D'RI AND I
I
A poet may be a good companion, but, so far as I know, he is everthe worst of fathers. Even as grandfather he is too near, for onepoet can lay a streak of poverty over three generations. Doubt notI know whereof I speak, dear reader, for my mother's father was apoet--a French poet, too, whose lines had crossed the Atlantic longbefore that summer of 1770 when he came to Montreal. He diedthere, leaving only debts and those who had great need of a betterlegacy--my mother and grandmother.
As to my father, he had none of that fatal folly in him. He was amountaineer of Vermont--a man of steely sinews that took well tothe grip of a sword. He cut his way to fame in the Northern armywhen the British came first to give us battle, and a bloody way itwas. I have now a faded letter from Ethan Allen, grim old warrior,in which he calls my father "the best swordsman that ever straddleda horse." He was a "gallous chap" in his youth, so said mygrandmother, with a great love of good clothes and gunpowder. Hewent to Montreal, as a boy, to be educated; took lessons infencing, fought a duel, ran away from school, and came home withlittle learning and a wife. Punished by disinheritance, he took afarm, and left the plough to go into battle.
I wonder often that my mother could put up with the stress andhardship of his life, for she had had gentle breeding, of which Iknew little until I was grown to manhood, when I came to know alsowhat a woman will do for the love of her heart. I remember wellthose tales of knights and ladies she used to tell me as we sattogether of an evening, and also those adventures of her ownknight, my good father, in the war with the British. My love ofarms and of a just quarrel began then.
After the war came hard times. My father had not prosperedhandsomely, when, near the end of the summer of 1803, he sold hisfarm, and we all started West, over rough trails and roadways.There were seven of us, bound for the valley of the St.Lawrence--my father and mother, my two sisters, my grandmother,D'ri, the hired man, and myself, then a sturdy boy of ten. We hadan ox-team and -cart that carried our provision, the sacred featherbeds of my mother, and some few other things.
D'Ri and I.]
We drove with us the first flock of sheep that ever went West.There were forty of them, and they filled our days with trouble.But for our faithful dog Rover, I fear we should have lost heartand left them to the wild wolves. The cart had a low cover ofcanvas, and my mother and grandmother sat on the feather beds, androde with small comfort even where the roads were level. My fatherlet me carry my little pet rooster in a basket that hung from thecart-axle when not in my keeping. The rooster had a harder timethan any of us, I fancy, for the days were hot and the roads rough.He was always panting, with open mouth and thoughtful eye, when Ilifted the cover. But every day he gave us an example ofcheerfulness not wholly without effect. He crowed triumphantly,betimes, in the hot basket, even when he was being tumbled about onthe swamp ways. Nights I always found a perch for him on the limbof a near tree, above the reach of predatory creatures. Everymorning, as the dawn showed faintly in the tree-tops, he gave it alusty cheer, napping his wings with all the seeming of delight.Then, often, while the echo rang, I would open my eyes and watchthe light grow in .the dusky cavern of the woods. He would sitdozing awhile after the first outbreak, and presently as the floodof light grew clearer, lift himself a little, take another peep atthe sky, and crow again, turning his head to hear those weird,mocking roosters of the timber-land. Then, shortly, I would hearmy father poking the fire or saying, as he patted the rooster:"Sass 'em back, ye noisy little brat! Thet 's right: holler. TellD'ri it's time t' bring some wood fer the fire."
In a few minutes the pot and kettle would be boiling and the campall astir. We had trout and partridge and venison a-plenty for ourmeals, that were served in dishes of tin. Breakfast over, wepacked our things. The cart went on ahead, my father bringing theoxen, while I started the sheep with D'ri.
Those sheep were as many thorns in our flesh that day we made offin the deep woods from Lake Champlain. Travel was new to them, andwhat with tearing through thickets and running wild in every slash,they kept us jumping. When they were leg-weary and used to travel,they began to go quietly. But slow work it was at best, ten ortwelve miles a day being all we could do, for the weather was hotand our road like the way of the transgressor. Our second night inthe woods we could hear the wolves howling as we camped at dusk.We built our fire near the shore of a big pond, its still water,framed in the vivid green of young tamaracks. A great hill rose onthe farther side of it, with galleries of timber sloping to thesummit, and peopled with many birds. We huddled the sheep togetherin a place where the trees were thick, while father brought fromthe cart a coil of small rope. We wound it about the trees, so thesheep were shut in a little yard. After supper we all sat by thefire, while D'ri told how he had been chased by wolves in thebeaver country north of us.
