects to honey-
seeking and flower-feeding. They have themselves on their side
undergone the largest amount of specialization for that particular
function. And if the more specialized and modified flowers,
which gradually fitted their forms and the position of their honey.
glands to the forms of the bees or butterflies, showed a natural
tendency to pass from yellow through pink and red to purple
and blue, it would follow that the insects which were being
evolved side by side with them, and which were aiding at the
same time in their evolution, would grow to recognize these
developed colors as the visible symbols of those flowers from
which they could obtain the largest amount of honey with the
least possible trouble. Thus it would finally result that the
ordinary unspecialized flowers, which depended upon small insect
riff-raff, would be mostly left yellow or white; those which
appealed to rather higher insects would become pink or red; and
those which laid themselves out for bees or butterflies, the aristo-
crats of the arthropodous world, would grow for the most part
to be purple or blue.


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CHARLES GRANT ALLEN
Now, this is very much what we actually find to be the
case in nature. The simplest and earliest flowers are those with
regular, symmetrical open cups, like the Ranunculus genus, the
Potentillas, and the Alsine or chickweeds, which can be visited
by any insects whatsoever; and these are in large part yellow or
white. A little higher are flowers like the Campions or Silenea,
and the stocks (Matthiola), with more or less closed cups, whose
honey can only be reached by more specialized insects; and these
are oftener pink or reddish. More profoundly modified are those
irregular one-sided flowers, like the violets, peas, and orchids,
which have assumed special shapes to accommodate bees and
other specific honey-seekers; and these are often purple and not
unfrequently blue. Highly specialized in another way are the
flowers like harebells (Campanulacea), scabious (Dipsacea), and
heaths (Ericacee), whose petals have all coalesced into a tubular
corolla; and these might almost be said to be usually purple or
blue. And finally, highest of all are the flowers like labiates
(rosemary, Salvia, etc. ) and speedwells (Veronica), whose tubular
corolla has been turned to one side, thus combining the united
petals with the irregular shape; and these are almost invariably
purple or blue.
AMONG THE HEATHER
From "The Evolutionist at Large)
I
SUPPOSE even that apocryphal person, the general reader, would
be insulted at being told at this hour of the day that all
bright-colored flowers are fertilized by the visits of insects,
whose attentions they are specially designed to solicit. Every.
body has heard over and over again that roses, orchids, and
columbines have acquired their honey to allure the friendly bee,
their gaudy petals to advertise the honey, and their divers shapes
to insure the proper fertilization by the correct type of insect.
But everybody does not know how specifically certain blossoms
have laid themselves out for a particular species of fly, beetle,
or tiny moth.
Here on the higher downs, for instance, most flow-
ers are exceptionally large and brilliant; while all Alpine climb-
ers must have noticed that the most gorgeous masses of bloom
in Switzerland occur just below the snow-line. The reason is,
that such blossoms must be fertilized by butterflies alone. Bees,


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CHARLES GRANT ALLEN
their great rivals in honey-sucking, frequent only the lower mead.
ows and slopes, where flowers are many and small: they seldom
venture far from the hive or the nest among the high peaks and
chilly nooks where we find those great patches of blue gentian
or purple anemone, which hang like monstrous breadths of tapes-
try upon the mountain sides. This heather here, now fully open-
ing in the warmer sun of the southern counties— it is still but
in the bud among the Scotch hills, I doubt not — specially lays
itself out for the humble-bee, and its masses form almost his
highest pasture-grounds; but the butterflies - insect vagrants that
they are — have no fixed home, and they therefore stray far
above the level at which bee-blossoms altogether cease to grow.
Now, the butterfly differs greatly from the bee in his mode of
honey-hunting: he does not bustle about in a business-like man-
ner from one buttercup or dead-nettle to its nearest fellow; but
he flits joyously, like a sauntering straggler that he is, from a
great patch of color here to another great patch at a distance,
whose gleam happens to strike his roving eye by its size and
brilliancy. Hence, as that indefatigable observer, Dr. Hermann
Müller, has noticed, all Alpine or hill-top flowers have very large
and conspicuous blossoms, generally grouped together in big
clusters so as to catch a passing glance of the butterfly's eye.
As soon as the insect spies such a cluster, the color seems to act
as a stimulant to his broad wings, just as the candle-light does to
those of his cousin the moth. Off he sails at once, as if by auto-
matic action, towards the distant patch, and there both robs the
plant of its honey, and at the same time carries to it on his legs
and head fertilizing pollen from the last of its congeners which
he favored with a call. For of course both bees and butterflies
stick on the whole to a single species at a time; or else the
flowers would only get uselessly hybridized, instead of being
impregnated with pollen from other plants of their own kind.
For this purpose it is that most plants lay themselves out to
secure the attention of only two or three varieties among their
insect allies, while they make their nectaries either too deep or
too shallow for the convenience of all other kinds.
Insects, however, differ much from one another in their æs-
thetic tastes, and flowers are adapted accordingly to the varying
fancies of the different kinds. Here, for example, is a spray of
common white galium, which attracts and is fertilized by small
flies, who generally frequent white blossoms. But here again,


