Argosy and Railroad Man's Magazine — page 97: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

P4 by William Merriam Rouse OR more than ten years the village of Belle Riviere had called him Jacques of the Thick Head. \ Not to his face, certainly, for Jacques Grondin commanded respect in spite of the uncomplimentary title which his own people had given him. A man who could put a barrel of flour on his shoulder without visible effort was worthy of respect, even if he did have less common sense than any other French-Canadian be- tween Montreal and the Gulf. At thirty Jacques had become a proverb in his own parish. Jacques’s lack of sense, by him realized fully, had troubled him more or less for a long time; but on a certain day in the middle of a cold winter it became a danger. It threatened his happiness as one of the black storms of the north threatens the white world — impenetrable, omnipotent, bringing darkness and bone-searching cold. He stood upon the heights overlooking Belle Riviere in winter sunlight which failed to sweep the shadows out of his thoughts, and hoped against certainty for some little trick of fate to relieve him. He knew that he was going to do a thing which might easily rob him of that which he most desired, A hundred feet below lay the village, its stone walls pink and pale-green and white, according to the fantasy of the painter and the odds and ends of paint which must be kept from waste. The roofs, buried under snow except for their dormer windows, slanted gracefully heavenward; and little trailing wreaths of smoke sauntered from - broad chimneys. Grondin loved the village almost as much as he loved the blue Laurentians at his back and the ice-locked St. Lawrence which went out toward the sea past the village and the misty heights of Cap Four- ment. He was brother to the wind and snow and. the keen, cold air. What mis- fortune to be afflicted with a disease of the spirit which repeatedly weakened him in the lace of necessity—thus ran his thoughts! - “Cest dommage!” he muttered as he turned on his snow-shoes. : “What is a pity, my Jacques?” The question came from behind him, and in a voice which, to his ears, had ever shamed the chimes of Ste. Anne de Beaupré. He’ turned quickly. Céleste Rigaud, to whom he was betrothed, was almost near enough to touch him—with a sparkle in her black eyes, and red in her cheeks, and a smile like dawn. She wore little caribou chaussons and a boy’s mackinaw jacket in- stead of the flimsy moccasins and fancy coats which most of the village girls affected. “ Mon Dieu!” he exclaimed. “‘ You have learned to put your feet down like feathers —or was I asleep?” 439 - CommicooolkS.conn yore we ee pe ee Sep Le = a Se