Cameron County press., December 22, 1904, Page 6, Image 6

6
THREE GIFTS.
i am curtained away from the night.
On (he hearth the fire burns bright;
My lamp is trimmed and lit
And I sit in the glow of It;
As each moment fades and dies,
lu my heart these thoughts arise:
I thank Thee, O God, for Fire!
As I watch the flames aspire.
My thought, too, soars above
To the Heart of infinite love;
May my soul burn and glow,
As more of Thyself I know!
I thank Thee, O God, for Light!
As I sit by the lamp, to-night,
This prayer, O I.ord is mine!—
That I, too, may softly shine—
To guide, to bless, to cheer
Thy children, O Father dear!
I thank Thee, O God, for Home!
How many there are who roam,
Far from the Father's roof
Holding themselves aloof!
May my door be open wide
To Thy wandering ones outside!
Warmth is the heart of Fire.
Oh! may my fond desire
He, gracious Friend, to prove
The depth and the breadth of Love;
So kindle more love divine
In my heart, by the love In Thine!
Cheer is the soul of the Lamp;
Tho' the night be dark and damp.
And the merciless, pelting rain
Heats on my window pane.
Within doth Cheer prevail—
May my soul-cheer never fail!
Love is the cent€-r of Home;
Whene'er its inmates come,
l.ove greets them and leads them In
To her innermost shrine within;
So, Lord, in my heart and face
May Love find a dwelling place.
Warmth and Cheer and Love—
All sent by the Giver above!
My heart sings for thankfulness
And Thy holy name doth bless!
Yet, these. Thy gifts so rare,
Help me, in love, to share!
—Hi len Knight Wyman in Congregation
alism
D'ri and I
By IRVING BACHELLER
Author of " Eben Holden," "Darrel of
the Blessed Isles," Etc.
%m* J*"""" —~*««y
(Copyright, 1901, by Lothrop Publishing Company.)
CHAPTER I.
A poet may be a good companion,
but, so far as I know, he is ever
the worst of fathers. Even as grand
lather he is too near, for one poet can
lay a streak of poverty over three gen
erations. Doubt not I know whereof I
speak, dear reader, for my mother's
father was a poet—a French poet, too,
whose lines had crossed the Atlantic
long before that summer of 1770 when
he came to Montreal. He died there,
leaving only debts and those who had
great need of a better legacy—my
mother and grandmother.
As to my father, he had none of
that fatal tolly in him. He was a
mountaineer of Vermont —a man oi
steely sinews that took well to the grip
of a sword. He cut his way to fame
in the northern army when I he British
came first to give us battle, and a
bloody way it was. I have now a faded
letter from Ethan Allen, grim old war
rior, in which he calls my father "the
best swordsman that ever straddled a
horse." He was a "gallous chap" in
his youth, so said my grandmother,
with a great love of good clothes and
gunpowder. He went to Montreal, as
a boy, to be educated; took lessons in
fencing, fought a duel, ran away from
school, and came home with little
learning and a wife. Punished by dis
inheritance, he took a farm, and left
the plow togo into battle.
I wonder often that my mother could
put up with the stress and hardship
of his life, for she had had gentle
breeding, of which I knew little until
I was grown to manhood, when I came
to know also what a woman will do
for the love of her heart. I remember
well those tales of knights and ladies
she used to tell me as we sat together
of an evening, and also those adven
tures of her own knight, my good
father, in the war with the British.
My love of arms and of a just quarrel
began then.
After the war came hard times. My
father had not prospered handsomely,
when, near the end of the summer of
180!!, he sold his farm, and we all
started west, over rough trails and
roadways. There were seven of us,
bound for the valley of the St. Law
rence—my father and mother, my two
sisters, my grandmother, D'ri, tho
hired man, and myself, then a sturdy
boy of ten. We had an ox-team and
cart that carried our provision, the
sacred feather beds of my mother, and
some few other things.
