He was barely fifteen, a lover of sport and uncommonly keen, even for a
beginner. Flocks of Wild Pigeons had been coming all day across the
blue Lake of Cayggeonull, and perching in line on the dead limbs of the
great rampikes that stood as monuments of fire, around the little
clearing in the forest, they afforded tempting marks; but he followed
them for hours in vain. They seemed to know the exact range of the
old-fashioned shotgun and rose on noisy wings each time before he was
near enough to fire. At length a small flock scattered among the low
green trees that grew about the spring, near the log shanty, and taking
advantage of the cover, Thorburn went in gently. He caught sight of a
single Pigeon close to him, took a long aim and fired. A sharp crack
resounded at almost the same time and the bird fell dead. Thorburn
rushed to seize the prize just as a tall young man stepped into view
and picked it up.
"Hello, Corney! you got my bird!"
"Your burrud! Sure yours flew away thayre. I saw them settle hayer and
thought I'd make sure of wan with the rifle."
A careful examination showed that a rifle-ball as well as a charge of
shot had struck the Pigeon. The gunners had fired on the same bird.
Both enjoyed the joke, though it had its serious side, for food as well
as ammunition was scarce in that backwoods home.
Corney, a superb specimen of a six-foot Irish-Canadian in early
manhood, now led away to the log shanty where the very scarcity of
luxuries and the roughness of their lives were sources of merriment.
For the Colts, though born and bred in the backwoods of Canada, had
lost nothing of the spirit that makes the Irish blood a world-wide
synonym of heartiness and wit.
Corney was the eldest son of a large family. The old folks lived at
Petersay, twenty-five miles to the southward. He had taken up a "claim"
to carve his own home out of the woods at Fenebonk, and his grown
sisters, Margat, staid and reliable, and Loo, bright and witty, were
keeping house for him. Thorburn Alder was visiting them. He had just
recovered from a severe illness and had been sent to rough it in the
woods in hope of winning some of the vigor of his hosts. Their home was
of unhewn logs, unfloored, and roofed with sods, which bore a luxuriant
crop of grass and weeds. The primitive woods around were broken in two
places: one where the roughest of roads led southward to Petersay; the
other where the sparkling lake rolled on a pebbly shore and gave a
glimpse of their nearest neighbor's house--four miles across the water.
Their daily round had little change. Corney was up at daybreak to light
the fire, call his sisters, and feed the horses while they prepared
breakfast. At six the meal was over and Corney went to his work. At
noon, which Margat knew by the shadow of a certain rampike falling on
the spring, a clear notification to draw fresh water for the table, Loo
would hang a white rag on a pole, and Corney, seeing the signal, would
return from summer fallow or hayfield, grimy, swarthy, and ruddy, a
picture of manly vigor and honest toil. Thor might be away all day, but
at night, when they again assembled at the table, he would come from
lake or distant ridge and eat a supper like the dinner and breakfast,
for meals as well as days were exact repeats: pork, bread, potatoes,
and tea, with occasionally eggs supplied by a dozen hens around the
little log stable, with, rarely, a variation of wild meat, for Thor was
not a hunter and Corney had little time for anything but the farm.