throbbing sea, had waited for me to come back to it! No lake isle of
Innesfree[58] could have beguiled the poet more. Anchored at a desk,
I had dreamed often of such an hour of freedom; and now that it was
really mine, I determined that I would not analyze it, but that I would
simply drink in its wonder. It would have been as criminal as to pluck
a flower apart.
“Policemen went their weary rounds, swinging their sticks, and it
suddenly came to me that even in this sylvan retreat there was stern
labor to be done. Just as some one, some time, must sweep out a
shrine,--possibly nowadays with a vacuum-cleaner!--so papers must be
picked from God's grass, and pick-pockets must be diligently looked
for in holiday crowds. Men on high and practical sprinkling-carts must
keep the roadways clean, and emissaries of the law must see to it
that motorists do not speed too fast. You think of ice-cream as being
miraculously made in a park pavilion, and unless you visit the city
woodland at the hour of eleven or so in the morning, you may keep your
dream. But I beheld a common ice-wagon back up to the door of that
cherished house of my childhood, and a strong, rough fellow proved
himself the connecting-link between the waitress and her eager little
customers.
“At this hour it was as though I had gone behind the scenes of a
theater while the stage-hands were busy about their necessary labors.
Wiring had to be done,--I had forgotten that they have telephones even
in the park,--and a mason was repairing a crumbling wall. How much
better to let it crumble, I thought. But all my practicality, through
my sense of strange freedom, had left me, and I was ardent for a mad,
glad world, where for a long time there would be nothing for anybody
to do. I wanted masons and policemen and icemen and nurse-maids and
electricians and keepers of zoölogical gardens to be as free as I,
forever and ever.
“You see, my unexpected holiday had gone to my head, and it was a
summer morning, and I felt somehow that I ought to be working rather
than loitering here.
“I suppose I shall be sane to-morrow, but I wonder if I want to be.”
And we all wondered if we didn't like him better when he was just this
way, a child with a new toy, or, rather, a child with an old toy that
he had almost but not quite forgotten how to play with.
SUGGESTIVE QUESTIONS
1. What advantage does the essayist gain by using characters to
express his own thoughts?
2. What made the philosopher's holiday so notable?
3. What had been his daily life?
4. Comment on the various thoughts and fancies that came to the
philosopher on his holiday.
5. What is meant by the expression, “An Agonized Manhood”?
6. What joys does the philosopher find?
7. Show how his thoughts come back to the idea of work.
8. In what did his lack of “sanity” consist?
9. Does the expression, “I suppose I shall be sane to-morrow,” mean
that he will wish to work, or wish to have a holiday, or wish
for something else?
10. What was the toy that he had almost forgotten how to play with?
11. What is the author's purpose?
12. What evils in modern life does the essay criticize?
SUBJECTS FOR WRITTEN IMITATION
1. School Athletics 11. Selfishness
2. Home Study 12. School Spirit
3. Exercise 13. Good Manners
4. Reading 14. Playing Jokes
5. Writing Letters 15. Carefulness
6. Aiding Others 16. Honesty in School Work
7. Politeness 17. Thoughtfulness
8. Using Reference Books 18. Practising Music Lessons
9. Going to Bed Early 19. Looking Out for Number One
10. Obedience 20. “Bluffing”
DIRECTIONS FOR WRITING
When you have selected a subject that interests you, write out,
in a single sentence, your one most important thought on that subject.
Then plan to write an essay that will embody that thought.
If you are to imitate Mr. Towne's method you will think of a typical
character who will express your own thought. As soon as you have
introduced your character--notice how quickly Mr. Towne introduced the
“young-old philosopher”--lead him to relate an experience that made him
think about the subject. Write his meditations in such a way that they
will show all view-points. Let the end of your essay indicate, rather
than state, the view-point that you wish to emphasize.
Mr. Towne gives his essay many elements of originality and much beauty
of thought and expression. Imitate his style as well as you can.
FOOTNOTES:
[55] Sir Walter Raleigh is said to have laid his cloak in the mud so
that Queen Elizabeth might pass without soiling her garments.
[56] Narcissus. A Greek myth tells of a young man named Narcissus who,
leaning over a pool, fell in love with his own reflection, and changed
into a flower.
[57] Dante Gabriel Rosetti (1828-1882). An English poet of Italian and
English descent. His poems are marked by beauty of form, symbolism and
color.
