The citizen. [volume] (Berea, Ky.) 1899-1958, 1905-08-17
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D'ri and |
By IRVING BACHELOR
Author Of "Eben Holden" Darrell Of
the Blessed Isles" Etc.
CHAPTER /.


A poet may be a 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 a 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 Vermont-a man Of
steely sinews that took well to the grip
Of a sword. He cut his way to fame
in the northern army when the British
came first to give US battle, and a
bloody way it was. have now faded
letter from Ethan Allen, grim old war;
rior, in which he calls my father "the
best swordsman that ever straddled a
horse" He was a "gallous chap" in
with a great love of good clothes and
gunpowder. He went to Montreal, as
a boy, to be educated; took lessons in
fencing, fought a duel, ran away from
school, and came home with little
learning and wife. Punished by dis
Inheritance, he took a farm, and left
the pillow to go into battle.
wonder often that my mother could
put up with the stress and hardship
Of his life, for she had had gentle
breeding, of which | knew little until
l was grown to manhood, when | came
to know also what a woman will do
for the love of her heart. l remember
well 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
1903, he sold his farm, and we all
started west, over rough trails and
roadways. There were seven Of us,
bound for the valley Of the St Law
rence-my father and mother. my two
sisters, my grandmother, D'ri, the
hired man, and myself, then a 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, l 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 I 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 always found perch for him |
on the limb OF q tree, above the reach |
Of predatory creatures. Every morn
Ing. as the dawn showed family in the