Nov. 21, 1908.] 
FOREST AND STREAM 
star faintly glimmering; the solitary and majestic 
bulks of the pine trees along shore, all appeared 
to have grown a thousand fold more beautiful. 
So cotnplete was the enchantment that he hardly 
could lift his eyes from the crimson blossom 
lying at his feet. 
He felt no surprise when, in the middle of a 
shallow pool, his canoe came to an abrupt stop. 
On the gunwale rested two long and slender 
hands, and even as he became aware of their 
presence a woman’s figure rose from the water 
beside him. 
Dripping reeds and soft grasses of indescrib¬ 
able tints were wound around her form, while 
a shower of black hair fell about and covered 
her shoulders. 
She leaned forward, resting one white arm 
across Tomaso’s knees. Her eyes, grave and 
searching, looked into his. 
“Tomaso,” she said, “you have taken my lotus. 
Will you not give it back to me?” 
Tomaso did not reply, but remained mute and 
rigid, his heart throbbing rudely against his ribs. 
Never taking her eyes from his face she re¬ 
peated the question. Mechanically he leaned 
down, and picking up the blossom gave it into 
her hand. She took it eagerly, pressing it 
against her cheek. 
“Oh, I will never be unkind to you again,” 
she murmered. “I will never push your canoe on 
sunken logs or hold it fast when you are cross¬ 
ing the little sand bars or rub the alder bushes 
in your face as you pass.” 
“Did you do this?” cried Tomaso, his tongue 
loosened by the confession. She smiled and her 
glance became arch and mischievous. 
“Yes,” she said, “I have often teased you in 
this fashion, often when you thought there was 
no one within miles. Once the others wished 
to upset your canoe, but I would not let them.” 
“Oh!” cried Tomaso, this time indignant. But 
his anger departed when he saw her consterna¬ 
tion. “I must go,” she said rapidly, her hand 
slipping from his knee. Tomaso caught her arm 
gently and held her. He had suddenly grown 
i very courageous although his heart was shaken 
with an unknown fear. 
“Am I never to see you again?” he asked. 
She shook her head and the smile went from 
her lips. 
“We are different,” her voice was scarcely to 
f be heard; “if it had not been for the lotus”— 
Tomaso thought he saw a tear glisten under 
I her eyelid as she finished and the terror grew in 
I his breast. 
“I must; I shall see you again,” he blurted 
out. “Wherever you go I shall follow you for¬ 
ever, because—because you are more beautiful 
than my mother, or the wilderness, or any”— 
He was interrupted by a peal of laughter, thin 
and unearthly, and uttered in a mocking tone. 
Thus startled, he looked about to see from 
whence it came. As he did so the form slipped 
from his grasp and sank from sight into the 
pool. 
Weeks passed. Tomaso went about his occu¬ 
pations as usual. But from day to day he grew 
more silent, while the Mohawk blood in his 
veins placed a mask of austerity on his face. 
It did not take his parents long to observe the 
change. Often, when he was away bound on 
some wilderness task, they talked together for 
hours, and still found no solution to their per¬ 
plexity. As for Tomaso, he learned to wait. 
One evening he took down his rifle and strolled 
off to an old “burning” in the hope of obtain¬ 
ing a shot before nightfall. It was now well 
on toward the middle of September, and all 
through the woods clusters of scarlet, golden 
and purple leaves swung like enchanted fruits 
among the greener foliage. A tang of frost 
enlivened the air, and over the streams and 
swamps rested banks of cold, blue fog. 
Tomaso soon reached the “burning.” The 
place was cut up with runways, and near the 
largest of these he took his station. The forest 
was soundless, and he sat with frozen muscles, 
but his eyes were everywhere. 
Suddenly the snap of a twig broke the silence. 
He turned, raising his rifle, which he as quickly 
lowered. Behind him stood a man. At first 
glance Tomaso in his astonishment took him 
to be an old Jesuit priest he had once seen on 
the Canadian border. His head was uncovered, 
exposing his thick white locks, and he wore 
what appeared to be a chasuble of grayish-silver 
hue. There was something in the venerable 
purity of his expression that Tomaso had never 
seen before in the face of any living creature. 
For this, indeed, was no other than the seer of 
the wilderness, he who, serene, dream-tongued 
and benevolent, forever roams the forest, whose 
glance means death or happiness, or worse than 
death or more than happiness. 
Ignorant of all this, Tomaso accosted him, 
asking civilly if he had lost his way. An amused 
smile twisted the corners of the seer’s mouth. 
