Burned Bridges - Bertrand W. Sinclair (best ereader for academics txt) 📗

Chapter 3 (In Which Mr. Thompson Begins To Wonder Painfully) Pg 37

Lived In The Eastern States. It Simply Unrooted Dad. He Took Me And Came

Away Up Here And Buried Himself. Incidentally He Buried Me Too. And I

Don't Want To Be Buried. I Resent Being Buried. I Hope I Shall Not

Always Be A Prisoner In These Woods. And I Grow More And More Resentful

Against That Preacher For Giving My Father A Jolt That Made A Recluse Of

Him. Don't You See? That One Thing Has Colored My Personal Attitude

Toward Preachers As A Class. I Can Never Meet A Minister Without

Thinking Of That Episode Which Has Kept Me Here Where I Never See

Another White Woman,  And Very Seldom A Man. It's Really A Weak Spot In

Me,  Holding A Grudge Like That. One Wouldn't Condemn Carpenters As A

Body Because One Carpenter Botched A House. And Still--"

 

She Made The Queer Little Gesture With Her Hands That He Had Noticed

Before. And She Smiled Quite Pleasantly At Mr. Thompson In Womanly

Inconsistency With The Attitude She Had Just Been Explaining She Held

Toward Ministers.

 

"One Gets Such Silly Notions," She Remarked. "Just Like Your Idea That

You Can Come Here And Do Good. You Can't,  You Know--Not For Others--Not

By Your Method. It's Absurd. One Can Help Others Most,  I Really Believe,

By Helping Oneself. I've Noticed In Reading Of The Phenomena Of Human

Relations That The Most Pronounced Idealists Are Frequently A Sad Burden

To Others."

 

Mr. Thompson Found Himself At A Loss For Instant Reply. It Was A Trifle

Less Direct,  More Subtle Than He Liked. It Opened Hazily Paths Of

Speculation He Had Never Explored Because Generalizations Of That Sort

Had Never Been Propounded To Him--Certainly Never By A Young Woman Whose

Very Physical Presence Disturbed Him Sadly.

 

And While He Was Turning That Last Sentence Over Uncomfortably In His

Mind A Hail Sounded Across The Meadow. Sophie Stood Up And Waved The Tin

Bucket She Had In Her Hand. Tommy Ashe Came Striding Toward Them. He,

Too,  Carried A Tin Bucket.

 

"We're Going To A Blackberry Patch Down The Creek," Sophie Answered

Thompson's Involuntary Look Of Inquiry. "Get A Pail And Come Along."

 

"I Must Work," Thompson Shook His Head.

 

"Berry-Picking's Work,  If Work Is What You Want," She Retorted. "You'd

Think So By The Time You'd Picked A Hundred Quarts Or More And Preserved

Them For Winter Use. But Then I Suppose _Your_ Winter Supply Will

Emanate From Some Mysterious,  Beneficent Source,  Without Any Effort On

Your Part. How Fortunate That Will Be."

 

She Tempered This Sally With A Laugh,  And Being Presently Joined By

Tommy Ashe,  Set Off Toward The Bank Of Lone Moose,  Leaving Mr. Thompson

Sitting On His Log,  Indulging In Some Very Mixed Reflections.

 

The Task He Was Engaged Upon Seemed Suddenly To Have Lost Its Savor.

Whether This Arose From A Depressing Sense Of Inability To Deny The

Truth Of Much That Sophie Carr Had Just Said,  Or From The Fact That As

He Sat There Looking After Them He Found Himself Envying Tommy Ashe's

Pleasant Intimacy With The Girl,  He Could Not Say. Indeed,  He Did Not

Inquire Too Closely Of Himself. Some Of The Conclusions He Was Latterly

Arriving At Were So Radically Different From What He Was Accustomed To

Accepting That He Was A Little Bit Afraid Of Them.

Chapter 3 (In Which Mr. Thompson Begins To Wonder Painfully) Pg 38

It Took Him A Considerable Time To Get Back Into A Proper Working Frame

Of Mind. The Progress Of His Wooden Edifice Suffered By That Much. When

He Went Trudging Home At Last,  Sweaty And Tired,  With His Axe Over One

Shoulder,  He Was Wondering Frankly If,  After All,  It Was Either Wise Or

Necessary To Establish A Mission At Lone Moose. What Good Could He Or

Any Other Man Possibly Do There? The Logical And Proper Answer To That

Did Not Spring As Readily To His Lips As It Would Have Done At The Time

Of His Appointment By The Board Of Home Missions.

 

Along With That He Was Troubled By A Constant Recurrence Of His Thoughts

To Sophie Carr. Nor Was It A Matter Of Wonder At Her Bookish Knowledge,

Her Astonishing Vocabulary,  Her Ability To Think And To Express Her

Thoughts Concisely. He Conceded That She Was A Remarkable Young Woman In

That Respect. It Was Not Her Intellectual Capacity Which Concerned Him

Greatly,  But The Sunny Aureole Of Her Hair,  The Smiling Curve Of Her

Lips,  The Willowy Pliancy Of Her Well-Developed Body. Just To Think Of

Her Meant A Colorful Picture,  A Vision That Filled Him With Uneasy

Restlessness,  With Vague Dissatisfaction,  With Certain Indefinable

Longings.

