Two highways meet before the door, and a third reaches away to the
southward, broad and smooth and white. But there are no travellers
passing by. The snow that has fallen during the night is unbroken. The
pale February sunrise makes blue shadows on it, sharp and jagged, an
outline of the fir-trees on the mountain-crest quarter of, a mile away.
In summer the highways are dissolved into three wild rivers--the River
of Rocks, which issues from the hills; the River of Meadows, which flows
from the great lake; and the River of the Way Out, which runs down from
their meeting-place to the settlements and the little world. But in
winter, when the ice is firm under the snow, and the going is fine,
there are no tracks upon the three broad roads except the paths of the
caribou, and the footprints of the marten and the mink and the fox, and
the narrow trails made by Luke Dubois on his way to and from his cabin
by the rivers.
He leaned in the door-way, looking out. Behind him in the shadow, the
fire was still snapping in the little stove where he had cooked his
breakfast. There was a comforting smell of bacon and venison in the
room; the tea-pot stood on the table half-empty. Here in the corner were
his rifle and some of his traps. On the wall hung his snowshoes. Under
the bunk was a pile of skins. Half-open on the bench lay the book that
he had been reading the evening before, while the snow was falling. It
was a book of veritable fairy-tales, which told how men had made their
way in the world, and achieved great fortunes, and won success, by
toiling hard at first, and then by trading and bargaining and getting
ahead of other men.
“Well,” said Luke, to himself, as he stood at the door, “I could do that
too. Without doubt I also am one of the men who can do things. They
did not work any harder than I do. But they got better pay. I am
twenty-five. For ten years I have worked hard, and what have I got for
it? This!”
He stepped out into the morning, alert and vigorous, deep-chested and
straight-hipped. The strength of the hills had gone into him, and his
eyes were bright with health. His kingdom was spread before him. There
along the River of Meadows were the haunts of the moose and the caribou
where he hunted in the fall; and yonder on the burnt hills around the
great lake were the places where he watched for the bears; and up beside
the River of Rocks ran his line of traps, swinging back by secret ways
to many a nameless pond and hidden beaver-meadow; and all along the
streams, when the ice went out in the spring, the great trout would
be leaping in rapid and pool. Among the peaks and valleys of that
forest-clad kingdom he could find his way as easily as a merchant walks
from his house to his office. The secrets of bird and beast were known
to him; every season of the year brought him its own tribute; the woods
were his domain, vast, inexhaustible, free.
Here was his home, his cabin that he had built with his own hands. The
roof was tight, the walls were well chinked with moss. It was snug and
warm. But small--how pitifully small it looked to-day--and how lonely!
His hand-sledge stood beside the door, and against it leaned the axe.
He caught it up and began to split wood for the stove. “No!” he cried,
throwing down the axe, “I’m tired of this. It has lasted long enough.
I’m going out to make my way in the world.”
A couple of hours later, the sledge was packed with camp-gear and
bundles of skins. The door of the cabin was shut; a ghostlike wreath of
blue smoke curled from the chimney. Luke stood, in his snowshoes, on the
white surface of the River of the Way Out. He turned to look back for a
moment, and waved his hand.
“Good-bye, old cabin! Good-bye, the rivers! Good-bye, the woods!”