FullReads

“‘Speed on, speed on, good master;
The camp lies far away;
We must cross the haunted valley
Before the close of day.'”

“That has a Canadian sound,” said Aaron; “give us more of it.”

“‘How the snow-blight came upon me
I will tell you as we go,–
The blight of the shadow hunter
Who walks the midnight snow.'”

And so on. The intent seems to be to personify the fearful cold that overtakes and benumbs the traveler in the great Canadian forests in winter. This stanza brings out the silence or desolation of the scene very effectively,–a scene without sound or motion:–

“‘Save the wailing of the moose-bird
With a plaintive note and low;
And the skating of the red leaf
Upon the frozen snow.’

“The rest of the poem runs thus:–

“‘And said I, Though dark is falling,
And far the camp must be,
Yet my heart it would be lightsome
If I had but company.

“‘And then I sang and shouted,
Keeping measure as I sped,
To the harp-twang of the snow-shoe
As it sprang beneath my tread.

“‘Nor far into the valley
Had I dipped upon my way,
When a dusky figure joined me
In a capuchin of gray,

“‘Bending upon the snow-shoes
With a long and limber stride;
And I hailed the dusky stranger,
As we traveled side by side.

“‘But no token of communion
Gave he by word or look,
And the fear-chill fell upon me
At the crossing of the brook.

“‘For I saw by the sickly moonlight,
As I followed, bending low,
That the walking of the stranger
Left no foot-marks on the snow.

“‘Then the fear-chill gathered o’er me,
Like a shroud around me cast,
As I sank upon the snow-drift
Where the shadow hunter passed.

“‘And the otter-trappers found me,
Before the break of day,
With my dark hair blanched and whitened
As the snow in which I lay.

“‘But they spoke not as they raised me;
For they knew that in the night
I had seen the shadow hunter
And had withered in his sight.

“‘Sancta Maria speed us!
The sun is fallen low:
Before us lies the valley
Of the Walker of the Snow!'”

“Ah!” exclaimed my companion. “Let us pile on more of those dry birch-logs; I feel both the ‘fear-chill’ and the ‘cold-chill’ creeping over me. How far is it to the valley of the Neversink?”

“About three or four hours’ march, the man said.”

“I hope we have no haunted valleys to cross?”

“None,” said I, “but we pass an old log cabin about which there hangs a ghostly superstition. At a certain hour in the night, during the time the bark is loose on the hemlock, a female form is said to steal from it and grope its way into the wilderness. The tradition runs that her lover, who was a bark-peeler and wielded the spud, was killed by his rival, who felled a tree upon him while they were at work. The girl, who helped her mother cook for the ‘hands,’ was crazed by the shock, and that night stole forth into the woods and was never seen or heard of more. There are old hunters who aver that her cry may still be heard at night at the head of the valley whenever a tree falls in the stillness of the forest.”

“Well, I heard a tree fall not ten minutes ago,” said Aaron; “a distant, rushing sound with a subdued crash at the end of it, and the only answering cry I heard was the shrill voice of the screech owl off yonder against the mountain. But maybe it was not an owl,” said he after a moment; “let us help the legend along by believing it was the voice of the lost maiden.”