180 IN THE OLD WEST 



Still, in one dark corner of his heart, there 

 shone at intervals a faint spark of what was once 

 a fiercely-burning fire. Neither time, that cor- 

 roder of all things, nor change, that ready abettor 

 of oblivion, nor scenes of peril and excitement, 

 which act as dampers to more quiet memories, 

 could smother this little smoldering spark, which 

 now and again — when rarely-coming calm suc- 

 ceeded some stirring passage in the hunter's life, 

 and left him, for a brief time, devoid of care, and 

 victim to his thoughts — would flicker suddenly, 

 and light up all the nooks and corners of his 

 rugged breast, and discover to his mind's eye that 

 one deep-rooted memory clung there still, though 

 long neglected; proving that, spite of time and 

 change, of life and fortune, 



"On revient ton jours a ses premiers amours." 



Often and often, as La Bonte sat cross-legged 

 before his solitary camp-fire, and, pipe in mouth, 

 watched the blue smoke curling upwards in the 

 clear cold sky, a well-remembered form appeared 

 to gaze upon him from the vapory wreaths. 

 Then would old recollections crowd before him, 

 and old emotions, long a stranger to his breast, 

 shape themselves, as it were, into long-forgotten 

 but now familiar pulsations. Again he felt the 

 soft subduing influence which once, in days gone 

 by, a certain passion exercised over his mind and 

 body; and often a trembling seized him, the same 



