Have You Ever Revelled In This Feast Of
Soul, Fresh From The Busy Hum Of City Life - Perchance Strolling Up
A
mountain path with undulating plains of spotless whiteness behind you, or
else canopied by the leafy dome of odorous
Pines or green hemlock, with no
other companion but your trusty rifle, nor other sound but the hoot of the
Great Horned Owl, disturbed by the glare of your camp fire - or the rustle
of the passing hare, skulking fox, or browsing cariboo? Have you ever been
compelled, venturesome hunter as you are, with the lengthening shades of
evening, after a twenty miles' run, to abandon the blood-stained trail,
reserving for the morrow the slaying of the stricken cariboo? Can you
recall the sense of weariness, with which you retraced your heavy steps to
the camp - perspiring at every pore, - panting with thirst - famished -
perhaps bewildered with the flakes of the gathering storm - yea, so
exhausted, that the crackling of the pine faggots of your mountain hut -
watched over in your absence by your faithful Indian "Gabriel" [294] -
struck on your quickened senses amidst the winter gloom like heavenly
music - sounds as soft, as welcome as the first April sunbeam? Have you
ever had the hardiness to venture with an Indian guide and toboggin on an
angling tour far north in the Laurentian chain, to that Ultima Thule
sacred to the disciples of old Isaac. Snow Lake, over chasm, dale,
mountain, pending that month dear above all others to King Hiems -
inexorable January?
Enter page number
PreviousNext
Page 614 of 864
Words from 168001 to 168254
of 236821
