Frank Stockton - The Associate Hermits

“It is idiotic, isn’t it?” said Mr. Archibald. “It is gloriously idiotic, and it will do us both a world of good. It is such a complete and perfect change that I don’t wonder you laugh.” Then he laughed himself, clearly and loudly, and turned over on his side and went to sleep.

Mrs. Archibald felt certain that she would not sleep another wink that night, but she did sleep seven hours and a half, and was awakened by Margery singing outside her window.

No thoughts of idiocy crossed the minds of any of the camping party during their first breakfast under the great oak-tree. The air, the sunlight, the rippling waters of the lake, the white clouds in the blue sky, the great trunks of the trees, the rustling of the leaves, the songs of the birds, the hum of insects, the brightness of everything, their wonderful appetites – the sense of all these things more than filled their minds.

For the greater part of that day Mr. Archibald fished, sometimes in a stream which ran into the head of the lake about a quarter of a mile above the camp, and sometimes on the shores of the lake itself. Margery sketched; her night in the studio had filled her with dreams of art, and she had discovered in a corner a portable easel made of hickory sticks with the bark on, and she had tucked some drawing materials into one of her bags.

Mrs. Archibald was a little tired with her journey of the day before, and contented herself with sitting in the shade in pleasant places, occupied with some needle-work she had brought with her, and trying to discipline her mind to habits of happiness in camp. This was not very difficult during the first part of this beautiful day, but towards the end of the afternoon she began to think less of the joys of a free life in the heart of nature and more of the pleasure of putting on her bonnet and going out to make some calls upon her friends. In this state of mind it pleased her to see Phil Matlack coming towards her.

“Would you like a cup of tea, ma’am?” said he.

“No, thank you,” she answered. “It would seem rather odd to have afternoon tea in the woods, and I really don’t care for it.”

“We can have ’most anything in the woods, ma’am,” said Matlack, “that we can have anywhere else, providin’ you don’t mind what sort of fashion you have it in. I thought it might be sort of comfortin’ to you to have a cup of tea. I’ve noticed that in most campin’ parties of the family order there’s generally one or two of them that’s lonesome the first day; and the fact is I don’t count on anything particular bein’ done on the first day in camp, except when the party is regular hunters or fishermen. It’s just as well for some of them to sit round on the first day and let things soak into them, provided it isn’t rain, and the next day they will have a more natural feelin’ about what they really want to do. Now I expect you will be off on some sort of a tramp to-morrow, ma’am, or else be out in the boat; and as for that young lady, she’s not goin’ to sketch no more after to-day. She’s got young Martin out in the boat, restin’ on his oars, while she’s puttin’ him into her picture. She’s rubbed him out so often that I expect he’ll fall asleep and tumble overboard, or else drop one of his oars.”

“Mr. Matlack,” said Mrs. Archibald, “will you please sit down a moment? I want to ask you something.”

“Certainly, ma’am,” said he, and forthwith seated himself on a log near by, picking up a stick as he did so, and beginning to shave the bark from it with his pocket-knife.

“Do you know,” said she, “if there are panthers in these woods?”

Matlack looked up at her quickly. “I expect you heard them walkin’ about your cabin last night,” said he; “and not only panthers, but most likely a bear or two, and snakes rustlin’ in the leaves; and, for all I know, coons or ’possums climbin’ in and out of the window.”

“Oh, nothing so bad as that,” she replied. “I only thought – ”

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he interrupted. “I didn’t mean that you heard all those things, but most likely a part of them. Hardly any family parties goes into camp that some of them don’t hear wild beasts the first night. But they never come no more. Them kind of wild beasts I call first-nighters, and they’re about the worst kind we’ve got, because they really do hurt people by scratchin’ and clawin’ at their nerves, whereas the real wild beasts in these parts – and they’re mighty scarce, and never come near camp – don’t hurt nobody.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said she. “But what on earth can be keeping Mr. Archibald? When he started out after dinner he said he would be back very soon.”

“Oh, he’s got the fever, ma’am,” said Matlack.

“Fever!” exclaimed Mrs. Archibald, dropping her work in her lap.

“Oh, don’t be frightened,” said he; “it is only the fishin’ fever. It don’t hurt anybody; it only keeps the meals waitin’. You see, we are pretty nigh the first people out this year, and the fish bite lively. Are you fond of fishin’, ma’am?”

“No, indeed,” said she; “I dislike it. I think it is cruel and slimy and generally unpleasant.”

“I expect you’ll spend most of your time in the boat,” suggested Matlack. “Your husband rows, don’t he?”

“He doesn’t row me,” said Mrs. Archibald, with earnestness. “I never go out in a boat except with a regular boatman. I suppose you have a larger boat than the one that young man is in? I can see it from here, and it looks very small.”

“No, ma’am,” said Matlack; “that’s the only one we’ve got. And now I guess I’ll go see about supper. This has been a lazy day for us, but we always do calc’late on a lazy day to begin with.”

“It strikes me,” said Matlack to himself, as he walked away, “that this here camp will come to an end pretty soon. The man and the young woman could stand it for a couple of weeks, but there’s nothing here for the old lady, and it can’t be long before she’ll have us all out of the woods again.”

“You can come in,” called Margery, about ten minutes after this conversation; and young Martin, who had not the least idea of going to sleep in the boat, dipped his oars in the water and rowed ashore, pulled the boat up on the beach, and then advanced to the spot where Margery was preparing to put away her drawing materials.

“Would you mind letting me see your sketch?” said he.

“Oh no,” said she; “but you’ll see it isn’t very much like the scene itself. When I make a drawing from nature I never copy everything I see just as if I were making a photograph. I suppose you think I ought to draw the boat just as it is, but I always put something of my own in my pictures. And that, you see, is a different kind of a boat from the one you were in. It is something like Venetian boats.”

“It isn’t like anything in this part of the world, that is true,” said the young man, as he held the drawing in his hand; “and if it had been more like a gondola it would not have suited the scene. I think you have caught the spirit of the landscape very well; but if you don’t object to a little criticism, I should say that the shore over there is too near the foreground. It seems to me that the picture wants atmosphere; that would help the distance very much.”

“Do you draw?” asked Margery, in surprise.

“I used to be very fond of sketching,” said he. “I stayed at Sadler’s a good part of the last winter, and when I wasn’t out hunting I made a good many drawings of winter scenes. I would be glad to show them to you when we go back.”

“Well,” said she, “if I had known you were an artist I would not have asked you to go out there and sit as a model.”