D'ri was an odd character. He had his own way of expressing thethree degrees of wonder, admiration, and surprise."Jerushy!"--accented on the second syllable--was the positive,"Jerushy Jane!" the comparative, and "Jerushy Jane Pepper!" thesuperlative. Who that poor lady might be I often wondered, butnever ventured to inquire. In times of stress I have heard himswear by "Judas Priest," but never more profanely. In his youth hehad been a sailor on the lake, when some artist of the needle hadtattooed a British jack on the back of his left hand--a thing hecovered, of shame now, when he thought of it. His right hand hadlost its forefinger in a sawmill. His rifle was distinguished bythe name of Beeswax,--"Ol' Beeswax" he called it sometimes,--for nobetter reason than that it was "easy spoke an' hed a kind uv apowerful soun' tew it." He had a nose like a shoemaker's thumb:there was a deep incurve from its wide tip to his forehead. He hada large, gray, inquiring eye and the watchful habit of thewoodsman. Somewhere in the midst of a story he would pause andpeer thoughtfully into the distance, meanwhile feeling thepipe-stem with his lips, and then resume the narrative as suddenlyas he had stopped. He was a lank and powerful man, six feet tallin his stockings. He wore a thin beard that had the appearance ofparched grass on his ruddy countenance. In the matter of hair,nature had treated him with a generosity most unusual. His heavyshock was sheared off square above his neck.
That evening, as he lay on his elbow in the firelight, D'ri hadjust entered the eventful field of reminiscence. The women werewashing the dishes; my father had gone to the spring for water.D'ri pulled up suddenly, lifted his hat of faded felt, andlistened, peering into the dusk.
"Seems t' me them wolves is comin' nearer," he said thoughtfully.
Their cries were echoing in the far timber. We all rose andlistened. In a moment my father came hurrying back with his pailof water.
"D'ri," said he, quietly, as he threw some wood on the fire, "theysmell mutton. Mek the guns ready. We may git a few pelts.There's a big bounty on 'em here 'n York State."
We all stood about the fire listening as the wolves came nearer.
"It 's the sheep thet brings 'em," said my father.
"Quite a consid'able number on 'em, tew," said D'ri, as he stoodcleaning the bore of his rifle.
My young sisters began to cry.
"Need n't be scairt," said father. "They won't come very near.'Fraider of us 'n we are o' 'em, a good deal."
"Tow-w-w!" said D'ri, with a laugh. "They 'll be apt t' stub thertoes 'fore they git very nigh us."
This did not quite agree with the tales he had previously beentelling. I went for my sword, and buckled its belt about me, thescabbard hanging to my heels. Presently some creature camebounding over the brush. I saw him break through the wall ofdarkness and stop quickly in the firelight. Then D'ri brought himdown with his rifle.
"Started him up back there 'n the woods a few mild," said D'ri."He was mekin' fer this 'ere pond--thet 's what he was dewin'."
"What for?" I inquired.
"'Cause fer the reason why he knowed he would n't mek no tracks 'nthe water, ner no scent," said D'ri, with some show of contempt formy ignorance.
The deer lay floundering in the briers some fifty feet away. Myfather ran with his knife and put him quickly out of misery. Thenwe hauled the carcass to clear ground.
"Let it lie where 't is fer now," said he, as we came back to thefire. Then he got our two big traps out of the cart and set thembeside the carcass and covered them with leaves. The howling ofthe wolves had ceased. I could hear only the creaking of a deadlimb high above us, and the bellow of frogs in the near pond. Wehad fastened the trap chains and were coming back to the fire, whenthe dog rose, barking fiercely; then we heard the crack of D'ri'srifle.
"More 'n fifty wolves eroun' here," he whispered as we ran up tohim. "Never see sech a snag on 'em."
The sheep were stirring nervously. Near the pen a wolf lay kickingwhere D'ri had dropped him.
