That afternoon our expedition, in two sections, moved
forward. The first section comprised myself and all the mules; the second
section was commanded by Professor Smawl, followed by Professor Van Twiller,
armed with a tiny shot-gun. William, loaded down with the ladies’ toilet
articles, skulked in the rear. I say skulked; there was no other word for
“So you’re a guide, are you?” observed Professor Smawl
when William, cap in hand, had approached her with well-meant advice. “The
woods are full of lazy guides. Pick up those Gladstone bags! I’ll do the
guiding for this expedition.”
Made cautious by William’s humiliation, I associated with
the mules exclusively. Nevertheless, Professor Smawl had her hard eyes
on me, and I realized she meant mischief.
The encounter took place just as I, driving the five mules,
entered the great mountain gateway, thrilled with anticipation which almost
amounted to foreboding. As I was about to set foot across the imaginary
frontier which divided the world from the unknown land, Professor Smawl
hailed me and I halted until she came up.
“As commander of this expedition,” she said, somewhat
out of breath, “I desire to be the first living creature who has ever set
foot behind the Graham Glacier. Kindly step aside, young sir!”
“Madam,” said I, rigid with disappointment, “my guide,
William Spike, entered that unknown land a year ago.”
“He says he did,” sneered Professor Smawl.
“As you like,” I replied; “but it is scarcely generous
to forestall the person whose stupidity gave you the clew to this unexplored
“You mean yourself?” she asked, with a stony stare.
“I do,” said I, firmly.
Her little, hard eyes grew harder, and she clutched her
umbrella until the steel ribs crackled.
“Young man,” she said, insolently; “if I could have gotten
rid of you I should have done so the day I was appointed president. But
Professor Farrago refused to resign unless your position was assured, subject,
of course, to your good behavior. Frankly, I don’t like you, and I consider
your views on science ridiculous, and if an opportunity presents itself
I will be most happy to request your resignation. Kindly collect your mules
and follow me.”
Mortified beyond measure, I collected my mules and followed
my president into the strange country behind the Hudson Mountains—I who
had aspired to lead, compelled to follow in the rear, driving mules.
The journey was monotonous at first, but we shortly ascended
a ridge from which we could see, stretching out below us, the wilderness
where, save the feet of William Spike, no human feet had passed.
As for me, tingling with enthusiasm, I forgot my chagrin,
I forgot the gross injustice, I forgot my mules.
“Excelsior!” I cried, running up and down the ridge in
uncontrollable excitement at the sublime spectacle of forest, mountain,
and valley all set with little lakes.
“Excelsior!” repeated an excited voice at my side, and
Professor Van Twiller sprang to the ridge beside me, her eyes bright as
Exalted, inspired by the mysterious beauty of the view,
we clasped hands and ran up and down the grassy ridge.
“That will do,” said Professor Smawl, coldly, as we raced
about like a pair of distracted kittens. The chilling voice broke the spell;
I dropped Professor Van Twiller’s hand and sat down on a bowlder, aching
Late that afternoon we halted beside a tiny lake, deep
in the unknown wilderness, where purple and scarlet bergamot choked the
shores and the spruce-partridge strutted fearlessly under our very feet.
Here we pitched our two tents. The afternoon sun slanted through the pines;
the lake glittered; acres of golden brake perfumed the forest silence,
broken only at rare intervals by the distant thunder of a partridge drumming.
Professor Smawl ate heavily and retired to her tent to
lie torpid until evening. William drove the unloaded mules into an
intervale full of sun-cured, fragrant grasses; I sat down beside Professor
The wilderness is electric. Once within the influence
of its currents, human beings become positively or negatively charged,
violently attracting or repelling each other.
“There is something the matter with this air,” said Professor
Van Twiller. “It makes me feel as though I were desperately enamoured of
the entire human race.”
She leaned back against a pine, smiling vaguely, and crossing
one knee over the other.
