A TALE OF THE GRAND JARDIN 



His story comes back to me in sharp and 

 vivid outline, though I look across years 

 not a few to the telling of it, and to our 

 little tent pitched high and lonely in the 

 Grand Jardin des Ours. Who can say 

 what share time and place, the wild 

 August storm, and my friend's emotion, 

 had in etching the picture so deeply on 

 memory? Perhaps the impression is 

 not communicable; perhaps it may be 

 caught, if you will consent to make camp 

 with us in those great barrens that lie 

 far-stretching and desolate among the 

 Laurentian Mountains. 



We had been fishing the upper reaches 

 of one of the little rivers that rise in the 

 heart of the hills, quickly gather volume 



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