The Light in the Clearing
By Irving Bacheller

Chapter IV

OUR LITTLE STRANGE COMPANION

In the pathless forest we had a little companion that always knew its way. No matter how strange and remote the place might be or how black the night its tiny finger always pointed in the same direction. By the light of the torch at midnight, in blinding darkness, I have seen it sway and settle toward its beloved goal. It seemed to be thinking of some far country which it desired to recommend to us.

It seemed to say: “Look! I know not which way is yours, but this–this is my way and all the little cross roads lead off it.”

What a wonderful wisdom it had! I remember it excited a feeling of awe in me as if it were a spirit and not a tool.

The reader will have observed that my uncle spoke of the compass as if it directed plant and animal in achieving their purposes. From the beginning in the land of my birth it had been a thing as familiar as the dial and as necessary. The farms along our road were only stumpy recesses in the wilderness, with irregular curving outlines of thick timber–beech and birch and maple and balsam and spruce and pine and tamarack–forever whispering of the unconquered lands that rolled in great billowy ridges to the far horizon.

We were surrounded by the gloom and mystery of the forest. If one left the road or trail for even a short walk he needed a compass to guide him. That little brass box with its needle, swaying and seeming to quiver with excitement as it felt its way to the north side of the circle and pointed unerringly at last toward its favorite star, filled me with wonder.

“Why does it point toward the north star?” I used to ask.

“That’s a secret,” said Uncle Peabody. “I wouldn’t wonder if the gate o’ heaven was up there. Maybe it’s a light in God’s winder. Who knows? I kind o’ mistrust it’s the direction we’re all goin’ in.”

“You talk like one o’ them Universalists,” said Aunt Deel. “They’re gettin’ thick as flies around here.”

“Wal, I kind o’ believe–” he paused at the edge of what may have been a dangerous opinion.

I shook the box and the needle swung and quivered back and forth and settled with its point in the north again. Oh, what a mystery! My eyes grew big at the thought of it.

“Do folks take compasses with ’em when they die?” I asked.

“No, they don’t need ’em then,” said Uncle Peabody. “Everybody has a kind of a compass in his own heart–same as watermelons and chickens have. It shows us the way to be useful, and I guess the way o’ usefulness is the way to heaven every time.”

“An’ the way o’ uselessness is the way to hell,” Aunt Deel added.

One evening in the early summer the great Silas Wright had come to our house from the village of Russell, where he had been training a company of militia.

I remember that as he entered our door he spoke in this fashion: “Baynes, le’s go fishing. All the way down the road I’ve heard the call o’ the brooks. I stopped on the Dingley Bridge and looked down at the water. The trout were jumping so I guess they must ’a’ got sunburnt and freckled and sore. I can’t stand too much o’ that kind o’ thing. It riles me. I heard, long ago, that you were a first-class fisherman, so I cut across lots and here I am.”

His vivid words touched my imagination and I have often recalled them.

“Well, now by mighty! I–” Uncle Peabody drew the rein upon his imagination at the very brink of some great extravagance and after a moment’s pause added: “We’ll start out bright an’ early in the mornin’ an’ go up an’ git Bill Seaver. He’s got a camp on the Middle Branch, an’ he can cook almost as good as my sister.”

“Is your spring’s work done?”

“All done, an’ I was kind o’ thinkin’,” said Uncle Peabody with a little shake of his head. He didn’t say of what he had been thinking, that being unnecessary.

“Bart, are you with us?” said Mr. Wright as he gave me a playful poke with his hand.

“May I go?” I asked my uncle.

“I wouldn’t wonder–go an’ ask yer aunt,” said Uncle Peabody.

My soul was afire with eagerness. My feet shook the floor and I tipped over a chair in my hurry to get to the kitchen, whither my aunt had gone soon after the appearance of our guest. She was getting supper for Mr. Wright.

“Aunt Deel, I’m goin’ fishin’,” I said.

“Fishin’! I guess not–ayes I do,” she answered.

It was more than I could stand. A roar of distress and disappointment came from my lips.

Uncle Peabody hurried into the kitchen.

“The Comptroller wants him to go,” said he.

“He does?” she repeated as she stood with her hands on her hips looking up at her brother.

“He likes Bart and wants to take him along.”

“Wal, then, you’ll have to be awful careful of him,” said Aunt Deel. “I’m ’fraid he’ll plague ye–ayes!”