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405
not far off, I find a luxuriant mass of the yellow species, known
by the quaint name of lady's-bedstraw," a legacy from the old
legend which represents it as having formed Our Lady's bed in
the manger at Bethlehem. Now why has this kind of galium
yellow flowers, while its near kinsman yonder has them snowy
white ? The reason is that lady's-bedstraw is fertilized by small
beetles; and beetles are known to be one among the most color-
loving races of insects. You may often find one of their number,
the lovely bronze and golden-mailed rose-chafer, buried deeply in
the very centre of a red garden rose, and reeling about when
touched as if drunk with pollen and honey. Almost all the
flowers which beetles frequent are consequently brightly decked
in scarlet or yellow. On the other hand, the whole family of the
umbellates, those tall plants with level bunches of tiny blossoms,
like the fool's-parsley, have all but universally white petals; and
Müller, the most statistical of naturalists, took the trouble to
count the number of insects which paid them a visit. He found
that only fourteen per cent. were bees, while the remainder con-
sisted mainly of miscellaneous small flies and other arthropodous
riff-raff, whereas, in the brilliant class of composites, including
the asters, sunflowers, daisies, dandelions, and thistles, nearly sev-
enty-five per cent. of the visitors were steady, industrious bees.
Certain dingy blossoms which lay themselves out to attract wasps
are obviously adapted, as Müller quaintly remarks, “to a less æs-
thetically cultivated circle of visitors. ” But the most brilliant
among all insect-fertilized flowers are those which specially affect
the society of butterflies; and they are only surpassed in this
respect throughout all nature by the still larger and more mag-
nificent tropical species which owe their fertilization to humming-
birds and brush-tongued lories.
Is it not a curious, yet a comprehensible circumstance, that
the tastes which thus show themselves in the development, by
natural selection, of lovely flowers, should also show themselves
in the marked preference for beautiful mates? Poised on yonder
sprig of harebell stands a little purple-winged butterfly, one of
the most exquisite among our British kinds. That little butterfly
owes its own rich and delicately shaded tints to the long selective
action of a million generations among its ancestors. So we find
throughout that the most beautifully colored birds and insects are
always those which have had most to do with the production of
bright-colored fruits and flowers. The butterflies and rose-beetles


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CHARLES GRANT ALLEN
are the most gorgeous among insects; the humming-birds and par-
rots are the most gorgeous among birds. Nay, more, exactly like
effects have been produced in two hemispheres on different tribes
by the same causes. The plain brown swifts of the North have
developed among tropical West Indian and South American
orchids the metallic gorgets and crimson crests of the humming-
bird; while a totally unlike group of Asiatic birds have developed
among the rich flora of India and the Malay Archipelago the
exactly similar plumage of the exquisite sun-birds. Just as bees
depend upon flowers, and flowers upon bees, so the color-sense of
animals has created the bright petals of blossoms; and the bright
petals have reacted upon the tastes of the animals themselves,
and through their tastes upon their own appearance.
THE HERON'S HAUNT
From Vignettes from Nature)
M
ost of the fields on the country-side are now laid up for
hay, or down in the tall haulming corn; and so I am
driven from my accustomed botanizing grounds on the
open, and compelled to take refuge in the wild bosky moor-
land back of Hole Common. Here, on the edge of the copse,
the river widens to a considerable pool, and coming upon it
softly through the wood from behind—the boggy, moss-covered
ground masking and muffling my foot-fall-I have surprised a
great, graceful ash-and-white heron, standing all unconscious on
the shallow bottom, in the very act of angling for minnows.
The heron is a somewhat rare bird among the more cultivated
parts of England; but just hereabouts we get a sight of one
not infrequently, for they still breed in a few tall ash-trees at
Chilcombe Park, where the lords of the manor in mediæval
times long preserved a regular heronry to provide sport for
their hawking. There is no English bird, not even the swan,
so perfectly and absolutely graceful as the heron. I am leaning
now breathless and noiseless against the gate, taking a good
look at him, as he stands half-knee deep on the oozy bottom,
with his long neck arched over the water, and his keen purple
eye fixed eagerly upon the fish below. Though I am still
twenty yards from where he poises lightly on his stilted legs, I
can see distinctly his long pendent snow-white breast-feathers,


