University of Oregon monthly., February 01, 1908, Image 24

U n iversity
op
O regon M o n th ly
27
T h e House of Content
T was good to: be again in the Canadian woods
after a year’s absence from their wholesome influ­
ence. As I meditated under the trees, there came
a deep feeling of content. How detached from
thenoise of the city seemed this secluded world of
beauty. So suggestive of unlimited power did the
forest, seem, that it inspired in me that happy frame
of mind which dreams of perfection. So‘I lingered in the shade of
the pines all the afternoon, looking far into the mysterious shadows
or gazing through the over-hanging branches at the summer sky.
And in my dreams, .1 pictured in fancy an ideal home among the
pines, a home where simple love might dwell and be content.
I had not seeh Jacques for a year and I tried to picture the
towering guide that Would greet me. He was an overgrown boy,
was Jacques, not more than twenty-two I should judge, Who had
been with the on a fishing trip, the summer before; He was a typ­
ical woodsman, with rugged features and a manner as simple as
his forest life. Along the streams and in the deep woods he was a
most agreeable companion, and possessed a seeming great strength
of character ; but in the village he was ever ready for wild dissipa­
tion. I admired his rough good nature, and picking my way toward
the trail took delight in anticipating our -meeting.
As I reached the path I could see a group of loggers, great
strong men clothed in overalls and blue flannel shirts. Their faces
looked tired with labor but -as free from anxiety as the faces of child­
hood. The last group passed, and fearing that I'had missed Jacques,
I was about to follow the men to the village, when I noticed coming
around a bend in the trail, a girlish figure in a calico dress. Her
black hair was hanging loosely over her shoulders and she carried
in her hand a tin pail. As she advanced, a rabbit darted across her
path, so close that she might have touched it, and as she gave a
startled little scream, the pail slipped from her fingers, and wild
strawberries scattered over the ground. I hurried toward her to
assist, but had taken only a few steps when I saw" the tall form of
a logger behind her. It was Jacques.
He spoke with rich French Canadian accent as he stooped above
the overturned pail, “I t is too bad, Anette, will I help?’4