“No, he won’t–we’ll love to have him.”

“Wal, I guess you could git Mary Billings to come over and stay with me an’ help with the chores–ayes, I wouldn’t wonder!”

I could contain my joy no longer, but ran into the other room on tiptoe and announced excitedly that I was going. Then I rushed out of the open door and rolled and tumbled in the growing grass, with the dog barking at my side. In such times of joyful excitement I always rolled and tumbled in the grass. It was my way of expressing inexpressible delight.

I felt sorry for the dog. Poor fellow! He couldn’t go fishing. He had to stay home always. I felt sorry for the house and the dooryard and the cows and the grindstone and Aunt Deel. The glow of the candles and the odor of ham and eggs drew me into the house. Wistfully I watched the great man as he ate his supper. I was always hungry those days. Mr. Wright asked me to have an egg, but I shook my head and said “No, thank you” with sublime self-denial. At the first hint from Aunt Deel I took my candle and went up to bed.

“I ain’t afraid o’ bears,” I heard myself whispering as I undressed. I whispered a good deal as my imagination ran away into the near future.

Soon I blew out my candle and got into bed. The door was open at the foot of the stairs. I could see the light and hear them talking. It had been more than a year since Uncle Peabody had promised to take me into the woods fishing, but most of our joys were enriched by long anticipation filled with talk and fancy.

I lay planning my behavior in the woods. It was to be helpful and polite and generally designed to show that I could be a man among men. I lay a long time whispering over details. There was to be no crying, even if I did get hurt a little once in a while. Men never cried. Only babies cried. I could hear Mr. Wright talking about Bucktails and Hunkers below stairs and I could hear the peepers down in the marsh.

Peepers and men who talked politics were alike to me those days. They were beyond my understanding and generally put me to sleep–especially the peepers. In my childhood the peepers were the bells of dream-land calling me to rest. The sweet sound no sooner caught my ear than my thoughts began to steal away on tiptoe and in a moment the house of my brain was silent and deserted, and thereafter, for a time, only fairy feet came into it. So even those happy thoughts of a joyous holiday soon left me and I slept.

I was awakened by a cool, gentle hand on my brow. I opened my eyes and saw the homely and beloved face of Uncle Peabody smiling down at me. What a face it was! It welcomed me, always, at the gates of the morning and I saw it in the glow of the candle at night as I set out on my lonely, dreaded voyage into dream-land. Do you wonder that I stop a moment and wipe my glasses when I think of it?

“Hello, Bart!” said he. “It’s to-morrer.”

I sat up. The delicious odor of frying ham was in the air. The glow of the morning sunlight was on the meadows.

“Come on, ol’ friend! By mighty! We’re goin’ to–” said Uncle Peabody.

Happy thoughts came rushing into my brain again. What a tumult! I leaped out of bed.

“I’ll be ready in a minute, Uncle Peabody,” I said as, yawning, I drew on my trousers.

“Don’t tear yer socks,” he cautioned as I lost patience with their unsympathetic behavior.

He helped me with my boots, which were rather tight, and I flew down-stairs with my coat half on and ran for the wash-basin just outside the kitchen door.

“Hello, Bart! If the fish don’t bite to-day they ought to be ashamed o’ themselves,” said Mr. Wright, who stood in the dooryard in an old suit of clothes which belonged to Uncle Peabody.

The sun had just risen over the distant tree-tops and the dew in the meadow grass glowed like a net of silver and the air was chilly. The chores were done. Aunt Deel appeared in the open door as I was wiping my face and hands and said in her genial, company voice:

“Breakfast is ready.”

Aunt Deel never shortened her words when company was there. Her respect was always properly divided between her guest and the English language.

How delicious were the ham, smoked in our own barrels, and the eggs fried in its fat and the baked potatoes and milk gravy and the buckwheat cakes and maple syrup, and how we ate of them! Two big pack baskets stood by the window filled with provisions and blankets, and the black bottom of Uncle Peabody’s spider was on the top of one of them, with its handle reaching down into the depths of the basket. The musket and the powder horn had been taken down from the wall and the former leaned on the window-sill.

“If we see a deer we ain’t goin’ to let him bite us,” said Uncle Peabody.

