4 CANADIAN NIGHTS 



I had often heard of Willie Whisper, a queer 

 old fellow by all accounts, an educated man, so 

 'twas said, who had seen the world and knew men 

 and cities, but who for some unaccountable reason 

 lived solitary in the woods, coming rarely and 

 with reluctance into settlements and the haunts of 

 man. Quite mad, most white men thought, be- 

 cause they could not understand a sane man lead- 

 ing such a life ; although some said he was sane 

 enough in most respects but had communings 

 with ghosts, and talked and whispered with the 

 trees and wild creatures and birds. All agreed 

 that he was a kindly, harmless man, and the Indians 

 held him in reverence and deep respect. Sitting 

 there in the full light of a bright fire of sweet- 

 smelling maple and birch I saw a man past middle 

 age, stooping more perhaps by the weight of packs 

 than of years, silvering hair falling about a fine- 

 cut intellectual face ; in short, a somewhat dilapi- 

 dated Englishman in coarse homespun clothes, 

 ragged and unkempt, but with that air about him 

 which in some men nothing can efface. Beyond 

 that hall-mark of gentle breeding there was nothing 

 remarkable about this remarkable man except his 

 eyes and an expression upon his face difficult to 

 describe — a look of sadness but of infinite patience 



