Shetchec. FOR LIFE.

Waikato Times, Volume XIX, Issue 1565, 15 July 1882, Page 5

Shetchec. FOR LIFE.

Eleven days on the road. By no means the Union Pacific, or any other line of continuous travel, where the minimum of bounce and jerk is combined with themaximum of comfort possible under steady motion. A road still unknown to surveyor or engineer, beyond reach or thought of railioad-mau or speculator and but just opening up its two hundred miles or more of primeval forest. A road trodden only by Indians or crossed by stealthy fox or lynx, its length winding through treacherous marsh and bog, and swift stream, and deep, unbroken forest, only a "blaze" here and there indicating at some points the course to be followed, and, where too obtrusive trees were cut away, the stumps left standing at just the right height for impaling wagonbodies and stirring up a degree or two more of profanity m the drivers. From Petnbino to Crow Wing-, and in two hundred miles of loneliness only the traveller of that region can know what had not the patient oxen undergone? Twelve miles, the average day's accomplishment until at Leech Lake had .-one suggestion of a civilized road been reached. Heavy rains, swollen streams, fathomless mud-holes. Often a morning was spent in hauling waggons across a. turbid and tmbulent little liver, and, while the oxen stood drenched and dripping after their reluctant swim to the other side, bunging over the loads pa kige by package on a fallen tree, if biioh biidge could be discovered, or waiting while the two halfbieeds swam across with them on their heads. Neddo, silent and calmly acquiescent in whatever fate might bring, served as a foil and background for Boulanger, who swore in all dialects from French and English through to Oee anl Chippowa, his black beada of eye 3 shooting lightning, his small and gaily bedecked legs dancing wildly among the packages, and his lean arms emphasizing the whirlwind of invective. Even this had ceased to amuse. Dienctied through and thiough by constant rains, tormented day and night by mosquitos, in fcize, numbers and ferocity beyond the wildest imagination of the Eastern mind, endurance was all that remained. Even water-lillies palled, and for weary bodies and weary mind but one desire had force, — to see the low stockade of the C.ow Wing Agency, and an actual inn, where a real bed, even if one in four in a row, would be hailed as a deliverance, and where ono would find a poit-offi ie and a, daily stage, coanecting this last o itpost of civilization with >SK Cloud, eighty miles below, and the first point where raihoada could be reached. Again a bioken bridge gave another morning of unloading, and swearing, and reloading, and when at last the rushing river was passed and the wagon once more under way. a treacherous and shelving mud-hole swallowed up oxen and fore-wheels, dumped load and owners into into its very depths, and for five minutes seemed likely to hold thorn there. Then fill struggled out together, and, while Boulanger shrieked with rage and Noddo examined pole and wheels and fished out the provision- basket, putting- the contents on a damp log to diy, patience at last took flight, and, like the ancient prophet in one of hi* many predictments, " I spake with my tongue ; I opened wide my mouth. ">1 will not stay in this nest of mosquitoes and flies and wait hours for thi& final catastrophe to unsnnre I shall march on to Gull Like, wheie there is a beac'n, unless this last flood has turned it to water, and there J can sit in the Fand and get dry. Of course now there is no getting to Crow Wing tonight, and wo must camp at the lake." For this journey was by no means a first or second one, and the ox-team was simply one more experience of frontier travelling. Canoe anil ftat-trpin and Indian pony had all been tried, and either was bettor than tliid frightful crawl, inch by inch as it were. At Gull Lake, the first camping point the previous year, ten miles above Crow Wing, had been a solitary wigwam, tenanted by a toothless but amiable squaw, who gave me fresh pickerel roa-ted in the sj ilos over her fire and affording a new sen.se of what flavor and savor natural methods may hold, and spuds hardly bigger than a walnut, but dug in my honor fio-n a field she had planted. Pethaps she would be there to-day. In any case alone or with s>uch society as she could give, there waited for me tbe clear, still, blue water in its silvery sund, the blasted pine with itf- eigle's nest, the hush and serenity of the silent forests. Five miles under the pines, where one was less tormented by mosquitoes, and tli3n came a final one, — a wade rather than a walk. I had forgotten the bog, and the coiduroy had sunk quite out of sight, though I could fell it now and thtn be'ow the black mud which held tenaciously to each foot by turn and yielded with a long, slow suck, like a .-.mack of evil satisfaction over my tribulation. Ten thousand hands could not have availed against that gray column of mosquitoes, whose sound see-ned at last a trumpet-call to other columns, aud which, in spite' of head-net and leather gloves, penetrated unknown and unguarded chink or crevice. Through the swamp at last, and out once'moie under the friendly pines, and I ran, knowing tho goal was near, and seeing soon the flashing sunlight on the blue water. There was a Vending figure near the lake. Along the brook emptying into it, corn and peas and beans were growing, and. actually, balsams aud sweet-peas at tho end ! " Mj r squaw has been brought over to wl iteman's fashions," I said half aloud, «nd then stopped short, r at> the figure sprang up and turned with a subdued "My urraciou 1*!"1 *!" when she saw tha mudcoalel and naked, t,ora, and most dis-reputable-looking appirition before her. So wan a face, such watery and faded yet somehow intense blue eyes, so infinitisemal a nub of hair, so shadowy yet lesolute a wraith, I had never yet encounter .'d, even in remotest and most unfriended cabin, wbere a we man's life means the speedy loss of every , trace of comel inpss and pro.cc. " Well. I call it a providence !" she said, coming forward with a port ( of silent rush as if carried t by the wind. " The , first day I've ever been lonesome a mite or thought to/ care but he's gone below three cUys now, , an' Shahjve'ah'a off lor berrie°, an' I did say jest nW by, the poud there' it was, a leetle lonesome. An' then to think of a white man" b-iin* what, I should, see.! It, ,does 'beat _ all !, Where ,be you from ? 11 1 1 reckon it's W' ,dry\ i country ygri've left behind . Y you,'^ '?het added, with ,a ( ! Winkle, f'for you've* ?brou'ghji' ' lU f the^vmud "<aJong i \vith",Tou.\ r oarc^me^*^aighfc r 'up'''dl)njr, ( withj !mej au!';l'll;Bsrape"yofi offTsbca'e. .Where V /y >w^o%?^"a^v^^ *-$;-*-'; '!rr. .

intensified the bluodlessness of the skin, hardly hiding the poor bones below. The woman laughed. •'You think I'm a poor show," nhe said. " Folks gin' ally do ; but I'm health itself to what I was." " You were not here when I went up a year ago ?" "No: I come in November. When you're in some ,of my clothes an' have had a cup of tea, I'll tell you, all about it. There's the house. Ain't that pretty well for Gull Lake ? Kinder comfortable?" Comfortable ! A palace could not have held a tenth of all the word meant ! A '* but and a ben " only but how spotlessly neat! Morning-glories and hops climbing over door and windows where white curtains hung ; a snow-white bed, shut in by mosquito-bar ; a f-quare of rag carpet on the floor ; stove and tins polished to their utmost enpaoity, — one of shining blackness, the other of shining brightness ; a dress holding civilized dishes : a shelf, where two or throe books lay, — the Bible, Whittier's poems, "and " David Copperfield," — ani a pile of well-worn Trillions ; an old-fashioned rocking-chair with patchwork cushions, and " lijfbtstand" near it ; nnd, to complete cuiious mixture of old England farm-house and frontier cabin, a warming-pan hanging 1 between the windows, its coppar fase shining like everything el>e. "You think that's a queer thing to tote out West?" said my hostess, who had already spread a cloth and put on fresh water to boil for the promised cup of tea, "I' lotted on it before I was big enough to reach it honcjin' there in grandmother's kitchen npin Vermont :an' when I went West, leastways wh.it was West forty years ago— to Pennsylvany— l took it along for old times, an' then on to Illinois an' Minnesota, an' here we both aye up here. You'd say it wasn't much more use that Timothy Dexter' s ship-load for the Westlnjies ; but he made a fortune out o' that, an' I sort of -Gxpeet'good luck from