“We must put these in water, Mademoiselle, or they will soon lose their bloom.”
“If we had a cup––?”
“A cup? A woodsman would laugh at your question. There is the spring, here is the birch; what more could you have?”
“You mean––?”
“We will make a cup,––if you will hold the flowers. They are beautiful, Mademoiselle. No nation has such hills and lakes and flowers as the Iroquois. The Hurons boast of their lake country,––and the Sacs and Foxes, too, though they have a duller eye for the picturesque. See––the valley yonder––” He pointed through a rift in the foliage to the league-long glimpse of green, bound in by the gentle hills that rose beyond––“even to the tired old soldier there is nothing more beautiful, more peaceful.” 163
He peeled a long strip of bark from the birch tree, and rolled it into a cup. “Your needle and thread, Mademoiselle,––if they have not taken them.”
“No; I have everything here.”
She got her needle, and under his direction stitched the edges of the bark.
“But it will leak, M’sieu.”
He laughed. “The tree is the Indian’s friend, Mademoiselle. Now it is a pine tree that we need. The guards will tell me of one.”