CHAPTER XLVIII 

 THE END 



All that night of Hallowe'en, a Partridge drummed 

 near my untented couch on the balsam boughs. What 

 a glorious sound of woods and life triumphant it seemed; 

 and why did he drum at night? Simply because he 

 had more joy than the short fall day gave him time to 

 express. He seemed to be beating our march of victory, 

 for were we not in triumph coming home? The gray 

 firstlight came through the trees and showed us lying 

 each in his blanket, covered with leaves, like babes in 

 the woods. The gray Jays came wailing through the 

 gloom, a faroff Cock-of-thc-Pines was trumpeting in 

 the lovely, unplagued autumn woods; it seemed as 

 though all the very best things in the land were assem- 

 bled and the bad things all left out, so that our final 

 memories should have no evil shade. 



The scene comes brightly back again, the sheltering 

 fir-clad shore, the staunch canoe skimming the river's 

 tranquil reach, the water smiling round her bow, as 

 we push from this, the last of full five hundred camps. 



The dawn fog lifts, the river sparkles in the sun, we 

 round the last of a thousand headlands. The little 

 frontier town of the Landing swings into view once 

 more — what a metropolis it seems to us now! — The 

 Ann Seton lands at the spot where six months ago she 



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