Democratic Northwest. [volume] (Napoleon, Ohio) 1869-1894, 1881-03-31
Select Story.
A STRANGE STORY.

own one fearful night in the woods
Imagination had nothing TO do with it,
for / am backwoodsman' daughter,
accustomed TO the wild sounds of the
forest. the Loneliness and all that is
terrifying to n novice.
Ny father was a good man, serving
God after his own simple fashion, see
ing Him and loving Him in His works.
/ have heard him hold forth on the
provident ways of the beaver: Why!
the little critter'd starve in The cold
season. if it hadn't used its little fiat
tail for buildin' its house. and then
filed it with food in time! ! 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 a dainty 'un, and only
cate the long gray moss that hangs
from the trees-so God gave him snow
shoes good as an lnjun could make
'em 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 lott
He would speak of the loon, and It's
adaptation in every way to its weary
home-always ending such talk with;
All Gods works are pom honor; there's
no half way with him!
was the only one left of ten chill
dren. My father, when mourning over
and missing the others, would never
complain, but only say: They're bet
ter 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 uncon-
sciously seeking and finding natures
Cod
Nv mother must have been beauti-
ful in her youth. She was lorctte
CGndd'enne, and her bright French
spirits carried her gayly over many a
hard trial in her lie of frequent de-
privations. One great, overshadow
ing sorrow of her life was the unac-
countable disappearance of her little
year old daughter, her 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. I, little 6-year old,
was off in the canoe with my father, as
treat Cor having been especially good
the day before Father and l had
splendid tilne-we always did when
we went away together-and, our
canoe full of trout, we were coming
gayly home, toward evening, when a
cold chill fell on our happiness, aud
my child's heart felt strange thrill as
l read q sudden anxiety in my fathers
face, whose every change ] knew.
His quick ear had caught the sound of
mothers voice, and, after a while, |.
too, could hear a hopeless moaning,
dreadful heart broken sound. We
found mother keeling on the floor, her
head leaning on the crib. and mourn
ing as one that could not be comforted.
The ba!,y was gone. How or where,
we could not tell---we never knew.
Weeks were spent in searching for her,
and, at length, to save mother S 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 theFrench quar-
ter, while father went off moose hunt
ing for weary months; but the sum
mer.time 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, nntil the summer of
my 10Th year. Then a great desire
took possession of my mother to go
once more to the old home. She had
been very delscate that winter, and
my great, rough father denied her
nothing. sLudder when | think of
that beautiful, direful face now--it
seems as though our evil fate hovered
about 1t. All the anguish ever
knew centers there!
We passed one peaceful month to-
gether, disturbed only by distant ru-
mors 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, until one miserable night when
father came home, languid and fever
ish, from one of his numerous expedi-
tions, and we read in his face that the
ghastly finger of the scourge had set
its mark upon him. After the second
day of anxiety about father, all strength
seemed to desert my delicate little
mother. From the first she had de-
SPARED about him. and now | saw that,
if fathers life were taken, ] should
have to part with them both.
- Ii,