Now I am not bold by temperament, and, normally, I fear
ladies. Therefore it surprised me to hear myself begin a frivolous causerie,
replying to her pretty epigrams with epigrams of my own, advancing to the
borderland of badinage, fearlessly conducting her and myself over that
delicate frontier to meet upon the terrain of undisguised flirtation.
It was clear that she was out for a holiday. The seriousness
and restraints of twenty-two years she had left behind her in the civilized
world, and now, with a shrug of her young shoulders, she unloosened her
burden of reticence, dignity, and responsibility and let the whole load
fall with a discreet thud.
“Even hares go mad in March,” she said, seriously. “I
know you intend to flirt with me—and I don’t care. Anyway, there’s nothing
else to do, is there?”
“Suppose,” said I, solemnly, “I should take you behind
that big tree and attempt to kiss you!”
The prospect did not appear to appall her, so I looked
around with that sneaking yet conciliatory caution peculiar to young men
who are novices in the art. Before I had satisfied myself that neither
William nor the mules were observing us, Professor Van Twiller rose to
her feet and took a short step backward.
“Let’s set traps for a dingue,” she said, “will you?”
I looked at the big tree, undecided. “Come on,” she said;
“I’ll show you how.” And away we went into the woods, she leading, her
kilts flashing through the golden half-light.
Now I had not the faintest notion how to trap the dingue,
but Professor Van Twiller asserted that it formerly fed on the tender tips
of the spruce, quoting Darwin as her authority.
So we gathered a bushel of spruce-tips, piled them on
the bank of a little stream, then built a miniature stockade around the
bait, a foot high. I roofed this with hemlock, then laboriously whittled
out and adjusted a swinging shutter for the entrance, setting it on springy
“The dingue, you know, was supposed to live in the water,”
she said, kneeling beside me over our trap.
I took her little hand and thanked her for the information.
“Doubtless,” she said, enthusiastically, “a dingue will
come out of the lake to-night to feed on our spruce-tips. Then,” she added,
“we’ve got him.”
“True!” I said, earnestly, and pressed her fingers very
Her face was turned a little away; I don’t remember what
she said; I don’t remember that she said anything. A faint rose-tint stole
over her cheek. A few moments later she said: “You must not do that again.”
It was quite late when we strolled back to camp. Long
before we came in sight of the twin tents we heard a deep voice bawling
our names. It was Professor Smawl, and she pounced upon Dorothy and drove
her ignominiously into the tent.
“As for you,” she said, in hollow tones, “you may explain
your conduct at once, or place your resignation at my disposal.”
But somehow or other I appeared to be temporarily lost
to shame, and I only smiled at my infuriated president, and entered my
own tent with a step that was distinctly frolicsome.
“Billy,” said I to William Spike, who regarded me morosely
from the depths of the tent, “I’m going out to bag a mammoth to-morrow,
so kindly clean my elephant-gun and bring an axe to chop out the tusks.”
That night Professor Smawl complained bitterly of the
cooking, but as neither Dorothy nor I knew how to improve it, she revenged
herself on us by eating everything on the table and retiring to bed, taking
Dorothy with her.
I could not sleep very well; the mosquitoes were intrusive,
and Professor Smawl dreamed she was a pack of wolves and yelped in her
“Bird, ain’t she?” said William, roused from slumber by
her weird noises.
Dorothy, much frightened, crawled out of her tent, where
her blanket-mate still dreamed dyspeptically, and William and I made her
comfortable by the camp-fire.
It takes a pretty girl to look pretty half asleep in a
“Are you sure you are quite well?” I asked her.
To make sure, I tested her pulse. For an hour it varied
more or less, but without alarming either of us. Then she went back to
bed and I sat alone by the campfire.
Towards midnight I suddenly began to feel that strange,
distant vibration that I had once before felt. As before, the vibration
grew on the still air, increasing in volume until it became a sound, then
died out into silence.
I rose and stole into my tent.
William, white as death, lay in his corner, weeping in
I roused him remorselessly, and he sat up scowling, but
refused to tell me what he had been dreaming.
“Was it about that third thing you saw—” I began. But
he snarled up at me like a startled animal, and I was obliged to go to
bed and toss about and speculate.
