FOhESf AND STREAM. 



[Feb. Vt, 1894. 



DANViS FOLKS.— XXII. 



The End of a Journey. 



The uneventful summer passed, marking its almost im- 

 perceptible changes by the withering of one flower and 

 the blooming of another; the growth of grain and grass, 

 their ripening and cutting down, the slow stoop of fruit- 

 ful branches under their increasing burden, the song and 

 silence of birds and the stealthy southward march of sun- 

 rise and sunset along the mountain crests. And lo, it was 

 fall with no bloom but the golden rod and asters, with the 

 red flame of the sumac, kindled in mimicry of bloom. 



Bobolinks, swallows and orioles were gone, and but 

 now and then, some remaining singer remembered or 

 sang his summer song, and the crickets chirped with 

 fainter monotony in the chill evenings, 



The calls of migrant birds came out of the gloom from 

 afar and near, and afar again while the listener won- 

 dered what they were. After a day portentous of storm, 

 with gathering clouds and steadily increasing wind, there 

 came a wild night. 



Afar among the desolate mountain peaks, the wind 

 roared with sullen, incessant anger, intermittently heard 

 between the surging blasts that swooped upon the valley 

 and drove the rain in a fierce, assaulting slant, with at- 

 tending wraiths of flying scud. 



The jaded horses of the mail wagon splashed wearily 

 through the puddles whose agitated surfaces glittered 

 dimly in the light of the mud-bespattered lantern, and 

 halted in front of the post office. A wind-tossed shout of 

 the mail driver and the thud and clank of the mail bag on 

 the wet platform, at once brought forth the alert bare- 

 headed postmaster, to whom was vaguely revealed by the 

 bolt of light shot through the open door, a forlorn, be- 

 draggled figure crouching beside the driver. Clapham 

 strove to make it more distinct with a shading hand, but 

 could not guess even at the sex of the muffled form until 

 a wet ribbon fluttered and snapped about the head. Then 

 the wagon moved on with its feeble light struggling 

 through the storm and darkness. 



"Jim's got him a passenger," he announced to the only 

 visitor whom the arrival of the semi-weekly mail had yet 

 tempted forth in such weather. ' An' it's a womern. I 

 can't e-magine," hepondered with hovering hands arrested 

 over the fastenings of the mail bag and eyes staring into 

 space, "what womern is a traveling sech a night. I'll 

 bet a cent I know. It's that Meeker gal that's ben tu 

 work in a fact'ry way daown in Massachusetts. Yis, sir, 

 that's jest exactly who 'tis," and chuckling over his 

 sagacity he began to undo the straps, and his visitor 

 waiting for his paper thought "like 'nough" as he 

 lounged over to witness the always interesting operation. 



The changes of the season were but dully noted by 

 Pelatiah. He was sorry when the fishing days were 

 ended, for they had brought him some consolation for a 

 bereavement crueller than death, if not forgetfulness of 

 his faithless sweetheart, the gleam of whose bright eyes 

 flashed up at him from the evanescent bubbles, now 

 mocking, now piteously pleading, and whose voice called 

 to him, far and elusive, in the many voices of the woods. 

 He had come to think without resentment of the girl 

 who had won his heart but to rend it, remembering 

 faults but to study apologies for them, and cherishing 

 with fondest memory all that was best in her, the best, 

 he was sure, that was possessed by any woman. Yes, 

 she was dead to him, and he could never be fooled or 

 happy again. 



He found some solace in dogged, steady work, yet 

 while his hands mechanically dug potatoes, husked corn, 

 held the plow or wielded the ax, his thoughts were con- 

 tinually straying back into the old wearisome paths. 



The early fall had brought its ordinary sport. There 

 had already been coon hunting in the cornfields, but the 

 shouting rabble of men and boys, the yelping pack of 

 dogs of all breeds and the wild uproar of the closing 

 scene when the dislodged coon fought to the last gasp 

 against the relentless host of enemies, constituted sport 

 little to his liking. There were plenty of squirrels bark- 

 ing and squalling in the nut trees, and wild pigeons glean- 

 ing the grain fields, and partridges were well grown. 

