There is but one great passion in the world. With it all human destiny is entwined. Votaries of established religion have ever been recruited from the disconsolate. The gray walls of convents and monasteries have lured the heart stricken, and in remote fields of pious endeavor unguents have been sought for cruel wounds. In the waste places of the earth have been scattered the ashes of despair, but while life lasts, it somewhere holds the eternal chords. At hope’s vibrant touch the enfeebled strings awake and attune to the sublime strains of the Great Lyric.
The faint echo of a song lingered in the brass bound box. The silk covered letter intoned a dream melody that the years had not hushed.
IV
THE “WETHER BOOK” OF BUCK GRANGER’S GRANDFATHER
My friend “Buck” told me something of his grandfather’s history as we sat in the genial glow of the stone fireplace the evening after I had examined the contents of the brass bound box.
The old pioneer, with his wife and two sons, had come west in 1810 and located on the island. He found many Indians there and his relations with them were very friendly. A small area was cleared and cultivated on the island, but the main source of livelihood was hunting, fishing and trapping. The woods and waters teemed with life and nature yielded easily of her abundance.
The old man lived alone for many years after the death of his wife. His sons married and went farther west. Two years before he died one of the sons, Buck’s father, returned with his wife and little boy, to the old home. Buck was now the only surviving member of the family.
His recollections of his grandfather were rather vague. He remembered him as an old man with a white bushy beard, frowsy coon skin cap, ear muffs, and fur mittens. He had spent much time with him fishing along the river, and in trips through the woods. From him he had learned the ways of the big marsh, and much of the unwritten lore of the forest. His stories of the old pioneer gave an impression of one who was much given to having his own way, rather crusty at times, but whose sympathy and kindness of heart were often imposed upon by those who knew him.
Buck said that in the old oak chest in the attic was a lot of stuff that had belonged to his grandfather. We went to the attic the next morning and took out of the chest the odd assortment of things we found in it. Most of them were of no special interest. There were some old account books, several cancelled promissory notes for small amounts, and a package of receipts. One note, payable to the old man, was marked across its face “Debt forgiven—Can’t Collect.”
I was pleased to find a bag of Indian arrow heads, many of them beautifully made, a couple of spear heads, and a tomahawk.
There was a section of a maple tree root, about a foot long, in the chest, that Buck said he had chopped out one winter in the woods near the marsh. A steel trap was imbedded in it, and between the jaws were two bones of a coon’s foot. The uneven hammer marks on the metal indicated that the trap was probably home forged. Buck had identified it as one belonging to his grandfather, and there were others like it in the chest. Apparently the victim had dragged the trap to the foot of the tree, which it was unable to climb. He had died with his leg across the young exposed root that had grown around and through the mechanism, until only a portion of the rusty chain, the end of the spring, and the upper parts of the jaws that held the little bones remained. The story of the tragedy was plainly told.