The next morning it rained. Dorothy and I visited our
dingue-trap but found nothing in it. We were inclined, however, to stay
out in the rain behind a big tree, but Professor Smawl vetoed that proposition
and sent me off to supply the larder with fresh meat.
I returned, mad and wet, with a dozen partridges and a
white hare—brown at that season—and William cooked them vilely.
“I can taste the feathers!” said Professor Smawl, indignantly.
“There is no accounting for taste,” I said, with a polite
gesture of deprecation; “personally, I find feathers unpalatable.”
“You may hand in your resignation this evening!” cried
Professor Smawl, in hollow tones of passion.
I passed her the pancakes with a cheerful smile, and flippantly
pressed the hand next me. Unexpectedly it proved to be William’s sticky
fist, and Dorothy and I laughed until her tears ran into Professor Smawl’s
coffee-cup—an accident which kindled her wrath to red heat, and she requested
my resignation five times during the evening.
The next day it rained again, more or less. Professor
Smawl complained of the cooking, demanded my resignation, and finally marched
out to explore, lugging the reluctant William with her. Dorothy and I sat
down behind the largest tree we could find.
I don’t remember what we were saying when a peculiar sound
interrupted us, and we listened earnestly.
It was like a bell in the woods, ding-dong! ding-dong!
ding-dong!—a low, mellow, golden harmony, coming nearer, then stopping.
I clasped Dorothy in my arms in my excitement.
“It is the note of the dingue!” I whispered, “and that
explains its name, handed down from remote ages along with the names of
the behemoth and the coney. It was because of its bell-like cry that
it was named! Darling!” I cried, forgetting our short acquaintance, “we
have made a discovery that the whole world will ring with!”
Hand in hand we tiptoed through the forest to our trap.
There was something in it that took fright at our approach and rushed panic-stricken
round and round the interior of the trap, uttering its alarm-note, which
sounded like the jangling of a whole string of bells.
I seized the strangely beautiful creature; it neither
attempted to bite nor scratch, but crouched in my arms, trembling and eying
Delighted with the lovely, tame animal, we bore it tenderly
back to the camp and placed it on my blanket. Hand in hand we stood before
it, awed by the sight of this beast, so long believed to be extinct.
“It is too good to be true,” sighed Dorothy, clasping
her white hands under her chin and gazing at the dingue in rapture.
“Yes,” said I, solemnly, “you and I, my child, are face
to face with the fabled dingue— Dingus solitarius! Let us continue to gaze
at it, reverently, prayerfully, humbly—”
Dorothy yawned—probably with excitement.
We were still mutely adoring the dingue when Professor
Smawl burst into the tent at a hand-gallop, bawling hoarsely for her kodak
Dorothy seized her triumphantly by the arm and pointed
at the dingue, which appeared to be frightened to death.
“What!” cried Professor Smawl, scornfully; “that a dingue?
“Madam,” I said, firmly, “it is a dingue! It’s a monodactyl!
See! It has but a single toe!”
“Bosh!” she retorted; “it’s got four!”
“Four!” I repeated, blankly.
“Yes; one on each foot!”
“Of course,” I said; “you didn’t suppose a monodactyl
meant a beast with one leg and one toe!”
But she laughed hatefully and declared it was a woodchuck.
We squabbled for a while until I saw the significance
of her attitude. The unfortunate woman wished to find a dingue first and
be accredited with the discovery.
I lifted the dingue in both hands and shook the creature
gently, until the chiming ding-dong of its protestations filled our ears
like sweet bells jangled out of tune.
Pale with rage at this final proof of the dingue’s identity,
she seized her camera and note-book.
“I haven’t any time to waste over that musical woodchuck!”
she shouted, and bounced out of the tent.
“What have you discovered, dear?” cried Dorothy, running
“A mammoth!” bawled Professor Smawl, triumphantly; “and
I’m going to photograph him!”
Neither Dorothy nor I believed her. We watched the flight
of the infatuated woman in silence.
