The Blue Flower [32]
way
to and from his cabin by the rivers.
He leaned in the door-way, looking out. Behind him in the
shadow, the fire was still snapping in the little stove where
he had cooked his breakfast. There was a comforting smell of
bacon and venison in the room; the tea-pot stood on the table
half-empty. Here in the corner were his rifle and some of his
traps. On the wall hung his snowshoes. Under the bunk was a
pile of skins. Half-open on the bench lay the book that he had
been reading the evening before, while the snow was falling. It
was a book of veritable fairy-tales, which told how men had made
their way in the world, and achieved great fortunes, and won
success, by toiling hard at first, and then by trading and
bargaining and getting ahead of other men.
"Well," said Luke, to himself, as he stood at the door, "I
could do that too. Without doubt I also am one of the men who
can do things. They did not work any harder than I do. But
they got better pay. I am twenty-five. For ten years I have
worked hard, and what have I got for it? This!"
He stepped out into the morning, alert and vigorous,
deep-chested and straight-hipped. The strength of the hills
had gone into him, and his eyes were bright with health. His
kingdom was spread before him. There along the River of
Meadows were the haunts of the moose and the caribou where he
hunted in the fall; and yonder on the burnt hills around the
great lake were the places where he watched for the bears; and
up beside the River of Rocks ran his line of traps, swinging back
by secret ways to many a nameless pond and hidden
beaver-meadow; and all along the streams, when the ice went
out in the spring, the great trout would be leaping in rapid
and pool. Among the peaks and valleys of that forest-clad
kingdom he could find his way as easily as a merchant walks
from his house to his office. The secrets of bird and beast
were known to him; every season of the year brought him its
own tribute; the woods were his domain, vast, inexhaustible,
free.
Here was his home, his cabin that he had built with his
own hands. The roof was tight, the walls were well chinked
with moss. It was snug and warm. But small--how pitifully
small it looked to-day--and how lonely!
His hand-sledge stood beside the door, and against it
leaned the axe. He caught it up and began to split wood for
the stove. "No!" he cried, throwing down the axe, "I'm tired
of this. It has lasted long enough. I'm going out to make my
way in the world."
A couple of hours later, the sledge was packed with camp-gear
and bundles of skins. The door of the cabin was shut; a
ghostlike wreath of blue smoke curled from the chimney. Luke
stood, in his snowshoes, on the white surface of the River of the
Way Out. He turned to look back for a moment, and waved his
hand.
"Good-bye, old cabin! Good-bye, the rivers! Good-bye, the
woods!"
II
The House on the Main Street
All the good houses in Scroll-Saw City were different, in the
number and shape of the curious pinnacles that rose from their
roofs and in the trimmings of their verandas. Yet they were
all alike, too, in their general expression of putting their
best foot foremost and feeling quite sure that they made a
brave show. They had lace curtains in their front parlour
windows, and outside of the curtains were large red and yellow
pots of artificial flowers and indestructible palms and
vulcanised rubber-plants. It was a gay sight.
But by far the bravest of these houses was the residence
of Mr. Matthew Wilson, the principal merchant of Scroll-Saw
City. It stood on a corner of Main Street, glancing slyly out
of the tail of one eye, side-ways down the street, toward the
shop and the business, but keeping a bold, complacent front
toward the street-cars and the smaller houses across the way.
It might well be satisfied with itself, for it had three more
pinnacles than any of its neighbours, and the work of the
scroll-saw was looped and festooned all around the eaves and
porticoes
to and from his cabin by the rivers.
He leaned in the door-way, looking out. Behind him in the
shadow, the fire was still snapping in the little stove where
he had cooked his breakfast. There was a comforting smell of
bacon and venison in the room; the tea-pot stood on the table
half-empty. Here in the corner were his rifle and some of his
traps. On the wall hung his snowshoes. Under the bunk was a
pile of skins. Half-open on the bench lay the book that he had
been reading the evening before, while the snow was falling. It
was a book of veritable fairy-tales, which told how men had made
their way in the world, and achieved great fortunes, and won
success, by toiling hard at first, and then by trading and
bargaining and getting ahead of other men.
"Well," said Luke, to himself, as he stood at the door, "I
could do that too. Without doubt I also am one of the men who
can do things. They did not work any harder than I do. But
they got better pay. I am twenty-five. For ten years I have
worked hard, and what have I got for it? This!"
He stepped out into the morning, alert and vigorous,
deep-chested and straight-hipped. The strength of the hills
had gone into him, and his eyes were bright with health. His
kingdom was spread before him. There along the River of
Meadows were the haunts of the moose and the caribou where he
hunted in the fall; and yonder on the burnt hills around the
great lake were the places where he watched for the bears; and
up beside the River of Rocks ran his line of traps, swinging back
by secret ways to many a nameless pond and hidden
beaver-meadow; and all along the streams, when the ice went
out in the spring, the great trout would be leaping in rapid
and pool. Among the peaks and valleys of that forest-clad
kingdom he could find his way as easily as a merchant walks
from his house to his office. The secrets of bird and beast
were known to him; every season of the year brought him its
own tribute; the woods were his domain, vast, inexhaustible,
free.
Here was his home, his cabin that he had built with his
own hands. The roof was tight, the walls were well chinked
with moss. It was snug and warm. But small--how pitifully
small it looked to-day--and how lonely!
His hand-sledge stood beside the door, and against it
leaned the axe. He caught it up and began to split wood for
the stove. "No!" he cried, throwing down the axe, "I'm tired
of this. It has lasted long enough. I'm going out to make my
way in the world."
A couple of hours later, the sledge was packed with camp-gear
and bundles of skins. The door of the cabin was shut; a
ghostlike wreath of blue smoke curled from the chimney. Luke
stood, in his snowshoes, on the white surface of the River of the
Way Out. He turned to look back for a moment, and waved his
hand.
"Good-bye, old cabin! Good-bye, the rivers! Good-bye, the
woods!"
II
The House on the Main Street
All the good houses in Scroll-Saw City were different, in the
number and shape of the curious pinnacles that rose from their
roofs and in the trimmings of their verandas. Yet they were
all alike, too, in their general expression of putting their
best foot foremost and feeling quite sure that they made a
brave show. They had lace curtains in their front parlour
windows, and outside of the curtains were large red and yellow
pots of artificial flowers and indestructible palms and
vulcanised rubber-plants. It was a gay sight.
But by far the bravest of these houses was the residence
of Mr. Matthew Wilson, the principal merchant of Scroll-Saw
City. It stood on a corner of Main Street, glancing slyly out
of the tail of one eye, side-ways down the street, toward the
shop and the business, but keeping a bold, complacent front
toward the street-cars and the smaller houses across the way.
It might well be satisfied with itself, for it had three more
pinnacles than any of its neighbours, and the work of the
scroll-saw was looped and festooned all around the eaves and
porticoes