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407
his crest of waving black plumes, falling loosely backward over
the ash-gray neck, and even the bright red skin of his bare
legs just below the feathered thighs. I dare hardly move
to get a closer view of his beautiful plumage; and
still I will try. I push very quietly through the gate, but not
quite quietly enough for the heron. One moment he raises his
curved neck and poises his head a little on one side to listen
for the direction of the rustling; then he catches a glimpse of
me as I try to draw back silently behind a clump of flags and
nettles; and in a moment his long legs give him a good spring
from the bottom, his big wings spread with a sudden flap sky.
wards, and almost before I can note what is happening he is
off and away to leeward, making a bee-line for the high trees
that fringe the artificial water in Chilcombe Hollow.
All these wading birds - the herons, the cranes, the bitterns,
the snipes, and the plovers-are almost necessarily, by the very
nature of their typical conformation, beautiful and graceful in
form. Their tall, slender legs, which they require for wading,
their comparatively light and well-poised bodies, their long,
curved, quickly-darting necks and sharp beaks, which they need
in order to secure their rapid-swimming prey,- all these things
make the waders, almost in spite of themselves, handsome and
shapely birds. Their feet, it is true, are generally rather large
and sprawling, with long, wide-spread toes, so as to distribute
their weight on the snow-shoe principle, and prevent them from
sinking in the deep soft mud on which they tread; but then we
seldom see the feet, because the birds, when we catch a close
view of them at all, are almost always either on stilts in the
water, or flying with their legs tucked behind them, after their
pretty rudder-like fashion. I have often wondered whether it
is this general beauty of form in the waders which has turned
their æsthetic tastes, apparently, into such a sculpturesque line.
Certainly, it is very noteworthy that whenever among this
particular order of birds we get clear evidence of ornamental
devices, such as Mr. Darwin sets down to long-exerted selective
preferences in the choice of mates, the ornaments are almost
always those of form rather than those of color.
The waders, I sometimes fancy, only care for beauty of
shape, not for beauty of tint. As I stood looking at the heron
here just now, the same old idea seemed to force itself more
clearly than ever upon my mind. The decorative adjuncts - the


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CHARLES GRANT ALLEN
curving tufted crest on the head, the pendent silvery gorget on
the neck, the long ornamental quills of the pinions - all look
exactly as if they were deliberately intended to emphasize and
heighten the natural gracefulness of the heron's form. May it
not be, I ask myself, that these birds, seeing one another's
statuesque shape from generation to generation, have that shape
hereditarily implanted upon the nervous system of the species,
in connection with all their ideas of mating and of love, just
as the human form is hereditarily associated with all our deep-
est emotions, so that Miranda falling in love at first sight with
Ferdinand is not a mere poetical fiction, but the true illustra-
tion of a psychological fact? And as on each of our minds and
brains the picture of the beautiful human figure is, as it were,
antecedently engraved, may not the ancestral type be similarly
engraved on the minds and brains of the wading birds ? If so,
would it not be natural to conclude that these birds, having thus
a very graceful form as their generic standard of taste, a grace-
ful form with little richness of coloring, would naturally choose
as the loveliest among their mates, not those which showed any
tendency to more bright-hued plumage (which indeed might be
fatal to their safety, by betraying them to their enemies, the fal-
cons and eagles), but those which most fully embodied and carried
furthest the ideal specific gracefulness of the wading type ? . . .
Forestine flower-feeders and fruit-eaters, especially in the
tropics, are almost always brightly colored. Their chromatic
taste seems to get quickened in their daily search for food
among the beautiful blossoms and brilliant fruits of southern
woodlands.
Thus the humming-birds, the sun-birds, and the
brush-tongued lories, three very dissimilar groups of birds as
far as descent is concerned, all alike feed upon the honey and
the insects which they extract from the large tubular bells of
tropical flowers; and all alike are noticeable for their intense
metallic lustre or pure tones of color. Again, the parrots, the
toucans, the birds of paradise, and many other of the more beau-
tiful exotic species, are fruit-eaters, and reflect their inherited
taste in their own gaudy plumage. But the waders have no such
special reasons for acquiring a love for bright hues. Hence
their æsthetic feeling seems rather to have taken a turn toward
the further development of their own graceful forms. Even the
plainest wading birds have a certain natural elegance of shape
which supplies a primitive basis for æsthetic selection to work on.