And now, at last, the tragic shadow falls over my paper
as I write. I was never passionately attached to Professor Smawl, yet I
would gladly refrain from chronicling the episode that must follow if,
as I have hitherto attempted, I succeed in sticking to the unornamented
I have said that neither Dorothy nor I believed her. I
don’t know why, unless it was that we had not yet made up our minds to
believe that the mammoth still existed on earth. So, when Professor Smawl
disappeared in the forest, scuttling through the underbrush like a demoralized
hen, we viewed her flight with unconcern. There was a large tree
in the neighborhood—a pleasant shelter in case of rain. So we sat down
behind it, although the sun was shining fiercely.
It was one of those peaceful afternoons in the wilderness
when the whole forest dreams, and the shadows are asleep and every little
leaflet takes a nap. Under the still tree-tops the dappled sunlight,
motionless, soaked the sod; the forest-flies no longer whirled in circles,
but sat sunning their wings on slender twig-tips.
The heat was sweet and spicy; the sun drew out the delicate
essence of gum and sap, warming volatile juices until they exhaled through
the aromatic bark.
The sun went down into the wilderness; the forest stirred
in its sleep; a fish splashed in the lake. The spell was broken. Presently
the wind began to rise somewhere far away in the unknown land. I heard
it coming, nearer, nearer— a brisk wind that grew heavier and blew harder
as it neared us—a gale that swept distant branches—a furious gale that
set limbs clashing and cracking, nearer and nearer. Crack! and the gale
grew to a hurricane, trampling trees like dead twigs! Crack! Crackle! Crash!
Was it the wind?
With the roaring in my ears I sprang up, staring into
the forest vista, and at the same instant, out of the crashing forest,
sped Professor Smawl, skirts tucked up, thin legs flying like bicycle-spokes.
I shouted, but the crashing drowned my voice. Then all at once the solid
earth began to shake, and with the rush and roar of a tornado
a gigantic living thing burst out of the forest before
our eyes—a vast shadowy bulk that rocked and rolled along, mowing down
trees in its course.
Two great crescents of ivory curved from its head; its
back swept through the tossing tree-tops. Once it bellowed like a gun fired
from a high bastion.
The apparition passed with the noise of thunder rolling
on towards the ends of the earth. Crack! crash went the trees, the tempest
swept away in a rolling volley of reports, distant, more distant, until,
long after the tumult had deadened, then ceased, the stunned forest echoed
with the fall of mangled branches slowly dropping.
That evening an agitated young couple sat close together
in the deserted camp, calling timidly at intervals for Professor Smawl
and William Spike. I say timidly, because it is correct; we did not care
to have a mammoth respond to our calls. The lurking echoes across the lake
answered our cries; the full moon came up over the forest to look at us.
We were not much to look at. Dorothy was moistening my shoulder with unfeigned
tears, and I, afraid to light the fire, sat hunched up under the common
blanket, wildly examining the darkness around us.
Chilled to the spinal marrow, I watched the gray lights
whiten in the east. A single bird awoke in the wilderness. I saw the nearer
trees looming in the mist, and the silver fog rolling on the lake.
All night long the darkness had vibrated with the strange
monotone which I had heard the first night, camping at the gate of the
unknown land. My brain seemed to echo that subtle harmony which rings in
the auricular labyrinth after sound has ceased.
There are ghosts of sound which return to haunt long after
sound is dead. It was these voiceless spectres of a voice long dead that
stirred the transparent silence, intoning toneless tones.
I think I make myself clear.
It was an uncanny night; morning whitened the east; gray
daylight stole into the woods, blotting the shadows to paler tints. It
was nearly mid-day before the sun became visible through the fine-spun
web of mist—a pale spot of gilt in the zenith.
By this pallid light I labored to strike the two empty
tents, gather up our equipments and pack them on our five mules. Dorothy
aided me bravely, whimpering when I spoke of Professor Smawl and William
Spike, but abating nothing of her industry until we had the mules loaded
and I was ready to drive them, Heaven knows whither.
“Where shall we go?” quavered Dorothy, sitting on a log
with the dingue in her lap.
