A Gift From the Forest

Dominion, Volume 25, Issue 69, 15 December 1931, Page 29 (Supplement)

A Gift From the Forest

A Christmas Drama CANADIAN TRADITION RE-TOLD A Tale of Voyageurs and Indians *

By

JOHN MELBOURNE ELSON.

Canada is steeped in romance and tradition, the very names of the rivers and lakes recall the stirring days of the French, when pioneers faced dangers innumerable. This romantic talc recalls one of the most dramatic periods in the history of the great Dominion.

THERE were five of them. There should have been six. That was the whole trouble, and trouble enough it was to Mrs. Robert Landor. The rest of the family—Robert Landor himself, for instance, and his sons and daughters —felt the absence but in a sort of resigned, "Oh, well, it can’t be helped" kind of way. On this particular occasion there were reasons why the matter was seriously discussed. Mr. and Mrs. Landor were parents who had come to the young settlement of York from New England, partly with purpose, partly by chance, as though it was just as good as any other place to go to and everybody, in those luring promising days, wanted to go somew'here. So after many varied experiences, a few of which were harassing

and one tragic, they paused in their shiftings at what seemed to be the end of the ea'rth, and gradually created for themselves a comfortable home, not far back from the shore of, Lake Ontario. Around them, at the beginning of their life here, were three little children, and an empty chair where the fourth should have been. The three grew into manhood and womanhood as the years went by. Oliver, the eldest, was now man with a wife and a cooing babe. Harriet was married to Noel Boswell, but was childless. Margaret was a healthy, buxom, lovable type of . girl who had caught the steady, glowing admiration of Richard Mitford. He intended to be her husband soon. Just now they had all come together for a celebration. The house of Landor was noisy with their voices, chat-

ter and shuffling. Once a year they returned to the family circle, bringing presents and good cheer, and with them, also, other persons to whom they were united, or about to be united. Mr. and Mrs. Landor—dignified, prosperous and proud—were always made happy by the reunion except for one deep, sorrowful loss which brooded within them but was seldom expressed any more, for, as Oliver said, “What good does it do?” Nevertheless, parental affection is a living thing. It is always flowing outward, like a stream, to offspring wherever they may be, and whether living or dead. The question was: how could it be directed to Stephen Landor when nobody had the slightest idea whether he existed or not? “Oh, dear!” sighed Mrs. Robert Landor, as she rose in the midst of her jolly household to look for a shawl, “My heart is still yearning for my lost son. Of course, it is no use. I know ' that, and yet, even after all these years, I cannot give him up.” “You might as well, though, mother,"

advised Mrs. Boswell, turning some potatoes in the ashes of the fireplace. “Perhaps it is only my imagination, but I seem to; feel that he is still among the living—somewhere, if we could only know where.” “I am afraid fhat is a false hope,”,, continued the daughter. “If he is alive we would have got some trace of him long before this. Twenty—why it is nearly twenty-one years ago since that terrible massacre, at Kennebago. Oh, no! Stephen was killed, like so many other poor victims of those fiendish Indians. No doubt about that. We all may as well forget. No good thinking about it when nothing can be done.” “No good, certainly, but Harriet, I am a mother;” Mrs. Landor went to a window and looked away into distance. “I never set the cloth for supper or 1 blow the light out at night that I do not think of him and pray that the mys.tery may some day be cleared up. i Margaret, dear, will you swing that i crane away from the fire a little more. Too hot there for the meat." Margaret obeyed her mother and then remained, staring into the blaze that leaped and gambolled from three I or four crossed logs. The heat brought i a ruddy glow to' her face. Out-of- i doors a heavy snow had fallen during that late December day and the scat- 1 tered pines and the hemlocks drooped s under their thick, white load. In here, r however— in the living-room of the 1 spacious Landor house—all was warmth and cheerfulness and festivity, r As she stood there her thoughts, too. 1

went backward. She recalled with a shudder a hideous memory of the past. She wondered what Stephen would look like by this time had be been spared and grown up. Her mother had always said he was a beautiful child. But, it was no use. Wild terror in the night, blood-thirsty Algonquins, sickening scenes, cries of horror, a frantic escape! She turned away and a moment later her fancies were sweetened by anticipations of meeting Richard Mitford, shortly. Then her brother Oliver came in. He was always teasing and jesting. “Ah, ha, Marg,” be remarked, “So you think you’re going to surprise us tomorrow night, eh?” “What do you mean?” responded Margaret, evasively. “What do you pretend to know?” A blush came to her cheeks.

