The Catholic bulletin. [volume] (St. Paul, Minn.) 1911-1995, 1913-03-22
AN EASTER TREASURE.
MORE DESIRED THAN GOLD.

ding rack or dismal gray clouds and
the valleys lie swathed in purple
gloom. Then a radiant sun peeps
over the dark hills and takes her
westering course across the blue vault.
She transforms the gray vapors into
pearly cloud-temples, and turns a
strong, warm, laughing face to the
chilled earth.
The hardy Northerner bares his
head to the tender west-wind. It
gently lifts the flattened temple-locks,
and its elfin fingers toy with them.
A new sprightliness is infused into
his sturdy frame, his eye flashes, and
he tells his friends in a softened
way: Spring is coming over the
hills. can feel her breath" Soon
his snow-shoes are hung out of the
way upon the cabin wall, and the Ca
noes are freshly gummed
In this way spring comes to Fort
Stephen, lying snuggled in a little
Laurentian valley, which all the year
round echoes the thunder of the white
horses hoofs in their mad, amending
race toward the great bay. It is an
old gray fort, consisting of several
log and stone buildings-a trading
post of the Hudson's Bay Company.
A high fence of posts, sharpened on
top and secured with wooden pins to
horizontal pieces of timber, encloses
the fort.
At one time John Eliot and his as
sistant, Ross MacFarlane, were the
company's servants here. Their
straightforward, energetic, elderly
housekeeper was Mrs. Martha Dodge,
whom John Eliot had brought with
him to Canada from his old home in
Scotland eight years previously.
One morning, as she served up
breakfast in his coy sitting-room, she
said to him: "Gude mornin', Mr.
John! My hearts rare glad that
springs come again. The shaw al
wass minds an auld body like me of
a windin'-sheet. It's sune to melt, l
prophecy" A warm glow lit up her
faded eyes as she spoke.
81 believe it is, Martha: I believe
it is" he answered, rubbing his hands
briskly, for the room was chilly de-
spite the young fire and the flooding
sunbeams "MacFarlane has had his
breakfast, I suppose" He crossed the
room to the little, old-fashioned win
dow. Surely. There's a look of
spring about the hills-blue as the
blue-bells of lang syne; Ell, Martha
It is, hey, for Pere Sabourin and the
Indians now!"
cay, yess, a warrant they'll be here
as sumo as the ice melts proper. Weel,
weel, it makes a pleasant stir. But
a. think all hev to make stir in this
bit fire for ye. It's twice that Dan
hass been at it this mornin', and it's
nearly dead this mint"
John moved toward the old fire.
place to offer his help, but paused to
watch her. With few vigorous pokes
she tumbled the small front logs
about, and bright sparks of the tama-
rack flew upward. She threw a large
pine-knot upon the logs, and in an
instant the fitful muttering burst into
a great roar, and ragged flash of
flame darted up licking the wide, dark
chimney. The fire was wonderfully
improved. Her master remarked:
II was going to help you, Martha,
but you were managing it more clev-
erly than could. I have never be-
fore seen a woman who could make
a fire burn as it should. But, then, as
mother used to say" John continued
tenderly, there is only one such
Martha in the world"
She was STOPPING to put in order
the disarranged wolfskin that lay be-
fore the hearth. When she rose,
slowly, her dim old eyes shone with
soft light.
"Yir sweet mither is dead, Mr.. John,
but her bonny heart is warm in We
yet" she said, and busted herself
with pouring out his coffee.
II.
Spring came, wept and laughed in
heartsome delight over the growing
beauty of the valley, and tripped
away across the dark northern hills,
as her slow moving sister, Summer,
came up in warm loneliness from the
south.
At the head of the valley is the
Horse Race with it's booming uproar
and close below it the lake, out OF
which the river again takes its course
The ice had completely left the river
before the Indians came-only few
large cakes, loath to melt, remained
in the lake.
For a fortnight before Pere Sabou
rim arrived the Indians had been at
the fort. Their birch-bark wigwams
lined the rivers bank for some dis
lance north and south of the oppo-
site fort Pere Sabourin was, as usual
John Eliot's honored guest.
The morning after the priests ar.
rival John Eliot stood at the window
of the store and looked out across the
courtyard, the high palisade, and the
flashing blue river at the encamp-
ment. The valley was drenched with
warm sunshine, but on Martha's
treasured sweet-brier bush gossamery
cobwebs still hung, lightly impaired
with dew From pinery that stood
to the left of the fort came confused
harmonious bursts of bird-rapture,
poured out to Johns enhancement.
Thin smoke wreathed sleepily UP
from the remains of the Indians
morning fires and patch of hot air
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