 That very afternoon, as he drove the cows up from the 

 back side of the pasture and passed a clump of elder, the 

 berry- laden tops were rent apart as by a sudden explo- 

 sion, and half a dozen strong-winged birds burst forth 

 and shot in long curves toward the woods. 



Such sports seemed trivial, but better was at hand when 

 in the frost-silvered dawn he and Sam would be afield 

 waiting for Drive's whimpered prelude to burst into 

 melody, signaling them to make all speed to their run- 

 ways. 



He was thinking of this as he moved uneasily about the 

 kitchen, waiting for a lull in the wild weather that he 

 might go up to Sam's and plan a fox hunt for the quiet 

 day which was sure to follow the storn. Now he let in a 

 rainy gust at the narrowly opened door, now he peered 

 into the blankness through the beaten panes. He watched 

 with dull interest the flickering lantern of the mail wagon 

 struggling against the wind and rain. With as little 

 interest, though it reached out toward him in shivering 

 reflections across the ruffled, rain-pelted pools of the road, 

 he saw it stop at Clapham's to drop the mail bag that 

 brought him no more letters. 



He turned wearily away and said to his mother: 



"I b'lieve I'll gwup tu Samwil's a spell," and took his 

 hat and coat from their peg. 



"Why, Peltier Gove," she exclaimed, dropping her 

 hands and the stocking she was darning into her lap 

 together, while the ball of yarn fell unnoticed to become 

 the plaything of the kitten. "You'll git soppin' wet an' 

 ketch your death cold, an' it's darker 'n Egypt." 



"It don't rain sca'cely a mite naow, an' I wanter see 

 Samwil pertic'ler." 



His mother arose and went to him, laying a gentle hand 

 on his arm as she said in a low, beseeching voice: 



"You haint a-goin' tu Hamner's, be ye, Peltier?" 



"No, marm, I haint. I don't go there no more," he 

 answered, with a decision that was convincing. 



"Anyb'dy 'at's got a ruff over 'em an' do' know 

 'nough tu stay 'n under it sech a night, ortu be put in the 

 'Sylum," his father said, shutting the stove hearth with a 

 spiteful kick of his stockinged feet. 



His sister casting a scornful glance at him from her 

 hem-stitching, said witheringly, "Lordy! I hope tu good- 



ness, I shan't never git in love if it's got tu make fools o' 

 folks!" 



Pelatiah looked reproachfully at her and went out, 

 only paying to himself, "I hope tu the Lord you never 

 will, Alviry." 



More than a lack of sympathy and the impatience with 

 his melancholy evinced by all the family save his mother, 

 a desire to be out in the wildness of the night impelled 

 him to go forth. The raging elements gave him some- 

 thing to fight against and he felt a kind of purposeless 

 heroism in breasting the fierce buffets of the wind and the 

 pelting rain. 



As he struggled forward toward the road, bending 

 against the furious blasts, he ran against some one and 

 both were brought to a sudden stand. 



"Ooogh," gasped a boyish voice. "Is that you, Peltier? 

 I was a-comin' arter you. The' 's someb'dy tu Hamner's 

 wants to see ye, right off. My! Ef you didn't skeer me!" 



The words were whisked away by the wind but not till 

 Pelatiah had caught them all. 



"Someb'dy wants tu see me tu Hamner's? Well they 

 won't, thet's all! I haint a-goin' nigh Hamner's fer nob'dy, 

 Billy Wiggins." 



"But ye got tu," the boy shouted up to him. "They 

 said you must, Hamner an' ol' Kezier." 



"But I won't," persisted Pelatiah stoutly. "Who is 't? 

 That feller 'at buys fur?" 



"No, I do' know who 'tis, but you got tu come. Both 

 on 'em said so. It's life er death, they said, both on 'em, 

 Kezier in partic'ler. I wouldn't go back alone fer one 

 dollar!" and Billy clutched at Pelatiah's fluttering coat 

 skirts and tugged toward the road. 