[58] Innesfree. The Irish poet, William Butler Yeats (1864--) wrote
_The Lake Isle of Innisfree_ in which he imagines Innisfree as an
island of perfect peace, a place for which he longs when “on the
roadway, or on the pavements gray.”
THE STORY OF ADVENTURE
PRUNIER TELLS A STORY
By T. MORRIS LONGSTRETH
_An American author and lover of natural scenery. His books on_ The
Adirondacks, _and_ The Catskills _are enticements into the mountain
world. He is a writer for many periodicals._
=The romantic story of adventure deals with events that are far from
being the events of daily life. Usually such a story has for its
setting an unusual scene.=
=_Prunier Tells a Story_ deals with events that come into very
few lives; its setting is a region into which very few people
penetrate. The principal character, the French-Canadian Prunier, is
likewise a type of person with whom few are acquainted.=
=At the same time, the story is told with a degree of naturalness
that makes it seem real. The French-Canadian is brought into touch
with daily life by the presence of his two listeners, who are
people of the ordinary world, and one of whom is a boy.=
=The story is not told merely for wild event: it hangs upon
character and upon noble purpose. It emphasizes courage, ability,
self-sacrifice and faith.=
=The setting of the story is so used that it contributes in a marked
degree to the entire effect. As one reads he feels himself in the
icy north, in the grip of cold and darkness where wild events are
altogether probable.=
PART I
THE PILLAR OF CLOUD BY DAY
It was after supper one November evening, at Wilderness House, with the
sleet dancing on the eaves and the great forest of Wildyrie closing us
about with its dark presence, when Essex Lad and I stumbled by chance
on the fact that we didn't have to read books for adventure, but merely
touch Prunier in some-story-telling place, and then--listen.
Prunier, you remember, is the blue-shirted, black-hatted
French-Canadian who lives with us and thinks he works. He is a
broad-shouldered, husky, simple-faced man of forty, who never opens his
mouth unless it be to point out a partridge we are overlooking or to
put in his black pipe. He spent his youth in the great Northland, where
adventures are as common as black flies in a swamp, and yet he had
never even explained the scar across his cheek, or the white patch on
his scalp where some other excitement had been registered, until that
evening when I had closed the Bible.
“Tink dat true?” he had suddenly asked.
I had been reading them how the Lord God had led Moses and the children
of Israel across that other wilderness by a pillar of cloud by day and
a pillar of fire by night. It had roused him strangely.
“I know it true,” he said, “for _le bon Dieu_ show me way by pillars
of cloud and fire _aussi_. If you want story, I tole you dat wan,
_moi-même_.”
It was our turn to be excited. Here was luck--a vacant evening, a
hearth fire, and Prunier promising _une longue histoire_, as he called
it. We formed a semi-circle before the blazing birch, and, with the
dull beat of the sleet above us for accompaniment, listened for the
first word that would launch the black-eyed man upon his tale. It was
long coming. He relit the pipe, recrossed his legs, muttered once “Pore
ole Pierre,” and stopped. We ceased to breathe; for though I could
command him to cut wood and wash dishes, I could not force from him a
syllable about “Pore ole Pierre” until he was good and ready.
“Monsieur Moses _et moi_, we have purty hard times in wilderness widout
doze pillars,” he said.
The Lad and I gave a nervous laugh. I could not fancy myself personally
conducting forty thousand Hebrews, even through Wildyrie, without much
assistance.
“Yaas,” he said, “purty hard. I now begin.”
And begin he did, slowly and with his quaint talk seasoned with his
habitant French, which I'll have to omit in my retelling.
“It was a night just like this, in my little cabin on Wolf River. It
had rained and then frozen, and the dark closed in with sleet. A very
good night to be indoors, thought ole Pierre and I. Ole Pierre was my
best friend, an old husky, who had been trapping with me four--five
years. He knew all that men know, I think, as well as all that dogs
understand, and he could smell a werewolf in the twilight.”
“A werewolf, what's that?” was on the very opening of the Lad's lips,
but he held back the question.
“A werewolf, you know,” went on Prunier, “is worse than real wolf, for
it is in the air--a ghost-wolf. That is why ole Pierre sometimes howled
in his sleep and kept her from visiting us. That is why I put a candle
in the window every dusk-time. As you shall see, it was lucky habit.
“_Eh bien_, that night I was sorting over my traps, for I thought it
would turn cold after the storm. Then I would cross Breknek Place and
begin the winter's trapping.
