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“Beats all,” he said to me that night, “how thoughtful some dogs is. Hadn’t been fer George to-day, I’d clean forgot them leetle folks. I see him scratching raound in the leaves an’ I knowed right away what he wuz thinkin’ of.”

Often when I was sketching in the dense forest, Jonathan would lie down beside me, the old flop of a hat under his head, his talk rambling on.

“I don’t wonder ye like to paint ’em. Thar hain’t nothin’ so human as trees. Take thet big hemlock right in front er yer. Hain’t he led a pretty decent life? See how praoud an’ tall he’s growed, with them arms of his’n straight aout an’ them leetle chillen of his’n spraouting up raound him. I tell ye them hemlocks is pretty decent people. Now take a look at them two white birches down by thet big rock. Ain’t it a shame the way them fellers hez been goin’ on sence they wuz leetle saplin’s, makin’ it so nothin’ could grow raound ’em,–with their jackets all ragged an’ tore like tramps, an’ their toes all out of their shoes whar ther roots is stickin’ clear of the bark,–ain’t they a-ketchin’ it in their ole age? An’ then foller on daown whar thet leetle bunch er silver maples is dancin’ in the sunlight, so slender an’ cunnin’,–all aout in their summer dresses, julluk a bevy er young gals,–ain’t they human like? I tell ye, trees is the humanest things thet is.”

These talks with me made George restless. He was never happy unless Jonathan had him on his mind.

But it was a cluster of daisies that first lifted the inner lid of Jonathan’s heart for me. I was away up the side of the Notch overlooking the valley, my easel and canvas lashed to a tree, the wind blew so, when Jonathan came toiling up the slope, a precipice in fact, with a tin can strapped to his back, filled with hot corn and some doughnuts, and threw himself beside me, the sweat running down his weather-tanned neck.

“So long ez we know whar you’re settin’ at work it ain’t nat’ral to let ye starve, be it?” throwing himself beside me. George had started ahead of him and had been picked up and carried as usual.

When Jonathan sat upright, after a breathing spell, his eye fell on a tuft of limp, bruised daisies, flattened to the earth by the heel of his clumsy shoe. There were acres of others in sight.

“Gosh hang!” he said, catching his breath suddenly, as if something had stung him, and reaching down with his horny, bent fingers, “ef thet ain’t too bad.” Then to himself in a tone barely audible,–he had entirely forgotten my presence,–“You never had no sense, Jonathan, nohow, stumblin’ raound like er bull calf tramplin’ everything. Jes’ see what ye’ve gone an’ done with them big feet er yourn,” bending over the bruised plant and tenderly adjusting the leaves. “Them daisies hez got jest ez good a right ter live ez you hev.”

* * * * *

I was almost sure when I began that I had a story to tell. I had thought of that one about Luke Pollard,–the day Luke broke his leg behind Loon Mountain, and Jonathan carried him down the gorge on his back, crossing ledges that would have scared a goat. It was snowing at the time, they said, and blowing a gale. When they got half way down White Face, Jonathan’s foot slipped and he fell into the ravine, breaking his wrist. Only the drifts saved his life. Luke caught a sapling and held on. The doctor set Jonathan’s wrist last, and Luke never knew it had been broken until the next day. It is one of the stories they tell you around the stove winter evenings.

“Julluk the night Jonathan carried aout Luke,” they say, listening to the wind howling over the ledges.

And then I thought of that other story that Hank Simons told me,–the one about the mill back of Woodstock caving in from the freshet and burying the miller’s girl. No one dared lift the timbers until Jonathan crawled in. The child was pinned down between the beams, and the water rose so fast they feared the wreckage would sweep the mill. Jonathan clung to the sills waist-deep in the torrent, crept under the floor timbers, and then bracing his back held the beam until he dragged her clear. It happened a good many years ago, but Hank always claimed it had bent Jonathan’s back.

But, after all, they are not the things I love best to remember of Jonathan.

It is always the old man’s voice, crooning his tuneless song as he trudges home in the twilight, his well-filled creel at his side,–the good-for-nothing dog in his arms; or it is that look of sweet contentment on his face,–the deep and thoughtful eyes, filled with the calm serenity of his soul. And then the ease and freedom of his life! Plenty of air and space, and plenty of time to breathe and move! Having nothing, possessing all things! No bonds to guard,–no cares to stifle,–no trains to catch,–no appointments to keep,–no fashions to follow,–no follies to shun! Only the old wife and worthless, lazy dog, and the rod and the creel! Only the blessed sunshine and fresh, sweet air, and the cool touch of deep woods.

No, there is no story–only Jonathan.