“Oh you can’t keep things a secret like that. I have an ear to the ground. Dad has been pretty cute, never letting us know why he and mother were inviting so many peoifle in for to-mor-row night—” “Just to give them a good time, I suppose.” “Yes, and a surprise, too. Well, don’t let Dick get frightened at the mistletoe and back out of his bargain, at the last minute.. A fellow needs a lot of courage—” “Go on with you, and' keep quiet.” “All right, Marg., but when is the wedding going th be?” She threw a ball of yarn at him. “Yon may get badly fooled, so you better clear out.” “Humph! No danger of that. Well, make it exciting, Marg. We don’t want things to be dull on Christmas eve.” And whirling the ball of yarn back at • her again, he went out to the kitchen. Robert Landor came down the stairway a few minutes later and adjusting his dark cravat—he never seemed to be satisfied with the angle it took—he went toward his wife.

“I’m going over to Fort Rouille. Fanny,” he said. “A band of bush rovers has just come in, I hoar, and they’ll likely have some good furs. I’ll be back in half an hour or so.” “Don’t be long, Robert,” answered Mrs. Landor, weaving a stray wisp of hair into captivity. “Supper will soon bo ready.” “No, I’ll be here soon. But come, my dear wife, you are looking solemn. What is the matter?” “Oh. I was just thinking.” “And about what?” “My lost boy. of course.” She put her hands on the back of a chair and looked sadly at her husband. “You know, Robert, I always set a plate every year for Stephen, just as though he were alive and here with us. For twenty years or more I have-done this, but he never comes. Everybody says it is silly of me, but I can’t help it. I grow gloomy every time, and yet it helps to comfort me, too. So don’t scold, my dear.” “No. Fanny, why should I scold? But - there is no use looking for miracles. Sievie was killed by some tomahawk', no doubt about that.” “Probably you’re right. Robert, but I’ll never cease hoping. I’m going to set his place to-morrow, just the same as usual. Remember. Robert, don’t be late, will you?” “No, I’ll soon return,” and, taking up his hat and cane, he went out of the house.

At the log fort overlooking the cold, restless lake, a few minutes later, he met three or four nomads of the forest. They were bargaining off their packs of otter, mink, and marten skins for provisions, clothing, small wares, and as much money as they could squeeze out of the buyers. Robert Landor went up to a table and ran his hand up and down over some pelts that were rich and glossy. “How much?” he asked, glancing at a straight, well-knit young man with smooth skin which was tanned to a swarthy hue from constant exposure to the weather. He had long hair that ■ hung beneath his fur cap, a short, downy beard, and quick, penetrating eyes. “Four shillings apiece,” he replied, shifting his powder-horn back from his side. “Trapped last winter, sir—every one of them —up along the Ottawa.” “Have you enough martens to make a cape and muff?” “Lots,” answered the hunter, laying

out several choice pelts. “Look at ’em. You’ll never get better, mister.” Robert Landor thought a moment. “They’ll do.” he agreed; shortly, drawing a wallet out to make payment. “When’ll you bring the lot over?” “Any time you like,” offered the rover. “Now, if you say so.” “Oh, let me see,” considered the buyer. “Let me see. I tell you, I’ll pay you half now and the balance on delivery. I would just as soon, o—o —m, yes, I would just as soon you wouldn’t bring them till to-morrow night. I want to give someone a surprise, and if they’rb 1 not around the house nobody can see them. By the way. hunter, what is your name?” “Indian or white?” asked the rover, going on to tie up the furs he had sold. “You are not an Indian,” ventured Robert Landor. “But white will do. What is your white name? Might tell me. so I’ll know you.” “Peter Mountain,” same the answer. “We often call ’im the Silent Hunter,” broke in one of the other

rovers. "Well, Peter Mountain,” continued Robert Landor, “do you see that frame house over there through the trees — the one with the wide verandah?” he pointed eastward to where clustered a number of houses and stores. “That’s where I live. I’ll expect you to-morrow evening.” And, turning, he walked away. But he had only gone a few paces when he heard a wrangle of voices. Glancing back, he saw a small boy holding on a dog and pleading that he did not want it to fight. Two slinking, rough fellows with a lean and viciouslooking canine of their own were insisting on a. "turn” between the two animals, as they called it. “Let your damned old snarler go," demanded one of the loafers. “Me and Joe. here, wants to see some fun.” “I’m not go’ne to,” protested the boy, restraining his whining pet. “Let the thing go, you brat,” ordered fhe second fellow. With a threatening arm he shoved the boy away and released the animal. The next instant the two dogs were at one another’s throats. . “My dog’ll kill your’n,” cried the lad, his eyes flooding with tears, “and I wisht he does, too.” But the ruffians paid no attention. They were clapping their hands and exciting the animals to more and more

