"I will arise, and go to my father."--St. Luke.
It is the hour of sunset; the sonorous sound of the cattle-bells is
heard, as they slowly emerge from the steep hill-path that leads to
Maxwell and Louis Perron's little clearing; the dark shadows are
lengthening that those wood-crowned hills cast over that sunny spot, an
oasis in the vast forest desert that man, adventurous, courageous man, has
hewed for himself in the wilderness. The little flock are feeding among
the blackened stumps of the uncleared chopping: those timbers have lain
thus untouched for two long years; the hand was wanting that should have
given help in logging and burning them up. The wheat is ripe for the
sickle, and the silken beard of the corn is waving like a fair girl's
tresses in the evening breeze. The tinkling fall of the cold spring in
yonder bank falls soothingly on the ear. Who comes from that low-roofed
log-cabin to bring in the pitcher of water--that pale, careworn, shadowy
figure that slowly moves along the green pasture, as one without hope or
joy; her black hair shared with silver, her cheek pale as wax, and her
hand so thin it looks as though the light might be seen through if she
held it towards the sun? It is the heart-broken mother of Catharine and
Hector Maxwell. Her heart has been pierced with many sorrows; she cannot
yet forget the children of her love, her first-born girl and boy. Who
comes to meet her, and with cheerful voice chides her for the tear that
seems ever to be lingering on that pale cheek,--yet the premature furrows
on that broad, sunburnt, manly brow speak, too, of inward care? It is the
father of Hector and Catharine. Those two fine, healthy boys, in homespun
blouses, that are talking so earnestly as they lean across the rail-fence
of the little wheat field, are Kenneth and Donald; their sickles are on
their arms--they have been reaping. They hear the sudden barking of Bruce
and Wallace, the hounds, and turn to see what causes the agitation they
display.
An old man draws near; he has a knapsack on his shoulders, which he casts
down on the corner of the stoup; he is singing a line of an old French
ditty; he raps at the open door. The Highlander bids him welcome, but
starts with glad surprise as his hand is grasped by the old trapper.
"Hah, Jacob Morelle, it is many a weary year since your step turned this
way." The tear stood in the eye of the soldier as he spoke.
"Can you receive me and those I have with me for the night?" asked the
old man; in a husky voice--his kind heart was full. "A spare corner, a
shake-down, will do; we travellers in the bush are no wise nice."
"The best we have, and kindly welcome, Jacob. How many are ye in all?"
"There are just four, besides myself,--young people. I found them where
they had been long living, on a lonely lake, and I persuaded them to come
with me."
The strong features of the Highlander worked convulsively, as he drew his
faded blue bonnet over his eyes. "Jacob, did ye ken that we lost our
eldest bairns some three summers since?" he faltered in a broken voice.
"The Lord, in his mercy, has restored them to you, Donald, by my hand,"
said the trapper.
"Let me see, let me see my children! To Him be the praise and the glory,"
ejaculated the pious father, raising his bonnet reverently from his head;
"and holy and blessed be His name for ever! I thought not to have seen
this day. O Catharine, my dear wife, this joy will kill you!"
In a moment his children were enfolded in his arms. It is a mistaken idea
that joy kills; it is a life restorer. Could you, my young readers, have
seen how quickly the bloom of health began to reappear on the faded cheek
of that pale mother, and how soon that dim eye regained its bright
sparkle, you would have said joy does not kill.
"But where is Louis, dear Louis, our nephew, where is he?"
Louis, whose impetuosity was not to be restrained by the caution of old
Jacob, had cleared the log-fence at a bound, had hastily embraced his
cousins Kenneth and Donald, and in five minutes more had rushed into his
father's cottage, and wept his joy in the arms of father, mother, and
sisters by turns, before old Jacob had introduced the impatient Hector and
Catharine to their father.
"But while joy is in our little dwelling, who is this that sits apart
upon that stone by the log-fence, her face bent sadly down upon her knees,
her long raven hair shading her features as with a veil?" asked the
Highlander Maxwell, pointing as he spoke to the spot where, unnoticed and
unsharing in the joyful recognition, sat the poor Indian girl. There was
no paternal embrace for her, no tender mother's kiss imprinted on that
dusky cheek and pensive brow; she was alone and desolate in the midst of
that scene of gladness.
"It is my Indian sister," said Catharine; "she also must be your child."
Hector hurried to Indiana, and taking her by the hand led her to his
parents, and bade them be kind to and cherish the young stranger, to whom
they all owed so much.
Time passes on--years, long years have gone by since the return of the
lost children to their homes, and many changes have those years effected.
The log-houses have fallen to decay--a growth of young pines, a waste of
emerald turf with the charred logs that once formed part of the enclosure,
now scarcely serve to mark out the old settlement; no trace or record
remains of the first breakers of the bush--another race occupy the ground.
The traveller as he passes along on that smooth turnpike road that leads
from Coburg to Cold Springs, and from thence to Gore's Landing, may notice
a green waste by the roadside on either hand, and fancy that thereabouts
our Canadian Crusoes' home once stood: he sees the lofty wood-crowned
hill, and in spring time--for in summer it is hidden by the luxuriant
foliage--the little forest creek; and he may, if thirsty, taste of the
pure, fresh, icy water, as it still wells out from a spring in the
steep bank, rippling through the little cedar-trough that Louis Perron
placed there for the better speed of his mother when filling her water
jug. All else is gone. And what wrought the change a few words will
suffice to tell. Some travelling fur merchants brought the news to
Donald Maxwell that a party of Highlanders had made a settlement above
Montreal, and among them were some of his kindred. The old soldier
resolved to join them, and it was not hard to prevail upon his
brother-in-law to accompany him, for they were all now weary of living
so far from their fellow-men; and bidding farewell to the little
log-houses at Cold Springs, they now journeyed downwards to the new
settlement, where they were gladly received, their long experience of
the country making their company a most valuable acquisition to the
new-come colonists.
Not long after, the Maxwells took possession of a grant of land, and
cleared and built for themselves and their family. Hector, now a fine
industrious young man, presented at the baptismal font, as a candidate
for baptism, the Indian girl, and then received at the altar his
newly-baptized bride. Catharine and Louis were married on the same day
as Hector and Indiana. They lived happy and prosperous lives; and
often, by their firesides, would delight their children by recounting
the history of their wanderings on the Rice Lake Plains.
THE END.
[About this edition: _Lost in the Woods_ was originally published in
1852 under the title _The Canadian Crusoes: A Tale of the Rice Lake
Plains_. After several editions, it was republished in 1882 under its
present title, as _Lost in the Backwoods_.]
End of Project Gutenberg's Lost in the Backwoods, by Catherine Parr Traill