A strange presentiment flashed upon Pelatiah's brain 

 and his heart choked. Life or death! He remembered 

 his promise to his mother and was ready to break it, and 

 taking the boy's hand in his they went down the road, 

 struggling against the surges of the wind. 



Their way was less obscure when the lights of the 

 stores and tavern fell across the ruts and puddles, quiver- 

 ing as if the feeble rays trembled in the wind. Beyond, 

 the broader, ruddier glow of the forge banded the road, 

 pulsing with every throb of the hammer, whose thunder- 

 ous beats were always heard, now rising above the lulls 

 of gusty uproar, now dully accentuating the fiercer blasts. 



"Haow come you daown tu the village sech a night?" 

 Pelatiah asked suddenly. 



"Why, haint you heard? I've hired aout tu Hamner." 

 Billy asked, resentful of such ignorance. 



"You hcd n't orter. 'Tain't no place fer a boy, an' your 

 mother needs ye tu hum." 



"She was willin'. An' I c'n be airnin' suthin'. She's 

 got real tough, naow, an' I go hum oncte a week an' chop 

 wood an' tinker up." 



At Hamner's they entered a dark passage through a 

 side door and groped their way up a flight of stairs. 

 Beaconed by the light shed through cracked and shrunken 

 panels, they came to the poorest chamber in the tavern. 

 Hamner had evidently shrewdly classified the quality of 

 his guest. The door was opened by a bent old woman, 

 who, after assuring herself of Pelatiah's identity by a 

 brief, keen glance, admitted him, but unceremoniously 

 excluded Billy, to the disappointment of his boyish 

 curiosity. 



' 'She 'pears tu be asleep naow," the old woman whis- 

 pered, peering over the candle that she shaded with her 

 hand at the motionless form on the bed. "She's a dreffle 

 sick gal. Hamner was af eered she was a-goin' tu die right 

 on his hands, an' he hustled right off arter the darkter, 

 an' he come an' gi'n her suthin' that sot her tu sleep. I 

 don't b'lieve he thinks she's goin' tu live, fer he didn't 

 say nothin', only sythed arter he'd pulted her, an' ast tew 

 three questions, an' said her fowlks had orter be sent for, 

 an' she said she didn't wanttu see nob'dy, on'y you." 



The old woman cautiously uncovered the candle and let 

 its light fall for a moment on the haggard, fevered face 

 that lay among a confusion of tangled golden hair on the 

 lank pillow. 



Pelatiah's presentiment was verified, and it was not the 

 surprise of recognition that made him start, but the 

 woeful change grief and despair and sickness had wrought 

 in the face. 



"Is she some o' your fowlks? I sh'ld a'mos' thought 

 yer mother 'd ha' come ef she was," the old woman whis- 

 pered in a hoarse, monotonous buzz. 



Pelatiah shook his head and she leered at him with a 

 ghastly grin that revealed one yellow tooth, the sole sur- 

 vivor of the white rows that youthful smiles long ago 

 disclosed. There was a terrible revelation in that 

 wrinkled visage of the old age that a sinful life brings one 

 to, and he was thankful it was in the power of death to 

 forestall it. 



"Ooh, yer gal, eh? Wall, Jake's goin' tu see the s'lec'- 

 men, er the poormaster, an' hev her took keer on." 



Pelatiah started. "You go an' tell him the' haint no 

 need on 't. I'll take keer on her. She haint goin' tu be 

 no taown charge 1" 



"I never hed no idea you was such a lively young fel- 

 ler," said Keziah, leering at him with an admiration that 

 filled him with disgust. 



"Go quick! I'll stay with her." 



He placed a chair softly beside the bed and sat down, as 

 the old woman left the room. The girl moaned, moved 

 uneasily and opened her eyes, looking wildly about till 

 they rested on Pelatiah, and then a look of gratitude 

 lighted them. 



