The burly Scot shook hands with him. They walked away together,
up to the factor's house. On the threshold the Reverend Wesley paused
for a backward look, drew the crumpled linen of his handkerchief across
his moist brow, and then disappeared within. Mike Breyette and Donald
MacDonald looked at each other expressively. Their swarthy faces slowly
expanded in a broad grin.
In the North, what with the crisp autumn, the long winter, and that
bleak, uncertain period which is neither winter nor spring, summer--as
we know it in softer lands--has but a brief span to endure. But Nature
there as elsewhere works out a balance, adheres to a certain law of
proportion. What Northern summers lack in length is compensated by
intensity. When the spring floods have passed and the warm rains follow
through lengthening days of sun, grass and flowers arise with magic
swiftness from a wonderfully fertile soil. Trees bud and leaf; berries
form hard on the blossoming. Overnight, as it were, the woods and
meadows, the river flats and the higher rolling country, become
transformed. And when August passes in a welter of flies and heat and
thunderstorms, the North is ready once more for the frosty segment of
its seasonal round.
Pages:
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36