fury. The battle delighted their spirits. Shortly the boy’s pet was chewing its enemy unmercifully. One of the loafers, seeing what was happening, seized a club which lay on the ground near him and raised it to strike a fatal blow at the winner. But his arm was suddenly arrested by a mighty grip. “You scurvy rat,” shouted Peter Mountain, springing upon him. “Touch that dog if you dare—” He didn’t finish, for the ruffian swung and attacked him, and the two men fought ferociously for the next three minutes. Then the superior strength and agility of the silent hunter triumphed and the loafer went down in a heap on the snow. Like a cat Peter Mountain was upon him. “I’ll teach you a lesson or two,” he swore. “Leave that boy and his dog alone or you’ll never get up.” Having given a promise, the fellow was allowed to get to his feet again find, joining his companion, he took his dog and disappeared. Robert Landor had watched the entire proceedings. Going over afterwards to the silent hunter, he placed a hand on the young man’s square shoulder. “You’re the kind,” he de-' Glared, commending!), “Miserable wretches to break a youngster’s heart that way.” He turned to the lad. “Here, sonny, here’s a shilling. Take , it and your dog and go home, but first i thank this man who saved your pet." The boy mumbled his appreciation. i “You’ve a winner, there, sonny," said Robert Landor. The silent hunter made no remark whatever, but quietly i returned to his furs, as though fury : were slowly but voicelessly subsiding < within him. “I want you to have a cup of wine ] with me to-night,” said Robert Lan- i dor, to the rover. “I like to honour < a MAN.” ( “Thanks, mister,” replied Peter Mountain.

As early twilight of Christmas Eve, in that year of 1805, descended on the primitive settlement of York, with its straggling log and frame dwellings, its cluttered little stores, churches and fortifications, the house of Robert Landor was aglow with many candles and with the brightness shed from crackling wood in the great fireplace. One by one guests camo. Soon the whole company numbered'a score and two. Laughter and jests rang through the rooms and halls. In the big dining room a long table was spread for a feast. It displayed twenty-three plates set in regular order. At seven o’clock all the Landor family, except Oliver’s baby, who had long before been put to sleep in the crib upstairs, and the fourteen guests had taken their places at the festive board. When

all were seated there was one unoccupied place. Robert Landor offered grace and then the servant brought in great platters on which were two steaming turkeys roasted to a luscious brown, and set them before him. He carved and began serving amid the merriment and chatter of the gathering. “Better put a wish bone on the empty plate,” suggested Oliver with his customary playfulness. “Add a little delicious meat and perhaps his spirit will come back.” Mrs. Landor’s countenance darkened for a moment, but lit up again as quickly, though a trace of sadness and longing remained in its lines.

“Always joking, aren’t you, Oliver? 1 ’ she remarked, raising a finger to the formal waves in her hair, which was severely parted in the middle of her head. “You’ll never be serious about anything.” “Forgive me, mother,” he answered, sobering. “I meant no harm, you know tlrnt.” “Certainly, my son. No harm whatever. In fact, you have given me an idea. I wish everybody would imagine, for once, that Stephen is here, with us—sitting in that chair and enjoying our company. Since he never comes in body, we may have him here, ag Oliver says, in spirit." “We all agree,” came the answer from several. Mrs. Landor was nappier. She felt the big brooch at her neck a dozen times as an accompaniment to her mental excitement and became morei and more solicitous of the group around her, lest they should not get enough to eat or drink, or lest what they did get should be too cold or too hot. “Robert,” she said, at one time, “you haven’t given Mrs. Teddwell half enough dressing, and Mr. Burgeman hasn’t any apple sauce.” As both Mrs. Teddwell and Mr. Burgeman had already been supplied it was apparent the -exhilaration of the hour was unduly exciting the graciousness of the hostess. Nevertheless, Robert Landor begged each of them, and also everybody else, to have another helping. When the whole company were seriously engaged with their eating and drinking, and the hum of conversation was for the moment rather low, a knock was heard at the front door. Everyone looked up in surprise. “By George!” exclaimed Robert/Landor. “Guess I kuow who that is. I had forgotten. ” He turned to Mary, the servant, who was going forward to answer the summons. “If that is a man to see me,” said he, “tell him to come in.” A moment later a young man dressed in coarse coat, sash, leggings and moccasins came in and made the embarrassed bow of a rustic. “Welcome,” said Rober Landor, greeting him. “You found the place all right, Mr. Mountain?” “Yes,” answered the silent overcome by the curious eye upon him, “Here the rest of ’em.” “Oh, yes, thank you,” said Robert Landor “But come forward. I want you to have a cup of wine with us. Christmas eve, you know.” The silent hunter laid a bulging skin bag, in which were the pelts, on a nearby chair and took two or three steps uneasily. He was totally ill at ease amid his surroundings. A portion of wine was poured out and offered him by the host. As the young man accepted it, Robert Landor raised a glass and said:

