D'Ri and I

over three generations. Doubt not I know whereof I speak, dear reader, for my mother's father was a poet-a French poet, too, whose lines had crossed the Atlantic l

dy way it was. I have now a faded letter from Ethan Allen, grim old warrior, in which he calls my father "the best swordsman that ever straddled a horse." He was a "gallous chap" in his youth, so said my grandmother, with a great love of good clothes a

manhood, when I came to know also what a woman will do for the love of her heart. I remember well those tales of knights and ladies she used to tell me as we sat

ough trails and roadways. There were seven of us, bound for the valley of the St. Lawrence-my father and mother, my two sisters, my grandmother, D'ri, the hired m

tion: D'R

were hot and the roads rough. He was always panting, with open mouth and thoughtful eye, when I lifted the cover. But every day he gave us an example of cheerfulness not wholly without effect. He crowed triumphantly, betimes, in the hot basket, even when he was being tumbled about on the swamp ways. Nights I always found a perch for him on the limb of a near tree, above the reach of predatory creatures. Every morning, as the dawn showed faintly in the tree-tops, he gave it a lusty cheer, napping his wings with all the seeming of delight. Then, often

dge and venison a-plenty for our meals, that were served in dishes of tin. Breakfast over, we packed

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 howling as we camped at dusk. We built our fire near the shore of a big pond, its still water, framed in the vivid green of young tamaracks. A great hill rose on the farther side of it, with galleries of timber sloping

ttooed a British jack on the back of his left hand-a thing he covered, of shame now, when he thought of it. His right hand had lost its forefinger in a sawmill. His rifle was distinguished by the name of Beeswax,-"Ol' Beeswax" he called it sometimes,-for no better reason than that it was "easy spoke an' hed a kind uv a powerful soun' tew it." He had a nose like a shoemaker's thumb: there was a deep incurve from its wide tip to his forehead. He had a large, gray, inquiring eye and the watchful hab

d of reminiscence. The women were washing the dishes; my father had gone to the spring for wat

ves is comin' nearer,

We all rose and listened. In a moment my fat

re, "they smell mutton. Mek the guns ready. We may git a

e fire listening as t

thet brings 'em

em, tew," said D'ri, as he stood

isters beg

" said father. "They

'n we are o' 'e

h. "They 'll be apt t' stub ther

lt about me, the scabbard hanging to my heels. Presently some creature came bounding over the brush. I saw him

there 'n the woods a

his 'ere pond-thet '

or?" I

mek no tracks 'n the water, ner no scent," said

way. My father ran with his knife and put him quickly ou

covered them with leaves. The howling of the wolves had ceased. I could hear only the creaking of a dead limb high above us, and the bellow of frogs in th

," he whispered as we ran up to h

ly. Near the pen a wolf lay kic

en the gun hollered," he we

their murmurs of fear. Early in the evening I had tied Rover to t

his finger. "See 'em?-there 'n t

ly we heard the spring and rattle of a trap. As we turned that way, t

, when it teks holt. Stay here by the sheep, 'n' I '

ree, but in a moment D'ri had brained him with an axe. He and my father reset our traps and hauled the dead wolves into the firelight. There they began to skin them, for the bounty was ten dollars for each in the new towns-a sum that made our adventure profitable. I built fires on the farther side of the

I oorul I

finished when

okin' wolf crack our bones fer us. Peeled 'em-thet 's what we done tew 'em! Tuk 'n'

spider and pots. The great, green-roofed temple of the woods, that had so lately

t," said D'ri, as we all sat down to breakfast. "Track

tton?" I

at, tew. Snook eroun' the ponds efter dark. Ef they see a deer 'n the wat

and me to tend the sheep. All our blankets and clothing were carried across in the same manner. Then I mounted the cart, with my rooster, lashing the oxen till they took to the stream. They had tied the bell-wether to the axle, and, as I started, men and dog drove the sheep after me. The oxen wallowed in the deep water, and our sheep, after some hesitation, began to swim. The big cart floated like a raft part of the way, and we landed with no great difficulty. Farther on, the road became nothing better than a rude trail, where, frequently, we had t

ender briers. It was a great joy to see the clear road, with here and there a settler's cabin, its yard aglow with the marigold, the ho

n along the shore of a noisy brook. The dog began to bark fier

r, cooking the meat.

t," said he. "Guess we better

the brush. The dog came whining to D'ri and rushing on, eager for us to follow. We hur

Ol' Beeswax, then jes' like es not he 'll mek some music. Better grab holt o' the dog. 'T won't

hrough the branches, striking right and left with his fore paws to save himself. He hit the ground heavily, and the dog was on him. The painter lay as if dead. Before I could get near, Rover began shaking him by the neck. He came to suddenly, and struck the dog with a front claw, dragging him down. A loud yelp followed the b

d D'ri, as he lifted his hat to scratch his head. "Would n't 'a' left nothin' but t

tive, his words were we

e dog had a great rip across his shoulder, where the claws had struck and made furrows;

There is but one more color in the scenes of that journey. The fourth day after we left Chateaugay my grandmother fell ill and died suddenly there in the deep woods. We were far from any village, and sorrow slowed our steps. We pushed on, coming soon to a sawmill and a small settlement. They told us there was neither minister n

ve alwus been more pro

ord o'

ughtfully. "I hev been t' meeting but I ha

e t' pray," said my father, "I got s'

id D'ri, with a look of embarrassment, "but I do

at had no sound of D'ri in it: "O God, tek care o' gran'ma. Help us t' go on careful, an' when we 're riled, help