"Rest on 'em snooked off when the gun hollered," he went on,whispering as before.
My mother and grandmother sat with my sisters in the cart, hushingtheir murmurs of fear. Early in the evening I had tied Rover tothe cart-wheel, where he was growling hotly, impatient of the leash.
"See?" said D'ri, pointing with his finger. "See 'em?--there 'nthe dark by thet air big hemlock."
We could make out a dim stir in the shadows where he pointed.Presently we heard the spring and rattle of a trap. As we turnedthat way, the other trap took hold hard; as it sprang, we couldhear a wolf yelp.
"Meks 'em holler," said D'ri, "thet ol' he-trap does, when it teksholt. Stay here by the sheep, 'n' I 'll go over 'n' give 'emsomethin' fer spraint ankles."
Other wolves were swarming over the dead deer, and the two in thetraps were snarling and snapping at them. My father and D'ri firedat the bunch, killing one of the captives and another--the largestwolf I ever saw. The pack had slunk away as they heard the rifles.Our remaining captive struggled to get free, but in a moment D'rihad brained him with an axe. He and my father reset our traps andhauled the dead wolves into the firelight. There they began toskin them, for the bounty was ten dollars for each in the newtowns--a sum that made our adventure profitable. I built fires onthe farther side of the sheep, and, as they brightened, I couldsee, here and there, the gleaming eyes of a wolf in the darkness.I was up all night heaping wood upon the fires, while D'ri and myfather skinned the wolves and dressed the deer. I remember, asthey worked, D'ri calmed himself with the low-sung, familiar musicof:--
Li too rul I oorul I oorul I ay.
They had just finished when the cock crew.
"Holler, ye gol-dum little cuss!" D'ri shouted as he went over tohim. "Can't no snookin' wolf crack our bones fer _us_. Peeled'em--thet 's what we done tew 'em! Tuk 'n' knocked 'em head overheels. Judas Priest! He can peck a man's finger some, can't he?"
The light was coming, and he went off to the spring for water,while I brought the spider and pots. The great, green-roofedtemple of the woods, that had so lately rung with the howl ofwolves, began to fill with far wandering echoes of sweet song.
"They was a big cat over there by the spring las' night," saidD'ri, as we all sat down to breakfast. "Tracks bigger 'n agriddle! Smelt the mutton, mos' likely."
"Like mutton?" I inquired.
"Yis-sir-ee, they dew," said he. "Kind o' mince-pie fer 'em. Likedeer-meat, tew. Snook eroun' the ponds efter dark. Ef they see adeer 'n the water they wallop 'im quicker 'n lightnin'; jump rightin k'slap 'n' tek 'im."
We were off at sunrise, on a road that grew rougher every mile. Atnoon we came to a river so swollen as to make a dangerous ford.After dinner my father waded in, going hips under where the waterwas deep and swift. Then he cut a long pole and took my mother onhis shoulders and entered the broad stream, steadying himself withthe pole. When she had got down safe on the other side, he cameback for grandmother and my sisters, and took them over in the sameway. D'ri, meanwhile, bound up the feather beds and carried themon his head, leaving the dog and me to tend the sheep. All ourblankets and clothing were carried across in the same manner. ThenI mounted the cart, with my rooster, lashing the oxen till theytook to the stream. They had tied the bell-wether to the axle,and, as I started, men and dog drove the sheep after me. The oxenwallowed in the deep water, and our sheep, after some hesitation,began to swim. The big cart floated like a raft part of the way,and we landed with no great difficulty. Farther on, the roadbecame nothing better than a rude trail, where, frequently, we hadto stop and chop through heavy logs and roll them away. On a steephillside the oxen fell, breaking the tongue, and the cart tippedsidewise and rolled bottom up. My rooster was badly flung about,and began crowing and flapping as the basket settled. When Iopened it, he flew out, running for his life, as if finallyresolved to quit us. Fortunately, we were all walking, and nobodywas hurt. My father and D'ri were busy half a day "righting up,"as they called it, mending the tongue and cover, and getting thecart on its wheels and down the steep pitch.
