Читать книгу Little Rifle; or, The Young Fur Hunters онлайн

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“Perhaps if I live all my life in these woods,” said Little Rifle, in a voice of unconscious sadness, “I may come to look upon life as you do; but I can not do so just yet.”

“You ain’t going to live here all your life,” said the hunter, with such abruptness that the lad looked up inquiringly into his face, as if he failed to get the full import of his words. “You’re getting to be quite a likely-sized youngster, and it’s time that you see’d something more of the world than you can see in these parts, though a chap can see a powerful sight when he looks toward the mountains. I’m going on East arter the summer is over, and I’ll take you with me. You’ll see sights then that I reckon will make you open your eyes.”

“There is one sight which I often wonder whether I shall ever be given to look upon.”

“What’s that?”

“My parents—my brothers and sisters—if I have any, and something seems to tell me that I have. I tell you, Uncle Ruff, that strange dreams often come to me, not by night only, but by daytime. Sometimes when I am gliding over the stream in my canoe, or following the windings of the river, I forget your caution about keeping my wits about me, and I fall to thinking of the past, and of the future. I have done it of late very frequently, and a feeling comes over me that I can hardly describe. It has settled down into the belief that something strange is going to happen—something which is to change the whole course of my life, and make me really another person.”