































































410 
FOREST AND STREAM. 


[SEPT. 14, 1907. 




eyes. She told him about her life, her school 
days at Tadousac, her father, and he in turn 
told her of his home in the great city. 
“Duryea found the camp of Toussaint so at- 
tractive, that the days slipped by without his 
He the beautiful 
country with the girl and told her of his attempt 
to paint the Lorelei, and one day she told him 
that she knew of a place where the blue was 
knowledge. wandered over 
even deeper and more intense and now pointed 
away to the north where a score of dome-like 
hills came rolling down, floating in the splendid 
blue that had lured Duryea on. Here, later, he 
began to paint, to place his colors, while the 
girl watched wondered at the tints he 
evolved and form and_ shape 
Duryea was a master of a school that later be- 
and 
which took 
came known as the impressionist, and Noémie 
never tired of creeping up to the canvas and 
laughing at its absurdity at close range, then 
running off clapping her hands as the 
picture materialized. One day Duryea caught 
her crying, nor was she ashamed, as some might 
have been. She said simply, ‘It is so beautiful.’ 
And when this masterpiece, which later made the 
artist famous, was hung in the French Academy, 
more than one observer turned away unable to 
fathom the strange effect this picture, ‘The Lure 
of the Lorelei,’ had upon them. 
“So the days slipped away and the two, left 
Duryea taught 
the girl to cast a fly, and together they fished 
the streams and the lakes that, like gems, filled 
the valleys here and there, and Duryea was lost 
to the world. Then Noémie consented to be his 
subject as he saw her first, and when one day 
she and glanced at the canvas the 
deep, warm blood surged into her face. 
““Tyo I look like that? 
with wonder in her voice. 
and 
alone, wandered over the hills. 
stole up 
Do you see me so?’ 
““Yes, I see you so,’ he replied, smiling. 
“She turned away and for some reason she 
would not look at him when he spoke, and made 
an excuse to go home. Long after the sun be- 
gan to drop he sat and watched the colors fade 
and deepen to violet and merge into the black- 
ness of night; then by the light of the moon 
he slowly walked down the mountain to Noémie. 
“One day he showed the picture to Toussaint, 
who looked at it, then at Noémie, critically. 
““FVI tink dat hoffle fine; ees like her mére; 
she great belle, das a fac’.’ 
“As they talked Noémie ran out of the cabin 
and Duryea found her by the stream, where a 
clump of slender beeches bent and formed a 
canopy; saw her as Narcissus, leaning over, gaz- 
ing into the mirror of the waters. He held back, 
pretending not to have seen her at the stream, 
then, later, they wandered away as Toussaint 
sang his songs: 
the 
Compagnon de la Marjolaine. 
“Who passes by 
road so gay? 
Who passes by the road so gay, 
Always gay?’ 
“*You promised to show me the wild forest 
flowers,’ So they strolled 
into the wild country up along the little stream 
where raggec 
said Duryea on day. 

red flowers flamed and blazed, over 
fields of closed gentians and yellow jewel weed. 
Noémie showed him little open glades fringed 
with white and green stalks of meadow rue, 
damp gardens where the violet or purple fleur 
de lis formed banners and crests against the soft 
green of the forest. She led him to deep glens 
where the clustering bells of the pyrola rang 