"I was 'feard you wouldn't come. I hadn't no right to 

 ask you, but I couldn't help it," she said in a thin, weak 

 voice., ' 'I haint got a friend on airth — not one, not one," 

 and her piteous voice broke with a sob before she answered 

 his questioning, puzzled gaze. "No, he never married 

 me. He went off an' lef me. I must tell ye quick, fer 

 it seems as though I was goin' away somewheres, right 

 off; an' when I went hum my folks turned me aou' door, 

 an' I went tu work aout where they didn't know me, an' 

 I took sick, an' they wouldn't keep me no longer, an' I 

 come here. It seemed as 'ough I'd got tu see ye once 

 more an' tell ye I' sorry I was so mean tu you. You can't 

 never forgive me, but I wish 't you wouldn't hate me." 



"I never hated ye one minute, Lowizy," he spoke in a 

 choked voice, and then after a conscientious questioning 

 of his heart, "an' I du forgive ye. Mebby you've bore 

 more'n I hev." 



"Thank ye, Pelatiah. Be you willin' tu take a holt o' 

 my hand?" she asked timidly, and for answer he clasped 

 tenderly in his rough palm the thin, hot hand that was 

 feebly stretched out to him. She closed her eyes and 

 sighed restfully, then after a while asked: 



"Why, it aint June, is it? Seems 'ough I heard the 

 birds singin' an' smelt the young come-ups. It's time I 

 was a-goin'. Good-bye. Peltier." The feeble tension of 

 the little hand relaxed in his, her last breath filtered < 

 out upon his cheek and the poor fickle heart grew still i 

 forever. 



"Is she sleepin' yet?" old Keziah whispered, entering 

 on tip-toe and exhaling an odor of strong waters. 



"You needn't be af eered o' wakin' her no more", Pela- 

 tiah answered solemnly. 



"Good land o' livin'," she gasped in an awed voice. 

 "You don't say she's dead?" and then after assuring her- 

 self by a look and touch, "Poor little creature! It's 

 tumble tu be took so young." 



"I don't b'lieve 't is, not allers. Is Jake up? 1 wanter 

 see him." As he groped his way down the narrow stairs, 

 it seemed as if years had passed since he climbed them. 



The storm spent itself in the night, and the morning 

 broke on a peaceful world. As peaceful under the white • 

 veil of the dread mystery into which she had passed after 

 the storm of life, was the face of the dead girl. It was 

 as if she had gone forth into the unfathomed hereafter, 

 as well assured of forgiveness there as here. 



Attended by a few sympathizing friends, Pelatiah laid 

 his dead, now wholly his, to rest in the shadow of the 

 flaming sumacs in the old graveyard on the hillside. 

 There was no service but the brief testimony of JoelBart- 

 lett, who felt moved to say: 



"Inasmuch as we hev ben told by One formerly that 

 aour Heavenly Father does temper the wind tu the shorn 

 lamb, I feel it bore in upon me, that this poor little lamb,, 

 which may hev strayed fur f'm the flock, is gethered tu 

 the fold by the good Shepherd." 



Unseen by any but Pelatiah, Huldah covertly dropped 1 

 a spray of pale asters into the open grave. As the care- , 

 less clods began to fall with muffled thuds on the straw- 

 covered coffin, the little company silently dispersed. 



"It kinder seem 's 'ough Peltier felt wus 'n the' was 

 any need o' his feelin', considerin', but mebby he don't,, 

 I d' know," Joseph Hill remarked to Antoine as they 

 lingered last at the graveyard gate. 



"If you'll seen dat gal wen she was 'live an' fat an' jes'' 

 good as anybody gal, you'll ant blem Peltiet for cried." 



Rowland E. Robinson. 



CANADIAN SPEECH. 



Central Lake, Mich., Feb. 3. — Removing my hat and 

 making a bow as graceful and dignified as my anatomical 

 structure will admit, I desire to present my compliments 

 to your correspondent "Pintail," together with the assur- 

 ance of my distinguished consideration. 