“No,” he replied in a clear, soft voice, “I 
know where I am. Often I travel through the 
forest with my eyes closed, but that is in the 
winter when I do not wish to behold the suffer¬ 
ing I inflict. But,” he added, coming closer, “it 
is with you I now desire to speak. Are you 
quite happy?” 
The abruptness of this question startled 
Tomaso into an equally abrupt confession. 
“No,” he stammered. 
“Well,” said the seer, “I have been sent to 
help you. You are in love.” 
“Yes,” said Tomaso, still bewildered. The 
seer stroked his hands together in an odd 
fashion. 
“She insisted that I seek you out until I was 
driven to it.” 
“Sacre Dieu!” cried Tomaso, suddenly realiz¬ 
ing that he at last had discovered someone who 
would aid him in his extremity. “Tell me what 
I must do? I cannot live longer in this sus¬ 
pense.” 
“I see you are the man I am in search of,” 
resumed the other, “and now listen attentively to 
what I say. In this forest there is an immense 
deer which no human eye has ever seen. His 
right horn is like that of other bucks, his left 
is white, polished by age to a silvery luster, and 
of great value. It is your task to seek, slay 
and bring me here in this same spot five days 
hence the head of this animal. Afterward I 
will see what can be done for you.” 
As he ceased speaking the seer bent his head, 
at the same time lifting his hands with a peculiar 
circular motion. The next instant he was gone, 
but where'he had been standing glowed a great 
lump of fox fire. 
The next morning at daybreak Tomaso, rifle 
in hand and a pouch of food, strapped with a 
809 
blanket on his shoulder, stood in the door of 
the wigwam. For a moment he paused and re¬ 
garded his sleeping parents. Fie thought he had 
never seen his mother appear more lovely nor 
his father more handsome and strong-limbed. 
Then he stepped softly out into the gray ting¬ 
ling dawn. A faint crimson flush was rising 
along the east, and half way up from the hori¬ 
zon swung a great liquid planet. It confronted 
Tomaso like some buoyant and celestial omen. 
Thus encouraged, he went forth to find the buck 
with the silver horn. 
For three days he hunted diligently, covering 
long stretches of country and traversing moun¬ 
tains, swamps and burnt lands almost without 
rest. The weather was cold and wet, so that 
he traveled noiselessly, and besides was able to 
approximate about the number and size of the 
deer in his vicinity. 
But when the fourth day opened without 
change he grew melancholy and disheartened. 
During all the hours of still-hunting he had not 
come across any deer even approaching the de¬ 
scription given to him by the old seer. Toward 
noon he sat down beside a cold little spring at 
the end of a grassy swale to eat. The sun 
came out and flooded the woods with pale yel¬ 
low light, brightening the scarlet maple leaves 
that filled the spring hole, and resting his head 
against a birch sapling, Tomaso game himself 
up to dreams. When, as he sat there and re¬ 
alized that failing to kill the buck with the silver 
horn, he would forfeit the one golden opening 
which fate had offered him, he felt as though 
something had gripped him and was crushing 
the life from his body. With these despondent 
thoughts he leaned down to fill his cup from 
the spring. It was then that he first saw the 
tracks of a huge buck in the strip of mud at 
the water’s edge. They were large and fresh, 
and by their depth showed an animal of enor¬ 
mous weight. Five minutes later Tomaso was 
following the footprints with the genius born 
of experience. At first he had some difficulty 
in locating their direction, for the ground was 
hard and strewn with leaves, but presently they 
fell in with a freshly worn runway, and from 
that moment the tracking became easy. 
After a mile or more the trail entered a swamp 
which in turn opened out upon a sunny beaver 
meadow. Here the buck had swung off at right 
angles and plunged into a tangle of alders and 
stunted swamp spruce. Tomaso was so appre¬ 
hensive lest he should escape that he considered 
following him into the thicket, but he under¬ 
stood the futility of such a maneuver and gave 
it up. Somewhere in the bushes the buck was 
lying down, and in all probability he would 
come out at sundown and make for some 
favorite feeding ground. Of course there was 
the chance that he might not return by the same 
route, but Tomaso decided to take the risk. He 
stationed himself on a low knoll commanding a 
good view of the runway and beaver meadow 
and began his vigil. To the west the sharp 
points of the balsams and spruces stood darkly 
outlined against the sky. A cold wind blew 
across the meadow, carrying with it'a perfume 
of dead leaves and withered ferns and grasses. 
As the afternoon waned the breeze died out, 
leaving a frosty stillness in the air. Never for 
a second did Tomaso relax his watchfulness nor 
allow his glance to turn aside from the required 
directions. 
