Castle Nowhere
Woolson, Constance Fenimore, 1840-1894
English
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CASTLE NOWHERE
BY
CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON
Not many years ago the shore bordering the head of Lake Michigan, the
northern curve of that silver sea, was a wilderness unexplored. It is
a wilderness still, showing even now on the school-maps nothing save
an empty waste of colored paper, generally a pale, cold yellow
suitable to the climate, all the way from Point St. Ignace to the iron
ports on the Little Bay de Noquet, or Badderknock in lake phraseology,
a hundred miles of nothing, according to the map-makers, who, knowing
nothing of the region, set it down accordingly, withholding even those
long-legged letters, 'Chip-pe-was,' 'Ric-ca-rees,' that stretch
accommodatingly across so much townless territory farther west. This
northern curve is and always has been off the route to anywhere; and
mortals, even Indians, prefer as a general rule, when once started, to
go somewhere. The earliest Jesuit explorers and the captains of
yesterday's schooners had this in common, that they could not, being
human, resist a cross-cut; and thus, whether bark canoes of two
centuries ago or the high, narrow propellers of to-day, one and all,
coming and going, they veer to the southeast or west, and sail gayly
out of sight, leaving this northern curve of ours unvisited and alone.
A wilderness still, but not unexplored; for that railroad of the
future which is to make of British America a garden of roses, and turn
the wild trappers of the Hudson's Bay Company into gently smiling
congressmen, has it not sent its missionaries thither, to the
astonishment and joy of the beasts that dwelt therein? According to
tradition, these men surveyed the territory, and then crossed over
(those of them at least whom the beasts had spared) to the lower
peninsula, where, the pleasing variety of swamps being added to the
labyrinth of pines and sand-hills, they soon lost themselves, and to
this day have never found what they lost. As the gleam of a camp-fire
is occasionally seen, and now and then a distant shout heard by the
hunter passing along the outskirts, it is supposed, that they are in
there somewhere surveying still.
Not long ago, however, no white man's foot had penetrated within our
curve. Across the great river and over the deadly plains, down to the
burning clime of Mexico and up to the arctic darkness, journeyed our
countrymen, gold to gather and strange countries to see; but this
little pocket of land and water passed they by without a glance,
inasmuch as no iron mountains rose among its pines, no copper lay
hidden in its sand ridges, no harbors dented its shores. Thus it
remained an unknown region, and enjoyed life accordingly. But the
white man's foot, well booted, was on the way, and one fine afternoon
came tramping through. 'I wish I was a tree,' said this white man, one
Jarvis Waring by name. 'See that young pine, how lustily it grows,
feeling its life to the very tip of each green needle! How it thrills
in the sun's rays, how strongly, how completely it carries out the
intention of its existence! It never, has a headache, it--Bah!
what a miserable, half-way thing is man, who should be a demigod, and
is--a creature for the very trees to pity!' And then he built his
camp-fire, called in his dogs, and slept the sleep of youth and
health, none the less deep because of that Spirit of Discontent that
had driven him forth, into the wilderness; probably the Spirit of
Discontent knew what it was about. Thus for days, for weeks, our white
man wandered through the forest and wandered at random, for, being an
exception, he preferred to go nowhere; he had his compass, but never
used it, and, a practised hunter, eat what came in his way and planned
not for the morrow. 'Now am I living the life of a good, hearty,
comfortable bear,' he said to himself with satisfaction.
'No, you are not, Waring,' replied the Spirit of Discontent, 'for you
know you have your compass in your pocket and can direct yourself back
to the camps on Lake Superior or to the Sault for supplies, which is
more than the most accomplished bear can do.'
'O come, what do you know about bears?' answered Waring; 'very likely
they too have their depots of supplies,--in caves perhaps--'
'No caves here.'
'In hollow trees, then.'
'You are thinking of the stories about bears and wild honey,' said the
pertinacious Spirit.
'Shut up, I am going to sleep,' replied the man, rolling himself in
his blanket; and then the Spirit, having accomplished his object,
smiled blandly and withdrew.
Wandering thus, all reckoning lost both of time and place, our white
man came out one evening unexpectedly upon a shore; before him was
water stretching away grayly in the fog-veiled moonlight; and so
successful had been his determined entangling of himself in the webs
of the wilderness, that he really knew not whether it was Superior,
Huron or Michigan that confronted him, for all three bordered on the
eastern end of the upper peninsula. Not that he wished to know;
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