“Breknek Place is its name, because the sides of Wolf River come very
close together, almost so near a man can jump. Indeed its name is
really because a trapper like me was surprised by the wolves and ran
for it. But he was too scared, and missed. They never got his body, the
wolves, because the river runs so fast down to the Smoky Pool. Smoky
Pool is a warm cove in the St. Lawrence that freezes last, and from
which clouds of vapor rise on still days into the colder air.
“I never intended to be washed down that way, and in the summer I
felled a tree from bank to bank, a broad hemlock, big enough to run
a sledge over, almost; and that save many miles walking up river to
Portage du Loup. I never intended, either, to be run by the wolves, you
bet! And ole Pierre and I were pretty-very careful to be inside at the
candle-lighting time.
“That night our cabin was very quiet, like this, for the sleet was a
little pleasant sound, and ole Pierre was dreaming of old hunts, and I
was on the floor with the traps, when both the dog and I were brought
out of our thoughts by a wild cry, very faint and far away, but as
sharp and sudden as a cut of lightning on a summer night.
“The hair on the back of my neck rises just like ole Pierre's, for I
know it is the werewolf. And he looks at me and whines, for he knows
it, too. I rush and light a second candle, though I have not too many,
and look out the pane. But of course, there is nothing to be seen,
nothing to be heard, except the moaning of wind in the dark. Yet
later I hear a noise, very weak, very unsteady, as if a person was
approaching.
“Ole Pierre howls low in his throat and scratches on the door. I
reprove him: 'Are you possessed, ole Pierre? There is no soul within
sixty--seventy miles. And you and I have done nothing that should let
the werewolf in.'
“But it was fearful hearing that stealthy approach, stopping long, then
many steps, and a groan. I get out the Bible and read fast. But there
comes a _tap-tap_ at the door, and I tremble so the book almost falls
from my hand, and ole Pierre, he calls to his saints, too.
“What is the use of looking out, for who can see a werewolf?
“Presently there is no noise. The _tap-tap_ stops; and except for a
noise as of a bundle of something dropping against the door, there
is nothing to hear except the dull sleet on the eaves, ole Pierre
crying in his throat, and the _trip-trip_ of my heart that goes like a
werewolf pounding on my ribs. A voice inside me says open the door. But
another voice says 'That is a werewolf trick and you will be carried
away, Prunier.' Twenty times my hand is on the bolt.
“At last I can stand it no longer,--that voice inside saying to me to
open,--and I rush to it and throw it open before I have time to think,
and a body falls in, against my legs. A long, thin body it is, and I
hesitate to touch it, for a werewolf can take any form. But a groan
comes from it, and I have not the heart to push it out into the dark. I
prop it by the fire and its eyes droop open. 'Food--tie up food.' That
is the first word it says.
“I push some medicine for weakness into his mouth, and his life comes
back little by little. 'You must take food to her,' he says; and soon
again, 'The ship by Smoky Pool--she starves in it--my sister.'
“Indeed, I soon saw that he was faint from long travel and no feeding,
and perhaps a sickness past thrown in, for he faints much between
parts of his account. But I gather the news that he had come very far
from some deserted ship in which a sister was starving to death; and
alone, since his three partners had cleared out. He begged of me to
leave him and take food for her. He cried out that he was dying, and
I had to believe him; for death's shadows sat at the entrance to his
eyes. I made him glad by placing bread beside him, and by putting on my
Mackinaw and the pack after it, in which I had put food.
“A fever of uneasiness stirred him between faints until I had lit a
lantern and called to ole Pierre to follow. Then joy shone in his worn
eyes, and a blessing on us both followed us out into the icy night.
“With a last look through the window at the stranger, who had now, as
I thought, closed his eyes in surrender to the end, ole Pierre and I
turned into the endless forest on our long trail to the Smoky Pool.
The sleet was freezing as it fell, and the rays of my lantern lit the
woods, which seemed made of marble, the dark trunks glistening, the
laden boughs hanging down like chandeliers in a cathedral, and the
shrubs glittering like ten million candles as we passed. In such a
place, I thought, no werewolf dare attack us.
“Instead, I thought of the trail ahead, the long miles till we come to
Breknek Place, the long miles after to the ice-locked arm of the St.
Lawrence near by the Smoky Pool. On such an errand we had nothing to
fear, though outside the lantern-shine it was as dark as the one of
Monsieur Moses' bad plagues you have read to the Lad so lately.
“We had got within three--four miles of Wolf River, ole Pierre
slip-slipping on the ice in front of me, the lantern swinging, my pack
beginning to feel like a rest, when for the second time that night a
cry shivers across the distance, an awful sound for a lonely man to
hear in the night forest.
