When, therefore, as the twilight faded, he appeared at their door, they greeted him with a hearty “B’Jo” (a corruption of the French bon jour), made a place for him by the fire, poured him a cup of black coffee, and left him to his silence.
That did not mean, however, that the others might not speak. On this night it was Sandy MacDonald who talked. And when Sandy elected to speak something was said, for Sandy was wise in many lores and was no mean philosopher besides.
Appearing to sense the fact that The Voice there in the corner would maintain a long silence, he drew on his fur parka and invited Johnny to join him in a stroll in the moonlight along the shore before the cabin. As they walked along the snow-whitened shores at a spot where, other than themselves, no one lived, he said as a look of contentment overspread his face:
“Johnny, for me this is the place of peace.”
“This place?” Johnny looked at him in surprise.
“Yes. I have been here before. Must have been ten years back. I was prospecting then with a pack on my back. No, I didn’t build the cabin. Some other dreamer had been here before me.
“It was late winter when I arrived. I lingered through spring and summer. Why? I couldn’t tell you that. Perhaps I was getting acquainted with nature and with God.
“You know, Johnny,” his voice was low and mellow, “for each of us there is a place of peace. Once there was a man who was asked to define peace. He led the one who asked to a waterfall. There in bubbling, tumbling confusion a tumultuous cataract made its way to the rocks below.
“‘Peace!’ his friend cried. ‘Do you call this peace?’
“‘No,’ replied the philosopher, ‘Not this. But look! Above the falls, poised over that rushing confusion, swaying there on a slender branch, is a tiny bird. And if you will watch closely, though because of the thundering waters you cannot hear him, you will see that he is singing his little song to the tune of the rushing water. He has found peace.’