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Page 22
It was days like these which hope held ahead as I paid earnest attention
to the good food set before me. And behold, beside the pleasant vision
of hope rose a happy-minded sister called memory. She took the word
"Huron," this kindly spirit, and played magic with it, and the walls of
the Ch�teau rolled into rustling trees and running water.
I was sitting, in my vision, in flannel shirt and knickerbockers, on a
log by a little river, putting together fishing tackle and casting an
eye, off and on, where rapids broke cold over rocks and whirled into
foam-flecked, shadowy pools. There should be trout in those shadows.
"Take the butt, Rafael, while I string the line."
Rafael slipped across--still in my vision of memory--and was holding my
rod as a rod should be held, not too high or too low, or too far or too
near--right. He was an old Huron, a chief of Indian Lorette, and woods
craft was to him as breathing.
"A varry light rod," commented Rafael in his low voice which held no
tones out of harmony with water in streams or wind in trees. "A varry
light, good rod," paying meanwhile strict attention to his job. "M'sieu
go haf a luck today. I t'ink M'sieu go catch a beeg fish on dat river.
Water high enough--not too high. And cold." He shivered a little. "Cold
last night--varry cold nights begin now. Good hun-ting wedder."
"Have you got a moose ready for me on the little lake, Rafael? It's the
1st of September next week and I expect you to give me a shot before the
3d."
Rafael nodded. "Oui, m'sieur. First day." The keen-eyed, aquiline old
face was as of a prophet. "We go get moose first day. I show you." With
that the laughter-loving Frenchman in him flooded over the Indian
hunter; for a second the two inheritances played like colors in shot
silk, producing an elusive fabric, Rafael's charm. "If nights get so
colder, m'sieur go need moose skin kip him warm."
I was looking over my flies now, the book open before me, its
fascinating pages of color more brilliant than an old missal, and maybe
as filled with religion--the peace of God, charity which endureth, love
to one's neighbor. I chose a Parmachene Belle for hand-fly, always good
in Canadian waters. "A moose-skin hasn't much warmth, has it, Rafael?"
The hunter was back, hawk-eyed. "But yes, m'sieu. Moose skin one time
safe me so I don' freeze to death. But it hol' me so tight so I nearly
don' get loose in de morning."
"What do you mean?" I was only half listening, for a brown hackle and a
Montreal were competing for the middle place on my cast, and it was a
vital point. But Rafael liked to tell a story, and had come by now to a
confidence in my liking to hear him. He flashed a glance to gather up my
attention, and cleared his throat and began: "Dat was one time--I go on
de woods--hunt wid my fader-in-law--_mon beau-p�re_. It was mont' of
March--and col'--but ver' col' and wet. So it happen we separate, my
fador-in-law and me, to hunt on both side of large enough river. And I
kill moose. What, m'sieur? What sort of gun? Yes. It was rifle--what one
call flint-lock. Large round bore. I cast dat beeg ball myself, what I
kill dat moose. Also it was col'. And so it happen my matches got wet,
but yes, ev-very one. So I couldn' buil' fire. I was tired, yes, and
much col'. I t'ink in my head to hurry and skin dat moose and wrap
myself in dat skin and go sleep on de snow because if not I would die, I
was so col' and so tired. I do dat. I skin heem--_je le plumait_--de
beeg moose--beeg skin. Skin all warm off moose; I wrap all aroun' me and
dig hole and lie down on deep snow and draw skin over head and over
feet, and fol' arms, so"--Rafael illustrated--"and I hol' it aroun' wid
my hands. And I get warm right away, warm, as bread toast. So I been
slippy, and heavy wid tired, and I got comfortable in dat moose skin and
I go aslip quick. I wake early on morning, and dat skin got froze tight,
like box made on wood, and I hol' in dat wid my arms fol' so, and my
head down so"--illustrations again--"and I can't move, not one inch. No.
What, m'sieur? Yes, I was enough warm, me. But I lie lak dat and can't
move, and I t'ink somet'ing. I t'ink I got die lak dat, in moose-skin.
If no sun come, I did got die. But dat day sun come and be warm, and
moose skin melt lil' bit, slow, and I push lil' bit wid shoulder, and
after while I got ice broke, on moose skin, and I crawl out. Yes. I
don' die yet."
Rafael's chuckle was an amen to his saga, and at once, with one of his
lightning-changes, he was austere.
"M'sieur go need beeg trout tonight; not go need moose skin till nex'
wik. Ze rod is ready take feesh, I see feesh jump by ole log. Not much
room to cast, but m'sieur can do it. Shall I carry rod down to river for
m'sieur?"
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