One thing was certain; this mammoth-ridden land was no
place for women, and I told her so.
We placed the dingue in a basket and tied it around the
leading mule’s neck. Immediately the dingue, alarmed, began dingling like
a cow-bell. It acted like a charm on the other mules, and they gravely
filed off after their leader, following the bell. Dorothy and I, hand in
hand, brought up the rear.
I shall never forget that scene in the forest—the gray
arch of the heavens swimming in mist through which the sun peered shiftily,
the tall pines wavering through the fog, the preoccupied mules marching
single file, the foggy bell-note of the gentle dingue in its swinging basket,
and Dorothy, limp kilts dripping with dew, plodding through the white dusk.
We followed the terrible tornado-path which the mammoth
had left in its wake, but there were no traces of its human victims—neither
one jot of Professor Smawl nor one solitary tittle of William Spike.
And now I would be glad to end this chapter if I could;
I would gladly leave myself as I was, there in the misty forest, with an
arm encircling the slender body of my little companion, and the mules moving
in a monotonous line, and the dingue discreetly jingling—but again that
menacing shadow falls across my page, and truth bids me tell all, and I,
the slave of accuracy, must remember my vows as the dauntless disciple
Towards sunset—or that pale parody of sunset which set
the forest swimming in a ghastly, colorless haze—the mammoth’s trail of
ruin brought us suddenly out of the trees to the shore of a great sheet
It was a desolate spot; northward a chaos of sombre peaks
rose, piled up like thunder-clouds along the horizon; east and south the
darkening wilderness spread like a pall. Westward, crawling out into the
mist from our very feet, the gray waste of water moved under the dull sky,
and flat waves slapped the squatting rocks, heavy with slime.
And now I understood why the trail of the mammoth continued
straight into the lake, for on either hand lack, filthy tamarack swamps
lay under ghostly sheets of mist. I strove to creep out into the bog, seeking
a footing, but the swamp quaked and the smooth surface trembled like jelly
in a bowl. A stick thrust into the dime sank into unknown depths.
Vaguely alarmed, I gained the firm land again and looked
around, believing there was no road open but the desolate trail we had
traversed. But I was in error; already the leading mule was wading out
into the water, and the others, one by one, followed.
How wide the lake might be we could not tell, because
the band of fog hung across the water like a curtain. Yet out into this
flat, shallow void our mules went steadily, slop! slop! slop! in single
file. Already they were growing indistinct in the fog, so I bade Dorothy
hasten and take off her shoes and stockings.
She was ready before I was, I having to unlace my shooting-boots,
and she stepped out into the water, kilts fluttering, moving her white
feet cautiously. In a moment I was beside her, and we waded forward, sounding
the shallow water with our poles.
When the water had risen to Dorothy’s knees I hesitated,
alarmed. But when we attempted to retrace our steps we could not find the
shore again, for the blank mist shrouded everything, and the water deepened
at every step.
I halted and listened for the mules. Far away in the fog
I heard a dull splashing, receding as I listened. After a while all sound
died away, and a slow horror stole over me—a horror that froze the little
net-work of veins in every limb. A step to the right and the water rose
to my knees; a step to the left and the cold, thin circle of the flood
chilled my breast. Suddenly Dorothy screamed, and the next moment a far
cry answered—a far, sweet cry that seemed to come from the sky, like the
rushing harmony of the world’s swift winds. Then the curtain of fog before
us lighted up from behind; shadows moved on the misty screen, outlines
of trees and grassy shores, and tiny birds flying. Thrown on the vapory
curtain, in silhouette, a man and a woman passed under the lovely trees,
arms about each other’s necks; near them the shadows of five mules grazed
peacefully; a dingue gambolled close by.
“It is a mirage!” I muttered, but my voice made no sound.
Slowly the light behind the fog died out; the vapor around us turned to
rose, then dissolved, while mile on mile of a limitless sea spread away
till, like a quick line pencilled at a stroke, the horizon cut sky and
sea in half, and before us lay an ocean from which towered a mountain of
snow—or a gigantic berg of milky ice—for it was moving.