We drove with us the first flock of
sheep that ever went west. There were
40 of them, and they filled our days
with trouble. But for our faithful dog
Rover, I fear we should have lost
heart and left them to the wild
wolves. The cart had a low cover of
canvas, and my mother and grand
mother sat on the feather beds, and
rode with small comfort even where
the roads were level. My father let
me carry my little pet rooster in a
basket that hung from the cart-axle
when not in my keeping. The rooster
had a harder time than any of us, I
fancy, for the days were hot and the
roads rough. He was always panting,
with open mouth and thoughtful eye,
•»vhen I lifted the cover. But. every
day he gave us an example of cheerful
ness not wholly without effect. He
•crowed triumphantly, betimes, in the
hot basket, even when he was being
tumbled alxjut on the swamp ways.
Nights I always found a perch for him
on the limb of a tree, above the reach
<>f predatory creatures. Every morn
ing, ad the dawu showed faintly in the
tree-tops, he gave It a lusty cheer,
flapping his wings with all the seem
ing of delight. Then, often, while the
echo rang, I would open my eyes and
watch the light grow in the dusky
cavern of the woods. He would sit
awhile after the first outbreak,
and presently as the flood of light grew
clearer, lift himself a little, take an
other peep at the sky, and crow again,
turning his head to hear those weird,
mocking roosters of the timber-land.
Then, shortly, I would hear my father
poking the fire or saying, as he patted
the rooster: "Sass 'em back, ye noisy
little brat! Thet's right; holler. Tell
D'ri it's time t' bring some wood fer
the fire."
In a few minutes the pot and kettle
would be boiling and the camp all
astir. We had trout and partridge and
venison a-plenty for our meals, that
were served in dishes of tin. Break
fast over, we packed our things. The
cart went on ahead, my father bring
ing the oxen, while I started the sheep
with D'ri.
Those sheep were as many thorns in
our flesh that day we made off in the
deep woods from Lake Champlain.
Travel was new to them, and what
with tearing through thickets and run
ning wild in every slash, they kept us
jumping. When they were leg-weary
and used to travel, they began togo
quietly. But slow work it was at best,
10 or 12 miles a day being all we could
do, for the weather was hot and our
road like the way of the transgressor.
Our second night in the woods we
could hear the wolves howling as we
camped at dusk. We built our fire
near the shore of a big pond, its still
water framed in the vivid green of
young tamaracks. A great hill rose
on the farther side of it, with galleries
of timber sloping to the summit, and
peopled with many birds. We huddled
the sheep together in a place where
the trees were thick, while father
brought from the cart a coil of small
rope. We wound it about the trees,
so the sheep were shut in a little yard.
After supper we all sat by the fire,
while D'ri told how he had been chased
by wolves in the beaver country north
of us.
D'ri was an odd character. He had
his own way of expressing the three
degrees of wonder, admiration and
surprise. "Jerushy!"—accented on the
second syllable—was the positive,
"Jerushy Jane!" the comparative, and
"Jerushy Jane Pepper!" the super
lative. Who that poor lady might be
I often wondered, but never ventured
to inquire. In times of stress I have
heard him swear by "Judas Priest,"
but never more profanely. In his
youth he had been a sailor on the lake,
mmk
"D'RI PULLED UP SUDDENLY—AND
USTENED, PEERING INTO THE
DUSK."
when some artist of the needle had
tattooed a British jack on the back of
his left hand —a thing he covered, of
shame now, when he thought of it.
His right hand had lost its forefinger
in a sawmill. His rifle was distin
guished by the name of Beeswax—
"ol' Beeswax" he called it sometimes —
for no better reason than that it was
"easy spoke an' had a kind uv a pow
erful soun' tew it." He had a nose
like a shoemaker's thumb: there was
a deep curve from its wide tip to his
forehead. He had a large, gray, in
quiring eye and the watchful habit of
the woodsman. Somewhere in tho
midst of a story he would pause and
peer thoughtfully into the distance,
meanwhile feeling the pipe-stem with
his lips, and then resume the narra
tive as suddenly as he had stopped.
He was a lank and powerful man, six
feet tall in his stockings. He wore a
thin beard that had the appearance
of parched grass on his ruddy counte
nance. In the matter of hair, nature
had treated him with a generosity
most unusual. His heavy shock was
sheared off square above his neck.