“It is a long howl, fierce and almost gladsome, like when the evil one
is clutching a new victim. And it is answered from the other side of
the night by another howl, and then a chorus from both sides at once.
And then the trail turns, and I know the pack of them is not chasing
deer far away, but chasing _me_, _us_. For ole Pierre knows it, too,
and crouches whining at my feet. Ole Pierre knows there is no escape,
like me.
“Have you ever seen a wolf-pack run down a deer by turns, leap at its
throat, and pull it down? I have once, near _Trois Rivières_, from
a safe place on a mountain. And it was bad enough to be in the safe
place, only watching. But that night how much worse! I pat ole Pierre
on the head and tell him to cheer up, there is no use dying three--four
times ahead of time. And as I say that, I think of that other man
chased by wolves who had tried to leap at Breknek Place.
“_'Tiens!_ ole Pierre,' I cry, 'let us do better!' And off I start at
a dead run, feet slipping sideways, lantern swinging, pack rising,
falling, like a rabbit's hind leg, with ole Pierre chasing after. It
is less than a mile to the narrow gorge. Could we make that, perhaps I
could throw the big hemlock in and stop them from crossing after us. A
revolver is no good against a pack, and going up a tree is only putting
off till to-morrow their big feast on habitant.
“The quick motion of our running put courage in our blood, and after
a little while even ole Pierre's brush waves higher in the air, as if
he had remembered some fight of old, and we gallop. We gallop, but the
wolves they gallop too. First on one side far off, then on the other
nearer, and ever as the trail winds in a new direction they sound like
pack on pack of them, although there might have been less than ten. It
is only late in the winter with us, when the snow is deep, that they
gather into big packs to pull down the moose.
“At length, breathless, very tired, but still ahead of them, ole Pierre
and I come out into the clear space just before the river. It was very
slippery with frozen sleet, and I fall once--twice; and ole Pierre
slide here--there, like a kitten on new ice. Ahead of us roars the
river through the deep gorge. Behind on two sides the howling comes
from the forest, and once, when I look back, I see them. But that can't
be, for it is so dark. Yet I imagine I see them--black, racing forms,
tongues out, muzzles sharp and red, and a green-yellow fire from the
eyes.
“And it was so. For before we reach the fallen hemlock, our bridge to
safety, two come between us and the river. With a yell, I fire straight
where they were, but it is too dark, too slippery to hit, and they only
circle back to wait till their partners come up. I fling myself down
breathless, weak, for just two seconds' wind.
“'Cross ole Pierre, cross over, _mon enfant_!' And he trotted to the
long log, but crawled back with his tail dragging, and whined about me.
Black shadows, five, ten, twelve maybe, circled outside the ring of my
lantern-light, and the green-yellow eyes were no imagination now. But
they were quiet, intent on closing in. With the lantern, which was our
only salvation from their fangs, in one hand and my revolver in the
other, I backed to the hemlock, calling to ole Pierre to follow. He is
trembling, and I soon know why; for when I put my foot on our bridge
to safety, it cannot stay, and I nearly plunge headlong into the rocky
stream thirty feet below. The log was slippery with frozen mist. We
were trapped. At our backs, a river not to be crossed; about us, a crew
of wolves getting bolder every minute.
“'Courage, ole Pierre!' I cried; and I fired once into them. There
was a shrill howl and cry, and several made a rush toward us, instead
of away. I drop the lantern to load my revolver. Ole Pierre brushes
against it, and in a second it starts to glide down the slope on the
sleet-ice. It goes faster, I gaping after it, slips with a flicker over
the edge, and we hear it crash and tinkle on the rocks down there!
“_Quel horreur!_ It was savage. The kerosene flares up, and for once
I see the whole scene plainly: the gorge, a great leap wide at its
narrowest, spouting light; the ice-silvered hemlock-bridge leading to
safety, but uncrossable except for a circus-dancer; a fringe of bushes,
with the sudden-illuminated forms of strong-shouldered wolves cowering
in their surprise at the light.
“Ole Pierre and I had three minutes,--I thought the kerosene would last
that long,--then darkness, a rush from the dark, hot fangs feeling for
the throat, and there would be no ole Pierre, no Prunier to rescue the
girl in the ship from starvation.
“And at the thought of her came the picture of my little cabin, the
fire we had left, the coziness of it. It made me mad--to die!