this one. > Now, ! before- the kettle biles, you might fresh'eh"up' a mite. The heft of it we Avon ""'do nothm' to till you've had your tea." " ' ' '<•'< ' Words can never tell the delight of that freshening, — first in cold 1 water 'in a leal M'ashbasin, then the tea, di'nnk'to an accoaipaniment of narrative pouted out as if mere speech were a gift straight from heaven. An indomitable cheerfulness, a resolute grasp of these shadowy threads of life, seemed strangest characteristics of this creature, in whose faded eyes quick gleams of expression came and went, and whose alertness and even vivacity were miiacuious testimonies to the imperious Avill that governed the trail body, no matter what human weakness interposed. In the beginning, the story proved one I had often heard, — the exodus of forty years bef oi c, when Now England, more especially its northern poition, seemed emptying itself into the West, the whito-covored, heavily-laden wagons passing day by day through the old towns, gazed upon by the more conservative w ith apprehension and dismay. "I hankered after home. I doit even now, once in a great while," the shadowy woman went on ; " but I ain't going to dwell on that Likely's not you've heerd forty folks say the same thing. But what you fathtl heerd I'm goin' to tell now. He come from Maine, as may be I didn't say— born a lumberman, an his father one before him. Au' so, a\ lien Minnesota opened up, it come easy to put out o' Illinois, wheru faimin' never suited him, an' M-liere there wasn't a stick o' tiinbar. except along the livcr-hottoms, an' he always half pinin' for it. He knows his business, an' soon fell into work, an' we settle down in Minneapolis ; tint's about as folksy a place as you'll find. But, you see, I wasn't never over-strong, an' I'd shook in them bottoms till it's my belief there wasn't an inch inside of me that kept jest the placa the Lord had laid out to have it keep. Folks s»ii(l the trouble was your pall ran out into your liver ; brt I s,\id your livor ran where it was a mind to, aii'.your stomach into whatever else there was, an' morc'n|likclv interfered with your lungs an' kept you from bavin" a long breath. That's the way it looked to me, even after I got settled in Minneapolis, for mine « >t shorter an' shorter, an' at last, in spite of me, I was in bed, an' folks sayin' I shouldn't never see spring. "Now, the chiMien had died fast as come, almost, There wasn't one left ; au' Hiram isset by natur' oim\ hat's his own, an' good bejond the common, an 1 it seemed as if lie couldn't stand it to loose me too. We'd been unlucky, too, — burned out once, an' the bank broke that had our money in it, such as it was, — an' he was pretty low ; an' when time come to go up to camp he half broke down, an' he said, 'Malviny, I can't. Supposion' you shouldn't be here when I come,back. I'd better go as hand in a mill, an' earn less.' " 'Hiram.' I said, 'you take me along with you. 'You never saw a man look more scared, for he thought I was goin' out o1o 1 my mind. But I hadn't noticed folks an' ways for notliin', an' I said, 'Don't you know jest as well as the next one that the doctors keep sendin' consumptive folks up into the pineries ? an' if your cimp ain't as good as another, I'd like to know. I can' l mot f'n die, anyway ; an' I'm sick of bein' tucked up in bed an' an airtight chokin' me day nn' night, an' I'm goin' with you.' 'Malviny, you can't,' he said ; its all men. There ain't noplace.' — 'Then make a place,' says I. — "Tiiin't fit,' says he. 'Women don't know anything about a passjl of men together.' — 'Then the more reason for finilin' out, an' seem' if they can't be made decent,' says I, 'if that's what you mean. I feel to know I shan't die if I can git up there ; an' I won't be in your way nor theirs ; but go I will, if I have to w alk, an' can't do more'n ten steps a day.' "Well, he knew I was set, an', though I didn't put my foot down very often, had it down then, square, an' he set in a brown study awhile, an' then he says, 'Well, Malviny, 'taint no time to cross you, an 1 see I never wanted to yet. If you think you'll hold out, I'll start _ upcountry to-morrow an' see about bavin' a separate cabin next to camp. They're fixin' for winter now, an' I kin go and come in a week. But I don't see how you'll stand it, an' I don't believe you will.'— 'Then I can he buried in the woods,' says I : 'I always did have a hankerin' to lay down for good under pine-trees.' "Well, he went off ; an' I will say didn't see myself how I could live till he fot back, for I had another time of.iasin' lobd that very night. It come pourin' straight ' out ; but I said, 'I won't give in.' 'It' can't <?# run, out, an' I calculate there'll lie, enough left/to keep me goin'.' • . "Folks^vpuldn't believe it, bnt'by the time HiVanf got back I could crawl to the window. 7,,'7 ,,' J* - s_a^T there f "wheh 'he c6nie" iu\,'"sighC lu au'-"heA'Wag*'asto^iBhe(l"- Y as, ( y6ttC«t^^^ets But: tie^liad^ ,to\