Aunt Deel kept nudging me under the table and giving me sharp looks to remind me of my manners, for now it seemed as if a time had come when eating was a necessary evil to be got through with as soon as possible. Even Uncle Peabody tapped his cup lightly with his teaspoon, a familiar signal of his by which he indicated that I was to put on the brakes.

To Aunt Deel men-folks were a careless, irresponsible and mischievous lot who had to be looked after all the time or there was no telling what would happen to them. She slipped some extra pairs of socks and a bottle of turpentine into the pack basket and told us what we were to do if we got wet feet or sore throats or stomach ache.

Aunt Deel kissed me lightly on the cheek with a look that seemed to say, “There, I’ve done it at last,” and gave me a little poke with her hand (I remember thinking what an extravagant display of affection it was) and many cautions before I got into the wagon with Mr. Wright, and my uncle. We drove up the hills and I heard little that the men said for my thoughts were busy. We arrived at the cabin of Bill Seaver that stood on the river bank just above Rainbow Falls. Bill stood in his dooryard and greeted us with a loud “Hello, there!”

“Want to go fishin’?” Uncle Peabody called.

“You bet I do. Gosh! I ain’t had no fun since I went to Joe Brown’s funeral an’ that day I enjoyed myself–damned if I didn’t! Want to go up the river?”

“We thought we’d go up to your camp and fish a day or two.”

“All right! We’ll hitch in the hosses. My wife’ll take care of ’em ’til we git back. Say it looks as fishy as hell, don’t it?”

“This is Mr. Silas Wright–the Comptroller,” said Uncle Peabody.

“It is! Gosh almighty! I ought to have knowed it,” said Bill Seaver, his tone and manner having changed like magic to those of awed respect. “I see ye in court one day years ago. If I’d knowed ’twas you I wouldn’t ’a’ swore as I did.” The men began laughing and then he added: “Damned if I would!”

“It won’t hurt me any–the boy is the one,” said Mr. Wright as he took my hand and strolled up the river bank with me. I rather feared and dreaded those big roaring men like Bill Seaver.

The horses were hitched in and the canoes washed out. Then we all turned to and dug some angle-worms. The poles were brought–lines, hooks and sinkers were made ready and in an hour or so we were on our way up the river, Mr. Wright and I and Uncle Peabody being in one of the canoes, the latter working the paddle.

I remember how, as we went along, Mr. Wright explained the fundamental theory of his politics. I gave strict attention because of my pride in the fact that he included me in the illustration of his point. This in substance is what he said, for I can not pretend to quote his words with precision although I think they vary little from his own, for here before me is the composition entitled “The Comptroller,” which I wrote two years later and read at a lyceum in the district schoolhouse.

“We are a fishing party. There are four of us who have come together with one purpose–that of catching fish and having a good time. We have elected Bill guide because he knows the river and the woods and the fish better than we do. It’s Bill’s duty to give us the benefit of his knowledge, and to take us to and from camp and out of the woods at our pleasure and contribute in all reasonable ways to our comfort. He is the servant of his party. Now if Bill, having approved our aim and accepted the job from us, were to try to force a new aim upon the party and insist that we should all join him in the sport of catching butterflies, we would soon break up. If we could agree on the butterfly program that would be one thing, but if we held to our plan and Bill stood out, he would be a traitor to his party and a fellow of very bad manners. As long as the aims of my party are, in the main, right, I believe its commands are sacred. Always in our country the will of the greatest number ought to prevail–right or wrong. It has a right even to make mistakes, for through them it should learn wisdom and gradually adjust itself to the will of its greatest leaders.”

It is remarkable that the great commoner should have made himself understood by a boy of eight, but in so doing he exemplified the gift that raised him above all the men I have met–that of throwing light into dark places so that all could see the truth that was hidden there.

Now and then we came to noisy water hills slanting far back through rocky timbered gorges, or little foamy stairways in the river leading up to higher levels. The men carried the canoes around these places while I followed gathering wild flowers and watching the red-winged black birds that flew above us calling hoarsely across the open spaces. Now and then, a roaring veering cloud of pigeons passed in the upper air. The breath of the river was sweet with the fragrance of pine and balsam.

We were going around a bend when we heard the voice of Bill shouting just above us. He had run the bow of his canoe on a gravel beach just below a little waterfall and a great trout was flopping and tumbling about in the grass beside him.

“Yip!” he shouted as he held up the radiant, struggling fish that reached from his chin to his belt. “I tell ye boys they’re goin’ to be sassy as the devil. Jump out an’ go to work here.”

