The Call of the North

182

pages

English

Documents

2010

Écrit par
Stewart Edward White

Publié par
islu

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182

pages

English

Documents

2010

Lire

Le téléchargement nécessite un accès à la bibliothèque YouScribe Tout savoir sur nos offres

Publié par

islu

Publié le

08 décembre 2010

Nombre de lectures

Langue

English

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Call of the North, by Stewart Edward White
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it,
give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.net
Title: The Call of the North
Author: Stewart Edward White
Release Date: March 3, 2004 [EBook #11426]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CALL OF THE NORTH ***
Produced by Al HainesTHE CALL OF THE NORTH
Beyond the butternut, beyond the maple, beyond the white pine and the red, beyond the oak, the cedar, and the
beech, beyond even the white and yellow birches lies a Land, and in that Land the shadows fall crimson across the
snow.THE CALL OF THE NORTH
Being a Dramatized Version of
CONJURORS HOUSE
A Romance of the Free Forest
BY
Stewart Edward White
AUTHOR OF THE WESTERNERS, THE BLAZED TRAIL, ETC.THE CALL OF THE NORTHChapter One
The girl stood on a bank above a river flowing north. At her back crouched a dozen clean whitewashed buildings. Before
her in interminable journey, day after day, league on league into remoteness, stretched the stern Northern wilderness,
untrodden save by the trappers, the Indians, and the beasts. Close about the little settlement crept the balsams and
spruce, the birch and poplar, behind which lurked vast dreary muskegs, a chaos of bowlder-splits, the forest. The girl had
known nothing different ...

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Publié par

islu

Publié le

08 décembre 2010

Langue

English

THE CALL OF THE NORTHBeyond the butternut, beyond the maple, beyondthe white pine and the red, beyond the oak, thecedar, and the beech, beyond even the whiteand yellow birches lies a Land, and in that Landthe shadows fall crimson across the snow.

THE CALL OF THE NORTHBeing a Dramatized Version ofCONJURORS HOUSEA Romance of the Free ForestBYStewart Edward WhiteAUTHOR OF THE WESTERNERS, THE BLAZEDTRAIL, ETC.

THE CALL OF THE NORTH

Chapter OneThe girl stood on a bank above a river flowingnorth. At her back crouched a dozen cleanwhitewashed buildings. Before her in interminablejourney, day after day, league on league intoremoteness, stretched the stern Northernwilderness, untrodden save by the trappers, theIndians, and the beasts. Close about the littlesettlement crept the balsams and spruce, the birchand poplar, behind which lurked vast drearymuskegs, a chaos of bowlder-splits, the forest. Thegirl had known nothing different for many years.Once a summer the sailing ship from England feltits frozen way through the Hudson Straits, downthe Hudson Bay, to drop anchor in the mighty Riverof the Moose. Once a summer a six-fathom canoemanned by a dozen paddles struggled down thewaters of the broken Abitibi. Once a year a littleband of red-sashed voyageurs forced theirexhausted sledge-dogs across the ice from someunseen wilderness trail. That was all.Before her eyes the seasons changed, all grim, butone by the very pathos of brevity sad. In the briefluxuriant summer came the Indians to trade theirpelts, came the keepers of the winter posts to rest,came the ship from England bringing the articles ofuse or ornament she had ordered a full yearbefore. Within a short time all were gone, into thewilderness, into the great unknown world. Thesnow fell; the river and the bay froze. Strange men

from the North glided silently to the Factor's door,bearing the meat and pelts of the seal. Bitter ironcold shackled the northland, the abode ofdesolation. Armies of caribou drifted by, ghostlyunder the aurora, moose, lordly and scornful,stalked majestically along the shore; wolves howledinvisible, or trotted dog-like in organized packsalong the river banks. Day and night the ice artillerythundered. Night and day the fireplaces roareddefiance to a frost they could not subdue, while thepeople of desolation crouched beneath the tyrannyof winter.Then the upheaval of spring with the ice-jams andterrors, the Moose roaring by untamable, thetorrents rising, rising foot by foot to the verydooryard of her father's house. Strange spiritswere abroad at night, howling, shrieking, crackingand groaning in voices of ice and flood. Her Indiannurse told her of them all—of Mannabosho, thegood; of Nenaubosho the evil—in her lispingOjibway dialect that sounded like the softer voicesof the forest.At last the sudden subsidence of the waters; thesplendid eager blossoming of the land into newleaves, lush grasses, an abandon of sweetbrierand hepatica. The air blew soft, a thousand singingbirds sprang from the soil, the wild goose cried intriumph. Overhead shone the hot sun of theNorthern summer.From the wilderness came the brigades bearingtheir pelts, the hardy traders of the winter posts,

