"In golden volumes rolls the blessed light Along the sterile mountains. Pile on pile The granite masses rise to left and right;-- Bald, stately bluffs that never wear a smile; Where vegetation fails to reconcile The parched shrubbery and stunted trees To the stern mercies of the flinty soil. And we must pass a thousand bluffs like these, Within whose breasts are locked a myriad mysteries.
"Dreaming of the old years, before they rose, Triumphant from the deep, whose waters rolled Above their solemn and unknown repose; Dreaming of that bright morning, when, of old, Beyond the red man's memory, they told The secrets of the Ages to the sun, That smiled upon them from his throne of gold,-- Dreaming of the bright stars and loving moon, That first shone on them from the night's impressive noon;
"--Dreaming of the long ages that have passed Since then, and with them that diminished race Whose birchen fleets those inky waters glassed, As they swept o'er them with the wind's swift pace. Of their wild legends scarce remains a trace; Thou hold'st the myriad secrets in thy brain, Oh stately bluffs! as well seek to efface The light of the bless'd stars, as to obtain From thy sealed, granite lips, tradition or refrain!"
"That is striking poetry," said Mr. Winthrop. "The author deserves to be better known! But the wild legends of the past have not entirely passed away. Now and then, one comes across an old legend or story among a set of fellows like our _voyageur_ friends there."
"Yes," said Hugh, "that is one reason why I should like to explore the wilds about Lake St. John! I think one might pick up from our guides some old stories that would be interesting. But I was reading, this morning, a pathetic little legend which is said to be still cherished among the Montagnais Indians, concerning one of the pious Jesuit Fathers, who was wont long ago to minister in that little grey church at Tadousac."
"Oh, do tell it to us!" said Kate and Nellie, in a breath; and Hugh readily complied, telling the tale, in substance as follows:
"One of the most benignant and beloved of these pioneer missionaries was Père La Brosse, the last of the old Jesuit Fathers of Tadousac, and the story of his 'Passing' reads almost like a French-Indian version of the 'Passing of Arthur.' Strange, how that wistful, pathetic interest, clustering round the death of the good and gentle and strong, crops up everywhere, among all sorts and conditions of men!