His comments in your last issue upon my paper on 

 Camp Jibbenainosay are just, his conclusions reasonable 

 and to the point. In many visits made to Canada during 

 the last forty years or so, I cannot remember a single 

 instance of a "misuse of the aspirant" on the part of any 

 native-born Canadian with whom I have conversed. It 

 might, however, have been otherwise; for instance, I once 

 knew a born Welshman (named Rees), who spoke only a 

 fine grade of Yellowpluah cockney. The explanation was 

 that twelve years of his youth had been passed in London^ i 



In the Kingfisher Club, when we speak of the gentle- 

 men we have met in Canada, it is generally as "Cana-.! 

 dians," without much thought of their birth place, just as 

 during the war we were all either "Johnnies" or "Yanks," 

 though nearly every nation under the sun was represented- 

 in the armies. The fact is, that there was but one person; 

 seen at the camp in question who habitually trifled with 

 the aspirants, and he was English-born. If I did not in 

 niy article make this clear, besides giving your readers 

 several very comical instances of this failing on the part 

 of the gentlemen referred to, it was that I desired to spare 

 his feelings, for I intended to send him a copy of the paper 

 containing my remarks. 



I have sometimes felt inclined to believe that the aver- 

 age Canadian speaks better English than the average 

 Englishman, and while on the subject of dialects I may 

 say that I have often thought it odd that no one save an 

 American has ever, to my knowledge, reproduced suc- 

 cessfully the peculiarities of American speech, especially 

 in its New England forms. Holmes, Lowell and Rowland i 

 E. Robinson are masters in this respect. 



There is a queer passage in Forster's Life of Dickens, 

 which I quote from memory: Dickens was aboard a | 

 vessel in some Mediterranean harbor, when an American 1 

 came over the side and at once exclaimed: "Well, I'm 

 blarmed, if it ain't Dickens." After introducing first him- 1 

 self and then his companions, he added (accord ing to Mr. 

 Forster): "Personally, I expectuate you and them can 

 fix it agreeable." 



Who ever heard such a speech as this from an American 

 mouth? Charles. Reade does little better; but it is hardly 

 worth while to attempt here the elaboration of an essay 

 on this subject. 



I will say in conclusion, as I have said before, that in 

 writing for the Forest and Stream it is well to be ac- 

 curate, for if you be not, some correspondent at the 

 other end of the earth will surely trip you up. 



Kelpie. 



Cincinnati, O., Feb. 4. — Editor Forest and Stream: 1 

 noticed a "kick" in Forest and Stream of Feb. 3, by 

 "Pintail," of Sorel, P. Q., anent, as he alleges, "Kelpie" 

 "putting the Cockney dialect into Canadian mouths,"' 

 and . I am moved to take up the cudgel, unasked, in de- 

 fense of my old friend and camp comrade ("Kelpie"), for; 

 I know him to be a man who would not intentionally in- 

 flict needless pain on the lowliest of God's creatures nor 

 make wanton sport of the feelings of his humblest neigh- 

 bor, be he Cockney, Canuck, or indigenous to U. S. soil. 

 "Pintail" assures "Kelpie," "That a misuse of the aspirate 

 is not characteristic of Canadians," and winds up with, "I 

 should have expected a man of 'Kelpie's' attainments to 

 be better informed." 



"Easy thar, brother 'Pintail,' you have hollered afore 

 yer hurt," as they say over in "ole Kaintuck," and if I 

 may be allowed, I will rise and explain, I trust to the 

 satisfaction of "Pintail" and the rest of our Canadian 

 brethren. 



While in camp at Big Basswood Lake, we had a visitor, 

 a young Englishman (not a Canadian), a friend of Br'er 

 Dyer, who spent a day with us to his edification, as I hope 

 and believe. He was a "bully good feller" and a sports- 

 man, and we all took a liking to Mm, but at times he set 

 us blarsted Hamericans nearly distracted by "a misuse 

 of the aspirate." He was a "h'out and h'out Hinglish- 



