"
"Some day, dear," he answered hopefully. "They will come some day;
and when they do, be sure it will be to take you to their hearts."
She sighed and shook her head unbelievingly. But the "some day"
that he prophesied, but which she doubted, came in a manner all too
soon--all too unwelcome. The little son had just begun to walk
about nicely, when George Mansion was laid low with a lingering
fever that he had contracted among the marshes where much of his
business as an employee of the Government took him. Evils had begun
to creep into his forest world. The black and subtle evil of the
white man's firewater had commenced to touch with its poisonous
finger the lives and lodges of his beloved people. The curse began
to spread, until it grew into a menace to the community. It was the
same old story: the white man had come with the Bible in one hand,
the bottle in the other. George Mansion had striven side by side
with Mr. Evans to overcome the dread scourge. Together they fought
the enemy hand to hand, but it gained ground in spite of all their
efforts. The entire plan of the white liquor dealer's campaign was
simply an effort to exchange a quart of bad whiskey for a cord of
first-class firewood, or timber, which could be hauled off the
Indian Reserve and sold in the nearby town markets for five or
six dollars; thus a hundred dollars worth of bad whiskey, if
judiciously traded, would net the white dealer a thousand dollars
cash.
Pages:
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76