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JAMES LANE ALLEN
(1850-)
He literary work of James Lane Allen was begun with maturer
powers and wider culture than most writers exhibit in their
first publications. His mastery of English was acquired with
difficulty, and his knowledge of Latin he obtained through years of
instruction as well as of study. The wholesome open-air atmosphere
which pervades his stories, their pastoral character and love of nat-
ure, come from the tastes bequeathed to him by three generations of
paternal ancestors, easy-going gentlemen farmers of the blue-grass
region of Kentucky. On a farm near Lexington, in this beautiful
country of stately homes, fine herds, and great flocks, the author was
born, and there he spent his childhood and youth.
About 1885 he came to New York to devote himself to literature;
for though he had contributed poems, essays, and criticisms to lead-
ing periodicals, his first important work was a series of articles
descriptive of the Blue-Grass Region,” published in Harper's Maga-
zine. The field was new, the work was fresh, and the author's ability
was at once recognized. Inevitably he chose Kentucky for the scene
of his stories, knowing and loving, as he did, her characteristics and
her history. While preparing his articles on 'The Blue-Grass Region,'
he had studied the Trappist Monastery and the Convent of Loretto,
as well as the records of the Catholic Church in Kentucky; and his
first stories, “The White Cowl' and 'Sister Dolorosa,' which appeared
in the Century Magazine, were the first fruits of this labor. A con-
troversy arose as to the fairness of these portraitures; but however
opinions may differ as to his characterization, there can be no ques-
tion of the truthfulness of the exposition of the mediæval spirit of
those retreats.
This tendency to use a historic background marks most of Mr.
Allen's stories. In "The Choir Invisible, a tale of the last century,
pioneer Kentucky once more exists. The old clergyman of Flute
and Violin lived and died in Lexington, and had been long for-
gotten when his story "touched the vanishing halo of a hard and
saintly life. ” The old negro preacher, with texts embroidered on his
coat-tails, was another figure of reality, unnoticed until he became
one of the 'Two Gentlemen of Kentucky. ' In Lexington lived and
died «King Solomon,” who had almost faded from memory when
his historian found the record of the poor vagabond's heroism during
the plague, and made it memorable in a story that touches the heart
and fills the eyes. A Kentucky Cardinal,' with Aftermath,' its


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JAMES LANE ALLEN
second part, is full of history and of historic personages. (Summer
in Arcady: A Tale of Nature,' the latest of Mr. Allen's stories, is no
less based on local history and no less full of local color than his
other tales, notwithstanding its general unlikeness.
This book sounds a deeper note than the earlier tales, although
the truth which Mr. Allen sees is not mere fidelity to local types, but
the essential truth of human nature. His realism has always a poetic
aspect. Quiet, reserved, out of the common, his books deal with
moods rather than with actions; their problems are spiritual rather
than physical; their thought tends toward the higher and more diffi-
cult way of life.
A COURTSHIP
From (Summer in Arcady)
TH
He sunlight grew pale the following morning; a shadow crept
rapidly over the blue; bolts darted about the skies like
maddened redbirds; the thunder, ploughing its way down
the dome as along zigzag cracks in the stony street, filled the
caverns of the horizon with reverberations that shook the earth;
and the rain was whirled across the landscape in long, white,
wavering sheets. Then all day quiet and silence throughout
Nature except for the drops, tapping high and low the twinkling
leaves; except for the new melody of woodland and meadow
brooks, late silvery and with a voice only for their pebbles and
moss and mint, but now yellow and brawling and leaping back
into the grassy channels that were their old-time beds; except
for the indoor music of dripping eaves and rushing gutters and
overflowing rain-barrels. And when at last in the gold of the
cool west the sun broke from the edge of the gray, over what a
green, soaked, fragrant world he reared the arch of Nature's
peace!
Not a little blade of corn in the fields but holds in an eme-
rald vase its treasures of white gems. The hemp-stalks bend so
low under the weight of their plumes, that were a vesper spar-
row to alight on one for his evening hymn, it would go with
him to the ground. The leaning barley and rye and wheat flash
in the last rays their jeweled beards. Under the old apple-
trees, golden-brown mushrooms are already pushing upward
through the leaf-loam, rank with many an autumn's dropping.
About the yards the peonies fall with faces earthward. In
the stable-lots the larded porkers, with bristles as clean as frost,


