The Call of the Forest.
From that time onwards throughout the winter, Peter Many-Names was
never more than a few miles away from the homestead. He did a
flourishing business with the Collinsons in the way of small game and
so forth, and appeared to think he had come upon a land of plenty, so
many were the meals with which kindly Mrs. Collinson supplied him.
Soon the farmer began employing him in small jobs about the fences and
farm buildings, which, for some dark reason of his own, Peter
condescended to do, and to do well. He was too proud to be dishonest,
and he was never there when he was not wanted; so that after a few
weeks the inmates of the homestead looked for his silent presence as a
matter of course. Mr. Collinson was interested in him--in his quaint
English, his stately ways, his swiftness, and his untiring
activity--and said that he belonged to none of the tribes which
occasionally visited that neighbourhood, but that he was probably an
outcast from some northern tribe, who, separated from his people for
some reason, and caring little to take up with others, fended for
himself, and lived his own proud, lonely life. And the shrewd farmer
was probably as nearly right as might be.
After a time it seemed to Dick that he never left the house to go to
his work about the farm without seeing the dark face and the cold grey
eyes which had grown so familiar to him. And by degrees Peter's tongue
became loosened, and he told tales in his odd, sing-song English which
sent Dick about his tasks with wide, dreamy eyes and ears that heard
not. Dick feared the Indian as he might have feared all his
temptations embodied in a human form; but he went about with him, and
listened hungrily to his stories, feeling fascinated and attracted in
spite of this wise fear. He did not realise what a great influence
that strong savage nature was gaining over his own.
Thus the winter went on, peacefully and happily to all outward seeming;
but as the year drew closer to the spring it was noticed by watchful
Mr. Collinson that Dick sought Peter's companionship more and more
frequently, and that the Indian's uncanny eyes often rested upon the
English boy with a half-amused, half-malicious expression of power that
was hard to read.
The cold weather held until the end of March, with scarcely a break.
But at the beginning of the month the monotony was broken by an
important annual event in the lives of all settlers. This was no less
than sugar-making. Curiously enough, the Collinsons had few
sugar-maples on their farm, so they used to go to their nearest
neighbour's, where a certain number of trees were yearly set aside for
them. This neighbour was more than ten miles distant as the bird
flies, and the journey there, the sugar-making among fresh surroundings
and with fresh companionship, and the triumphant return through the
woods that were just beginning to awaken, were all looked forward to
throughout the winter.
This year it was arranged that one of the twins, Dick, Stephanie, and
two of the farm-hands, should go; William Charles was chosen at first,
but he yielded to Roger's evident disappointment, and said he would
stay at home. "Though I 'm sure," he said to himself placidly, "that I
should take just as much care of Stephanie as he could. However, if he
wants to go, I would just as soon stay at home, for it is hard work
they will get and plenty of it." And stay he did, with complete
satisfaction.
The others started on their journey one chill morning in early March,
before day had dawned. In the first sleigh were Stephanie, Dick,
Roger, and one of the farm-hands driving the pair of horses. The other
and more roughly built sleigh followed them, loaded with all the
appliances necessary for the sugar-making--three great cast-iron
kettles, a couple of heavy troughs cut out of pine-logs, and so
forth--in charge of the second man.
Stephanie never in her life forgot that drive through the great woods;
there had been heavy snow, which filled up all the hollows between
stumps and natural roughnesses that generally made the rude trail a
path of torment; the snow had been followed by sharp, incessant frost,
so the going was good. At first so impressive was the hush of the
cold, dim world into which they drove, that only the jingle of harness
and the squeal and bump of the clumsy runners broke the silence. But
as the pale March day dawned in a flood of blue and primrose-yellow,
crystal-clear and chill behind the trees, subdued talking and laughter
startled the solitudes as the sleighs passed. The skies, as the sun
rose higher, were of a deep translucent blue, and the breeze had an
edge as of steel. Nothing seemed at first sight to give promise of
spring. But an observant eye would have seen that the smaller branches
and twigs of the trees had lost their winter hue of dull grey-brown,
and shone as the sunlight struck them, in all hues from bright
yellow-green to warm deep reddish-brown. The bud-cases, too, were very
dark and sticky, and some little birds were feasting on the
close-curled green within, while once, far away, a robin called
huskily, not yet triumphant in his shrill bubbling whistle.