“Good Heavens,” I shrieked; “it is alive!”
At the sound of my crazed cry the mountain of snow became
a pillar, towering to the clouds, and a wave of golden glory drenched the
figure to its knees! Figure? Yes—for a colossal arm shot across the sky,
then curved back in exquisite grace to a head of awful beauty—a woman’s
head, with eyes like the blue lake of heaven—ay, a woman’s splendid form,
upright from the sky to the earth, knee-deep in the sea. The evening clouds
drifted across her brow; her shimmering hair lighted the world beneath
with sunset. Then, shading her white brow with one hand, she bent, and
with the other hand dipped in the sea, she sent a wave rolling at us. Straight
out of the horizon it sped—a ripple that grew to a wave, then to a furious
breaker which caught us up in a whirl of foam, bearing us onward, faster,
faster, swiftly flying, through leagues of spray until consciousness ceased
and all was blank.
Yet ere my senses fled I heard again that strange cry—that
sweet, thrilling harmony rushing out over the foaming waters, filling earth
and sky with its soundless vibrations.
And I knew it was the hail of the Spirit of the North
warning us back to life again.
Looking back, now, over the days that passed before we
staggered into the Hudson Bay outpost at Gravel Cove, I am inclined to
believe that neither Dorothy nor I were clothed entirely in our proper
minds—or, if we were, our minds, no doubt, must have been in the same condition
as our clothing. I remember shooting ptarmigan, and that we ate them; flashes
of memory recall the steady downpour of rain through the endless twilight
of shaggy forests; dim days on the foggy tundra, mud-holes from which the
wild ducks rose in thousands; then the stunted hemlocks, then the forest
again. And I do not even recall the moment when, at last, stumbling into
the smooth path left by the Graham Glacier, we crawled through the mountain-wall,
out of the unknown land, and once more into a world protected by the Lord
A hunting-party of Elbon Indians brought us in to the
post, and everybody was most kind—that I remember, just before going into
several weeks of unpleasant delirium mercifully mitigated with unconsciousness.
Curiously enough, Professor Van Twiller was not very much
battered, physically, for I had carried her for days, pickaback. But the
awful experience had produced a shock which resulted in a nervous condition
that lasted so long after she returned to New York that the wealthy and
eminent specialist who attended her insisted upon taking her to the Riviera
and marrying her. I sometimes wonder—but, as I have said, such reflections
have no place in these austere pages.
However, anybody, I fancy, is at liberty to speculate
upon the fate of the late Professor Smawl and William Spike, and upon the
mules and the gentle dingue.
Personally, I am convinced that the suggestive silhouettes
I saw on that ghastly curtain of fog were cast by beatified beings in some
earthly paradise—a mirage of bliss of which we caught but the colorless
shadow-shapes floating ‘twixt sea and sky.
At all events, neither Professor Smawl nor her William
Spike ever returned; no exploring expedition has found a trace of mule
or lady, of William or the dingue. The new expedition to be organized by
Barnard College may penetrate still farther. I suppose that, when the time
comes, I shall be expected to volunteer. But Professor Van Twiller is married,
and William and Professor Smawl ought to be, and altogether, considering
the mammoth and that gigantic and splendid apparition that bent from the
zenith to the ocean and sent a tidal-wave rolling from the palm of one
white hand—I say, taking all these various matters under consideration,
I think I shall decide to remain in New York and continue writing for the
scientific periodicals. Besides, the mortifying experience at the Paris
Exposition has dampened even my perennially youthful enthusiasm. And as
for the late expedition to Florida, Heaven knows I am ready to repeat it—nay,
I am already forming a plan for the rescue—but though I am prepared to
encounter any danger for the sake of my beloved superior, Professor Farrago,
I do not feel inclined to commit indiscretions in order to pry into secrets
which, as I regard it, concern Professor Smawl and William Spike alone.
But all this is, in a measure, premature. What I now have
to relate is the recital of an eye-witness to that most astonishing scandal
which occurred during the recent exposition in Paris.
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