Angel Island by Inez Haynes Gillmore (book recommendations for young adults .txt) 📕

and sociologically.”

“The only thing that bothers me,” Honey contributed solemnly, “is

whether or not they’re our social equals.”

Even Frank Merrill laughed. “I mean, are they birds,” he went on still

in a puzzled tone, “free creatures of the air, or, women, bound

creatures of the earth? And what should be our attitude toward them?

Have we the right to capture them as ornithological specimens, or is it

our duty to respect their liberty as independent human beings?

“They’re neither birds nor women,” Pete Murphy burst out impetuously.

“They’re angels. Our duty is to fall down and worship them.”

“They’re women,” said Billy Fairfax earnestly. “Our duty is to cherish

and protect them.”

“They’re girls,” Honey insisted jovially, “our duty is to josh and jolly

them, to buy them taxicabs, theater-tickets, late suppers, candy, and

flowers.”

“They’re females,” said Ralph Addington contemptuously. “Our duty is to

tame, subjugate, infatuate, and control them.”

Frank Merrill listened to each with the look on his face, half

perplexity, half irritation, which always came when the conversation

took a humorous turn. “I am myself inclined to look upon them as an

entirely new race of beings, requiring new laws,” he said thoughtfully.

Although the quick appearance and the quick departure of the girls had

upset the men temporarily, they went back to work at once. And as though

inspired by their appearance, they worked like tigers. As before, they

talked constantly of them, piling mountains of conjecture on molehills

of fact. But now their talk was less of the wonder and the romance of

the situation and more of the irritation of it. Ralph Addington’s unease

seemed to have infected them all. Frank Merrill had actually to coax

them to keep at their duty of patrolling the beach. They were constantly

studying the horizon for a glimpse of their strange visitors. Every

morning they said, “I hope they’ll come to-day”; every night, “Perhaps

they’ll come to-morrow.” And always, “They won’t put it over on us this

time when we’re not looking.”

But in point of fact, the next visit of the flying girls came when they

least expected it - late in the evening.

It had been damp and dull all day. A high fog was gradually melting out

of the air. Back of it a misty moon, more mature now, gleamed like a

flask of honey in a golden veil. A few stars glimmered, placid, pale,

and big. Suddenly between fog and earth - and they seemed to emerge from

the mist like dreams from sleep - appeared the five dazzling

girl-figures.

The fog had blurred the vividness of their plumage. The color no longer

throbbed from wing-sockets to wing-tips; light no longer pulsated there.

But great scintillating beads of fog-dew outlined the long curves of the

wings, accentuated the long curves of the body. Hair, brows, lashes

glittered as if threaded with diamonds. Their cheeks and lips actually

glowed, luscious as ripe fruit.

“My God!” groaned Pete Murphy; “how beautiful and inaccessible! But

women should be inaccessible,” he ended with a sigh.

“Not so inaccessible as they were, though,”

Ralph Addington said. Again the appearance of the women had transformed

him physically and mentally. He moved with the nervous activity of a man

strung on wires. His brown eyes showed yellow gleams like a cat’s.

“They’re flying lower and slower tonight.”

It did seem as though the fog, light as it was, definitely impeded their

wings. It gave to their movements a little languor that had a plaintive

appealing quality. Perhaps they realized this themselves. In the midst

of their aerial evolutions suddenly - and apparently without cause -

they developed panic, turned seawards. Their audience, taken by

surprise, burst into shouts of remonstrance, ran after them. The clamor

and the motion seemed only to add to the girls’ alarm. Their retreating

speed was almost frenzied.

“What the - what’s frightened them?” Honey Smith asked. Honey’s brows

had come together in an unaccustomed scowl. He bit his lips.

“Give it up,” Billy Fairfax answered, and his tone boiled with

exasperation. “I hope they haven’t been frightened away for good.”

“I think every time it’s the last,” exclaimed Pete Murphy, “but they

keep coming back.”

“Son,” said Ralph Addington, and there was a perceptible element of

patronage in his tone, “I’ll tell you the exact order of events. It

threw a scare into the girls tonight that they couldn’t fly so well.

But in an hour’s time, they’ll be sore because they didn’t put up a good

exhibition. Now, if I know anything at all about women - and maybe I

flatter myself, but I think I know a lot - they’ll be back the first

thing to-morrow to prove to us that their bad flying was not our effect

on them but the weather’s.”

Whether Ralph’s theory was correct could not, of course, be ascertained.

But in the matter of prophecy, he was absolutely vindicated. About

half-way through the morning five black spots appeared in the west. They

grew gradually to bewildering shapes and colors, for the girls came

dressed in gowns woven of brilliant flowers. And the torrents of their

beautiful hair floated loose. This time they held themselves grouped

close; they kept themselves aloof, high. But again came the sinuous

interplay of flower-clad bodies, the flashing evolution of rainbow

wings, the dazzling interweaving of snowy arms and legs. It held the men

breathless.

“They’re like goldfish in a bowl,” Billy Fairfax said. “I never saw such

suppleness. You wouldn’t think they had a bone in their systems.”

“I bet they’re as strong as tigers, though,” commented Addington. “I

wouldn’t want to handle more than one of them at once.”

