The lost hunter: A tale of early timesAdams, John Turvill
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The lost hunter: A tale of early times
Adams, John Turvill
Adventure stories; Indians of North America -- Fiction; New England -- Fiction
The night was neither clear nor dark, or rather was both by fits and
starts. Light fleecy clouds were constantly passing over the heavens,
now gathering densely together and completely hiding the stars, and
now breaking up and revealing between the rifts then shining points. A
low wind softly moaned through the leafless trees on the banks of the
Severn, sadly chiming in with the murmur of the tide, which rose quite
up to the Falls of the Yaupaae. In the indistinct light, just enough
to stimulate and keep in active play the imagination, softening away
all those harshnesses which the garish brilliancy of day discloses,
and inviting the mind to supply with its own creations what is vague
and deficient, the village presented an appearance more attractive,
if possible, than by day. Along the margin of the river, and up
the hill-sides, the lights scattered in every direction, and rising
irregularly one above another, contended successfully with the
struggling stars to light the way of the adventurers; while a low
sound, the faint indication of life, hardly distinguishable from other
noises, rose from the village, for it was yet early in the night,
and imparted a sense of security by the consciousness of human
propinquity. But gradually, under the skillful strokes of the oars,
the sounds became fainter and fainter, and one light after another
disappeared till, at a turn in the stream, the bold promontory of
Okommakemisit hid the town from view.
A feeling of loneliness now, in spite of the presence of his two
friends, began to creep over the constable. So long as the lights
had been visible, he felt a strength derived from the vicinity of the
habitations of his fellow-beings, as if, were anything untoward to
happen, assistance was close at hand and ready to be proffered, but
now he might die a thousand deaths, and none be the wiser for his
wretched end. As these and other thoughts equally dismal chased each
other through his mind, the silence became more and more oppressive
(for it was only now and then, hitherto, a word had been uttered), and
it was with an emotion of thankfulness and relief he heard it broken
by the voice of Gladding.
"I say, Primus," he said, "do you know where you are?"
"I guess I does," answered the black, speaking from between his shut
teeth, which the necessity of retaining the stump of a pipe he was
smoking compelled him to keep tight together, "I is on de river
'joying a row wid two white genlmn."
"Any fool knows that," said Tom, "though for the matter of the
enjoyment, there might be two words about that. Some jugs has two
handles."
"Well, if dat doesn't please you, I all in a shiver wid de cold. My
wood toe is almost freeze."
"That's a plaguy curus thing," said Tom. "You know Jim Hardy. Well I
hearn him say he can feel the fingers in his hand that was ground off
in the mill, just an much as in tother. I expect your experience is
pretty much the same."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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