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411
and flesh of pinky whiteness, are hunting with nervous nostrils
for the lush purslain. The fowls are driving their bills up and
down their wet breasts. And the farmers who have been shell-
ing corn for the mill come out of their barns, with their coats
over their shoulders, on the way to supper, look about for the
plough-horses, and glance at the western sky, from which the
last drops are falling.
But soon only a more passionate heat shoots from the sun
into the planet. The plumes of the hemp are so dry again, that
by the pollen shaken from their tops you can trace the young
rabbits making their way out to the dusty paths. The shadows
of white clouds sail over purple stretches of blue-grass, hiding
the sun from the steady eye of the turkey, whose brood is
spread out before her like a fan on the earth. At early. morn-
ing the neighing of the stallions is heard around the horizon; at
noon the bull makes the deep, hot pastures echo with his majes-
tic summons; out in the blazing meadows the butterflies strike
the afternoon air with more impatient wings; under the moon
all night the play of ducks and drakes goes on along the mar-
gins of the ponds. Young people are running away and marry-
ing; middle-aged farmers surprise their wives by looking in on
them at their butter-making in the sweet dairies; and Nature
is lashing everything - grass, fruit, insects, cattle, human creat-
ures — more fiercely onward to the fulfillment of her ends. She
is the great heartless haymaker, wasting not a ray of sunshine
on a clod, but caring naught for the light that beats upon a
throne, and holding man and woman, with their longing for im-
mortality, and their capacities for joy and pain, as of no more
account than a couple of fertilizing nasturtiums.
The storm kept Daphne at home. On the next day the earth
was yellow with sunlight, but there were puddles along the path,
and a branch rushing swollen across the green valley in the
fields. On the third, her mother took the children to town to be
fitted with hats and shoes, and Daphne also, to be freshened up
with various moderate adornments, in view of a protracted meet-
ing soon to begin. On the fourth, some ladies dropped in to
spend the day, bearing in mind the episode at the dinner, and
having grown curious to watch events accordingly. On the fifth,
her father carried out the idea of cutting down some cedar-trees
in the front yard for fence posts; and whenever he was working
about the house, he kept her near to wait on him in unnecessary


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JAMES LANE ALLEN
ways. On the sixth, he rode away with two hands and an empty
wagon-bed for some work on the farm; her mother drove off to
another dinner - dinners never cease in Kentucky, and the wife
of an elder is not free to decline invitations; and at last she was
left alone in the front porch, her face turned with burning eager-
ness toward the fields. In a little while she had slipped away.
All these days Hilary had been eager to see her.
He was
carrying a good many girls in his mind that summer; none in
his heart; but his plans concerning these latter were for the time
forgotten. He hung about that part of his farm from which he
could have descried her in the distance. Each forenoon and
afternoon, at the usual hour of her going to her uncle's, he rode
over and watched for her. Other people passed to and fro, -
children and servants, but not Daphne; and repeated disappoint-
ments fanned his desire to see her.
When she came into sight at last, he was soon walking beside
her, leading his horse by the reins.
“I have been waiting to see you, Daphne,” he said, with a
smile, but general air of seriousness. “I have been waiting a
long time for a chance to talk to you. ”
"And I have wanted to see you,” said Daphne, her face
”
turned away and her voice hardly to be heard. “I have been
waiting for a chance to talk to you. "
The change in her was so great, so unexpected, it contained
an appeal to him so touching, that he glanced quickly at her.
Then he stopped short and looked searchingly around the
meadow.
The thorn-tree is often the only one that can survive on these
pasture lands. Its spikes, even when it is no higher than the
grass, keep off the mouths of grazing stock. As it grows higher,
birds see it standing solitary in the distance and fly to it, as a
resting-place in passing. Some autumn day a seed of the wild
grape is thus dropped near its root; and in time the thorn-tree
and the grape-vine come to thrive together.
As Hilary now looked for some shade to which they could
retreat from the blinding, burning sunlight, he saw one of these
standing off at a distance of a few hundred yards. He slipped
the bridle-reins through the head-stall, and giving his mare
soft slap on the shoulder, turned her loose to graze.
“Come over here and sit down out of the sun,” he said, start-
ing off in his authoritative way. "I want to talk to you. "
a


