no way of knowing that Glogo was anywhere near; but apparently Bobo had some way of knowing, for he began to talk. “Glogo, I fell out of a tree and hurt myself, and these big people have been helping me. They are very good and kind people; they love the trees, and help to take care of them, so please forgive me for letting them carry me.” Again a silence, and Bobo seemed to find something in it to frighten him, for he went on anxiously: “They are not at all like the other people, Glogo. They have never cut down a tree, and they have been so polite—please forgive them, Glogo.”
Again there was a pause; until from somewhere in a big clump of azaleas came a voice, deeper than Bobo’s, and stern, in spite of its lack of volume: “Tell the big people to put you down and go away.”
“But, Glogo, that is not polite.”
“The big people are never polite. They are murderers.”
“No, Glogo, these are very wise people. Rodney is a student, and can tell you many things about the world.” Again a pause. “Please answer, Glogo.”
“I do not want to know anything that the big people have to tell.”
“Believe me, Glogo, Rodney knows many useful things. He can tell you about this forest, that it is a state park and will never be destroyed.”
“He himself will be destroyed, and his state, and its parks.”
Again there was a silence. Bobo began to plead, with fear in his voice—thinking perhaps that these strange big people might take offense and go away. “Believe me, Glogo, these people have ways of learning many things; they have ways of going about—Rodney will take us, and help us to find some other gnomes in some other forest. They really want to help us.”
“The gnomes were happy and they did not have the help of the big people. All the big people can do for us is to go away, as far away as possible.”
Bobo looked up at Elizabeth, and she saw there were tears in his eyes. Rodney saw it too, and took a step forward. “Let me speak,” he said. And, addressing the clump of azaleas, he began:
“I know that we big people have been very stupid and cruel. There are a few of us trying to change that, and having an unhappy time. It may be that we shall fail entirely, I cannot promise. But I have tried in my feeble way. I bought one tract of these redwood forests, and gave it to the state, to be protected forever; I can take you and show you the place on the highway where my name is written on a bronze plate. So you ought to be a little grateful to me, Glogo, in spite of my having the misfortune to be born so big.”
Said the stern voice out of the azalea clump: “There is nothing I can do for you.”
“You are mistaken, Glogo. I am a student, and I have been visiting the forests, trying to learn to talk to the trees. You can teach me.”
“How do you know I can talk to the trees?”
“I know that no wise person like yourself can live in the forest for a thousand years without learning to talk to all living things. I know that the trees have souls like persons.”
“They are not at all like persons! Their souls are kind. When did a tree ever make a sharp ax to destroy things? A tree builds. It labors without rest, day and night. It performs mighty labors. It draws the sap up from the ground, and builds it into bark and heartwood and branches and leaves.”
“Yes, Glogo. And the greatest scientist in the whole world does not know by what means the tree does that. How can a tree know which is the place for bark and which for leaf? By what means does it know that it has been wounded, and send the sap to build new bark and new heartwood?”
“A tree knows all the things which a tree needs for its own life, and for the life of the future, the billions of precious seeds which it makes.”
“How does a tree speak to you, Glogo? Does it use words?”
“A tree has no tongue with which to make words. A tree speaks in actions. If you love it and live with it, its spirit becomes one with yours and you understand it, and hate the madmen who murder it.”
“Listen to me, Glogo. You are old and wise, and I am nothing but a child. I have lived only twenty-three years—and what can one learn in that time? I beg you humbly to tell me the secrets of the forest; and perhaps I can go back and teach them to men, and they will be less mad than they have been in the past.”
Said the stern voice, after a pause: “You are asking me to break the rule of a million years. It is not only myself, it is all the generations of the gnomes who forbid me.”
“But, Glogo, if a rule does not work—is not a million years’ trial enough? This rule has left only you and Bobo; and what is going to become of him when you are gone?”
“Do not say that!” cried the voice from the azalea clump, in what seemed anger.
“But it is true, Glogo. What is going to become of the race of gnomes, if you do not find a wife for your grandson?”
There came only a moan out of the bushes.
“You have thought of that, Glogo?”
The answer came, almost a whisper: “I have thought of nothing else for many years.”
“That is why you are so unhappy?”
“I am the most unhappy of living things.”
“But, Glogo,” broke in Bobo, “you don’t have to worry about me. I’m not missing a wife.”
“Foolish boy,” said the voice. “All the future of the gnomes is missing your wife.”
A long silence. Said Rodney at last: “I wish I could say that I know where there are other gnomes. But, as you know, they hide themselves from men. All that I can say is, I will be your friend if you will let me, and I will do everything in my power to search the forests and find more of your people. I will do that, whether or not you consent to teach me the wisdom of your forest.”
For the first time the hidden voice showed signs of weakening. “That is fairly spoken. But do men ever mean what their words say?”
“But,” argued the young man, “if we meant harm to you, we already have Bobo in our power. And as for you—when one has lived a thousand years, has he so much to risk?”
“It is true.” And suddenly the bushes were parted, and there came out a figure of the same size as Bobo, with the same short trousers and little brown peaked cap. But the face of this little creature was longer, and had wrinkles in it, and a straggly gray beard reaching almost to the waist. “I am here,” said Glogo. “I will try to be your friend.”
“I thank you, sir,” said Rodney, with a grave bow, which the old gnome gravely returned. “My name is Rodney; and this my little niece, Elizabeth.” Again the old gnome bowed.
“And now,” continued Rodney, “I think we should make ourselves comfortable, so that we may talk.” He spread the robe on the floor of the forest, and Elizabeth set Bobo down.
“Are you hurt?” demanded the old one; and Bobo answered that he was all right now, and proved it by jumping up.
Elizabeth and Rodney seated themselves;
