Centre Democrat. [volume] (Bellefonte, Pa.) 1848-1989, 1881-06-09
A STRANGE STORY.

have strange, almost Incredible,
story to tell of an experience of my own
one fearful night in the woods. Imagi-
nation had nothing to do with it, for 1
am a backwood's daughter, accustomed
to the wild sounds OF the forest, the
loneliness, and all that is terrifying to a
novice.
My father was q good man, serving
God after his own simple fashion, seeing
Him and loving Him in His works. l
have heard him hold forth on the provi-
dent ways of the beaver "Why! the
little critterd starve in the cold season
il it hadn't used its little flat tail for
buildin' its house, and then film it
with food in time!" l have heard him
tell OF the caribou: "Look at that,
too" he would say, "and at the moose.
Now, the caribou has to travel often "A
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 snow-shoes.
as good as an Iniun could make 'em, To
skim over the ice crust-while the big
heavy moose there, sinks right in. His
dinner is close at hand. He could live
for months on an acre lot" He could
speak the loon, and its adoption in every
way to its watery home-always ending
such talk with: "All Gods works are
pom honor; there's no halfway with
Him"
was the only one left of ten children.
My father, when mourning over and
missing the others, would never COM
plain but only say They're better Off
Why, il we can't trust the little chill
dren, that don't know the meaning Cf
sin, there ain't any chance for the
meni" And so he lived his quiet life
his heart beating close to natures heart,
and his soul unconsciously seeking and
finding natures God.
My mother must have been beautiful
in her youth. She was lorette Cana
dienne, and her bright French spirits
carried her gayly over many hard trials
in her life of frequent deprivation. One
great overshsdowing sorrow of her life
was the unaccountable disappearance of
her little year-old daughter, hor only
beautiful child-the one in her own
image, whom from the first she loved
with peculiar tenderness.
The child had been left alone in her
little birch-bark crib for short half
hour. while mother was busy at the
spring, mile from home, in the midst
of the woods. /, a little -year-old,
was off in a canoe with my father, as a
treat for having been especially good
the day before. Father and / 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 cold
chill fell on our happiness, and my
child's heart felt strange thrill a. I
read q sudden anxiety in my fathers
face, whose every change I knew. His
quick ear had caught the sound Of
mothers voice. and, after while. I, too.
could hear hopeless moan, dreadful,
heart-broken sound. We found mother
kneeling on the floor, her hand leaning
on the empty crib. and moaning as one
that could not be comforted. The baby
was gone. How or whereixe could not
telI--we never knew. Weeks we're
spent in searching for her, and at
length, to save mothers reason, father
forced 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 dur
ing the winter-time. The nuns Of the
great convent Of the Gray Sisters took
charge OF my education. Mother and
had neat little rooms in the French
quarter, while father went off moose
hunting for weary months but the
summertime we always spent with him.
He would choose lovely spots for our
summer encampments, but never on