“'Quick, ole Pierre,' I say. '_Allons!_ We will crawl over the bridge,'
and I kneel on it. But my knees slip. I sit on it and push myself
along, until I can see the wrecked lantern, going slowly out. I call to
ole Pierre, and he comes out two--three paces, whines, cries, lies down
and trembles. The light is fading and when it goes it is our end. But I
cannot leave ole Pierre.
“I crawl back and take him in my arms, a very big arm-load. The light
is fading. I cannot see the bushes. And the eyes of the indistinct
brutes again begin to gleam. They approach the end of the tree. Ole
Pierre is too big to carry, and I set him down to fix my cartridges so
that I can get them easily. It is not so long to dawn. If we can hold
them at the end of the bridge till dawn, we might live.
“Suddenly a fearful thing happens: the kerosene flares up in a dying
leap, then the dark rushes at us, and, with a concert of snarls, the
pack comes with it. Ole Pierre is brave, but, as they reach us, the
rush of them cannot stop on the ice, and I feel the hair of one, I hear
his jaws. I know that they are pushing toward the edge, and in the dark
I have to feel for ole Pierre.
“There is an awful melée, and I fire. By the flash I see ole Pierre by
the brink, with two big wolves upon him. I drop my revolver to clutch
at him. A dark form leaps at me. I have my knife in my teeth. I drive
it hard and often, sometimes growling like a wolf myself, sometimes
calling to ole Pierre.
“Once more the lantern flares enough to show the blood on my knife,
the heap of struggling forms flung on my dog, and as it dies for the
last time I fancy them sliding--sliding. I rush to save him, but must
beat back a great hot-breathed creature whose jaws just scrape my
scalp. We are all sliding together now, faster, faster, toward the edge
of the gorge. A dripping muzzle tears my cheek,--it is this scar you
see,--but with both hands I throttle it; and clutching with a sort of
madness, I hold as we go over the edge--down, all together down--Poor
ole Pierre!”
Prunier stopped. For an hour Essex Lad and I had listened, more and
more intently, until now, when the subdued sound of his slow-speaking
ceased, we were both gripping the edge of our chairs, falling over the
edge of that gorge with him, sympathetically. I could have imagined the
least noise into the click of jaws.
But there was no noise, the Lad sitting perfectly rigid, speechless,
staring at the man. Presently he put out a hand, slowly, and touched
the guide as if to make sure that the fall had not been fatal. And
still neither of us spoke. Prunier was going to recommence. He opened
his mouth, but it was only to yawn.
“_Mon Dieu_,” he said, “but I sleep! It ees very late.” And the man
actually rose.
“But '_mon Dieu_,'” I said, “you can't leave us falling over a
precipice! What happened? Tell us at least what happened. And you
haven't even mentioned the pillar of fire or of smoke.”
“_C'est une très longue histoire._” [“It is a very long story.”]
“Poor ole Pierre!” said the Lad, as if coming out of a dream; “did it
kill him?”
Prunier shook his head, no. “It kill only the wolves we landed
on--_geplump!_ We had stopped on a gravel ledge, with the cold breath
of the river rushing by a foot away. I never lose sense. I begin chuck
wolves into the river. Three--four--five, in they go, my back bending,
my back straightening, and _gesplash!_ another howl down-stream! I
think I never lose sense. But I did.” He stopped again, and rubbed a
slow hand across his summer-tanned brow. “I must have losed sense. In
the morning there are _no_ animals on the ledge.”
“You mean--” began the Lad, and did not finish. Prunier nodded.
“But he would not have lived anyway,” I said, to ease the pain in his
memory. “Ole Pierre could not have lived with all the wolf-bites he
must have had.”
“I hope he know I was not in my sense,” said Prunier. “_Alors_, dawn
came soon, and I cross the stream on big rocks and climb up birch
sapling to the opposite bank. I look back. No sign of wolves. I look
forward, no sign of life to the north pole, no forest even, just
endless plain to the frozen river endless far away.
“I give a big groan, for there is no strength in my legs, no courage in
my heart, and I feel like falling on my knees and asking _le bon Dieu_
to show me the way. And it was as if He had heard, for suddenly my eye
is caught by a thin pillar of white ascending into the gray sky.
“'Courage,' I said, 'it is His sign.' I fixed my torn pack, bound up my
cheek and scalp, and made over the glassy surface of the plain straight
where the pillar led me. On and on I stumbled. I would never have
reached my errand's end but for that pillar of smoke. And if I had not
reached it.--” Again there was a pause. Then, “I will tell some other
time,” he said, “_c'est une longue histoire_.”