Men, Women, and Boats
Copyright© 2024 by Stephen Crane
THE MESMERIC MOUNTAIN
A TALE OF SULLIVAN COUNTY
On the brow of a pine-plumed hillock there sat a little man with his back against a tree. A venerable pipe hung from his mouth, and smoke-wreaths curled slowly skyward, he was muttering to himself with his eyes fixed on an irregular black opening in the green wall of forest at the foot of the hill. Two vague wagon ruts led into the shadows. The little man took his pipe in his hands and addressed the listening pines.
“I wonder what the devil it leads to,” said he.
A grey, fat rabbit came lazily from a thicket and sat in the opening. Softly stroking his stomach with his paw, he looked at the little man in a thoughtful manner. The little man threw a stone, and the rabbit blinked and ran through an opening. Green, shadowy portals seemed to close behind him.
The little man started. “He’s gone down that roadway,” he said, with ecstatic mystery to the pines. He sat a long time and contemplated the door to the forest. Finally, he arose, and awakening his limbs, started away. But he stopped and looked back.
“I can’t imagine what it leads to,” muttered he. He trudged over the brown mats of pine needles, to where, in a fringe of laurel, a tent was pitched, and merry flames caroused about some logs. A pudgy man was fuming over a collection of tin dishes. He came forward and waved a plate furiously in the little man’s face.
“I’ve washed the dishes for three days. What do you think I am—”
He ended a red oration with a roar: “Damned if I do it any more.”
The little man gazed dim-eyed away. “I’ve been wonderin’ what it leads to.”
“What?”
“That road out yonder. I’ve been wonderin’ what it leads to. Maybe, some discovery or something,” said the little man.
The pudgy man laughed. “You’re an idiot. It leads to ol’ Jim Boyd’s over on the Lumberland Pike.”
“Ho!” said the little man, “I don’t believe that.”
The pudgy man swore. “Fool, what does it lead to, then?”
“I don’t know just what, but I’m sure it leads to something great or something. It looks like it.”
While the pudgy man was cursing, two more men came from obscurity with fish dangling from birch twigs. The pudgy man made an obviously herculean struggle and a meal was prepared. As he was drinking his cup of coffee, he suddenly spilled it and swore. The little man was wandering off.
“He’s gone to look at that hole,” cried the pudgy man.
The little man went to the edge of the pine-plumed hillock, and, sitting down, began to make smoke and regard the door to the forest. There was stillness for an hour. Compact clouds hung unstirred in the sky. The pines stood motionless, and pondering.
Suddenly the little man slapped his knees and bit his tongue. He stood up and determinedly filled his pipe, rolling his eye over the bowl to the doorway. Keeping his eyes fixed he slid dangerously to the foot of the hillock and walked down the wagon ruts. A moment later he passed from the noise of the sunshine to the gloom of the woods.
The green portals closed, shutting out live things. The little man trudged on alone.
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