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413
Daphne followed in his wake, through the deep grass.
When they reached the tree, they sat down under the rayless
boughs. Some sheep lying there ran round to the other side and
stood watching them, with a frightened look in their clear, peace-
ful eyes.
«What's the matter ? ” he said, fanning his face, and tugging
with his forefinger to loosen his shirt collar from his moist neck.
He had the manner of a powerful comrade who means to succor
a weaker one.
Nothing,” said Daphne, like a true woman.
“Yes, but there is,” he insisted. "I got you into trouble. I
didn't think of that when I asked you to dance. ”
“You had nothing to do with it,” retorted Daphne, with a flash.
«I danced for spite. ”
He threw back his head with a peal of laughter. All at once
this was broken off. He sat up, with his eyes fixed on the lower
edge of the meadow.
«Here comes your father,” he said gravely.
Daphne turned. Her father was riding slowly through the
A wagon-bed loaded with rails crept slowly after him.
In an instant the things that had cost her so much toil and
so many tears to arrange, - her explanations, her justifications,
and her parting, -all the reserve and the coldness that she had
laid up in her heart, as one fills high a little ice-house with fear
of far-off summer heat, —all were quite gone, melted away.
And everything that he had planned to tell her was forgotten
also at the sight of that stern figure on horseback bearing un-
consciously down upon them.
"If I had only kept my mouth shut about his old fences,”
he said to himself. “Confound my bull! ” and he looked anx-
iously at Daphne, who sat with her eyes riveted on her father.
The next moment she had turned, and they were laughing in
each other's faces.
“What shall I do? ” she cried, leaning over and burying her
face in her hands, and lifting it again, scarlet with excitement.
« Don't do anything," he said calmly.
“But Hilary, if he sees us, we are lost. ”
“If he sees us, we are found. ”
« But he mustn't see me here! ” she cried, with something
like real terror. “I believe I'll lie down in the grass. Maybe
he'll think I am a friend of yours. ”


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JAMES LANE ALLEN
"My friends all sit up in the grass,” said Hilary.
But Daphne had already hidden.
Many a time, when a little girl, she had amused herself by
screaming like a hawk at the young guineas, and seeing them
cuddle invisible under small tufts and weeds. Out in the stable
lot, where the grass was grazed so close that the geese could
barely nip it, she would sometimes get one of the negro men
to scare the little pigs, for the delight of seeing them squat as
though hidden, when they were no more hidden than if they
had spread themselves out upon so many dinner dishes. All of
us reveal traces of this primitive instinct upon occasion. Daphne
was doing her best to hide now.
When Hilary realized it he moved in front of her, screening
her as well as possible.
(Hadn't you better lie down, too ? ” she asked.
«No,” he replied quickly.
“But if he sees you, he might take a notion to ride over this
way! ”
« Then he'll have to ride. "
"But, Hilary, suppose he were to find me lying down here
behind you, hiding ? ”
«Then he'll have to find you. "
“You get me into trouble, and then you won't help me out! »
exclaimed Daphne with considerable heat.
“It might not make matters any better for me to hide,” he
answered quietly. “But if he comes over here and tries to get
us into trouble, I'll see then what I can do. ”
Daphne lay silent for a moment, thinking. Then she nestled
more closely down, and said with gay, unconscious archness:
" “I'm not hiding because I'm afraid of him. I'm doing it just
because I want to. ”
She did not know that the fresh happiness flushing her at
that moment came from the fact of having Hilary between her-
self and her father as a protector; that she was drinking in the
delight a woman feels in getting playfully behind the man she
loves in the face of danger: but her action bound her to him
and brought her more under his influence.
His words showed that he also felt his position, the position
of the male who stalks forth from the herd and stands the silent
challenger. He was young, and vain of his manhood in the
usual innocent way that led him to carry the chip on his


