Evening Republican, Volume 15, Number 212, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 8 September 1911 — SCOTCH HEATHER [ARTICLE]

SCOTCH HEATHER

By MARY WESTCOTT

John Bowditch, botanical-case on shoulder, hurried along the wood path to test bis pet experiment. For years he had been filling hidden places in these Maine woods with foreign plants which, left to work out their own saltation for a time, he later revisited with almost fatherly delight Today be would see how some Scotch heather had weathered a year of New England. Suddenly with a distant rustling of leaves, a girt came through the trees, following the winding path toward him. John Bowditch, 40 years old, Ignorer of women, saw only that the gleam of her crimson dress tn the light of the September afternoon was not unpleasing. Stepping aside as if to examine a tall sumac, he was leaving the narrow path to her. when his eyes fell on a. bunch of flowers tn her hand. He scowled. His near-sighted eyes strained at her. She had not seen him. He must get a better look unobserved. He slipped behind the shelter of the sumac. Now she was only ten steps away—and he could' nee. It was his heather. She played ■ with the floweds, half-caressing the tiny, pink sprays. There was a dreamy, sentimental look on her face that roused an evil temper in the man of science. He glared at her as she passed, half-minded to protest, but, the right second thought lost, stood looking angrily after her retreating figure, soon hidden by the curve of the path. Turning, he plunged ahead through the tangle of asters and goldenrod, with frequent stumbles over twisted roots. He was too cross to watch his feet It was science vs. sentiment, and science seemed to have the worst of ft Before him in a clearing lay the heather patch. He stooped over it, smoothing the plants with loving fingers. Broken stems, empty spaces told their story. The roots would live on; for that he was thankful, but for the present this experiment must remain incomplete. Rising with a shrug he tried to turn his mind to the other plant life around; but for once even botany had lost its charm. Science and John Bowditch were out of tune, and be stamped homeward in disgust

Meanwhile Scotch Mysle Cameron rapturously arranged her plunder in a bowl. The very touch of its tiny, prickling leaves made her realize how the days of her visit to her American were flying, and awoke in her-a sudden home-hunger. But how came heather into Maine wood- to make a Scotch girl homesick? The puzzle of it haunted her. Her neighbors had no knowledge of the plant One at last suggested that she ask that old botanist Bowditch, who lived alone on the hill; and impulsively she wrote him a note of eager Inquiry. John Bowditch next day grunted over it and tossed it onto his crowded desk. But each time he glanced up from bis microscope he caught sight of its white back. Bother the thing! Impatiently he turned it over. “She writes a fair hand—but Caesar, what an ending! T, too, am a stranger from Scotland!’ Sentimental! Sickeningly sentimental! Well, she’s got my heather. How the Dickens shall I keep her from my other stuff out there, and from babbling all over town to set people bunting?" At last he wrote her briefly, asking her to show him the heather in growth. Before the time came, he thought, he might contrive somet v !ng to tell her. Meanwhile, anticipating such boredom, he felt himself truly a martyr to science. Two days later he kept his appointment with her. He felt oddly out of place in his familiar woods as he followed her swishing skirts along the path. Serenely unconscious of his embarrassed silence the girl supplied a friendly chatter, until triumphantly she stooped over the disputed patch. "Is that anything but heather. Mr. Bowditch r

xie took the spray she handed him and examined it Conscious of her scrutiny, he pulled scientifically at the leaves. Finally, with an air of congratulation and surprise, he faced her. “It is Calluna vulgaris. I vow. How unexpectedly plants do turn up! Migrating birds, a hundred different mediums carry them. I’d rather not eemmit myself to any theory here. Sappose we consider it one of nature's experiments, and watch the result” He flushed a little under her pleased, unquestioning assent He had a gailty consciousness which he hoped did not show. Yet as he stood looking awkwardly down at the heather in its glow of autumn sunlight and at the bright girl-face above It he somehow frit glad to be there. Less shyly he began to speak again of the plants. “First of all we must keep this now to ourselves,” he said decidedly. “The flowers are small and off the beaten track. Probably only your Scotch eyes could have noticed them In a dosen yean. Shall we pledge ourselves to keep the secret?” With mock solemnity Mysie stretched ent her hand to Mm and be shook it as soberly. “Of course,” she added, “I shall walk here now and then.” “Oh, naturally” John agreed. “I irikail keep an eye on it myself.” ** Walking home, Mysie talked of .Scotland and the moors. Jchn was ’tonally silent: but when he had left

her at her gate, he halted in the road tn the wonder of a swift realization. He had not been bored. A week later rambling near the clearing he caught a glimpse of crimson through the trees. He had volunteered to keep an eye on,the heather. He did at once—until the sudden autumn darkness forced him to see Mysie home. At their third meeting, for variety, he guided her by old logging roads strange to her. The charm of the odd companionship laid an unsuspected spell upon them both. Through winter snows and February thaws they found excuse for meeting—always under the open sky, oftenest in the woods, where* John Bowditch’s knowledge opened a new world for the girl. He taught her the use of snowshoes; and on them they followed together the tracks of the tiny, shy wood habitants. Before spring winds blew they were, tried friends —"chums," Mysle secretly phrased It with occasional wonder., As for John, he hardly realized Mysle's girlhood in his delight in her sympathetic company. One day when they bad been roaming the woods for grdat bunches of violets, he had found his comrade unusually quiet As they rea-hed the clearing, they.stopped a moment by the faithful patch of heather which had braved the winter storms. "It is hard to realize," Mysle said, with a catch In her voice, “that Tm not to see it blooming.” "Why not?” John demanded sharply. "They say now I must go home in June. My sister is to be married. They need me.” Mysle’s lips trembled. She hardly dared glance at the kind, studious, familiar face. She anticipated its look of pain. The look was there — and with it the amazement of a man who leaps to a sudden understanding of himself. "Mysle,” his voice rang deep, intense. "I need you more. That is— I mean —no, I mean just that! I cannot let you go!” Mysle dropped her violets in a sudden gesture m dismay—yet on the instant felt that this all was strangely right John Bowditch went on wiui an excitement new to him. ’Tvo known we were goc«* friends. I didn’t know how much more. You Scotch girl, youjve grown as deep into my life as that heather into the soil! If you are tom out it will leave a great empty place. But ” He looked at her and paused. Perhaps he really saw her fresh, girlish beauty for the first time. A shadow settled on his face; he went on in a different tone. “I’m talking foolishly. I’m twice your age. My home is here, miles enough from your dear Scotland. It was selfishness. Please forget it all.” But Mysie was reaching out both bands to him across the heather. “Oh, John, John! Can’t you see that I’m transplanted for good? If you root me up, I may wither—die! I didn’t want to go back —only I hadn’t any excuse to stay.” As they walked home through the rich May sunlight, stirred by the pulse of new life around and within them, John stopped short “Mysle," he said earnestly, “it’s no use. You mustn’t love me. I’m a fraud, a ” She faced him. suddenly white. “You didn’t suspect,” he went on doggedly. "You were too truthful to dream I could cheat I planted that heather —an experiment That’s why I told you to -keep it secret I’m ashamed, sorry. But how could I foresee all this?" Then in wonder at ‘he radiant laughter of her eyes: "Dearest bow could I> dream it would lead me to you?” She smiled with loving moekery and leaned tantkllzlngly toward him. "Is that why you’re so sorry for it John?” she asked.