"O'er memory's glass I see his shadow flit,
Though he was gathered to the silent dust
Long years ago. A strange and wayward man,
That shunn'd companionship, and lived apart;
The leafy covert of the dark brown woods,
The gleamy lakes, hid in their gloomy depths,
Whose still, deep waters never knew the stroke
Of cleaving oar, or echoed to the sound
Of social life, contained for him the sum
Of human happiness. With dog and gun,
Day after day he track'd the nimble deer
Through all the tangled mazes of the forest."
It was early day. I was alone in the old shanty, preparing
breakfast, and now and then stirring the cradle with my foot, when
a tall, thin, middle-aged man walked into the house, followed by two
large, strong dogs.
Placing the rifle he had carried on his shoulder, in a corner of the
room, he advanced to the hearth, and without speaking, or seemingly
looking at me, lighted his pipe and commenced smoking. The dogs,
after growling and snapping at the cat, who had not given the
strangers a very courteous reception, sat down on the hearth-stone
on either side of their taciturn master, eyeing him from time to
time, as if long habit had made them understand all his motions.
There was a great contrast between the dogs. The one was a brindled
bulldog of the largest size, a most formidable and powerful brute;
the other a staghound, tawny, deep-chested, and strong-limbed. I
regarded the man and his hairy companions with silent curiosity.
He was between forty and fifty years of age; his head, nearly bald,
was studded at the sides with strong, coarse, black curling hair.
His features were high, his complexion brightly dark, and his eyes,
in size, shape, and colour, greatly resembled the eyes of a hawk.
The face itself was sorrowful and taciturn; and his thin, compressed
lips looked as if they were not much accustomed to smile, or often
to unclose to hold social communion with any one. He stood at the
side of the huge hearth, silently smoking, his eyes bent on the
fire, and now and then he patted the heads of his dogs, reproving
their exuberant expression of attachment, with - "Down, Music; down,
Chance!"
"A cold, clear morning," said I, in order to attract his attention
and draw him into conversation.
A nod, without raising his head, or withdrawing his eyes from the
fire, was his only answer; and, turning from my unsociable guest,
I took up the baby, who just then awoke, sat down on a low stool by
the table, and began feeding her. During this operation, I once or
twice caught the stranger's hawk-eye fixed upon me and the child,
but word spoke he none; and presently, after whistling to his dogs,
he resumed his gun, and strode out.
When Moodie and Monaghan came in to breakfast, I told them what a
strange visitor I had had; and Moodie laughed at my vain attempt to
induce him to talk.
"He is a strange being," I said; "I must find out who and what he is."
In the afternoon an old soldier, called Layton, who had served
during the American war, and got a grant of land about a mile in
the rear of our location, came in to trade for a cow. Now, this
Layton was a perfect ruffian; a man whom no one liked, and whom all
feared. He was a deep drinker, a great swearer, in short, a perfect
reprobate; who never cultivated his land, but went jobbing about
from farm to farm, trading horses and cattle, and cheating in a
pettifogging way. Uncle Joe had employed him to sell Moodie a young
heifer, and he had brought her over for him to look at. When he
came in to be paid, I described the stranger of the morning; and
as I knew that he was familiar with every one in the neighbourhood,
I asked if he knew him.
"No one should know him better than myself," he said; "'tis old
Brian B - -, the still-hunter, and a near neighbour of your'n. A
sour, morose, queer chap he is, and as mad as a March hare! He's
from Lancashire, in England, and came to this country some twenty
years ago, with his wife, who was a pretty young lass in those days,
and slim enough then, though she's so awful fleshy now. He had lots
of money, too, and he bought four hundred acres of land, just at the
corner of the concession line, where it meets the main road. And
excellent land it is; and a better farmer, while he stuck to his
business, never went into the bush, for it was all bush here then.
He was a dashing, handsome fellow, too, and did not hoard the money,
either; he loved his pipe and his pot too well; and at last he left
off farming, and gave himself to them altogether. Many a jolly booze
he and I have had, I can tell you. Brian was an awful passionate
man, and, when the liquor was in, and the wit was out, as savage and
as quarrelsome as a bear. At such times there was no one but Ned
Layton dared go near him. We once had a pitched battle, in which I
was conqueror; and ever arter he yielded a sort of sulky obedience
to all I said to him. Arter being on the spree for a week or two, he
would take fits of remorse, and return home to his wife; would fall
down at her knees, and ask her forgiveness, and cry like a child. At
other times he would hide himself up in the woods, and steal home at
night, and get what he wanted out of the pantry, without speaking a
word to any one. He went on with these pranks for some years, till
he took a fit of the blue devils.
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