 

He Was Quite Unable To Define To Himself The Purport Of These Remarkable

Symptoms.

 

 

 

Chapter 4 (A Slip Of The Axe) Pg 39

Mr. Thompson Gradually Became Aware Of A Change In The Season. The

Calendar Lost A Good Deal Of Its Significance Up There,  Partly Because

He Had No Calendar And Partly Because One Day Was So Much A Duplicate Of

Another That The Flitting Of Time Escaped His Notice. But He Became

Conscious That The Days Grew Shorter,  The Nights A Shade More Cool,  And

That The Atmosphere Was Taking On That Hazy,  Mellow Stillness Which

Makes Indian Summer A Period Of Rare Beauty In The North. He Took

Serious Stock Of Elapsed Time Then,  And Found To His Surprise That It

Was September The Fifteenth.

 

He Had Not Accomplished Much. The Walls Of His Church Stood About The

Level Of His Head. It Grew Increasingly Difficult For Him Alone To Hoist

The Logs Into Place. The Door And Window Spaces Were Out Of Square.

Without Help He Did Not See How He Was Going To Rectify These Small

Errors And Get The Roof On. Even After It Should Be Roofed,  The Cracks

Chinked And Daubed With Mud,  The Doors And Windows In Place--What Then?

 

He Would Still Lack Hearers For The Message Which He Daily Grew A Little

More Doubtful Of His Ability To Deliver. A Native Streak Of Stubbornness

Kept Him Studying The Language Along With His Daily Tussle With The Axe

And Saw. But The Rate Of His Progress Was Such That He Pessimistically

Chapter 4 (A Slip Of The Axe) Pg 40

Calculated That It Would Take Him At Least Two Years Before He Could

Preach With Any Degree Of Understanding In The Athabascan Tongue.

 

So Far He Had Never Gone The Length Of Candidly Asking Himself Whether

By Then It Would Be A Task He Could Put His Heart Into,  If He Were Even

Fitted For Such A Work,  Or If It Were A Useful And Worthy Task If He

Were Gifted With A Fitness For It. He Had Been Taught That Preaching The

Gospel Was A Divinely Appointed Function. He Had Not Questioned That.

But He Had Now A Lively Sense Of Difficulties Hitherto Unreckoned,  And

An Ill-Stifled Doubt Of The Good That Might Accrue. His Blank Ignorance

Of The Salient Points Of Human Contact,  Of Why Men Work And Play,  Why

They Love And Fight And Marry And Bend All Their Energies Along Certain

Given Lines Until They Grow Old And Gray And In The End Cease To Be,

Only Served To Bewilder Him. His Association With Tommy Ashe And With

Carr And Carr's Daughter--Especially With Carr's Daughter--Further

Accentuated The Questioning Uncertainty Of His Mind.

 

But That Was All--Merely An Uncertainty Which He Tried To Dissipate By

Prayer And Stern Repression Of Smoldering Doubts. At The Same Time While

He Decried And Resented Their Outspoken Valuation Of Material

Considerations He Found Himself Constantly Subject To Those Material

Factors Of Daily Living.

 

The First Of These Was Food. When Mr. Thompson Outfitted Himself For

That Spiritual Invasion Of Lone Moose He Brought In Four Months'

Supplies. He Discovered Now That His Supply Of Certain Articles Was Not

So Adequate As He Had Been Told It Would Be. Also He Had Learned From

Carr And Lachlan That If A Man Wintered At Lone Moose It Was Well To

Bring In A Winter's Grub Before The Freeze-Up--The Canoe Being A Far

Easier Mode Of Transport Than A Dog-Team And Sled.

 

So Thompson Stopped His Building Activities Long Enough To Make A Trip

To Pachugan. He Got Lachlan's Oldest Son To Go With Him. His Quarterly

Salary Was Due,  And He Had A Rather Reluctant Report Of His Work To

Make. With The Money He Would Be Able To Replenish His Stock Of Sugar

And Tea And Dried Fruit And Flour. He Decided Too That He Would Have To

Buy A Gun And Learn To Use It As The Source Of His Meat Supply.

 

His Sublime Confidence In The Organization Which Had Sent Him There

Suffered A Decided Shock When He Reached Fort Pachugan,  And Found No

Remittance Awaiting Him. There Was A Letter From The Board Secretary

Breathing Exhortations Which Sounded Rather Hollow In Conjunction With

The Absence Of Funds. Mr. Thompson,  For The First Time In His Career,

Found Himself Badly In Need Of Money,  Irritated Beyond Measure By Its

Lack,  Painfully Cognizant Of Its Value. But He Was Too Diffident To

Suggest A Credit On The Strength Of The Cheque Which,  Upon Reflection,

He Decided Was Merely Delayed In The More Or Less Uncertain Mails. He

Could Make Shift With What He Had For Another Month. Nor Did He Mention

This Slight Difficulty To Macleod.

 

That Gentleman Had Greeted Him Heartily Enough.

 

"Man,  But Ye Look As If The Country Agreed Wi' You," He Observed,  After

An Appraising Glance. "How Goes The Good Work At Lone Moose?"

 

"There Are Difficulties," Thompson Responded With An Unintentional

Touch Of Ambiguity. "But I Daresay I'll Manage In Time To Overcome

Them."