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 was Sunday, on a clear, still, June morning. The men's shanty was deserted, the mill silent, the teams at White's camp stamping lazily in the stable.

The world was a glory of vivid life. All about growth had replaced the dormant grayness which had prevailed when John Taylor arrived in the country. Out on the plains June grass blades of heavy green had hidden the tufts of last season's dead stalks; brakes thrust their tender, curled fronds through the moss, and sweet-fern and sedge, those useless growths of the barrens, were, for the fortnight, things of beauty. Aspens and birch were in tremulous leaf, oak and maple had burst from their maroon buds and flaunted polished foliage to the sun. Within the forest the pines were stirring, terminal buds had opened and new, light needles were stretching for air and light. A company of birds made the somber shadows joyous and the Blueberry, wandering through the forest, sped crystal clear over golden sand or dark depths, reflecting the graceful ranks of spruce and balsam which edged it, taking on a border of luscious green where reeds shot through the surface.

Over on the Au Sable, forty miles away, Marcia Murray and a dozen or more of Taylor's Detroit friends were gathered at Dick Mason's Windigo Lodge for one of the protracted house parties which had given the place a name. John had half promised Marcia that he would be