That evening, as he lay on his elbow
in the firelight, D'ri had just entered
the eventful field of reminiscence. The
women were washing the dishes; my
father had gone to the spring for wa
ter. D'ri pulled up suddenly, lifted
his hat of faded felt and listened, peer
ing into the dusk.
"Seems t' me them wolves is comin'
nearer," he said, thoughtfully.
Their cries were echoing in the far
timber. We all rose and listened. In
a moment my father came hurrying
back with his pail of water.
"D'ri," said he, quietly, as he threw
some wood on the fire, "they smell
mutton. Mek the guns ready. We
may git a few pelts. There' 3 a big
bounty on 'em here in York state."
We all stood about the fire listening
as the wolves came nearer.
"It 's the sheep thet brings 'em,"
said my father.
"Quite a consid'able number on 'em,
tew," said D'ri, as he stood cleaning
the bore of his rifle.
My young sisters began to cry.
CAMERON COUNTY PRESS, THURSDAY, DECEMBER 22, 1904.
"Need n't be scairt," said father.
"They won't come very near. 'Fraider
of us 'n we are o' 'em, a good deal."
"Tow-w-w!" said D'ri, with a laugh.
"They'll be apt t' stub ther toes 'fore
they git very nigh us."
This did not quite agree with the
tales he had previously been telling.
I went for my sword, and buckled its
belt about me, the scabbard hanging
to my heels. Presently some creature
came bounding over the brush. I saw
him break through the wall of dark
ness and stop quickly in the firelight.
Then D'ri brought him down with his
rifle.
"Started him up back there 'n the
woods a few mild," said D'ri. "He was
mekin' fer this 'ere pond—thet's what
he was dewin'."
"What for?" I inquired.
" 'Cause fer the reason why he
knowed he would n't mck no tracks n
the water, ner no scent," said D'ri,
with some show of contempt for my
ignorance.
The deer lay floundering in the briers
some 50 feet away. My father ran with
his knife and put him quickly out of
misery. Then we hauled the carcass
to clear ground.
"Let it lie where't Is fer now," said
he, as we came back to the fire. Then
he got our two big traps out of the
cart and set them beside the carcass
and covered them with leaves. The
howling of the wolves had ceased. I
could hear only the creaking of a dead
limb high above us, and th«j bellow of
frogs in the near pond. We had fas
tened the trap chains and were com
ing back to the fire, when the dog rose,
barking fiercely; then we heard the
crack of D'ri's rifle.
"More 'n 50 wolves eroun' here," he
whispered as we ran up to him.
"Never see sech a snag on 'em."
The sheep were stirring nervously.
Near the pen a wolf lay kicking where
D'ri had dropped him.
"Rest on 'em snooked off when the
gun hollered," he went on, whispering
as before.
My mother and grandmother sat
with my sisters in the cart, hushing
their murmurs of fear. Early in the
evening I had tied Rover to the cart
wheel, where he was growling hotly,
impatient of the leash.
"See?" said D'ri, pointing with his
fif'ger. "See 'em? —there 'n the dark
by thet air big hemlock."
We could make out a dim stir in the
shadows where he pointed. Presently
we heard the spring and rattle of a
trap. As we turned that way, the
other trap took hold hard; as it sprang
we could hear a wolf yelp.
"Meks 'em holler," said D'ri, "thet
ol* hetrap does, when it teks holt. Stay
here by the sheep, 'n' I'll go over 'n'
give 'em somethin' fer spraint ankles."
Other wolves were swarming over
the dead deer, and the two in the traps
were snarling and snapping at them.
My father and D'ri fired at the bunch,
killing one of the captives and another
—the largest wolf I ever saw. The
pack had slunk away as they heard the
rifles. Our remaining captive strug
gled to get free, but in a moment D'ri
had brained him with an ax. He and
my father reset our traps and hauled
the dead wolves into the firelight.
There they began to skin them, for the
bounty was $lO for each in the new
towns —a sum that made our adventure
profitable. I built fires on the farther
side of the sheep, and, as they bright-
I could see, here and there, the
gleaming eyes of a wolf in the dark
ness. I was up all night heaping wood
upon the fires, while D'ri and my
father skinned the wolves and drassed
the deer. They had just finished when
the cock crew.