“I think I could handle two,” remarked Frank Merrill. He said this, not

boastfully, but as one who states an interesting fact. And he spoke as

impersonally as though the girls were machines.

Ralph Addington studied Frank Merrill’s gigantic copper-colored bulk

enviously. “I guess you could,” he agreed.

“Fortunately,” Frank went on, “it would be impossible for such a

situation to arise. Men don’t war on women.”

“On the contrary,” Ralph disagreed, “men always war on women, and women

on men. Why, Merrill,” he added with his inevitable tone of patronage,

“aren’t you wise to the fact that the war between the sexes is in

reality more bitter and bloody than any war between the races?”

But Frank did not answer. He only stared.

“Did you notice,” Pete Murphy asked, “what wonderful hair they had?

Loose like that - they looked more than ever like Valkyries.”

“Yes, I got that,” Ralph answered. He smiled until all his white teeth

showed. “And take it from me, that’s a point gained. When a woman begins

to let her hair down, she’s interested.”

“Well,” said Honey Smith, “their game may be the same as every other

woman’s you’ve known, but it takes a damned long time to come down to

cases. What I want to know is how many months more will have to pass

before we speak when we pass by.”

“That matter’ll take care of itself,” Ralph reassured him. “You leave it

to natural selection.”

“Well, it’s a deuce of a slow process,” Honey grumbled.

What hitherto had been devotion to their work grew almost to mania. It

increased their interest that the little settlement of five cabins was

fast taking shape. The men slept in beds now; for they had furnished

their rooms. They had begun to decorate the walls. They reopened the

trunks and made another careful division of spoils. They were even

experimenting with razors and quarreling amicably over their merits. At

night, when their work was done, they actually changed their clothes.

“One week more of this,” commented Honey Smith, “and we’ll be serving

meals in courses. I hope that our lady-friends will call sometime when

we’re dressed for dinner. I’ve tried several flossy effects in ties

without results. But I expect to lay them out cold with these

riding-boots.”

Nevertheless many days passed and the flying-girls continued not to

appear.

“I don’t believe they’re ever coming again,” Pete Murphy said one day in

a tone of despair.

“Oh, they’ll come,” Ralph Addington insisted. “They think themselves

that they’re not coming again, after having proved to us that they could

fly just as well as ever. But they’ll appear sometime when we least

expect it. There’s something pulling them over here that’s stronger than

anything they’ve ever come up against. They don’t know what it is, but

we do - Mr. G. Bernard Shaw’s life-force. They haven’t realized yet what

put the spoke in their wheel, but it will bring them here in the end.”

But days and days went by. The men worked hard, in the main

good-naturedly, but with occasional outbreaks of discontent and

irritation. “How about that proposition of the life-force?” they asked

Ralph Addington again and again. “You wait!” was all he ever answered.

One day, Honey Smith, who had gone off for a solitary walk, came running

back to camp. “What do you think?” he burst out when he got within

earshot. “I’ve seen one of them, the little brunette, the one with the

orange wings, the ‘plain one.’ She was flying on the other side of the

island all by her lonesome. She saw me first, and as sure as I stand

here, she called to me - a regular bird-call. I whistled and she came

flying over in my direction. Blamed if she didn’t keep right over my

head for the whole trip.”

“Low?” Ralph questioned eagerly.

“Yes,” Honey answered succinctly, “but not low enough. I couldn’t touch

her, of course. If I stopped for a while and kept quiet as the dead,

she’d come much closer. But the instant I made a move towards - bing! -

she hit the welkin. But the way she rubbered. And, Lord, how easy

scared. Once I waved my handkerchief - she nearly threw a fit. Strangest

sensation I’ve ever had in my life to be walking calmly along like that

with a girl beside me - flying. She isn’t so plain when you get close -

she does look like a Kanaka, though.” He stopped and burst out laughing.

“Funny thing! I kept calling her Lulu. After a while, she got it that

that was her tag. She didn’t exactly come closer when I said ‘Lulu,’ but

she’d turn her head over her shoulder and look at me.”

“Well, damn you and your beaux yeux!” said Ralph. There was a real

chagrin behind the amusement in his voice.

“Did you notice the muscular development of her back and shoulders?”

Frank Merrill asked eagerly.

“No,” said Honey regretfully, “I don’t seem to remember anything but her

face.”

The next morning when they were working, Pete Murphy suddenly yelled in

an excited voice, “Here comes one of them!”

Everybody turned. There, heading straight towards them, an unbelievable

orange patch sailing through the blue sky, flew the “plain one.”

“Lulu! Lulu! Here I am, Lulu,” Honey called in his most coaxing tone and

with his most radiant smile. Lulu did not descend, but, involuntarily it

seemed, she turned her course a little nearer to Honey. She fluttered an

instant over his head, then flew straight as an arrow eastward.

“She’s a looker, all right, all right,” Ralph Addington said, gazing as

long as she was in sight. “I guess I’ll trade my blonde for your

brunette, Honey.”

“I bet you won’t,” answered Honey. “I’ve got Lulu half-tamed. She’ll be

eating out of my hand in another week.”

They found this incident exciting enough to justify them in laying off

from work the