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Updated: June 10, 2025
And so, it being true that never again should he go back to that unchildlike life that had frightened him so, and tired him so, all the breaths he drew felt like sighs of relief, and he turned his shaggy little head on his arm, crooked under it, and watched Helma's flying brown fingers with glad eyes. "What shall it be?" asked Helma.
But after a little he knew it was not Helma's little forest house that was to go swinging away into space and adventure, it was himself. And suddenly he wanted to go then, to the sea and over and beyond. He called the news in to Helma and Ivra, who were still within doors. Helma came swiftly out to him. "The trees are beckoning again, mother," he cried.
But she did not come that morning, nor that day, nor for many days. You shall hear it all. The children laid the fire, together, shivering but hopeful. Ivra got the breakfast, teaching Eric, so that next time he could help. They chattered and played a good deal, and really had quite a merry time over it. It was only at first that Ivra was solemn over Helma's disappearance.
Can you imagine how it would feel if to-day you were to hear the first story of your life? "All ready?" asked Helma. The silence in the room said plainer than words that all was ready for the World Story. This time it was a story about a man named Saint Francis, and a story after Eric's own heart. Almost as fast as the story went the work of Helma's fingers.
So Ivra climbed up on the Tree Man's knee and tipping her head back against his chest, looked into the fire and told one of Helma's World Stories. It was the story of a glacier. That may not sound like a very interesting story to you, but if you could hear Ivra tell it in all its wonder just as Helma had told it to her, you would never ask for a better story.
Mumford tried to sit up and crochet. Helma's trying to take care of her, and she can hardly hold her head up. They are both quite sure they're going to die at once. You should hear them taking on." "How is it this don't get you, too?" says I. "I've always been a good sailor," says Vee. "And, anyway, a storm is too thrilling to waste the time being seasick.
Her eyes seemed to light the room, or perhaps it was her gown, like an opal fire, blue and pink and purple, changing and glowing, and made of the softest silk. Ivra nestled close to her knee where she could stroke the gleaming silk. Eric sprawled on the floor at her feet, his face upturned to hers. Then she told them a story. It was not like any of Helma's World Stories, but the children liked it.
He half opened his slumbrous eyes on the Tree Mother as the boat floated away, but before the smile in them faded he was asleep. There was straight, sure, even flying then to Helma's little house, set in its snowy garden, and down they sank to the door stone. The Tree Mother carried Ivra, who was fast asleep, in in her arms.
But you kind of get used to that acetic acid stuff after a while; and, since I'm announced by a reg'lar name now "Meestir Beel-lard" is Helma's best stab at Ballard and Auntie knowin' that I got a perfectly good uncle behind me, besides bein' a private sec. myself, why, she don't mean more'n half of it.
"Helma's been talkin'!" "She's a chatty youngster," says I, "and she thinks a heap of her Daddums. I ain't sure, though, whether you come first or Arabella." If I hadn't been watchin' for it, I might not have noticed, but the quiver that begins in the fingers grippin' the bars runs clear up to the sagged shoulders. His mouth twitches nervous, and then he gets hold of himself.
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