Bittersweet Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #5): A Novel by Ruth Glover Page A
Authors: Ruth Glover
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rollicking singing; campfires were bright with laughter and an endless fund of stories.
The voyageur looked the part, flamboyant in a combination of Indian and French dress: bright woolen or coonskin cap on his longhaired head, gaudy sash around his stalwart middle, moccasins on his feet, bearskin coat covering his muscular frame.
From trading post to trading post he went, with legendary feats of courage, daring the elements and beasts, and always with the good humor for which he was remembered. A special breed, the coureurs de bois . A special time in history, touched with a romance that had never been seen before or since.
Eastern settlements could ill afford to lose so many youth from their farms, and the government tried to intervene, making it hard, or impossible, for them to go. At times the young men were threatened with severe penalties if they persisted in going off into the woods. At one time they were required to have licenses. Needless to say, where young, hotheaded men were concerned, neitherplan worked very well. The fascination of the woods and the life of a coureur de bois were stronger pulls than any orders from the government. And because of the demand for furs and the pelts they supplied, these audacious runners of the woods were appreciated, their efforts applauded.
All too soon—with the passing of the beaver—the coureurs de bois became part of Canada’s colorful past.
Many a Bliss boy, wading spring runoff in his rubber boots, flashed swiftly along a foaming river in a canoe—in dreams. Many a lad set out a trap, catching a measly rabbit and counting it a glossy beaver. Caps of rabbit fur, cobbled together and worn jauntily on young heads, were coonskin in imagination.
But in winter—that time of deep freeze, heaped snowbanks, solid rivers and streams, when even the proud coureurs de bois had been near starvation—Bliss boys bowed their flannel-clad shoulders over scarred desks, flexed stiffened fingers or reached to rub chilblained heels, and narrowed their dreams to firesides and cups of hot cocoa.
Just now, with summer not yet fully upon them but with spring gloriously rampant, they were restless with an urgency to be free, to hunt crows’ nests, to trap gophers, to search moist meadows for that flame-red flower, the lily that was to be chosen Saskatchewan’s emblem, carrying it home as a gift to mother. They longed to leap, Indian-guide style, from grassy tussock to grassy tussock in the low places where the melting snow was draining, to put a handkerchief on a pole and sail a rickety raft over a small slough.
Already winter’s long underwear was a thing of the past, and mothers were laundering the fleece-lined, baggy garments, mending them, folding them, putting them away for a few short months. Soon now, shoes would be discarded, and feet, tender from a winter of woolen socks, heavy shoes, and thick overshoes, would ease gingerly—bare at last—into summer and revel in it.
Miss Wharton, not knowing she broke into numerous daydreams, rapped sharply on the edge of her desk and slowly brought order out of the chaos of eighteen children settling themselves to a morning of history and arithmetic, geography and spelling.
One small arm was raised, and one small hand urgently poked the air with three fingers. Ernie Battlesea. Miss Wharton’s system to reduce confusion was a simple one: Raise one finger to use the pencil sharpener; two for a drink; three to be excused for the toilet. A nod of the head by Miss Wharton and the supplicator went about filling his or her request with a minimum of disturbance.
Would Ernie never learn that certain needs should be taken care of before school? But being forgetful of rules, and having walked a mile or more after downing a large glass of milk, Ernie was desperate, this morning as every morning.
Having refused him once and having suffered the consequences, Miss Wharton, admitting defeat, sighed and nodded permission.
Much easier—the trip out
The voyageur looked the part, flamboyant in a combination of Indian and French dress: bright woolen or coonskin cap on his longhaired head, gaudy sash around his stalwart middle, moccasins on his feet, bearskin coat covering his muscular frame.
From trading post to trading post he went, with legendary feats of courage, daring the elements and beasts, and always with the good humor for which he was remembered. A special breed, the coureurs de bois . A special time in history, touched with a romance that had never been seen before or since.
Eastern settlements could ill afford to lose so many youth from their farms, and the government tried to intervene, making it hard, or impossible, for them to go. At times the young men were threatened with severe penalties if they persisted in going off into the woods. At one time they were required to have licenses. Needless to say, where young, hotheaded men were concerned, neitherplan worked very well. The fascination of the woods and the life of a coureur de bois were stronger pulls than any orders from the government. And because of the demand for furs and the pelts they supplied, these audacious runners of the woods were appreciated, their efforts applauded.
All too soon—with the passing of the beaver—the coureurs de bois became part of Canada’s colorful past.
Many a Bliss boy, wading spring runoff in his rubber boots, flashed swiftly along a foaming river in a canoe—in dreams. Many a lad set out a trap, catching a measly rabbit and counting it a glossy beaver. Caps of rabbit fur, cobbled together and worn jauntily on young heads, were coonskin in imagination.
But in winter—that time of deep freeze, heaped snowbanks, solid rivers and streams, when even the proud coureurs de bois had been near starvation—Bliss boys bowed their flannel-clad shoulders over scarred desks, flexed stiffened fingers or reached to rub chilblained heels, and narrowed their dreams to firesides and cups of hot cocoa.
Just now, with summer not yet fully upon them but with spring gloriously rampant, they were restless with an urgency to be free, to hunt crows’ nests, to trap gophers, to search moist meadows for that flame-red flower, the lily that was to be chosen Saskatchewan’s emblem, carrying it home as a gift to mother. They longed to leap, Indian-guide style, from grassy tussock to grassy tussock in the low places where the melting snow was draining, to put a handkerchief on a pole and sail a rickety raft over a small slough.
Already winter’s long underwear was a thing of the past, and mothers were laundering the fleece-lined, baggy garments, mending them, folding them, putting them away for a few short months. Soon now, shoes would be discarded, and feet, tender from a winter of woolen socks, heavy shoes, and thick overshoes, would ease gingerly—bare at last—into summer and revel in it.
Miss Wharton, not knowing she broke into numerous daydreams, rapped sharply on the edge of her desk and slowly brought order out of the chaos of eighteen children settling themselves to a morning of history and arithmetic, geography and spelling.
One small arm was raised, and one small hand urgently poked the air with three fingers. Ernie Battlesea. Miss Wharton’s system to reduce confusion was a simple one: Raise one finger to use the pencil sharpener; two for a drink; three to be excused for the toilet. A nod of the head by Miss Wharton and the supplicator went about filling his or her request with a minimum of disturbance.
Would Ernie never learn that certain needs should be taken care of before school? But being forgetful of rules, and having walked a mile or more after downing a large glass of milk, Ernie was desperate, this morning as every morning.
Having refused him once and having suffered the consequences, Miss Wharton, admitting defeat, sighed and nodded permission.
Much easier—the trip out
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