“I want to introduce to my family and my friends who are here, a man who is a stranger to-.mc —Peter Mountain, the silent hunter, they call him. I saw him display character and manhood to-day which touched me, and right round the heart, too. He thrashed a ruffian who was brutal enough to part a little boy from his pet dog, start a fight, and then try to kill the lad’s pot because he was too much for the other dog. Any man who will show that kind of grain is good enough to be welcomed in my house.” There was a chorus of praise and greetings went up from the diners. The story appealed deeply to the kind heart and tender sympathies of Mrs, Landor. “Perhaps Mr. Mountain would like to join us for a little dinner?’’ she proposed. Robert Landor frowned at this suggestion. He didn’t want to go just this far —having a nomad and a stranger sit down at his board—but he saw the invitation which had been given by Mrs. Landor with her eyes and he offered no opposition, orally. The hunter seemed so taken by surprise he did not know what to do or say. “Do come, Mr. Mountain,” said Margaret. And then, “But where will he

sit, mother? Would you care -if he takes this vacant chair?” The rover came forward, awkwardly, almost timidly, looking and bowing first here, then there, as though he had to make movements of some kind. He fumbled with his cap and stumbled over a bear skin that lay stretched on the floor. Mrs. Landor was thinking. She didn’t like the idea of mixing so uncouth a person with her family and guests, and yet—he was a bush rover. Perhaps she might learn some news from him. It was worth subordinat-

ing her own pride if anything could be learned. So she smiled formally: “Sit here, Mr. Mountain,” she said, pointing to the empty chair at her left. “There’s a plate already there. Robert, will you serve our latest guest?"

1 “Easy to tell he Is a bush ranger,” J whispered Mrs. Teddwell to Miss Mltb ford, beside her. The two women 1 smiled and put down their heads. [ “Rather fine looking, though,” declared Margaret, overhearing them. “Has a fine, honest face, don’t you think?" “He ought to scrape some of the moss off him,” twittered Ethel Bliss, holding up one hand to her mouth. The buzz of voices soon drowned any further words and the whole company went on eating and drinking again as though a stranger had not been added to their number. Mrs. Landor lost no time in attempting to get Information from the newcomer. “You are a hunter, Mr. Mountain?” she asked, leaning slightly over to him. “Yes, missus," replied the young man, devouring the food before him as though he had never before tasted anything quite so delicious. “You have roved here and there—all over, I suppose?” “I have, mam.” “Are you of English birth? Of course you must be, though. Mountain is a ’ name belonging to partly civilized Indians.” “Don't know much about myself, ; missus,” replied the rover, crunching , a bone with his white, powerful teeth. “Been rovin' the woods since I was a j boy.” “Just came to York yesterday?" pursued Mrs. Landor. j “Yes. Come In to sell some furs. Go- 3 ing north again next week.” "Were you born in this part of the country?” ( The silent man pulled one hand across his mouth to wipe it off. “Don’t ( know nothing about where I was born,” t he answered. "Ever live among the Indiana?” en- c qulred Robert Landor becoming Inter-

ested. “Yes. Was adopted into a tribe of ’em when I wasn’t old enough to know anything.” What tribe?” inquired Oliver. “Algonqulns.” Mrs. Landor looked with a strange expression at her husband. Then she became more eager. "Mr. Mountain, I believe you are just the man from whom we can learn something we have for years wanted to know,” she began. “You have wandered here and there for years. Have you ever heard of a person called Stephen Landor?”