"Holler, ye gol-dum little cuss!"
D'ri shouted as he went over to him.
"Can't no snookin' wolf crack our
tones fer us. Peeled 'em—thet's what
we done tew 'em! Tuk 'n' knocked 'em
head over heels. Judas Priest! He
can peck a man's finger some, can't
he?"
The light was coming and he went
off to the spring for water, while I
brought the spider and pots. The
gri at, green-roofed temple of the
woods, that had so lately rung with the
howl of wolves, began to fill with far
wandering echoes of sweet song.
"They was a big cat over there by
the spring las' night," said D'ri, as
we all sat down to breakfast. "Tracks
bigger 'n a griddle! Smelt the mut
ton, mos' likely."
"Like mutton?" I inquired.
"Yis-sir-ee, they dew," said he.
"Kind o' mince-pie fer 'em. Like deer
meat, tew. Snook eroun' the ponds
after dark. Ef .they see a deer 'n the
water they wallop 'im quicker 'n
lightnin'; jump right in k'slap 'n' tek
'im."
We were off at sunrise, on a road
that grew rcugher every mile. At noon
we came to a river so swollen as to
make a dangerous ford. After dinner
my father waded in, going hips under
where the water was deep and swift.
Then he cut a long pole and took my
mother on his shoulders and entered
the broad stream, steadying himself
with the pole. When she had got
down safe on the other side, he came
back for grandmother and my sisters,
and took them over in the same way.
D'ri, meanwhile, bound up the feathei
beds and carried them 011 his head,
leaving the dog and me to tend the
sheep. All our blankets and clothing
were carried across in the same man
ner. Then I mounted the cart, with
my rooster, lashing the oxen till they
took to the stream. They had tied the
bell-wether to the axle, and, as I
started, men and dog drove the sheep
after me. The oxen wallowed in the
deep waler, and our sheep, after some
hesitation, began to swim. The big
cart floated like a raft part of the way,
and we landed with no great difficulty.
Farther on the road became nothing
better than a rude trail, where, fre
quently, we had to stop and chop
through heavy logs and roll them away.
On a steep hillside the oxen fell, break
ing the tongue, and the cart tipped side
wise and rolled bottom up. My roos
ter was badly flung about, and began
crowing and flapping as the basket
settled. When I opened it he flew
out, running for his life, as if finally
resolved to quit us. Fortunately, we
were all walking, and nobody was
hurt. My father and D'ri were busy
half a day "righting up," as they
called it. mending the tongue and
cover, and getting the cart on its
wheels and down the steep pitch.
After two days of trail travel we
came out on the Chateaugay road,
stopping awhile to bait our sheep and
cattle on the tame grass and tender
briars. It was a great joy to see the
clear road, with here and there a set
tler's cabin, its yard aglow with the
marigold, the hollyhock and the fra
grant honeysuckle. We got to the tav
ern at Chateaugay about dusk and put
up for the night, as becomes a Chris
tian.
Next afternoon we came to rough
roads again, camping at sundown along
the shore of a noisy brook. The dog
began to bark fiercely while supper
was making, and scurried off into a
thicket.
D'ri was stooping over, cooking the
meat. He rose and listened.
"Thet air dog's a leetle scairt," said
he. "Guess we better go 'n' see whut
's the matter."
He took hie rifle and I my sword —
I never thought of another weapon—
making off through the brush. The
dog came whining to D'ri and rushing
on, eager for us to follow. We hur
ried after him, and in a moment D'ri
and the dog, who were ahead of me,
halted suddenly.
"It's a painter," said D'ri, as I came
up. "See 'im in thet air tree-top. I'll
larrup 'im with OF Beeswax, then jes'
like es not he'll mek some music. Bet
ter grab holt o' the dog. 'T won't dew
fer 'im to git tew rambunctious, er the
fust thing he knows he won't hev no
insides in 'im."
