Louis, musket in hand, walked to the edge of the shore, stopping not far from the timber wall. The lake, to his eye, appeared three miles long and three-quarters wide. He raised his gun and fired straight ahead. Instantly set in an astounding roar. It smashed, dashed and rolled sonorously along the mighty wall, suddenly fainting into an unseen bay, then rolling forth again into the open, passing on like subdued thunder; from the beginning scattering wild echoes, which in turn reechoed criss-wise and cross-wise, an immense maze of vibrations, now passing slowly in decrescendo into a far away rumble and nearby trembling, fainting, dying, as the forest sternly regained its own, and primal stillness came. This display was too dramatic, even for Louis. Once was enough. It seemed too much like an eerie protest, the wildly passionate rejoinder of a living forest disturbed in its primal solitudes of contemplation. Yet the stupendous rhythm, the orchestral beauty of it all, sank deep in Louis’s soul, now become as one with nature’s mood. He wandered from the camp, wishing to be alone, where he might be himself, solitary, in nature’s deep, and commune with venerable immensities that gave forth a voice of haunting stillness which seemed to murmur and at times to chant of an unseen, age-long, immanent, eternal power, which Louis coupled as one with a gentle, sensuous, alluring power to whose moving song of enchantment he had trembled in response, within a bygone springtime in the open.
The brief camp-life was much the usual thing. Game was scarce, but small speckled trout could be scooped up in quantity from a slow, deep rivulet in a nearby beaver meadow.
Came time to return. The trapper said he could lead them back by an easier way, but it meant a detour of thirty miles to Lyons Falls. They made the distance in three days. They had been away ten days all told; and Louis was exultant that he had made as good a showing as the farm-boy twins.
All too soon came the hour to begin the journey homeward. Goodbyes were said—some of them wistful.
At Albany, Grandpa revealed a plan he had cherished in secret: They were to take the day-boat down the Hudson to New York. Louis was profuse in gratitude as he prefigured coming wonders which he was to see with his very own eyes, and appraise with his own sensibilities. And so it was, as Louis passed almost directly from the sublimity of forest solitudes to the grandeur of the lower Hudson. As they passed West Point, Grandpa said that he had once taught French at the United States Military Academy, and that his pleasure there had been to swim the Hudson, across and back every morning before breakfast. Grandpa’s stock immediately jumped many points, for Louis held prowess in high honor. As they passed the Palisades Louis was astounded as Grandpa explained their nature—huge basalt crystals standing on end. The life on the river all the way down had greatly entertained him; now he came in sight of greater shipping and entered an immense floating activity.
Of New York Louis saw but little; and when Grandpa said it was here they landed when he with his family came from Geneva, Louis took the information deafly, not even inquiring when and why they had moved to Boston. Grandpa felt the hurt of this indifference. Here was this boy, his own cherished grandson, whose fourteen living years had been filled to overflow with vivid episodes, with active thoughts, with dreams, mysteries, prophetic intuitions and rude industrious practicalities, all commingled; here was this boy, ignorant, grossly innocent and careless of the vicissitudes and follies of a seething human world. He shuddered momentarily at the chasm that lay between them. For Grandpa all too well knew the profound significance of a wholly truthful story of any human life, told continuously, without a break, from cradle to old age, could it be known and recorded of any other than one’s self. He knew that the key to the mystery of human destiny and fate lay wrapped and lost within these lived but unrecorded stories. He knew also that Louis was now paying in ignorance the penalty of a sheltered life. Then he told Louis another secret: They were to leave on a Fall River boat and traverse the length of Long Island Sound. Thus, Louis, in renewed joy and ecstasy made his first long trip on the salted sea. Then duly came Boston, Wakefield and the romantic journey’s end.
Louis still had time to brush up rapidly for the high school examinations. He had chosen the English High rather than the Latin High. He was accustomed to thinking and acting for himself, seldom asking advice. His thoughts in mass were directed ever toward his chosen career; and he believed that the study of Latin would be a waste of time for him; the time element was present always as a concomitant of his ambitions. He wished always to advance in the shortest time compatible with sure results. He had no objection to Latin as such, but believed its study suitable only to those who might have use for it in afterlife. He had a keen gift for separating out what he deemed essential for himself.
On September third, his birthday, he received a letter from Utica, filled with delicate sentiments, encouraging phrases, and concluding with an assurance that the writer would be with him in spirit through his high school days.
The English and Latin High Schools, in those days, were housed in a single building, rather old and dingy, on the south side of Bedford Street; a partition wall separating them, a single roof covering them. The street front was of granite, the side walls of brick. There were brick-paved yards for the recess half-hour with overflow to the street and a nearby bakery. It was a barn-like, repellant structure fronting on a lane as
