Vermont phÅ“nix. [volume] (Brattleboro, Vt.) 1834-1955, 1881-01-28
4 STRANGE STORY.

4 STRANGE STORY.
have a strange story to tell of an expert.
ence of my own one fearful night in the
woods. Imagination had nothing to do with
it, for / am backwoodsmRn's daughter, ac-
customed to the wild sounds Of the forest,
the loneliness and all that is terrifying to a
novice
My father was good man, serving God
after his own simple fashion, seeing him and
loving him in his works. have heard him
hold forth on the provident ways of the bea-
yer why the little critterd starve in the
cold season, IL it hadn't used its fat tail for
buildin' its house, ard then filled it with food
in time" l have neerd him tell of the carl
bou: Look at that, too" he would say
land at the moose. Now the caribou has TO
travel often q matter Of twenty miles for his
dinner, for he's dainty 'un, and only eats
the long gray moss that hangs from
the trees-so God gave him snowshoes, good
as an Injun could make EN-, to skim over the
ice-crust-while the big, heavy moose there
sinks right in. His dinner is close TO hand
He could live for months on an acre-lot :"
He would speak OF the loon, and its adapta-
tion in every way to its watery home-always
ending such talk with Gan Gods works are
pom honor; there's no half way with him Z"
l was the only one left OF ten children
My father when mourning over and missing
the others, would never complain, but only
say They're better off,. Why If we can't
trust the little children, that don't know what
wrong-doing is, and don't know the meaning
Of sin, then there amt any chance for us
men! ~ And so he lived his quiet life-his
heart beating close to natures heart, and his
soul unconsciously seeking and finding ma
ture's God
My mother must have been beautiful in
her youth. She was a i0rette CdHddieHns
and her bright French spirits carried her gay
ly over many a hard trial in her life of fire.
quent depriyations One great, overshadow-
ing sorrow of her life was the unaccountable
disappearance of her little year-old daughter,
her only beautiful child-the one in her own
image, whom from the first she loved with a
peculiar tenderness.
The child had been left alone in her little
birch-bark crib for a short half-hour, while
mother was busy at the spring, a mile from
home, in the midst of the woods. l. q little
siX-year-old, was OF in the canoe with
my father as a treat for having been espe-
cialy good the day before. Father and had
had splendid time-we always did when we
were away together-and, our canoe full Of
trout, we were coming gayly home, toward
evening, when q cold chill fell on our happi-
ness and my child's heart FIT a strange
thrill as 1 read q sudden anxiety in my faith
er's face, whose every change l knew. His
quick ear had caught the sound Of mothers
voice, and, after while, too, could hear a
hopeless moaning a dreadful heart-broken
sound. We found mother kneeling on the
floor, her head leaning on the empty crib,
and mourning as one that could not be COM
forted. The baby was gone. How or where
we could not tell-we never knew. Weeks
were spent in searching for her, and, at
10 eau N.sl - I
her to leave the pretty log-cabin in the
woods by the lake, where this last sorrow had
come upon her and we went to Montreal
There we lived quietly for years during
the winter-time. The nuns Of the great con-
vent of the Gray Sisters took charge Of my
education. Mother and l had neat little
rooms in the French quarter, while father
went of moose-hunting for weary months
but the summer-times we always spent with
him. He would choose lovely spots for our
summer encampments, but never on the site
Of the log. cabin deserted after the baby's loss,
until the summer of my nineteenth year
Then great desire took possession Of my
mother to 60 once more to the old home
She had been very delicate that winter, and
my great rough father denied her nothing. l
shudder when l think of that beautiful, dire
full place now-it seems as though our evil
fate lowered about it. All the anguish ev-
er knew centres there
We passed one peaceful month together,
disturbed only by distant rumors of the
diphtheria a scourge which seemed to be
striding along from village to village, first on
the river, then nearer us on the great lake
but We never thought of its touching us, un-
til one miserable night, when father came
home, lAnguid and feverish, from one of his
numerous expeditions, and we read in his
face that the ghastly finger of the scourge
had set its mark upon him After the sec
ond day of anxiety about my father, all
strength seemed to desert my delicate little
mother. From the first she had despaired
abont him, and now / saw that, if fathers
life were taken, should have to part with
them both.
Her life would die with his, for sorrow
forges stronger bonds even than Joy, and
they had suffered so much together, his love
always supporting her, that he had become
life of her life. She could not exist alone.
1 struggled hand to hand, and sick at heart,
against what felt to be an inexorable fate,
and on the afternoon of the eighth day l
found myself alone and almost despairing,
save for the thought of the happiness Of the
two I had loved best in the world
The sunset came, as sat by the lakeside,
flooding my desolated world with heavenly
glory, like a sign from them TO me of their
new-found joy.
The stars had come out before ventured
to return to the worse than deserted house. 1
could not hope for help from any neighbor
until sought it myself the next day, and
had to look forward to a night, how horrible
/ did not foresee, or l could not have en-
dured it, What follows 1 could scarcely
credit myself if / did not bear on my hand
tangible proof of it in a well-defned scar
and, even now, / could not bear to write of
that nights experience, had not my chill
drens laughter and my loving husbands care
long since banished all unnatural gloom from
my life.
While had been sitting alone on the lake
shore, toward the evening, had heard dis
tant shot it scarcely reused me. A sports
man, thought, had wandered from his en-
campment on the opposite shore, had seen
some game in our wild woods, killed IT, and
his canoe had long since carried him away.
In the gathering darkness 1 groped my way
back through the familiar little path and
reached my own door. l alone should pass
the threshold in the future their feet were
still the busy feet that toiled for me, follow
ed me, and had been ever near me was
to 60 on my rugged path alone Heart-sck
and overcome, stopped at the door, and,
leaning my head against it, sobbed in uncon-
trollable despair. Tired out at length, had
grown quiet, and was Just about to lift the