The Washburn leader. [volume] (Washburn, McLean County, N.D.) 1890-1986, 1896-06-13
THE HAN WITH THE LOCK
OF white HAIR.
Erom the French.)


one glorious evening in the latter
part Of August I found myself on
board the Quebec, one of those mag
niicent palaces that make the passage
Of the st. Lawrence between the two
great cities Of lower Canada. 1 had
left behind me many memories and
friendships. With feelings somewhat
depressed, for l was alone in the midst
of a crowd, 1 placed myself where at
one glance 1 could enjoy the wonder.
full views presented by the most beau.
tiful river in the world. The passen-
gers were numerous, and some seemed
as If they might be agreeable COM
panions. But plunged as 1 was in
reveries of the past, no one especially
attracted my attention until a few
steps from me 1 noticed a traveller
who. leaning on the rail, was gazing
fixedly at some distant object on the
shore. near the Grand Trunk station
at Point Lewis. His attention seemed
to increase as it receded from his view.
He finally drew his field-glass from
his pocket and held it a long time
turned in that direction. When it vas
no longer possible to distinguish any
thing he looked vaguely around, gave
a sigh, replaced his glass and furtively
brushed his eyes, as if to wipe away
a teal. This man was well dressed
and had a ~preoccupied air, but except
a n unusual pallor there was nothing
in his appearance to attract attention.
But l was mistaken. He had one
regularity. Although not over 80
Years Of age, behind his right ear,
half hidden by his broad trimmed hat,
I saw a tuft of snow-white hair. 1
watched him with that Indifference
which the lonely traveller feels toward
individuals of q crowd. Had l been
alone with him no doubt he would
have interested me. The evening was
CAV. Sounds from the piano soon
drew most of the company to the
saloon. The lively measures of a
ouadrille, or the flowing rhythm of a
waltz mingled in my ears with soft,
c~easeless beating of. the great wheels
of the Quebec, plunging through the
v Time passed unheeded. Just
as the hour Of IL sounded the gay
voice Of Capt. Labelle brought me
back to the present.
II have been looking for you. Come,
let us go down."
What to do"
ITO eat, of course"
Convinced by so agreeable an offer,
Il decended with him to the dining
room. Supper is not q regular, official
affair on board the Quebec. 1t is a
graceful attention paid to q few priv
ileged men, among whom with a GER
tain satisfaction I recognized my
stranger with the tuft Of white hair.
After the customary introductions We
were soon doing justice to the savory
viands and good wines of u merry
host and the conversation became gen
eral.
"You are a stranger, sirT 1 said,
addressing my neighbor with the tuft
Of white hair.
Eyes and no." he replied. "That is
to say, l was born in Canada, but left
here nearly twenty years ago and now
live in Louisinaua."
You must have left this country in
early youth, for one would scarcely
credit you with more than thirty
years."
II am not very old, it is true" he
answered.; then, turning his head to
allow me to see the regularity to
which l have alluded, added: "StiM
you see, / have already white hairs"
zone single white lock!" exclaimed
the captain. "How odd"
Every one leaned forward to look
at it and the traveller, without waiting
for the question trembling on my lips,
smiled sadly and said:
"Oh, it is not a sign Of old age.
Those came some years ago when l
was still very young. A strange ad-
venture, that's all"
"a story!' Tell it to u.s." came In
chorus. y
"With pleasure If it interests you,"
was the reply.
"Let us 60 on deck" said the cap
tain, and with that urbanity which
distinguished him he passed us q box
Of excellent Havanas, saying: Help
yourselves to cigars, gentlemen"
Five minutes later we were sitting
in the beautiful moonlight, listening
to uor travelling companion, who bury
ing his hands up to his elbows in b
pockets of his gray overcoat and ele-
waiting his feet, Yankee fashion, began
his story:
II was born at Point Lewis. On that
spot in the village where now stand
the immense docks Of the st. Law
renee stood q little white cottage with
green blinds, half hidden under great
oaks like a nest under green leaves.
The pa%ternal mansion, the house
where one first sees the light, as novel
lists say, always makes an indelible
impression on the memory OF a child.
Though much changed, l could not
see again without great emotion those
places where I passed my, childish
days until the great blow which I am
about to describe came to change the
whole course of my life. One fine
morning in the year 1850 my parents
awoke to the fact that I was 10 years
old and should prepare for my first
communion. st. Joseph's church was
some distance from the village. OF
Lewis and this preparation would re-
quire at least a months absence from
home. This was ne pleasing to my
mother, but l possessed the spirit OF
adventure and the idea of passing
some time away from parental vigil
ance, seeing new faces, making ac-
quaintance with q new life, contri-
buted much to the enthusiasm with
which l greeted this announcement.
So when the carriage stood before the
door to take me to my NV abode !
paid little attention to the embraces
and kisses bestowed upon me right
and left. l jumped gayly to my seat
and went away delighted. That same
evening l found. myself installed ina
clean little room under the care OF