Plain Tales of the North

Nonfiction, Religion & Spirituality, New Age, History, Fiction & Literature
Cover of the book Plain Tales of the North by Captain Thierry Mallet, Library of Alexandria
View on Amazon View on AbeBooks View on Kobo View on B.Depository View on eBay View on Walmart
Author: Captain Thierry Mallet ISBN: 9781465619440
Publisher: Library of Alexandria Publication: March 8, 2015
Imprint: Language: English
Author: Captain Thierry Mallet
ISBN: 9781465619440
Publisher: Library of Alexandria
Publication: March 8, 2015
Imprint:
Language: English

I know a lonely grave far north in Saskatchewan. It lies on a high bank, facing a small lake, under a cluster of old jack-pines. There is no cross on that grave, neither is there a name. Four logs, nailed in a square and half-buried in the grey moss, mark the spot where fifteen years ago two old Indians, man and wife, dug a hole six by four and laid to rest a white woman, a mere girl, a bride of a few months. Fifteen years have passed. But after all these years her memory still lingers with the few Indians who saw her come into the wilderness, wither under the fierce blast of the Arctic winter and die as the snow left the ground and spring came. She was an American of gentle birth, refined and delicate. Her husband brought her there in a spirit of adventure. He was a strong man, rough and accustomed to the North. She loved him. She struggled bravely through the winter, but the fierce Arctic climate, the utter solitude, the coarse food—these she could not stand. At length, while the man was away for several days tending his traps, she laid herself on the rude cabin bunk and died, all alone. There the Indians found her white and still, and buried her a few hundred yards from the shack, on the edge of the lake. The man came back later—then left at once. He is a squaw man now—trapping and hunting in the neighborhood. Each year his sleigh and his canoe pass along the lake, a stone’s throw from where she lies under the jack-pines. Not once has he stopped even to glance at the spot where she bravely lived with him and died alone. You will find crosses, inscriptions, some kind of token of remembrance on all the Indian graves. Her grave alone, in the Far North, bears neither cross nor name—just four logs, nailed together in a square, half-buried in the grey moss.

View on Amazon View on AbeBooks View on Kobo View on B.Depository View on eBay View on Walmart

I know a lonely grave far north in Saskatchewan. It lies on a high bank, facing a small lake, under a cluster of old jack-pines. There is no cross on that grave, neither is there a name. Four logs, nailed in a square and half-buried in the grey moss, mark the spot where fifteen years ago two old Indians, man and wife, dug a hole six by four and laid to rest a white woman, a mere girl, a bride of a few months. Fifteen years have passed. But after all these years her memory still lingers with the few Indians who saw her come into the wilderness, wither under the fierce blast of the Arctic winter and die as the snow left the ground and spring came. She was an American of gentle birth, refined and delicate. Her husband brought her there in a spirit of adventure. He was a strong man, rough and accustomed to the North. She loved him. She struggled bravely through the winter, but the fierce Arctic climate, the utter solitude, the coarse food—these she could not stand. At length, while the man was away for several days tending his traps, she laid herself on the rude cabin bunk and died, all alone. There the Indians found her white and still, and buried her a few hundred yards from the shack, on the edge of the lake. The man came back later—then left at once. He is a squaw man now—trapping and hunting in the neighborhood. Each year his sleigh and his canoe pass along the lake, a stone’s throw from where she lies under the jack-pines. Not once has he stopped even to glance at the spot where she bravely lived with him and died alone. You will find crosses, inscriptions, some kind of token of remembrance on all the Indian graves. Her grave alone, in the Far North, bears neither cross nor name—just four logs, nailed together in a square, half-buried in the grey moss.

More books from Library of Alexandria

Cover of the book Tom Swift in the Caves of Ice, Or, the Wreck of the Airship by Captain Thierry Mallet
Cover of the book The Letter of Petrus Peregrinus on the Magnet, A.D. 1269 by Captain Thierry Mallet
Cover of the book Jessica Trent: Her Life on a Ranch by Captain Thierry Mallet
Cover of the book A Forgotten Hero: Not for Him by Captain Thierry Mallet
Cover of the book A Warwickshire Lad: The Story of the Boyhood of William Shakespeare by Captain Thierry Mallet
Cover of the book Richard Wagner His Life and His Dramas: A Biographical Study of the Man and an Explanation of His Work by Captain Thierry Mallet
Cover of the book Voyage Autour de Mon Jardin by Captain Thierry Mallet
Cover of the book The Romance of Aircraft by Captain Thierry Mallet
Cover of the book The Scandinavian Element in the United States by Captain Thierry Mallet
Cover of the book Marguerite Verne by Captain Thierry Mallet
Cover of the book Modern Essays by Captain Thierry Mallet
Cover of the book The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning (Complete) by Captain Thierry Mallet
Cover of the book The Bishop and the Boogerman by Captain Thierry Mallet
Cover of the book Castle Nowhere by Captain Thierry Mallet
Cover of the book Debts of Honor by Captain Thierry Mallet
We use our own "cookies" and third party cookies to improve services and to see statistical information. By using this website, you agree to our Privacy Policy