With what emotions I leaped out upon the gravel and watched the fishing! A new expression came into the faces of the men. Their mouths opened. There was a curious squint in their eyes. Their hands trembled as they baited their hooks. The song of the river, tumbling down a rocky slant, filled the air. I saw the first bite. How the pole bent! How the line hissed as it went rushing through the water out among the spinning bubbles! What a splash as the big fish in his coat of many colors broke through the ripples and rose aloft and fell at my feet throwing a spray all over me as he came down! That was the way they fished in those days. They angled with a stout pole of seasoned tamarack and no reel, and catching a fish was like breaking a colt to halter.

While he was fishing Mr. Wright slipped off the rock he stood on and sank shoulder deep in the water. I ran and held out my hand crying loudly. Uncle Peabody helped him ashore with his pole. Tears were flowing down my cheeks while I stood sobbing in a kind of juvenile hysterics.

“What’s the matter?” Uncle Peabody demanded.

“I was ’fraid–Mr. Wright–was goin’ to be drownded,” I managed to say.

The Comptroller shook his arms and came and knelt by my side and kissed me.

“God bless the dear boy!” he exclaimed. “It’s a long time since any one cried for me. I love you, Bart.”

When Bill swore after that the Comptroller raised his hand and shook his head and uttered a protesting hiss.

We got a dozen trout before we resumed our journey and reached camp soon after one o’clock very hungry. It was a rude bark lean-to, and we soon made a roaring fire in front of it. What a dinner we had! the bacon and the fish fried in its fat and the boiled potatoes and the flapjacks and maple sugar! All through my long life I have sought in vain for a dinner like it. I helped with the washing of the dishes and, that done, Bill made a back for his fire of green beech logs, placed one upon the other and held in place by stakes driven in the ground. By and by Mr. Wright asked me if I would like to walk over to Alder Brook with him.

“The fish are smaller there and I guess you could catch ’em,” said he.

The invitation filled me with joy and we set out together through the thick woods. The leaves were just come and their vivid, glossy green sprinkled out in the foliage of the little beeches and the woods smelt of new things. The trail was overgrown and great trees had fallen into it and we had to pick our way around them. The Comptroller carried me on his back over the wet places and we found the brook at last and he baited my hook while I caught our basket nearly full of little trout. Coming back we lost the trail and presently the Comptroller stopped and said:

“Bart, I’m ’fraid we’re going wrong. Let’s sit down here and take a look at the compass.”

He took out his compass and I stood by his knee and watched the quivering needle.

“Yes, sir,” he went on. “We just turned around up there on the hill and started for Alder Brook again.”

As we went on he added: “When you’re in doubt look at the compass. It always knows its way.”

“How does it know?” I asked.

“It couldn’t tell ye how and I couldn’t. There are lots o’ things in the world that nobody can understand.”

The needle now pointed toward its favorite star.

“My uncle says that everything and everybody has compasses in ’em to show ’em the way to go,” I remarked thoughtfully.

“He’s right,” said the Comptroller. “I’m glad you told me for I’d never thought of it. Every man has a compass in his heart to tell which way is right. I shall always remember that, partner.”

He gave me a little hug as we sat together and I wondered what a partner might be, for the word was new to me.

“What’s partner?” I asked.

“Somebody you like to have with you.”

Always when we were together after that hour the great man called me “partner.”

We neared camp in the last light of the day. Mr. Wright stopped to clean our fish at a little murmuring brook and I ran on ahead for I could hear the crackling of the camp-fire and the voice of Bill Seaver. I thought in whispers what I should say to my Uncle Peabody and they were brave words. I was close upon the rear of the camp when I checked my eager pace and approached on tiptoe. I was going to surprise and frighten my uncle and then embrace him. Suddenly my heart stood still, for I heard him saying words fit only for the tongue of a Dug Draper or a Charley Boyce–the meanest boy in school–low, wicked words which Uncle Peabody himself had taught me to fear and despise. My Uncle Peabody! Once I heard a man telling of a doomful hour in which his fortune won by years of hard work, broke and vanished like a bubble. The dismay he spoke of reminded me of my own that day. My Aunt Deel had told me that the devil used bad words to tempt his victims into a lake of fire where they sizzled and smoked and yelled forever and felt worse, every minute, than one sitting on a hot griddle. To save me from such a fate my uncle had nearly blistered me with his slipper. How was I to save him? I stood still for a moment of confusion and anxiety, with my hand over my mouth, while a strange sickness came upon me. A great cold wave had swept in off the uncharted seas and flooded my little beach, and covered it with wreckage. What was I to do? I knew that I couldn’t punish him. I couldn’t bear to speak to him even, so I turned and walked slowly away.