After two days of trail travel we came out on the Chateaugay road,stopping awhile to bait our sheep and cattle on the tame grass andtender briers. It was a great joy to see the clear road, with hereand there a settler's cabin, its yard aglow with the marigold, thehollyhock, and the fragrant honeysuckle. We got to the tavern atChateaugay about dusk, and put up for the night, as becomes aChristian.
Next afternoon we came to rough roads again, camping at sundownalong the shore of a noisy brook. The dog began to bark fiercelywhile supper was making, and scurried off into a thicket.
D'ri was stooping over, cooking the meat. He rose and listened.
"Thet air dog's a leetle scairt," said he. "Guess we better go 'n'see whut 's the matter."
He took his rifle and I my sword,--I never thought of anotherweapon,--making off through the brush. The dog came whining toD'ri and rushing on, eager for us to follow. We hurried after him,and in a moment D'ri and the dog, who were ahead of me, haltedsuddenly.
"It 's a painter," said D'ri, as I came up. "See 'im in thet airtree-top. I 'll larrup 'im with Ol' Beeswax, then jes' like es nothe 'll mek some music. Better grab holt o' the dog. 'T won't dewfer 'im to git tew rambunctious, er the fust thing he knows hewon't hev no insides in 'im."
I could see the big cat clinging high in the top boughs of a birchand looking calmly down at us. The tree-top swayed, quivering, asit held the great dun beast. My heart was like to smother me whenD'ri raised his rifle and took aim. The dog broke away at thecrack of it. The painter reeled and spat; then he came crashingthrough the branches, striking right and left with his fore paws tosave himself. He hit the ground heavily, and the dog was on him.The painter lay as if dead. Before I could get near, Rover beganshaking him by the neck. He came to suddenly, and struck the dogwith a front claw, dragging him down. A loud yelp followed theblow. Quick as a flash D'ri had caught the painter by the tail andone hind leg. With a quick surge of his great, slouchingshoulders, he flung him at arm's-length. The lithe body doubled ona tree trunk, quivered, and sank down, as the dog came free. In ajiffy I had run my sword through the cat's belly and made an end ofhim.
"Knew 'f he got them hind hooks on thet air dog he 'd rake his ribsright off," said D'ri, as he lifted his hat to scratch his head."Would n't 'a' left nothin' but the backbone,--nut a thing,--an'thet would n't 'a' been a real fust-class one, nuther."
When D'ri was very positive, his words were well braced withnegatives.
We took the painter by the hind legs and dragged him through thebushes to our camp. The dog had a great rip across his shoulder,where the claws had struck and made furrows; but he felt a mightypride in our capture, and never had a better appetite for a meal.
There were six more days of travel in that journey--travel sofraught with hardships, I wonder that some days we had the heart topress on. More than all, I wonder that the frail body of my motherwas equal to it. But I am writing no vain record of endurance. Ihave written enough to suggest what moving meant in the wilderness.There is but one more color in the scenes of that journey. Thefourth day after we left Chateaugay my grandmother fell ill anddied sudde
nly there in the deep woods. We were far from anyvillage, and sorrow slowed our steps. We pushed on, coming soon toa sawmill and a small settlement. They told us there was neitherminister nor undertaker within forty miles. My father and D'rimade the coffin of planed lumber, and lined it with deerskin, anddug the grave on top of a high hill. When all was ready, myfather, who had always been much given to profanity, albeit I knowhe was a kindly and honest man with no irreverence in his heart,called D'ri aside.
"D'ri," said he, "ye 've alwus been more proper-spoken than I hev.Say a word o' prayer?"
"Don't much b'lieve I could," said he, thoughtfully. "I hev beent' meeting but I hain't never been no great hand fer prayin'."
"'T wouldn't sound right nohow, fer me t' pray," said my father, "Igot s' kind o' rough when I was in the army."
"'Fraid it 'll come a leetle unhandy fer me," said D'ri, with alook of embarrassment, "but I don't never shirk a tough job ef ithes t' be done."
Then he stepped forward, took off his faded hat, his brow wrinklingdeep, and said, in a drawling preacher tone that had no sound ofD'ri in it: "O God, tek care o' gran'ma. Help us t' go on careful,an' when we 're riled, help us t' keep er mouths shet. O God, helpthe ol' cart, an' the ex in pertic'lar. An' don't be noway hard onus. Amen."