Willmar tribune. [volume] (Willmar, Minn.) 1895-1931, 1905-04-05
D'rii and /
By IRVING bAChElLER
Author Of "Eben Holden" Darrell Of
tho Blessed Isles" Etcs -
CHAPTER /.

A poet may be good companion,
but. so far as / know. he is ever
the worst Of fathers. Even as grand
father he is too near, for one poet can
lay a streak OF poverty over three gen.
erations. Doubt not know whereof
speak, dear reader. for my mothers
father was poet-a French poet, too,
whose lines had crossed the Atlantic
long before that summer OF ITO when
he came to Montreal. He died there.
leaving only debts and those who had
great need OF a better legacy-my
mother and grandmother.
AS to my father, he had none OF
that fatal folly in him. He was a
mountaineer OF Vernont-a man Of
steely sinews that took we'll to the grip
OF sword. He cut his way to fame
In the northern army when the British
came first to give us battle, and
bloody way it was. have now faded
letter from Ethan Allen. grim old war;
rlor. in which he calls my father the
best swOrdsman that ever straddled a
horse. He was 4 "gallous chap" in
u,
with a great love OF good clothes and
Sunpowder. He went to Montreal, as
a boy, to be educated; took lessons in
fencing. fought duel. ran away from
school. and came home with little
learning and wife. Punished by dis
inheritance. he took farm, and left
the pillow to go into battle
I 0f+ hot
put up with the stress and hardship
OF his life, for she had had gentle
breeding. of which I knew little until
l was grown to manhood. when I came
TO know also what woman will do
for the love OF her heart. remember
we'll those tales of knights and ladies
She used to tell me as we sat together
OF an evening. and also those adven-
lures of her own knight, my good
father. in the war with the British.
My love of arms and of just quarrel
began then. !.
After the war came hard times. My
father had not prOspered handsomely,
when. near the end of the summer of
1905, he sold his farm. and we al!
roadwavs. There were seven of us,
bound Cor the valley of the St. Law
rence-my father and mother, my two
sisters. my grandmother. D'ri. the
hired man. and myself. then sturdy
boy Of ten. We had an ox-team and
cart that carried our provision, the
sacred feather beds of my mother, and
some few other things.
We drove with us the first flock of
sheep that ever went west. There were
40 Of them. and they filled our days
with trouble. But for our faithful dog
Rover, fear We should have lost
heart and left them to the wild
wolves. The cart had a low cover of
canvas, and my mother and grand
mother sat on the feather beds. and
rode with small comfort even where
the roads were level. My father let
me carry my little pet rooster in a
basket that hung from the cart-axle
when not in my keeping. The rooster
had a harder time than any Of us,
fancy, for the days were hot and the
roads rough. He was always painting,
with open mouth and thoughtful eye.
when l lifted the cover. But every
day he gave us an example OF, cheerful
ness not wholly without effect. He
crowed triumphantly. betimes, In the
hot basket. even when he was being
tumbled about on the swamp ways.
Nights l always found perch for him
on the limb of a tree. above the reach
Of predatory creatures. Every morn
ing, as the dawn showed family in the
tree-tops. he gave 1t lusty cheer.
tapping his wings with all the seem
ing of delight. Then. often. while the
echo rang, l would open my eyes and
watch, the light grow in the duslSy
cavern OF the woods. He would sit
doing awhile after the first outbreak.
and presently as the flood of light grew
clearer, lift himself. little, take an
other peep at the sky, and crow again.
turning his head to hear those weird,
knocking ROSTERS of the timber-land.
Then, shortly, would hear my father
poking the fire or saying, as he patted
the rooster: Sass 'em back. We noisy
little brat! Thet's right: boiler. Tell
D'ri it's time t. bring some wood fer
the fire."
In few minutes the pot and kettle
would be boiling and the camp all
aEtir. We had trout ard partridge and
venison a-plenty for our meals. that
we're served in dishes of tin. Break
fast over, We packed our things. The
cart went on ahead, my father bring
ing the oxen, while started the sheep
with D'ri.
Those sheep were as many thorns In
our flesh that day we made of in the
deep woods from Lake Champlain.
Travel was new to them, and what
with tearing through thickets and run
ming wild In every slash, they kept us
jumping. When they were leg-weary
and used to travel, they began to go
quietly. But slow work it was at best,
10 or IL miles day being all we could
do, for the weather was hot and our
road like the way Of the transgressor.
Our second night in the woods we
could hear the wolves bowling ;as we
camped at dusk. We built our fire
near the shore of a big pond, its still
i water framed in the vivid green. Of
young tamaracks. A great hill rose
on the farther side of 1t, with galleries
Of timber s1oping to the summit, and
peopled with many birds. We huddled
the sheep together In place where
the trees were thick, while father
brought from the cart coil of small
rope. We wound it about the trees,
SO the sheep were shut in little yard.