My dear, careless old uncle was in great danger. As I think of it now, what a whited sepulchre he had become in a moment! Had I better consult Mr. Wright? No. My pride in my uncle and my love for him would not permit it. I must bear my burden alone until I could tell Aunt Deel. She would know what to do. Mr. Wright came along and found me sitting in deep dejection on a bed of vivid, green moss by an old stump at the trail-side.

“What ye doing here?” he asked in surprise.

“Nothing,” I answered gravely.

The Comptroller must have observed the sorrow in my face, for he asked:

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” I lied, and then my conscience caught up with my tongue and I added: “It’s a secret.”

Fearing that my uncle would disgrace himself in the hearing of Mr. Wright, I said something–I do not remember what, save that it related to the weather–in a loud voice by way of warning.

They noticed the downcast look of me when we entered camp.

“Why, Bub, you look tired,” said Uncle Peabody as he gave me that familiar hug of his.

I did not greet him with the cheerful warmth which had characterized our meetings, and seeing the disappointment in his look I kissed him rather flippantly.

“Lay down on this old sheep skin and take a nap,” said he. “It’s warm in here.”

He spread the sheep skin on the balsam boughs back under the lean-to and I lay down upon it and felt the glow of the fire and heard the talk of the men but gave no heed to it. I turned my face away from them and lay as if asleep, but with a mind suddenly estranged and very busy.

Now I know what I knew not then, that my soul was breaking camp on the edge of the world and getting ready to move over the line. Still no suspicion of the truth reached me that since I came to live with him my uncle had been bitting and breaking his tongue. It occurred to me that Bill Seaver, whom I secretly despised, had spoilt him and that I had done wrong in leaving him all the afternoon defenseless in bad company.

I wondered if he were beyond hope or if he would have to fry and smoke and yell forever. But I had hope. My faith in Aunt Deel as a corrector and punisher was very great. She would know what to do. I heard the men talking in low voices as they cooked the supper and the frying of the fish and bacon. It had grown dark. Uncle Peabody came and leaned over me with a lighted candle and touched my face with his hand. I lay still with closed eyes. He left me and I heard him say to the others:

“He’s asleep and his cheeks are wet. Looks as if he’d been cryin’ all to himself there. I guess he got too tired.”

Then Mr. Wright said: “Something happened to the boy this afternoon. I don’t know what. I stopped at the brook to clean the fish and he ran on toward the camp to surprise you. I came along soon and found him sitting alone by the trail out there. He looked as if he hadn’t a friend in the world. I asked him what was the matter and he said it was a secret.”

“Say, by–” Uncle Peabody paused. “He must a stole up here and heard me tellin’ that–” he paused again and went on: “Say, I wouldn’t ’a’ had him hear that for a thousan’ dollars. I don’t know how to behave myself when I get in the woods. If you’re goin’ to travel with a boy like that you’ve got to be good all the time–ye can’t take no rest or vacation at all whatever.”

“You’ve got to be sound through and through or they’ll find it out," said the Comptroller. “You can’t fool ’em long.”

“He’s got a purty keen edge on him,” said Bill Seaver.

“On the whole I think he’s the most interesting child I ever saw,” said Mr. Wright.

I knew that these words were compliments but their meaning was not quite clear to me. The words, however, impressed and pleased me deeply and I recalled them often after that night. I immediately regretted them, for I was hungry and wanted to get up and eat some supper but had to lie a while longer now so they would not know that my ears had been open. Nothing more was said and I lay and listened to the wind in the tree-tops and the crackling of the fire, and suddenly the day ended.

I felt the gentle hand of Uncle Peabody on my face and I heard him speak my name very tenderly. I opened my eyes. The sun was shining. It was a new day. Bill Seaver had begun to cook the breakfast. I felt better and ran down to the landing and washed. My uncle’s face had a serious look in it. So had Mr. Wright’s. I was happy but dimly conscious of a change.