and chimed and filled the air with their fragrant 
incense, then, far up a portage to masses of 
fringed orchids, from which they entered the 
forest where perfumes of other kinds came with 
every wind, where cedars, white birches, balsams 
and spruces held converse in the soft wind, el- 
bowing, crowding, jostling in every breeze. 
“*‘Noémie, said Duryea, as they sat down 
to rest on the bank of what she called the Petite 
Peribonca, a dainty little stream that whispered 
its way down through the trees; ‘Noémie, why do 
you not look at me any more?’ as she dropped her 
eyes before his. ‘When I first came you looked 
at me. Do you know I have forgotten whether 
your eyes are violet or blue?’ 
‘I don’t know.’ the girl replied, glancing 
shyly at him. : 
“To you know,’ he said suddenly, ‘I must go 
back, I must hunt up my guide? He must think 
me dead. I have been lost to the world, 
Noémie.’ 
“Noémie turned her head away, and acting on 
a sudden impulse, Duryea put his arm around 
her and drawing her to him saw that her eyes 
were suffused with tears. ‘Do you understand, 
Noémie? I am going away.’ 
“She did not answer for a moment. Her 
slight figure was trembling. Then she looked 
up and replied, ‘I am very sorry. I shall miss 
you.’ 
“Shall you really miss me?’ the man persisted, 
cruelly forcing the sweetest words he had ever 
heard from her reluctant lips, and looking down 
into the delicate face, looking deep into the half 
frightened fawn-like eyes. 
“The perfume of her breath on his face in- 
toxicated him, and drawing her yielding form 
to him he kissed her again and again. ‘You 
will miss me, Noémie, are you sure?’ 
“*T shall die when you go,’ she said simply, 
placing her hand trustfully in his. 
“Will you go with me?’ he whispered, hold- 
ing her close to his heart. ‘Will you go with 
me, Noémie, and live with me always, far away 
from here? I love you, I love you, Noémie. 
Do you hear me?’ 
“She turned her face away, then buried it, in 
the very shame of loving, on his breast. 
““Noémie, I lak you hol’ de net fo’ you fad- 
der, I ’ave haxident with ma finger,’ came boom- 
ing through the trees. 
“‘Noémie tore herself away and ran down the 
trail to Toussaint—Duryea watching her grace- 
ful figure until it was lost among the trees; then 
it occurred to him that perhaps she had-not 
understood him, he had nothing about 
marriage, his language might have been miscon- 
strued. On the impulse of the moment he 
walked down the little flower-lined trail with 
its gentians, its pools of iris, and hurried into 
the little lodge to find Noémie binding up her 
father’s hand with a piece of netting. 
“Toussaint, he cried, abruptly, ‘I love 
Noémie. May I marry her? I am rich; I can 
care for her, and you, too, for that matter.’ 
“Toussaint dropped the piece of netting and 
looked over at the blushing girl, astonishment 
depicted on his weather-beaten face. 
“Why, m’sieu, you don’ know ma leetle gal 
This 
What 
said 
hardly; ees you mak’ sport wif heem? 
hoffle queek. What you say, Noémie. 
ma leetle gal she say, eh?’ 
eel, Then Noémie tried to escape, but 
Duryea’s arms were about her, as though he 
saw her menaced by some evil passing shade; 


her head on his breast, her pure heart beating 
against his own. 
“Toussaint laughed. ‘Why you ax me? Eet 
look lak eet hall feex hup. Hit’s hoffle queek,’ 
and he turned as a shadow crossed the door. 
“Pardon, m’sieu,’ said Baptiste, taking off his 
cap—for it was he. 
““*Baptiste!’ cried Noémie. The lad stopped as 
though struck, stared at the yielding form in his 
master’s arms, and with a wild cry like that of 
some maddened animal, he flung himself for- 
ward, drawing his hunting knife as he went, and 
buried it in the breast of his master.” 
“Ts that the end?” asked the Dominican, as 
the story reader looked up. 
“Yes,” replied the other. 
“And you-are going to leave us, without tell- 
ing us whether the boy killed him or not?” 
“That's all I have,” replied the other. “I 
fancy the boy was an old sweetheart of the girl. 
She was the ‘lure of the Lorelei’.” 
“IT don’t like such realistic stories,’ said the 
Dominican. “I feel as though I had been mixed 
up in it in some way. Let us change the subject 
To-night I will show you a most exasperating 
sight—a hundred salmon running up to fifty 
pounds, show them to you so near that you 
could cast in their midst with perfect ease,” and 
he did. These salmon were lying in the Govern- 
ment preserve at Tadousac, a menace to the 
peace of all mankind. It should be stopped. 

Indian Words in Common Use. 
New York, Sept. 1.—Editor Forest and Stream: 
In your Indian word pieces, whose one and 
only fault is that they are all too brief, you 
note in the current number that tomahawk is 
going out of use, and it is a pity we should 
forget any of our few words inherited from the 
Indian. 
But far away, in a new land where you would 
least expect to find it, tomahawk has entered 
upon the active career which we are lazily deny- 
ing it. In Australia and New Zealand and 
wherever the British have spread themselves in 
the South Sea, tomahawk is universal. From 
the noun it has advanced to use as a verb, and 
in tommy-ax it has evolved a gentle diminutive. 
Here is a confirmatory dictionary citation from 
Prof. Morris’ “Austral English’: “In Australia 
the word ‘hatchet’ has practically disappeared, 
and the word ‘tomahawk’ to describe it is in 
everyday use.’ The earliest record of the use 
of the word in the Colonies he derives from 
G. Barrington’s “History of New South Wales” 
(1802), in which it is spelled toma-hawkes. 
The ax in the Colonies is invariably spoken 
of as “American ax.” Wma. CHURCHILL. 
September. 
The cricket stil! keeps on his cheery lay, 
And latest blossoms deck my modest board, 
A softened air broods over all the earth, 
A lazy world. 
The early lights peep from the neighboring farms, 
And nuts and apples swell the winter’s hoard, 
CAMP SUPPLIES. 
Camp supplies should include Borden’s Eagle 
Brand Condensed Milk. Peerless Brand Evapor- 
ated Milk and Borden’s Malted Milk, all of | 
which contain substantial and compact nourish- 
ment, and supplying every milk or cream require- 
ment.—Adv. 