waited a uay, an' tnen lie says;, " xu-go up with the load, Maiviny j an' r f r fix up »-,, I bit, an' then I'll come back an^tAke ''you up on an empty sled, so's to rialie^robui for a bed an' things for you 1 to jgo easier. 1 — 'I want to go now.' I says" : ' Tshalljbe dead if I don't.' Well," we argued some, back and forth, au' at last he^says.' 1 ' 'It aiu'tno use, Maiviny, A'all's ready now, . an I'm goin' now, an Y I'll conic' back 'for yon as I said ;' mid off he staf ted"for :Ijhe: 1jhe barn. I was up that minute an' inWiny warm things, in spite of MiS'^mi^f^in' to stop me, an' when he ' droVe'ronrifrSh' come in I jest walked to the'dooYP^'No, you don't,' he says, and jest took Tneup* laid me on the bed an' run. !i *'",'' J "What got into me, then' l c'o'ulcbi 1 tell : the Lord carried 'me ■'loi.gf, I reckon. Anyway, I run to 6, Mis^Snlith after me, an' Hiram jest 'driven 1 'off 'an' there I stuck to the runner and .wojlldn!L--let go. Hiram was pale as ' a^gtibst, , in' 'mest cryin', an' he says, • For the : liord'i sake, go back, Maiviny,' an' l says,', ", if ' For the Lord's sake I won't,' ail' 'jest crawled up into the buffaloes alongside o' him ' There's one chance in a n'lillibn 'of your gettiu' there alive,' he says,' an; if you're bound to go on that one, we'll try it, that's all ;' an' off we went. 1 ' "Well, whether 'twas, the motion, 'or the air away from that' air-light, or carry hi 1 the 2 >>l " f ) I could't tell, but- 1 grew more an' more chirk with every mile. I eat quite a dinner, ah' slep' all night, an' Hiram he jest kept still an* waited. I knew he * was waitin', But we got through at last, an' into these very pine woods beginniu' at Crow Wing. 1 sniffed 'em an' knew life 'was in 'em if it was any wheres. When Hiram drove up before the camp, an" Smith, the overseer, come out, he looked a minute, an' then swore right out ' Be you turnin* into a tool at your |time o' life, to be bringin' a dead woman into camp he says. But I wasn't anywheres near dyin', an' Smith knows it too— now I'd give a sight it lie wast below He's so contented to have me around again, he says lie don't care if he never stir from here the rest of our lives ; an' I'm sure I don't an' wouldn't. I walk under them pines, an smell 'em deep in au, I says, { Here's your life-elixir, an' no mistake,' an' if folks knew it they wouldn't die in little close .rooms, but come out under 'em. I was always a master-hand for out-doors, an' he hulps along the house-work, sot we can garden together, an' Shaliweali doe» what lie an, me ain't a mind to. Mostly as long as day-light lasts I putter round out side ; an' I ain't sure but what I shall be an old woman yet, if I hain't but a piece of a lung left. "As for them men, you never see twenty fellows more set on beiu' agreeable than they was. For all havin' to whisper, I always managed to make 'em hear, an' one night I even danced ; an I never had a moi c sociable winter. I thought he'd be a leetle lonesome when they went below ; but he takes a sight of comfoit in the Tribune — we've had it from the beginnin', —an' he don't seem to mind one mite. I'alw 'y* read consid'able, an' Igooveran' over the feU'e books we've got, an' find somethin' new every time. And I expect you'll laugh when I tell you the only thing that e\er makes me loneseme or skeery. ' T.iin't Injiny : I don see but what they're folksy enough, when you git over their blankets. It's iooiih, I say they're the lonesoinest tiling in natur' an' when they holler I jest crawl all over. But then I cm git along even with them. An' now I'd like to know how you come here, an* all about it, every Avord ; but I'm dreadful sorry he ain't to home." Hklkx Caaibell.