I remember how Bill beat the venison steak, which he had brought in his pack basket, with the head of his ax, adding a strip of bacon and a pinch of salt, now and then, until the whole was a thick mass of pulp which he broiled over the hot coals. I remember, too, how delicious it was.

We ate and packed and got into the boats and fished along down the river. At Seaver’s we hitched up our team and headed homeward. When we drove into the dooryard Aunt Deel came and helped me out of the buggy and kissed my cheek and said she had been “terrible lonesome.” Mr. Wright changed his clothes and hurried away across country with his share of the fish on his way to Canton.

“Well, I want to know!–ayes! ain’t they beautiful! ayes!” Aunt Deel exclaimed as Uncle Peabody spread the trout in rows on the wash-stand by the back door.

“I’ve got to tell you something,” I said.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I heard him say naughty words.”

“What words?”

“I–I can’t say `em. They’re wicked. I’m–I’m ’fraid he’s goin’ to be burnt up,” I stammered.

“It’s so. I said ’em,” my uncle confessed.

Aunt Deel turned to me and said: “Bart, you go right down to the barn and bring me a strap–ayes!–you bring me a strap–right away.”

I walked slowly toward the barn. For the moment, I was sorry that I had told on my uncle. Scalding tears began to flow down my cheeks. I sat on the steps to the hay loft for a moment to collect my thoughts.

Then I heard Aunt Deel call to me: “Hurry up, Bart.”

I rose and picked out the smallest strap I could find and walked slowly back to the house. I said, in a trembling voice, as I approached them, “I–I don’t think he meant it.”

“He’ll have to be punished–just the same–ayes–he will.”

We went into the house together, I sniffling, but curious to see what was going to happen. Uncle Peabody, by prearrangement, as I know now, lay face downward on the sofa, and Aunt Deel began to apply the strap. It was more than I could bear, and I threw myself between my beloved friend and the strap and pleaded with loud cries for his forgiveness.

Uncle Peabody rose and walked out of the house without a word and with a sterner look in his face than I had ever seen there. I searched for him as soon as my excitement had passed, but in vain. I went out back of the cow barn and looked away down across the stumpy flats. Neither he nor Shep were in sight. All that lonely afternoon I watched for him. The sun fell warm but my day was dark. Aunt Deel found me in tears sitting on the steps of the cheese house and got her Indian book out of her trunk and, after she had cautioned me to be very careful of it, let me sit down with it by myself alone, and look at the pictures.

I had looked forward to the time when I could be trusted to sit alone with the Indian book. In my excitement over the picture of a red man tomahawking a child I turned a page so swiftly that I put a long tear in it. My pleasure was gone. I carefully joined the torn edges and closed the book and put it on the table and ran and hid behind the barn.

By and by I saw Uncle Peabody coming down the lane with the cows, an ax on his shoulder. I ran to meet him with a joy in my heart as great as any I have ever known. He greeted me with a cheerful word and leaned over me and held me close against his legs and looked into my eyes and asked:

“Are you willin’ to kiss me?”

I kissed him and then he said:

“If ye ever hear me talk like that ag’in, I’ll let the stoutest man in Ballybeen hit me with his ax.”

I was not feeling well and went to bed right after supper. As I was undressing I heard Aunt Deel exclaim: “My heavens! See what that boy has done to my Indian book–ayes! Ain’t that awful!–ayes!”

“Pretend ye ain’t noticed it,” said Uncle Peabody. “He’s had trouble enough for one day.”

A deep silence followed in which I knew that Aunt Deel was probably wiping tears from her eyes. I went to bed feeling better.

Next day the stage, on its way to Ballybeen, came to our house and left a box and a letter from Mr. Wright, addressed to my uncle, which read:

     “DEAR SIR–I send herewith a box of books and magazines in the hope
     that you or Miss Baynes will read them aloud to my little partner
     and in doing so get some enjoyment and profit for yourselves.

     “Yours respectfully,
          S. WRIGHT, JR.

     “P.S.–When the contents of the box has duly risen into your minds,
     will you kindly see that it does a like service to your neighbors
     in School District No. 7? S.W., JR.”

“I guess Bart has made a friend o’ this great man–sartin ayes!” said Aunt Deel. “I wonder who’ll be the next one.”

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This eBook of “The Light in the Clearing - A Tale of the North Country in the Time of Silas Wright” (1917) by Irving Bacheller belongs to the public domain. Complete book.
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