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JAMES LANE ALLEN
415
shoulder for the world to knock off; and he placed himself
before Daphne with the understanding that if they were discov-
ered, there would be trouble. Her father was a violent man,
and the circumstances were not such that any Kentucky father
would overlook them. But with his inward seriousness, his face
wore its usual look of reckless unconcern.
Is he coming this way? ” asked Daphne, after an interval of
impatient waiting.
“Straight ahead. Are you hid ? »
"I can't see whether I'm hid or not. Where is he now ? »
Right on us. ”
« Does he see you ? ”
« Yes. ”
“Do you think he sees me ? »
“I'm sure of it. ”
«Then I might as well get up,” said Daphne, with the cour-
age of despair, and up she got. Her father was riding along
the path in front of them, but not looking. She was down
again like a partridge.
«How could you fool me, Hilary ? Suppose he had been
looking! ”
“I wonder what he thinks I'm doing, sitting over here in the
grass like a stump,” said Hilary. If he takes me for one, he
must think I've got an awful lot of roots. ”
« Tell me when it's time to get up. ”
«I will. "
He turned softly toward her. She was lying on her side, with
her burning cheek in one hand. The other hand rested high on
the curve of her hip. Her braids had fallen forward, and lay in
a heavy loop about her lovely shoulders. Her eyes were closed,
her scarlet lips parted in a smile. The edges of her snow-white
petticoats showed beneath her blue dress, and beyond these one
of her feet and ankles. Nothing more fragrant with innocence
ever lay on the grass.
"Is it time to get up now ? ”
«Not yet,” and he sat bending over her.
Now ? »
“Not yet,” he repeated more softly.
“Now, then ? ”
“Not for a long time. ”
His voice thrilled her, and she glanced up at him. His laugh-
ing eyes were glowing down upon her under his heavy mat of
C


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JAMES LANE ALLEN
hair. She sat up and looked toward the wagon crawling away in
the distance; her father was no longer in sight.
One of the ewes, dissatisfied with a back view, stamped her
forefoot impatiently, and ran round in front, and out into the
sun. Her lambs followed, and the three, ranging themselves
abreast, stared at Daphne, with a look of helpless inquiry.
« Sh-pp-pp! ” she cried, throwing up her hands at them, irri-
tated. “Go away! ”
They turned and ran; the others followed; and the whole
number, falling into line, took a path meekly homeward. They
left a greater sense of privacy under the tree. Several yards off
was a small stock-pond. Around the edge of this the water
stood hot and green in the tracks of the cattle and the sheep,
and about these pools the yellow butterflies were thick, alighting
daintily on the promontories of the mud, or rising two by two
through the dazzling atmosphere in columns of enamored flight.
Daphne leaned over to the blue grass where it swayed un-
broken in the breeze, and drew out of their sockets several stalks
of it, bearing on their tops the purplish seed-vessels. With them
she began to braid a ring about one of her fingers in the old
simple fashion of the country.
As they talked, he lay propped on his elbow, watching her
fingers, the soft slow movements of which little by little wove a
spell over his eyes. And once again the power of her beauty
began to draw him beyond control. He felt a desire to seize her
hands, to crush them in his. His eyes passed upward along her
tapering wrists, the skin of which was like mother-of-pearl; up-
ward along the arm to the shoulder — to her neck to her deeply
crimsoned cheeks — to the purity of her brow — to the purity of
her eyes, the downcast lashes of which hid them like conscious
fringes.
An awkward silence began to fall between them. Daphne
felt that the time had come for her to speak. But, powerless
to begin, she feigned to busy herself all the more devotedly
with braiding the deep-green circlet. Suddenly he drew himself
through the grass to her side.
“Let me ! »
"No! ” she cried, lifting her arm above his reach and looking
at him with a gay threat. « You don't know how. ”
«I do know how,” he said, with his white teeth on his red
underlip, and his eyes sparkling; and reaching upward, he laid
his hand in the hollow of her elbow and pulled her arm down.


