It was in 1835, about mid-winter, when Brier Dale was a narrow
clearing, and the horizon well up in the sky and to anywhere a
day's journey.
Down by the shore of the pond, there, Allen built his house.
To-day, under thickets of tansy, one may see the rotting logs, and
there are hollyhocks and catnip in the old garden. He was from
Middlebury, they say, and came west--he and his wife--in '29. From
the top of the hill above Allen's, of a clear day, one could look
far across the tree-tops, over distant settlements that were as
blue patches in the green canopy of the forest, over hill and dale
to the smoky chasm of the St. Lawrence thirty miles north. The
Allens had not a child; they settled with no thought of school or
neighbour. They brought a cow with them and a big collie whose
back had been scarred by a lynx. He was good company and a brave
hunter, this dog; and one day--it was February, four years after
their coming, and the snow lay deep--he left the dale and not even
a track behind him. Far and wide they went searching, but saw no
sign of him. Near a month later, one night, past twelve o'clock,
they heard his bark in the distance. Allen rose and lit a candle
and opened the door. They could hear him plainer, and now, mingled
with his barking, a faint tinkle of bells.
It had begun to thaw, and a cold rain was drumming on roof and
window.
"He's crossing the pond," said Allen, as he listened. "He's
dragging some heavy thing over the ice."
Soon he leaped in at the door, the little red sleigh bouncing after
him. The dog was in shafts and harness. Over the sleigh was a
tiny cover of sail-cloth shaped like that of a prairie schooner.
Bouncing over the door-step had waked its traveller, and there was
a loud voice of complaint in the little cavern of sail-cloth.
Peering in, they saw only the long fur of a gray wolf. Beneath it
a very small boy lay struggling with straps that held him down.
Allen loosed them and took him out of the sleigh, a ragged but
handsome youngster with red cheeks and blue eyes and light, curly
hair. He was near four years of age then, but big and strong as
any boy of five. He stood rubbing his eyes a minute, and the dog
came over and licked his face, showing fondness acquired they knew
not where. Mrs. Allen took the boy in her lap and petted him, but
he was afraid--like a wild fawn that has just been captured--and
broke away and took refuge under the bed. A long time she sat by
her bedside with the candle, showing him trinkets and trying to
coax him out. He ceased to cry when she held before him a big,
shiny locket of silver, and soon his little hand came out to grasp
it. Presently she began to reach his confidence with sugar. There
was a moment of silence, then strange words came out of his
hiding-place. "Anah jouhan" was all they could make of them, and
they remembered always that odd combination of sounds. They gave
him food, which he ate with eager haste. Then a moment of silence
and an imperative call for more in some strange tongue. When at
last he came out of his hiding-place, he fled from the woman. This
time he sought refuge between the knees of Allen, where soon his
fear gave way to curiosity, and he began to feel her face and gown.
By and by he fell asleep.
They searched the sleigh and shook out the robe and blanket,
finding only a pair of warm bricks.
A Frenchman worked for the Allens that winter, and the name, Trove,
was of his invention.
And so came Sidney Trove, his mind in strange fetters, travelling
out of the land of mystery, in a winter night, to Brier Dale.