A i'ikuy speech should invariably be read hot. Thk following is a copy of a postal card \vi itten to Lotta by one of Atlanta's school gir's :." Beautiful Lotta— do pray, please mam, give a matinee and play ' Bob' in Atlanta". So many of us girls want dreadtully to see you, but can't get $3 at a. time in pin money. If you give a matinee, a fifty cent one, I just declare yo t would li ive the biggest house on record. Now won't you, splendid, glorious, jolly, roMicking, smashing, darling witching, Lotta ? Then you have the blessing of a thousand school girls who have not any beans to foot the bill at the opera house. —^tmrndan Vitprr. A it vvnsoMK lady entered a dry goo la store and inquired for a " bow." The polite clerk threw himself back and remarked that he was at her service. " Yes, but I want a buff, not a green one," was the reply. The young man went on measuring goods immediately. '• I can't think that all singers will be lost," said Mrs Niunbletung. " There's my hus.mnd now. He is a bad man — a very b.id man ; but I trust he will lie saved at last. I belie\e lie has suffeied his share in this life." " Amen,'' shouted Niinbletnng from the back seat. Ox a saddlery hardware shop in Bi'timoie is p.iiuted, in laige letters, the following sign : —Felloes, Hubs, and Spokes. A young woman from the country, " whose intentions honorable, whose purpose marriage." walked in. and mentioned to the gentlemanly clerk that she would like to see some of the fellows," and if any suited, would take a " hub." The gentlemanly clerk replied that they were all be-" spoke" outside ! Duuini; the absence of an operator from his post fill the instruments commenced, and for fifteen minutes kept up a terrible ticking, which fi igtened a man who happened to be pres-ent, and who had no notion of the pum-iples of telegraphy. He thought it must be a call for this office and probably conveying impoitant news. So, making a dive for one of the instruments, hecarght the "ground wire" firmly between his teeth and shrieked out, '• Operator's gone to dinner, be back in half-au-hour !" and at the same instant received a shock from the wire coining in contact with his moist tongue that he will rcn ember to his dying day. The new pure cash sj T stem now being initiated by G. and C. will certainly pro\c a benefit to the public. It has been a great success in Sydney, and Melbourne, and when strictly carried out " the customer who buys at an establishment where Ihe goods arc marked low to ensure ;i rapid sale must be a er<\it jjaincr. G. and C. sell their drapery, millihcrj, and clothing at sUcli prices for c«s1» •••< gives the buyer the advantage of a shareholder in a co-operative society, without the risk of ju*ing '• called upon to bear a portion ofthe loss should, the , 3'ear's business prove unsatisfactory. ' Garlick „ and Cr.inwclt will aini'ft} retain tlta'confidencr. 4 which the public have hitherto shown them, :ind arc determined to give the pure cash' system a .15 fair trial; whether they gain or lose thefirst tear Country buvers'on remitting cakh with'ordcj'A'ill be supplied with goods aPcp-oncratve prices ; 3 just the same as though thev.imiulca personal sc- . ' ' ,lection. , F.urnUhjng sjooefs. „ such' .as carpets, d floor 'cloths/ bedsteads, bc»?pinjr' aritj/jrenerai -3a house" furniturc,'the largJMt'<porti6ri > 'it)Mvhicli if ' *j turned out^t our own /acthry, \villHe; marked at, , the lovvatt remunc alive price?, and 'a.dUcduntof J five pet cent": will be allowed fp those who pay :<"t ' •>,< the time 1 ofpufchasfc^^ / 4S ithe enti?c valflti otth T cir>toc|vij)u/ijigithcir^.lnt«r '4 BquGHT.~ArilnSpecUonjnvltcd.-f-CrAiiT.KSK. AND^ 01