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417
»
»
«No! No! ” she cried again, putting her hands behind her
back. « You will spoil it ! »
“I will not spoil it,” he said, moving so close to her that his
breath was on her face, and reaching round to unclasp her hands.
“No! No! No! ” she cried, bending away from him. I don't
want any ring! ” and she tore it from her finger and threw it out
on the grass. Then she got up, and, brushing the grass-seed off
her lap, put on her hat.
He sat cross-legged on the grass before her. He had put on
his hat, and the brim hid his eyes.
And you are not going to stay and talk to me ? ” he said in
a tone of reproachfulness, without looking up.
She was excited and weak and trembling, and so she put out
her hand and took hold of a strong loop of the grape-vine hang-
ing from a branch of the thorn, and laid her cheek against her
hand and looked away from him.
“I thought you were better than the others,” he continued,
with the bitter wisdom of twenty years. “But you women are
all alike. When a man gets into trouble, you desert him. You
hurry him on to the devil. I have been turned out of the
church, and now you are down on Oh, well! But you
know how much I have always liked you, Daphne. ”
It was not the first time he had acted this character. It had
been a favorite rôle. But Daphne had never seen the like. She
was overwhelmed with happiness that he cared so much for her;
and to have him reproach her for indifference, and see him suf-
fering with the idea that she had turned against him—that
instantly changed the whole situation. He had not heard then
what had taken place at the dinner. Under the circumstances,
feeling certain that the secret of her love had not been dis-
covered, she grew emboldened to risk a little more.
So she turned toward him smiling, and swayed gently as she
clung to the vine.
« Yes; I have my orders not even to speak to you! Never
again! ” she said, with the air of tantalizing.
« Then stay with me a while now," he said, and lifted slowly
to her his appealing face. She sat down, and screened herself
with a little feminine transparency.
"I can't stay long: it's going to rain! ”
He cast a wicked glance at the sky from under his hat; there
were a few clouds on the horizon.
me.
»
1-27


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JAMES LANE ALLEN
“And so you are never going to speak to me again ? ” he
said mournfully.
“Never! » How delicious her laughter was.
“I'll put a ring on your finger to remember me by. ”
He lay over in the grass and pulled several stalks. Then he
lifted his eyes beseechingly to hers.
“Will you let me ? ”
Daphne hid her hands. He drew himself to her side and
took one of them forcibly from her lap.
With a slow, caressing movement he began to braid the
grass ring around her finger- in and out, around and around,
his fingers laced with her fingers, his palm lying close upon her
palm, his blood tingling through the skin upon her blood. He
made the braiding go wrong, and took it off and began , over
again. Two or three times she drew a deep breath, and stole a
bewildered look at his face, which was so close to hers that his
hair brushed it—so close that she heard the quiver of his own
breath. Then all at once he folded his hands about hers with a
quick, fierce tenderness, and looked up at her. She turned her
face aside and tried to draw her hand away. His clasp tight-
ened. She snatched it away, and got up with a nervous laugh.
« Look at the butterflies! Aren't they pretty ? ”
He sprang up and tried to seize her hand again.
“You shan't go home yet! ” he said, in an undertone.
«Shan't I? ” she said, backing away from him. “Who's
going to keep me ? »
"I am,” he said, laughing excitedly and following her closely.
“My father's coming! " she cried out as a warning.
He turned and looked: there was no one in sight.
“He is coming sooner or later! she called.
She had retreated several yards off into the sunlight of the.
meadow.
The remembrance of the risk that he was causing her to run
checked him. He went over to her.
“When can I see you again — soon? ”
He had never spoken so seriously to her before. He had
never before been so serious. But within the last hour Nature
had been doing her work, and its effect was immediate. His
sincerity instantly conquered her. Her eyes fell.
“No one has any right to keep us from seeing each other! "
he insisted. “We must settle that for ourselves. »
>>


## p. 419 (#453) ############################################

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419
(
Daphne made no reply.
“But we can't meet here any more - with people passing
backward and forward! ” he continued rapidly and decisively.
“What has happened to-day mustn't happen again. ”
“No! ” she replied, in a voice barely to be heard. “It must
never happen again. We can't meet here. "
They were walking side by side now toward the meadow-
path. As they reached it he paused.
“Come to the back of the pasture — to-morrow! - at four
o'clock! ” he said, tentatively, recklessly.
Daphne did not answer as she moved away from him along
the path homeward.
“Will you come ? ” he called out to her.
She turned and shook her head.