For some unknown reason it had pleased him, that last ingenious
sentence.
"Prix Laroux," he said, turning to his new acquisition, "we will get to
the work of our contract."
CHAPTER II THE SPRING
Springtime lay over the vast region of lake and forest. Along the
shores of the little rivers the new grass was springing, and in nook
and sheltered corner of rock and depression shy white flowers lifted
their pretty heads to the coaxing sun. Deep in the budding woods birds
in flocks and bevies called across the wilderness of tender green,
while at the post the youths sang snatches of wild French songs and all
the world felt the thirst of the new life.
A somewhat hard winter it had been, long and cold, with crackling frost
of nights and the snow piled deep around the stockade, and the gracious
release was very welcome.
The somewhat fickle stream of the Assiniboine had loosed its locks of
ice and rolled and gurgled, full to its low banks, as if the late
summer would not see it shrunk to a lazy thread, refusing sometimes
even the shallow canoes and barely licking the parched lips of the
land.
In gay attire the maids of De Seviere ventured beyond the gates to
stray a little way into the forest and come back laden with tiny green
sprays of the golden trailer, with wee white blossoms and now and again
a great swelling bud of the gorgeous purple flower of the death plant.
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