All were sitting around the camp-fire at bed-time, when I heard
a distinct patter on the leaves. "Something coming," I whispered.
All held still, then out of the gloom came bounding a snow-white
Weasel. Preble was lying on his back with his hands clasped behind
his head and the Weasel fearlessly jumped on my colleague's broad
chest, and stood peering about.
In a flash Preble's right elbow was down and held the Weasel prisoner,
his left hand coming to assist. Now, it is pretty well known that
if you and a Weasel grab each other at the same time he has choice
of holds.
"I have got him," said Preble, then added feelingly, "but he got
me first. Suffering Moses! the little cuss is grinding his teeth
in deeper."
The muffled screaming of the small demon died away as Preble's
strong left hand crushed out his life, but as long as there was a
spark of it remaining, those desperate jaws were grinding deeper
into his thumb. It seemed a remarkably long affair to us, and from
time to time, as Preble let off some fierce ejaculation, one of us
would ask, "Hello! Are you two still at it," or, "How are you and
your friend these times, Preble?"
In a few minutes it was over, but that creature in his fury seemed
to have inspired himself with lock-jaw, for his teeth were so driven
in and double-locked, that I had to pry the jaws apart before the
hand was free.
The Weasel may now be seen in the American Museum, and Preble in the
Agricultural Department at Washington, the latter none the worse.
So wore away the month, the last night came, a night of fireside
joy at home (for was it not Hallowe'en?), and our celebration took
the form of washing, shaving, mending clothes, in preparation for
our landing in the morning.
CHAPTER XLVIII
THE END
All that night of Hallowe'en, a Partridge drummed near my untented
couch on the balsam boughs. What a glorious sound of woods and life
triumphant it seemed; and why did he drum at night? Simply because
he had more joy than the short fall day gave him time to express.
He seemed to be beating our march of victory, for were we not in
triumph coming home? The gray firstlight came through the trees
and showed us lying each in his blanket, covered with leaves, like
babes in the woods. The gray Jays came wailing through the gloom,
a faroff Cock-of-the-Pines was trumpeting in the lovely, unplagued
autumn woods; it seemed as though all the very best things in the
land were assembled and the bad things all left out, so that our
final memories should have no evil shade.
The scene comes brightly back again, the sheltering fir-clad shore,
the staunch canoe skimming the river's tranquil reach, the water
smiling round her bow, as we push from this, the last of full five
hundred camps.
The dawn fog lifts, the river sparkles in the sun, we round the last
of a thousand headlands. The little frontier town of the Landing
swings into view once more - what a metropolis it seems to us now! - The
Ann Seton lands at the spot where six months ago she had entered
the water. Now in quick succession come the thrills of the larger
life - the letters from home, the telegraph office, the hearty
good-bye to the brave riverboys, and my long canoe-ride is over.
I had held in my heart the wanderlust till it swept me away, and
sent me afar on the back trail of the north wind; I have lived in
the mighty boreal forest, with its Red-men, its Buffalo, its Moose,
and its Wolves; I have seen the Great Lone Land with its endless
plains and prairies that do not know the face of man or the crack
of a rifle; I have been with its countless lakes that re-echo nothing
but the wail and yodel of the Loons, or the mournful music of the
Arctic Wolf. I have wandered on the plains of the Musk-ox, the
home of the Snowbird and the Caribou. These were the things I had
burned to do. Was I content? Content!! Is a man ever content with
a single sip of joy long-dreamed of?
Four years have gone since then. The wanderlust was not stifled any
more than a fire is stifled by giving it air. I have taken into
my heart a longing, given shape to an ancient instinct. Have I not
found for myself a kingdom and become a part of it? My reason and
my heart say, "Go back to see it all." Grant only this, that I
gather again the same brave men that manned my frail canoe,
and as sure as life and strength continue I shall go.
*** END OF THE ARCTIC PRAIRIES by Ernest Thompson Seton ***
