There was but one exception to the monotonous similitude of these
several habitations. A few paces back from the stream and standing
boldly in the open rose a log house double the size of any other there.
It contained at least four rooms. Its windows were of ample size, the
doors neatly carpentered. A wide porch ran on three sides. It bore about
itself an air of homely comfort, heightened by muslin at the windows, a
fringe of poppies and forget-me-nots blooming in an orderly row before
it, and a sturdy vine laden with morning-glories twining up each
supporting column of the porch roof.
Between the house and the woods an acre square was enclosed by a tall
picket fence. Within the fence, which was designed as a barricade
against foraging deer, there grew a variety of vegetables. The produce
of that garden had grown famous far beyond Lone Moose village. But the
spirit and customs and traditions of the gardener's neighbors were all
against any attempt to duplicate it. They were hunters and trappers and
fishermen. The woods and waters supplied their every need.
Upon a blistering day in July, a little past noon, a man stepped out on
the porch, and drawing into the shadiest part a great, rude homemade
chair upholstered with moosehide, sat down. He had a green-bound book in
his hand. While he stuffed a clay pipe full of tobacco he laid the
volume across his knees. Every movement was as deliberate as the flow of
the deep stream near by. When he had stoked up his pipe he leaned back
and opened the book. The smoke from his pipe kept off what few
mosquitoes were abroad in the scorching heat of midday.
A casual glance would at once have differentiated him from a native,
held him guiltless of any trace of native blood. His age might have been
anywhere between forty and fifty. His hair, now plentifully shot with
gray, had been a light, wavy brown. His eyes were a clear gray, and his
features were the antithesis of his high-cheekboned neighbors. Only the
weather-beaten hue of his skin, and the scores of fine seams radiating
from his eyes told of many seasons squinting against hot sunlight and
harsh winds.
Whatever his vocation and manner of living may have been he was now
deeply absorbed in the volume he held. A small child appeared on the
porch, a youngster of three or thereabouts, with swarthy skin, very dark
eyes, and inky-black hair. He went on all fours across Sam Carr's
extended feet several times. Carr remained oblivious, or at least
undisturbed, until the child stood up, laid hold of his knee and shook
it with playful persistence. Then Carr looked over his book, spoke to
the boy casually, shaking his head as he did so. The boy persisted after
the juvenile habit. Carr raised his voice. An Indian woman, not yet of
middle age but already inclining to the stoutness which overtakes women
of her race early in life, appeared in the doorway. She spoke sharply to
the boy in the deep, throaty language of her people. The boy, with a
last impish grin, gave the man's leg a final shake and scuttled indoors.
Carr impassively resumed his reading.