striking hot the imagination through the mysteriousand lonely allurement of their callings. For a briefseason, transient as the flash of a loon's wing onthe shadow of a lake, the post was bright with thethronging of many people. The Indians pitchedtheir wigwams on the broad meadows below thebend; the half-breeds sauntered about, flashingbright teeth and wicked dark eyes at whom it mightconcern; the traders gazed stolidily over their littleblack pipes, and uttered brief sentences throughtheir thick black beards. Everywhere was gaysound—the fiddle, the laugh, the song; everywherewas gay color—the red sashes of the voyageurs,the beaded moccasins and leggings of the metis,the capotes of the brigade, the variegatedcostumes of the Crees and Ojibways. Like the wildroses around the edge of the muskegs, this briefflowering of the year passed. Again the nights werelong, again the frost crept down from the eternalsnow, again the wolves howled across barrenwastes.Just now the girl stood ankle-deep in greengrasses, a bath of sunlight falling about her, atingle of salt wind humming up the river from thebay's offing. She was clad in gray wool, and woreno hat. Her soft hair, the color of ripe wheat, blewabout her temples, shadowing eyes of fathomlessblack. The wind had brought to the light anddelicate brown of her complexion a trace of color tomatch her lips whose scarlet did not fade after theordinary and imperceptible manner into the tinge ofher skin, but continued vivid to the very edge; hereyes were wide and unseeing. One hand rested

idly on the breech of an ornamented bronze field-gun.McDonald, the chief trader, passed from the houseto the store where his bartering with the Indianswas daily carried on; the other Scotchman in thePost, Galen Albret, her father, and the head Factorof all this region, paced back and forth across theveranda of the factory, caressing his white beard;up by the stockade, young Achille Picard tuned hiswhistle to the note of the curlew; across themeadow from the church wandered Crane, the littleChurch of England missionary, peering from short-sighted pale blue eyes; beyond the coulee, Sarnierand his Indians chock-chock-chocked away at theseams of the long coast-trading bateau. The girlsaw nothing, heard nothing. She was dreaming,she was trying to remember.In the lines of her slight figure, in its pose there bythe old gun over the old, old river, was the grace ofgentle blood, the pride of caste. Of all this regionher father was the absolute lord, feared, loved,obeyed by all its human creatures. When he wentabroad, he travelled in a state almost mediaeval inits magnificence; when he stopped at home, mencame to him from the Albany, the Kenogami, theMissinaibe, the Mattagami, the Abitibi—from all therivers of the North—to receive his commands. Waywas made for him, his lightest word was attended.In his house dwelt ceremony, and of his house shewas the princess. Unconsciously she bad taken thegracious habit of command. She had come tovalue her smile, her word; to value herself. The

lady of a realm greater than the countries ofEurope, she moved serene, pure, lofty amiddependants.And as the lady of this realm she did honor to herfather's guests—sitting stately behind the beautifulsilver service, below the portrait of the Company'sgreatest explorer, Sir George Simpson, dispensingcrude fare in gracious manner, listening silently tothe conversation, finally withdrawing at the last witha sweeping courtesy to play soft, melancholy, andworld-forgotten airs on the old piano, brought overyears before by the Lady Head, while the guestsmade merry with the mellow port and ripe Manilacigars which the Company supplied its servants.Then coffee, still with her natural Old World charmof the grande dame. Such guests were not many,nor came often. There was McTavish of Rupert'sHouse, a three days' journey to the northeast;Rand of Fort Albany, a week's travel to thenorthwest; Mault of Fort George, ten days beyondeither, all grizzled in the Company's service. Withthem came their clerks, mostly English and Scotchyounger sons, with a vast respect for theCompany, and a vaster for their Factors daughter.Once in two or three years appeared theinspectors from Winnipeg, true lords of the North,with their six-fathom canoes, their luxurious furs,their red banners trailing like gonfalons in thewater. Then this post of Conjuror's House feastedand danced, undertook gay excursions, discussedin public or private conclave weighty matters, graveand reverend advices, cautions, and commands.They went. Desolation again crept in.

The girl dreamed. She was trying to remember.Far-off, half-forgotten visions of brave, courtlymen, of gracious, beautiful women, peopled theclouds of her imaginings. She heard them again,as voices beneath the roar of rapids, like far-awaybells tinkling faintly through a wind, pitying her,exclaiming over her; she saw them dim andchanging, as wraiths of a fog, as shadow picturesin a mist beneath the moon, leaning to her withbright, shining eyes full of compassion for the littlegirl who was to go so far away into an unknownland; she felt them, as the touch of a breeze whenthe night is still, fondling her, clasping her, tossingher aloft in farewell. One she felt plainly—a gallantyouth who held her up for all to see. One she sawclearly—a dewy-eyed, lovely woman whomurmured loving, broken words. One she hearddistinctly—a gentle voice that said, "God's love bewith you, little one, for you have far to go, andmany days to pass before you see Quebec again."And the girl's eyes suddenly swam bright, for thenorthland was very dreary. She threw her palmsout in a gesture of weariness.Then her arms dropped, her eyes widened, herhead bent forward in the attitude of listening."Achille!" she called. "Achille! Come here!"The young fellow approached respectfully."Mademoiselle?" he asked."Don't you hear?" she said.

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