Stephanie never forgot that journey. Trees, trees, nothing but trees
before them behind them, on either side--except where the trail wound
onwards, and even that, the low branches and the long-armed bushes were
striving to reclaim. And between these trees the carpet of white lay
as yet unbroken, though somewhat shrunken here and there. Winter
seemed to be still present; but as the day advanced, Stephanie noticed
that the woods were disturbed by an occasional whirr and flutter of
birds, while in the sunnier spots could be heard the soft insistent
music of melting snow. The spring melody had not yet begun, but the
forests were crooning snatches of it in their sleep.
That journey was never forgotten, and not forgotten easily was the
welcome extended to the chilly travellers by the warm-hearted Irish
family they counted their nearest neighbours. Stephanie was to sleep
at the house, and all the evening she discussed matters with the eldest
daughter, bright-faced, soft-tongued Nonie O'Brien--matters dear to the
hearts of girls; and Nonie exhibited with speechless pride the
never-worn dress of rose-pink tabinet, less pink than her own cheeks,
which her father had brought her from distant Cobourg on her last
birthday.
Meanwhile, the men and boys had taken the kettles to the sugar-bush,
stabled the horses afterwards, then returned to the bush and built the
rough shelter of boughs they were to inhabit for the nine or ten days
of their stay. This finished, they rolled themselves in their
blankets, and were almost instantly asleep, too tired even to snore.
The next morning the sugar-making began. Notches were cut in the
trees, and below these the cedar spiles were driven in, down which the
sap trickled into little troughs set for the purpose. Several times
during the day the sap was all gathered in buckets, carried at the end
of a yoke which was placed across the shoulders, and taken to the great
store-troughs. The iron kettles slung over the fires had to be kept
full and constantly watched, until the sap should turn to syrup; and
then came the "sugaring-off."
Everyone was kept busy almost every hour of the twenty-four, for the
sugar-making went on day and night. And on one particular night, about
a week after his arrival, Dick was chosen to sit up and keep watch
until two o'clock in the morning, filling the kettles and replenishing
the fires when necessary.
He was quite willing to do so. And after the others had had their
evening meal at the homestead, and had returned to the shelter and to
peaceful but noisy slumbers, he cheerfully began his vigil.
There was no comfortable log at hand, he decided, so he scratched a
hole in the snow, lined it with small twigs and pieces of bark, placed
a folded blanket over all, and then settled himself in his nest with
complete satisfaction. He had the happy faculty of adapting himself to
his surroundings, and so was seldom uncomfortable, whatever other
people might be.
The woods were dark, a vast and shadowy background of gloom to the
wavering circle of firelight. The calm stars looked down between the
dark twigs of the upper branches, and the snow showed red and full of
uncertain gleams in the flicker of the flames. It was all empty and
still, and the silence at first seemed unbroken; but, owing perhaps to
the breeze and the recent thaw, on carefully listening the forest was
full of very slight sounds--sounds as if living things were moving
about in it with infinite caution and stealth. It was a disturbing
idea, and Dick was glad of the heavy breathing of his comrades in the
shelter for company.
The time passed on, and the nest in the snow was very comfortable
indeed. The woods were still full of those ghostly rustlings, but
after a while Dick ceased to notice them, and it is probable that he
was asleep.
But whether he was asleep or not, about midnight he roused quickly
enough, with the instinct that someone was near him. Owing to his wild
training, he had enough of the savage in him to lie perfectly still and
listen for several minutes before moving. The noise that must have
awakened him was not repeated, but there seemed to be an increase in
those faint, ghostly rustlings and whisperings and half-heard stealthy
footfalls, so at last he climbed reluctantly out of his cosy nest and
built up all the fires.
