The produce
of that garden had grown famous far beyond Lone Moose village. But the
spirit and customs and traditions of the gardener's neighbors were all
against any attempt to duplicate it. They were hunters and trappers and
fishermen. The woods and waters supplied their every need.
Upon a blistering day in July, a little past noon, a man stepped out on
the porch, and drawing into the shadiest part a great, rude homemade
chair upholstered with moosehide, sat down. He had a green-bound book in
his hand. While he stuffed a clay pipe full of tobacco he laid the
volume across his knees. Every movement was as deliberate as the flow of
the deep stream near by. When he had stoked up his pipe he leaned back
and opened the book. The smoke from his pipe kept off what few
mosquitoes were abroad in the scorching heat of midday.
A casual glance would at once have differentiated him from a native,
held him guiltless of any trace of native blood. His age might have been
anywhere between forty and fifty. His hair, now plentifully shot with
gray, had been a light, wavy brown. His eyes were a clear gray, and his
features were the antithesis of his high-cheekboned neighbors. Only the
weather-beaten hue of his skin, and the scores of fine seams radiating
from his eyes told of many seasons squinting against hot sunlight and
harsh winds.
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