Glengarry Schooldays | Page 6

left him long--to spoil his work, or
to bring a shadow to the life of any other. And though he had his hard
times, no one who could not read the lines about his mouth ever knew
how hard they were.
It was this struggle for self-mastery that made him the man he was, and
taught him the secrets of nobleness that he taught his pupils with their
three "R's"; and this was the best of his work for the Twentieth school.
North and south in front of the school the road ran through the deep
forest of great pines, with underbrush of balsam and spruce and
silver-birch; but from this main road ran little blazed paths that led to
the farm clearings where lay the children's homes. Here and there, set
in their massive frames of dark green forest, lay the little farms, the tiny
fenced fields surrounding the little log houses and barns. These were
the homes of a people simple of heart and manners, but sturdy, clean
living, and clear thinking, with their brittle Highland courage
toughened to endurance by their long fight with the forest, and with a
self-respect born of victory over nature's grimmest of terrors.
A mile straight south of the school stood the manse, which was
Hughie's home; two miles straight west Ranald lived; and Thomas
Finch two miles north; while the other lads ought to have taken some of
the little paths that branched east from the main road. But this evening,
with one accord, the boys chose a path that led from the school-house
clearing straight southwest through the forest.
What a path that was! Beaten smooth with the passing of many bare

feet, it wound through the brush and round the big pines, past the
haunts of squirrels, black, gray, and red, past fox holes and woodchuck
holes, under birds' nests and bee-trees, and best of all, it brought up at
last at the Deep Hole, or "Deepole," as the boys called it.
There were many reasons why the boys should have gone straight home.
They were expected home. There were cows to get up from the pasture
and to milk, potatoes that needed hoeing, gardens to weed, not to speak
of messages and the like. But these were also excellent reasons why the
boys should unanimously choose the cool, smooth-beaten,
sweet-scented, shady path that wound and twisted through the trees and
brush, but led straight to the Deepole. Besides, this was Friday night, it
was hot, and they were tired out; the mere thought of the long walk
home was intolerable. The Deepole was only two miles away, and
"There was lots of time" for anything else. So, with wild whoops, they
turned into the shady path and sped through the forest, the big boys in
front, with Ranald easily leading, for there was no runner so swift and
tireless in all the country-side, and Hughie, with the small boys, panting
behind.
On they went, a long, straggling, yelling line, down into the cedar
swamp, splashing through the "Little Crick" and up again over the
beech ridge, where, in the open woods, the path grew indistinct and was
easy to lose; then again among the great pines, where the underbrush
was so thick that you could not tell what might be just before, till they
pulled up at the old Lumber Camp. The boys always paused at the ruins
of the old Lumber Camp. A ruin is ever a place of mystery, but to the
old Lumber Camp attached an awful dread, for behind it, in the thickest
part of the underbrush, stood the cabin of Alan Gorrach.
Alan's was a name of terror among all the small children of the section.
Mothers hushed their crying with, "Alan Gorrach will get you." Alan
was a small man, short in the legs, but with long, swinging, sinewy
arms. He had a gypsy face, and tangled, long, black hair; and as he
walked through the forest he might be heard talking to himself, with
wild gesticulations. He was an itinerant cooper by trade, and made for
the farmers' wives their butter-tubs and butter-ladles, mincing-bowls

and coggies, and for the men, whip-stalks, axe handles, and the like.
But in the boys' eyes he was guilty of a horrible iniquity. He was a
dog-killer. His chief business was the doing away with dogs of
ill-repute in the country; vicious dogs, sheep-killing dogs, egg-sucking
dogs, were committed to Alan's dread custody, and often he would be
seen leading off his wretched victims to his den in the woods, whence
they never returned. It was a current report that he ate them, too. No
wonder the boys regarded him with horror mingled with fearful awe.
In broad day, upon the high road, the small boys would boldly