The Elk County advocate. [volume] (Ridgway, Pa.) 1868-1883, 1871-12-28
IN THE WILDERNESS.
BY MRS. F. W. GILLETTE,

BY MRS. F. W. GILLETTE.
Early one soft, mellow twilight in the
May of 1923, small birch canoe hoated
noiselessly into little curve of the Clin-
ton River, lit was not the Clinton then
for that was the Anglo-Saxon christen-
ing; but I have not been able yet to find
for it an Indian name,) and anchored
in that forest valley, at the base of a
heavily wooded hill. One of its occu-
pants-a man of something more than
thirty years, with face bronzed by ex-
posure to the wind and sun, but gleam-
ing all over with the sunshine of great,
heroic soul-sprang quickly to the
shore, and lifting out beautiful young
girl, seated her upon the bank, and pro-
ceeded to fasten the chain that held the
canoe TO the body of large tree close
to the waters edge. Then he led the
little woman carefully up the hillside.
AS they reached the top, they found a
large, broad flat of heavy oaks, and saw
that they could stand upon the verge of
the hill and look through the openings
in the wood, far over the broad, deep,
blue stream, that wound, unobstructed
by mill-dam or race course, along its
forest-shaded and hill-guarded valley
bed. Standing there, this sturdy Eng
ishman exclaimed, Linda, this is the
spot This is our home How beauti-
tul we will make it! How like my
BILE ssed boyhood's home in Old Eng
land !" and suddenly the sweet home
tenderness so flooded his good, warm
heart, that the tears brimmed his eyes as
if it had been indeed a child; but soon
he found her pleasant, Messy seat,
and saying cheerfully, "Now rest, while
1 run down and get our traps" he hur-
ried away, returning in a moment with
d small basket of cooking-utensils, and
not very large bundle of clothing, and
a couple of Indian blankets. 1t required
only short time to kindle fire and
prepare the supper, and by the time they
had eaten, the moonbeams looked in
upon them, golden and silent, and the
whipporwils sang all through the long,
deep, woodland arches.
These two-this brave Englishman
and his little French wife, scarcely more
than a child-had fioated all the way
from the Huron waters, with never the
sight of a white mans face, past the In
dian villages on the banks, stopping at
midday in little bend OF the stream,
and eating their lunch of cold fish and
hard bread camping at twilight by the
river side. The large, white fish that
Fred caught in the river was cooked
over the fire, made by fallen log their
lodge was entered through avenues of
grand old trees, and rooted with the
clouds and the stars. And now, after
this long, wear:some and yet pleasant
wandering, Fred Dabyell mas found the
spot his heart yearned for-the spot that
could be wrought into the broad fields
and the wooded parks that make the
beautiful English homesteads-for Fred
Dabyell, in his thought of home, was
English to the hearts core.
Fred Dabyell was the brother of the
heroic Capt. Dabyell, who was killed in
the Pontiac conspiracy. He had been
sent to Detroit on official business before
the war of 1912, and after the ratifica-
tion of peace in 1915, he concluded to
remain and try his fortune in the West
eIn World. M. De La Motto was one of
the few white men who, with the friend
ly Indians, established the French set
tlement of Detroit under the direction
of Louis Frontenac, then Governor of all
New France; and here, just eighteen
years before our story opens, was Linda
De La Motto born. She had been reared
in world of danger, but in a home of
love and believing thoroughly in Fred
Dabyell's protestations of tenderness,
and his promise of fidelity and protec-
ton, she had put her hand in his, and
come away from everything of civilized
life to found home in the wilderness.
All night Fred talked in his sleep
about English hedges and English
homes to the Indians and the new coun-
try. All night Linda fancied she heard
the light tread of dark feet as they
passed over the fallen leaves, and saw
great, wild eyes looking down upon her.
Toward morning, Fred was wakened by
the barking of a dog. Springing up, he
cried, Linda, that's white mans dog!
God has led US to a friend !" and he
dashed down the hill toward the well
come sound. But Linda called, 90,
Fred! take me-" Then he turned, ran
back and said, with sort of petting ac-
cent, natural to his voice, Getting
coward, is she? Well, we will go down to.
gether."
Going down the hill on the further
and southern side from the river over a
narrow, level space, and climbing to the
top of another and higher hill, they
saw, at little distance, large st. Rer-
nard dog watching by rude log chapel.
The chapel was surmounted with a
cross, while over it hoated the Fleur de
Lis of France, and the stars and stripes
of the new colonies In the doorway,
just under the cross, stood an aged Jesuit
priest his hair, parted in the middle of
the broad, deep forehead, fell away in
ripples of snow far down his shoulders
his face was fair and childishly innocent,
and with the glory of the breaking dawn
upon it, it looked almost divine.
To the little French wife, this chapel
in the wilderness-this Jesuit priest
under the cross-was home, was rest.
With glad cry she ran forward, and
kneeling at his feet, reached up her
clasped hands for his benediction. Sur
prised, as though some sweet, fair face