The hunter tossed” a coil of long hair back over his shoulder. “No, missus. Never heard the name before, let alone seeing or learnin’ of any such man.” Disappointment deep and crushing spread like a cloud over the face of Mrs. Landor. All her hopes were dashed to pieces. At last she thought here was someone who could bring her a breath of news, even though it was indefinite and belated; but he knew nothing, had heard nothing, not even the name! She put her hand to her face and hid a tear. No more was said about the subject. When the dinner was over the company rose and the younger element proceeded to dance to the strains of a violin, while the older persons gathered in front of the fireplace, the men smok-

ing, the women knitting and chatting. ■ Peter Mountain was one of the latter group. Hospitality and good cheer had made him more sociable and talkative, and frequently he touched here and there on his wanderings. Among those whose faces were lighted by the spirit of musical rhythm and youthful romance was Olivia Mitford, sister of Richard Mitford. She was a rarely slender, beautiful and fascinating girl whose brown eyes sparkled like gems and whose soul was a well of love, deep and unexplored as yet, but a gift awaiting the right suitor. Feminine charm radiated from her whole being. Constantly, when he believed himself to be unobserved, Peter Mountain allowed his eyes to rest upon her. She awakened strange, mastering feelings within him that would make him worship at her feet If he had a chance. But that was impossible, of course, and yet— The swirl of the dancers stopped at eleven for an interval, and Olivia, as though to satisfy a whimsical fancy, joined the fireside group. The silent hunter felt his pulse leap. “Mr. Mountain,” she said, addressing him with an inviting smile, "I have been hoping for hours to hear something about your wanderings and adventures. Won’t you tell me, and everybody, about some of the strange things you have seen? Please do, sir.” The rover’s countenance brightened. He sat up and smiled back. “P’rhaps you’d like to hear about me and the

Indians,” he replied. “Oh, that would be wonderful!" exclaimed Olivia. “Go on! Go on, Mr. Mountain!" came a chorus of voices, enthusiastically. “We’ll all sit in and hear this,” declared Olivia, bringing up chairs. The picturesque nomad became the centre of all eyes, and there, while the

boisterous fire sent up its lurid flames, spreading heat and light over the happy scene, he unravelled in simple, often detached and broken language, an intensely interesting story of his life among the Algonqulns from the time he was an Infant until he had grown to manhood. He ha_d, he said, learned their language, customs, and habits, their ways of warefare and of forest life; had been captured by the Iroquois ; been taken prisoner and held for terrible tortures. But through a cunning ruse he had outwitted them and got free, roaming the woods for days

wlth little or no food, until he had reached a Jesuit mission at Tadousac. There he had come under the care and teaching of a devoted priest and had learned something about Christianity and the French people. That had changed the course of his life. Thereafter he joined a band of French and half-breed rovers, and during the past three or four years had been from the lower Mississippi to the Upper Ottawa and the St Lawrence, always threading the lakes and streams in the silent expanses. Mr. and Mrs. Landor had listened to his tale with tense eagerness and bated breath. As he finished, they leaned forward as with one purpose. “Have you ever heard,” asked Robert Landor, “how you came to be adopted by the Algonqulns?”

“All I know Is what my Indian mother—now dead —told me one time. She said her people had punished the pale faces at Ken- ken —” “Kennebago?” supgjled Mrs. Landor. “Yes, that’s the name of the place—somewhere down east and south of the St Lawrence. Well, my Indian mother was the wife of a great chieftain and she wanted many sons. So, when I was taken to her she adopted me and gave me a name which means mountain. So now, among the whites, I am known as Peter Mountain. That’s all.” Mrs. . Landon’s face grew almost white. It seemed as though her heart would stop beating. Could it be possible? Were her senses leaving her? She looked at the young man again. No doubt about it—one of his eyes turned slightly in. God; was it possible? Could it be right! Mr. Mountain,” she said; excitedly, as she mastered herself again, "will you do me a great favour?” “Anything at all, mam,” replied the hunter. “Tell me whether you have a mole on the right side of your neck, down near the body?" “I don’t know, missus, but you can see.” Almost as quickly as he had spoken, he unloosened his coat and homespun shirt There was the spot “Stephen—my Stephen!" cried Mrs. Landor, excitedly. The next instant she had fallen in a swoon. The shock ' had overcome her. I

Peter Mountain looked strangely ; about him. What did it all mean? What ( was the woman saying? A dozen busy , voices quickly let him know. < A few minutes later joy, felicitations and merriment reigned supreme. Peter t Mountain was Stephen Landor, the dis- i covery of his Identity and relationship < being as much a matter of amazement t to himself as It was to others of the t company. And, as the glorious spirit c of the Yuletide season—that one time i in the whole round, busy year when s hearts are light and friendships are 1 mellow —mingled with the happiness c which a reunion after long, yearning t years had brought about, the youngest t son of the Landor household danced 1 more than once with Olivia Mitford <1 on his arm. Robert Landor surprised t his daughter Margaret with a splendid c gift of furs, and she, in turn, glowed o with pride as her engagement to c Richard Mitford was announced. Mrs. a Landor smiled benignly through it all, t< but in her heart was being offered a tl constant prayer of thankfulness. (<