Part 29 (2/2)
There was a brief silence; then, of course, the sweet busy mother spoke:
”Peter Ottertail and I have schemed together for that. I have invited him to supper, and we are to have a roaring fire built here in the kitchen, and Peter is to tell the four boys some Indian stories, while you and I, father, finish the Christmas tree in the parlor. What do you think of my idea?”
She need not have asked, for such a clamor of delight went up that her own words were drowned.
”Excellent!” cried Mr. Duncan, when finally he could be heard.
”Excellent, for we don't want you young mischiefs in the parlor at all, seeing your presents the day before; and the only one I know who could keep you out is Peter. Splendid idea of yours, Mary. Boys, it's these mothers who have the real Christmas things in their hearts.”
”Yes, and in the oven, too!” laughed Mrs. Duncan, extracting therefrom a big pan of deliciously light cake, whose spicy fragrance a.s.sailed the boys' nostrils temptingly. ”This,” she continued, ”is to be eaten here in the kitchen to-night. It goes with Peter's stories.”
”Jolly!” said someone, and the four youthful voices immediately swung into:
”For mother's a jolly good fellow, For mother's a jolly good fellow, For mother's a jolly good fellow, Which n.o.body can deny!”
And, joining in the last line, there boomed a fifth voice which sounded suspiciously like Mr. Duncan's.
A crackling wood fire was roaring up the chimney from the large stove in the kitchen. On the spotlessly white pine floor were spread soft, grey lynx skins, one or two racc.o.o.n skins with their fluffy, ringed tails, and a couple of red fox pelts. On these sprawled the four boys in various and intricate att.i.tudes. In the corner back of the stove lounged Peter Ottertail, on a single brown buffalo robe. With a bit of sharp-edged flint he sc.r.a.ped tiny curls of shavings from a half-formed ashwood arrow, which, from time to time, he lifted even with one eye to look along its glimmering length toward the light, to see that it was straight and flawless, his soft, even voice warbling out the strangely beautiful Indian tradition of
THE SHADOW TRAIL
”You young palefaces that are within my heart know well what a path through the forest is, or what a track across the valley means, but the Indian calls these footways 'a trail,' and some trails are hard to follow. They hide themselves in the wilderness, bury themselves in the swamps and swales, and sometimes a man or a buffalo must beat his own trail where never footstep has fallen before. The Shadow Trail is not of these, and at some time every man must walk it. I was a very small, very young brave when I first heard of it. My grandsire used to tell me, just as I tell you now, of the wonder country through which it led, of the wise and knowing animals that had their lairs and dens beside it, of the royal birds that had their nests and eyries above it, of the white stars that hovered along its windings, of the small, whispering creatures of the night that made music with their cobweb wings. These things all talk with a man as he takes the Shadow Trail; and the oftener they speak and sing to him, the higher climbs the trail; and, if he listens long enough to their voices, he will find the trail has lifted its curving way aloft until it creeps along the summit of the mountains, not at their base.
It is here that the stars come close, and the singing is hushed in the great, white silence of the heights; but only he who listens to the wise animals and the eagles and the gauzy-winged insects will ever climb so high. This is the Shadow Trail the wild geese take on their April flight to the north, as, honking through the rain-warm nights, they interweave their wings with the calling wind. They leave no footprints to show whither they go, for the northing bird is wise.
”This is the Shadow Trail that countless buffaloes thundered through when, hunted by the white men, they journeyed into the great unknown.
Wise men who are nearing the height of the trail say they can hear the booming of myriad hoofs, and see the tossing of unnumbered horns as the herds of bison yet travel far ahead. This is the Shadow Trail the Northern Lights dance upon, s.h.i.+mmering and pale and silvery. We Indians call them the 'Dead Men's Fingers,' though sometimes they pour out in great splashes of cold blue, of poisonous-looking purple, of burning crimson and orange. We speak of them then as the 'Sky Flowers of the North,' that scatter their deathless ma.s.ses along the lifting way.
”And this is the Shadow Trail the red man has followed these many, many moons. His moccasined feet have climbed the heights silently, slowly, firmly. He knows it will lead beyond the canyons, beyond the crests; that behind the mountains it merges into a vast valley of untold beauty.
We Indians call it 'the Happy Hunting Grounds.'
”Only one person ever returns from the 'Shadow Trail,' and he comes once a year on this night--Christmas Eve. The stars wake and sing as he pa.s.ses, the Sky Flowers of the North surround him on his journey from the summits to this valley where we live. He is a little Child, who was born hundreds of years ago in a manger beneath the Eastern stars, in the Land of Morning. Many times I have met him on the Shadow Trail, for I have travelled towards its heights for nearly eighty years. Perhaps I shall see the little Child again to-night, for Indian eyes can see a long way. Indian ears catch oftenest the singing of the stars, and the Indian heart both sees and hears.”
Peter Ottertail's voice ceased. The boys lay very silent, the soft fur rugs half hiding their rapt faces. No one spoke, for each was watching the ”Shadow Trail.” Then the deep-toned clock struck one--two--three--four--evenly on to twelve--midnight!
The door opened from the inner hall.
”Merry Christmas, dears! Merry Christmas!” came the hearty, loving voices of Mr. and Mrs. Duncan, as they bustled into the kitchen, the boys and Peter all scrambling to their feet to meet them.
”Merry Christmas! And off to bed with the whole lot of you, or we'll have a nice pack of sleepyheads in the morning! Peter, you're surely not going home to-night!” as the old Indian began to get into his overcoat and scarlet sash.
”Yes,” he said, ”I'll go.” And, after gay good wishes and handshakes, the old man went out into the night, perhaps to watch for the Christmas Child coming down the Shadow Trail!
The Saucy Seven
Probably Bob Stuart would never have been asked to join the camping party had he not been the best canoeist in the Club. He was so much younger than the other half dozen that composed the party that his joining was much discussed, but there were no two opinions about Bob's paddling nor yet about his ability to pitch a tent, cast a fly, shoot small game at long range, and, when you are far up North, on a canoe cruise, and have to depend on the forest and river to supply your dinner, you don't sneer at an enthusiastic fisherman or a good shot. So one royal August day Bob found himself on the train with six University graduates, bound for ”up North,” for a glorious three weeks' outing.
Their canoes, tents and duffle were all stored away in the express car ahead. Their cares and their studies were packed away in the weeks left behind, their hearts as merry, their clothes as hideous as a jolly crowd of merry-makers could desire. It was a long, hot, dusty railway journey, but at last the tiny Northern railway station hove in sight, the rasping screech of the sawmill rivalled the shrill call of the locomotive, and directly behind the little settlement stretched the smooth surface of ”Lake Nameless,” ready and waiting to be ruffled by the dip of paddle blades.
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