Having done this, he settled himself once more in the blanket-lined
hollow. The fires were now beds of leaping flame beneath the bubbling
kettles of sap, and the shifting light made it difficult to distinguish
objects at a little distance. But Dick had sharp eyes; and soon he had
gained the knowledge that someone, he knew not who, was crouching on
the opposite side of the fire nearest his nest in the snow!
It was disturbing knowledge, for he knew it was not one of his
comrades; but no one could have accused Dick of physical cowardice, and
immediately he tiptoed round the fire to investigate, with a heart that
beat a little faster than usual.
The crouching figure glanced up at him with eyes that shone like a wild
animal's in the glow of the fire, and Dick, thrilling suddenly,
recognised Peter Many-Names.
The Indian did not give him the usual greeting, but remained crouched
as he was, staring across the fire into the black mystery of the
forest. His dark face was shaken with some strange excitement, and his
eyes gleamed green like a wolfs behind their grey. He seemed to be in
one of those states of wild exaltation to which his race is liable; and
as he crouched there, he rocked himself backwards and forwards in a
sort of ecstasy.
"I-i-o-i-o-o, I-i-o, I-o-o, I-e-e!" he crooned over and over again, and
at each repetition his eyes shone more wildly. He seemed unconscious
of Dick's presence after the first glance, and gave himself up to his
own mad mood and the odd charm of his wild chant.
Dick's nerves tingled. There seemed to be some curious rhythmic
infection in the whole unexpected performance. The rocking, the
swaying, the subdued, incessant crooning were fascinating him, just as
they might fascinate and excite a young brave at his antelope dances.
After a few minutes he fancied he felt his own senses urging him to
join in the monotonous, mesmeric swaying, the soft barbaric chant.
The suggestion fairly frightened him, and he dropped his hand heavily
on the Indian's shoulder.
Peter sprang to his feet, his eyes still glittering with that strange
excitement. For a moment he was silent. Then he flung out his arm,
lean, brown, circled with savage ornaments--flung it out with a wild
gesture to the north, and began to speak.
[Illustration: "HE FLUNG OUT HIS ARM, CIRCLED WITH SAVAGE
ORNAMENTS--FLUNG IT OUT WITH A WILD GESTURE, AND BEGAN TO SPEAK."]
He spoke in his own tongue, deep-noted, musical almost as Greek, and
though the English boy, standing white-faced and motionless in the glow
of the fire, did not understand one word in twenty, there was no need
to ask the meaning.
Many have borne witness to the marvellous charm of Indian oratory, and
the meaning was plainly to be read in the wonderful play of expression
in Peter's dark face and flashing, grey-green eyes, in the faultless
artistic skill of his every gesture, wherewith he painted what he had
in his mind almost without need of words.
It was a barbaric song of freedom--a song of the rush and roar of the
buffalo hunt, a song of the evening fires before the lodges; of the
call of birds at the dawn, and the evening star hanging silver above
the pines; of the limitless northward world, and the homeless wind of
the prairies; of the flowers whiter than snow, redder than blood; of
the pipe of willow-flutes in the dusk, and the triumph-cry of the
raiders as they thunder home to the music of a hundred stolen
hoofs--all these things Dick thought of as he listened, only
understanding a word here and there, yet charmed to the bottom of his
restless soul by the art of Peter Many-Names. It was a chant of the
spring, of roving feet and tents that are never in one place for long;
a gipsy song of the north. And as such Dick's very soul responded to
it.
He stared at the Indian with fascinated eyes even after that wild
speech was ended.
Peter came close to him, with those hard glittering grey eyes of his
gazing into the English boy's softer ones. And suddenly he spoke
again, in English. "You come with me?" he whispered.
And Dick answered, against his own will, in a voice which did not
appear to be his. "Yes, I will come!" he said. There was no need of
explanation.