I could see the big cat clinging
high in the top boughs of a birch and
looking calmly down at us. The tree
top swayed, quivering, as it held the
great dun beast. My heart was like
to smother me when D'ri raised his
rifle and took aim. The dog broke
away at the crack of it. The painter
reeled and spat; then he came crash
ing through the branches, striking
right and left with his fore paws to
save himself. He hit the ground heav
ily, and the dog was on him. The
painter lay as if dead. Before I could
got near, Rover began shaking him
by the neck. He came to suddenly, and
struck the dog with a front claw, drag
ging him down. A loud yelp followed
the blow. Quick as a flash D'ri caught
the painter by the tail and one hind
leg. With a quick surge of his great,
slouching shoulders, he flung him at
arm's-length. The lithe body doubled
on a tree trunk, quivered, and sank
down, as the dog came free. In a
jiffy I had run my sword through the
cat's belly and made an end of him.
"Knew 'f he got them hind hooks
on thet air dog he'd rake his ribs right
off," said D'ri, as he lifted his hat to
scratch his head. "Would n't 'a' left
nothin' but the backbone —nut a
thing—an' thet would n't 'a' been a
real fust-class one, nuther."
When D'ri was very positive, his
words were well braced with negatives.
We took the painter by the hind legs
and dragged him through the bushes
to our camp. The dog had a great rip
across his shoulder, where the claws
had struck and made furrows; but he
felt a mighty pride in our capture, and
never had a better appetite for a meal.
[To Be Continued.]
'l'he I.i 111 it.
Clara —I'm afraid Charles is a hope
less gambler.
Belle—Why.
"Because, when he threw a dollar
into the collection box at the charity
concert he tossed it to see if it would
came down head or tail up on the
plate."—Detroit Free Press.
Tender (ii'iili for Tenderfoot.
A fastidious and correct Bostonian,
on a tour through the west, recently
stopped over night at a small town in
the Indian territory. Feeling a little
indisposed in the morning as a result
of the unaccustomed crudeness of the
environment, he searched the breakfast
menu in vain for some such dainty as
chicken's livers en Brochette. Finally
he ordered soft boiled eggs and cream
toaSt, and received a severe shock as
the stentorian voice of the waiter
roared through the room, "Four in wa
ter, four minutes —and a graveyard
stew!"— Boston Budget.
Very l'oroim.
"It is really ridiculous," said Mr.
Figg, "to see the style the Henderbys
put on, when everyone knows that
they are as poor as —as poor as—"
"Plaster," suggested the youthful
son and heir.
"Poor as what?"
"Poor as plaster—porous plaster—
don't you know?"
"Now, look here, Mrs. F., if you don't
send that impudent kid to bed In five
minutes, I'll thrash him till he can't
stand. I'm not going to have any new
humorists in this house." —Smith's
Weekly.
I'nliiuHed Criticism.
"What, would you do, Nora,"
asked the young lady of the housemaid,
"if you could play the piano the same
as I do?"
"Sure, an' Oi wouldn't be afther
gettin' discouraged at all, at all." re
plied Nora. "Oi'd kape roight on larn
in' till Oi could play dacently."—Cin
cinnati Inquirer.
!!«• Mux Willing:.
Mrs. Henpeck—What do you think
of giving me for a birthday present?
Henpeck—Great idea! but to whom
could I give you? I really haven't an
enemy in the world.—Catholic Stand
ard and Times.
Who is
Your
Clothier?
If it's R. SEGER & CO,,
you are getting the right
kind of merchandise. There
is no small or grand decep
tion practiced in their store.
Sustained success demon
strates that there is
"growth in truth"in the
retailing of
NEW AND UP-TO-DATE
CLOTHING AT POPULAR
PRICES.
R. SEGER & CO.
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ILABAR'SI
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(4? $25 Bedroom Suits, solid ffOH $22 Sideboard, quartered (MP
y oak at 4>/U oak, J>|Q '£f
& A large liue of Dressers from Chiflloniers of all kinds and V.
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8? A large and elegant line of Tufted and Drop-head £2
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JUL The finest line of Sewing Machines on the market, JUL
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& As I keep a full line of everything that goes to make
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JUL the tiuth, and if you don't buy, there is no harm done, as S
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