Shields High School - Patriot Yearbook (Seymour, IN)

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Spirit Lake HENRY WAJENBERG E. HAD been camping for a week, and all of us had become much in- terested in Tom. He seemed to be such an extraordinary fellow that we were constantly expecting something unusual from him. At most, he was not over thirty-five; and, though he had spent most of his time out of doors, he had much to say on every subject that came up for discussion. He knew the scientific name of every fish we caught; and none of us knew a bird with which he was not intimately acquainted. He would rush suddenly into camp, snatch a green butterfly-net from some convenient place where he had hung it, and disappeared into the a KS aN 4, bushes, soon to return with some gaudy victim which he would add to his collection of butterflies. From what we could learn from him, he must have covered most of the territory northeast of the Great Lakes and all of the state of Maine in gathering specimens. However, he had not devoted his entire life to the out of doors. He had studied Rhetoric and, though it was a mystery to us all how he did it, had found time to teach it also. This, probably, together with the vast number of in- teresting experiences he had had would account for his ability as a a story teller. Thus far, however, there had been little opportunity for him to show his ability along this line. But one morning the sun shone watery through an uncertain mass of grey-green clouds in the east and Tom announced that there would be “nothing doing outside” that day. We took his word for it and, as it was beginning to grow chilly, we hastily gathered some fuel with which to build a fire on the hearth in our little cabin. Each provided himself with a small box for a seat and we gathered around the fire. Tom sat on a bench and leaned back against the wall near the fire. It seemed that we all understood that some one was to tell a story for the benefit of the others. Finally, after all had cast several suspicious glances in his direction, Tom said, “Well, what shall it be ’’ There was a brief pause, during which we exchanged questioning glances, but finally I said, ““Whatever you choose.”’ To this all assented; so we settled down comfortably around our cheerful little fire. Outside the rain fell gently and now and then the wind soughed loudly through the trees. To most of us it was an atmosphere of charm and romance; but Tom was apparently used to such conditions, for he settled back unconsciously against the log wall and was lost in reverie. To us he seemed a very romantic sort of person, as he sat leaning against the cabin wall, his black, bushy hair partially covering his slightly receding forehead. There was a concentrated, yet passive, ex- pression upon his face, and the manner in which he was dressed lent an air of romance to his short figure. We waited patiently for the first word of the tale he was about to relate. At last he began:

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Che Baitnnil BOBBY ‘14 A SHE sun comes up from o’er the hill And greets the dancing daffodil, Which nods along the twinkling rill, That doth the ocean help to fill. The wind comes up from o’er the mead And blows aloft the ripened seed, Which oft the little birds doth feed, That on their southern journey speed. The frost comes up from o’er the deep And puts the daffodil to sleep, Which doth its little blossoms keep, That in the spring again will peep.

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“This is the first time I was ever so far south. Hitherto the southernmost boundary of my field of observation has been Lake Michigan. I don’t know why or how I ever came here, but that’s generally the way with me. Att least, so it was when I visited Spirit Lake, up in the Hud- son Bay territory. That was a beautiful place — yet, strangely wierd. The surroundings were very impressive and I felt, when the Indian guide told me its name was ‘Spirit Lake,’ that it had been well named. There was always an agreeable chill and freshness in the air; and a mist that hung over the place in the morning and evening seemed to exert a spell of magic over me. I loved the lake and yet was afraid to trust myself on it. But it seemed such a tantalizing delight to get out early and paddle around in my canoe that I formed the habit. Every morning I would rise early, take my field glass, rod and gun, step into the canoe and paddle away into the mist. “One morning, I was paddling around with my usual equipment, when, suddenly the mist disappeared and the sun shone brightly on a long, low, sandy bar. I naturally turned my head and glanced in the direction of the sunlight. I was about twenty yards from the shore, and the same space lay between the water and a thick growth of bushes and tall grass. As I looked, I thought that I saw a slight figure moving swiftly toward the undergrowth. I quickly raised my glass, but caught only a fleeting glimpse. I paddled back to camp as fast as I could and told the guide what I had seen. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘you have seen the beautiful Hortenza. She lives over there by the French hunter.’ “ That was all he would tell me, but you may believe that I was anxious to know more about the beautiful Hortenza. I returned to the spot where I had seen the figure disappear in the bushes and fished there the rest of the day, hoping to catch a glimpse of it again. But as even- ing came, and still nothing was to be seen or heard, I grew less watchful and more thoughtful. Who could the beautiful Hortenza be? Hortenza was a French name, and the Indian had said she lived with a French hunter. Might not she be the daughter of the Frenchman? The In- dian had said that she was beautiful. I trailed my line listlessly, and in my reverie the mists of evening descended upon Spirit Lake and hid me in its enshrouding folds. Still I sat with low- ered head, thinking of what my guide had said and what I had seen. Suddenly, there sounded through the darkening mist, from the direction of the shore, a cry so wierd and loud that, in my fright, I almost fell out of the canoe. Trembling with fear, I wound in my lines, took up the paddle, and headed for the camp as fast as I could go. “Now, you must understand that this was quite a while ago, and that then I did not know all I know now. The sound puzzled me, and yet, I would not ask the guide to explain it, for I desired to find out m ore about Hortenza and did not care to have an Indian mixed up in any of my affairs. ““Early next morning, I was again on the lake, watching from the same place. As before, { managed to catch just a fleeting glimpse of the figure as it disappeared into the thicket. As far as I could see, there was no movement of bushes as it silently vanished into the depths before my eyes, but this only added to the mystery. I determined to find out more about Hortenza at whatever cost, and turned about to question my guide further. “T found him sitting idly on a log outside the tent, and told him to relate to me all he knew concerning Hortenza. He began, and in his Indian manner, told me the following story: