The May woods are full of color; the crimson of the young maple sprays, the bronze and yellows of the new birch and basswood leaves reflecting the tints of autumn.

The brakes are unclenching their little, woolly brown fists, the new ferns are uncurling their furry, pale-green spirals. The dwarf ginseng’s leaves carpet the damp hollows, from their clusters rise innumerable feathery balls of bloom. The little wild ginseng holds its treasure safe—the small, edible tuber hidden far underground. There is no long-nailed Caliban to dig for it here on the island.

The trillium flowers are turning pink. After about two weeks of snowy whiteness they have changed to a beautiful rose color, and oh, the perfume that comes blown across those far-stretching beds of trillium! No garden of summer roses was ever half so sweet.

On the mainland trail, that winds along the shore from Drapeau’s to Foret’s, the ground is blue with violets and yellow with adder’s tongue, straw-colored bell wort and the downy yellow violet. Wild columbine beckons from the rocky crannies, Bishop’s cap and Solomon’s seal wave in the thickets, the wet fence corners are gay with the wine-red flowers of the wake robin and the tiny white stars of the wild strawberry dot the meadows.

This is insect time. The air hums with the whirring wings of the May flies, eel flies, woolly heads, and the great mosquitoes. They cling in clouds on all the window screens, they come into the house by hundreds, hanging on my clothes and tangled in the meshes of my hair. The wild cherry trees are festooned with the webs of the tent caterpillars and the worms are spinning down on long threads from thousands of teeming cocoons. When I walk through the woods I am decorated with a pair of little, live epaulets.

The treetops are noisy with a convention of bronzed grackles discussing all sorts of burning questions in their harsh, raucous voices.

“Cheerily, cheerily, cheer-up,” begs a robin in a white pine.

“I see you, I see you,” warns the meadow lark.“We know it, we know it,” answer the vireos.

The sapsucker is back, beating a tattoo on the house roof. An empty wooden box at the door rings like a war drum under the blows of his hard bill. On the first morning he waked me I felt a sentimental pleasure in the sound; it seemed spring’s reveille. On three successive mornings I heard him with an ever-decreasing joy. On the fourth I sprang out of bed, dazed with sleep, and, seizing a stick from the woodpile, I let fly at that diligent fowl, and he dashed away with a squawk. So low may one’s love of nature ebb at four o’clock in the morning.

To-day, as I was dreaming on the porch, I heard a fat-sounding “plop,” and saw a yard-long snake hanging in a crotch of a poplar, twisting his wicked head and lashing his tail. Immediately a brilliant redstart flew down and began darting at the reptile’s eyes, screaming and fluttering at a great rate. The snake had probably gone up the tree for eggs, only to be driven down by the small, furious householder. In a moment more he slid down the trunk and disappeared under the house.

The snakes on the island are harmless, I am assured. Therefore I do not object to this one’s living under the porch, but I hope that he will stay under it, and that I shall not step into the middle of his coils some day when he is out sunning himself. The feel of a live snake under my foot would throw me back some millions of years and I should become, at once, the prehistoric female, fleeing in terror from the ancient enemy.

The young rabbits are out, hopping softly down all the paths. They look so exactly like the small brown plaster bunnies sold in the shops at Easter that, when something frightens them and they “freeze” motionless under a bush or fern, I can scarcely believe that they are not toys, after all. Comical little creatures! They eye me with such solemnity. I often wonder what makes babies and other young things look so very wise. They seem to know such weighty secrets, that all the rest of the world has long forgotten.

The old hares also are coming round the house again. One ventures so near and drives the others away so fiercely that I half believe he is little Peter returned to me.

Over at the farms the spring sowing is done—the wheat, the barley, and the oats; and in the long twilights, and under the Planter’s Moon, the farmers are putting in the last seed potatoes. Seed planted at the full of the May moon gives the heaviest crops, they say.

In the furrows, the big dew worms are working up out of the wet ground, to be bait for the fish hooks. Here, our object in fishing being to catch the fish, we use worms, frogs, anything that fish will bite, leaving flies, spoons, and sportsman devices to the campers who fish according to science and rule.

Walking along the shore trail yesterday, I came upon Black Jack Beaulac, sitting on a rock, fishing tackle beside him. He seemed deep in thought and I wondered what new deviltry he was hatching there, for Black Jack is the tease and torment of the countryside. It is he who starts the good stories that go the rounds of the stores and firesides, and the slower wits fly before his tongue like chaff before the fan.

If Black Jack’s tales on the other men are good, theirs of his performances are quite as well worth hearing. There is one of the time when he stole a hogshead of good liquor, and carried it off single-handed before the wondering eyes of the “Sports” encamped at Les Rapides. It was Black Jack who plunged into the icy waters of the lake to the rescue of the half breed drowning there, and it was he who came to the aid of poor, terrified Rebecca North, whose husband had gone suddenly deranged and was running amuck. The poor crazy giant has never forgotten the treatment he received at those great hands. Long after his madness was past he spoke with awe of Black Jack’s powerful grasp.

Again there is the story of the race on the ice of Henderson’s Bay that will never lose its flavor. I heard it from Uncle Dan Cassidy one wet Sunday afternoon, as we sat round the Blakes’ kitchen fire popping corn and capping stories. Uncle Dan has a brogue as thick as cream and a voice as smooth as butter. No writer of dialects could ever reproduce his speech. Translated, the tale runs thus:

There was to be a great race to which anyone having a horse was welcome. Yankee Jim Branch, a cousin of Black Jack’s, had an old nag, fit for little, which he entered by way of a joke. Black Jack, being temporarily out of horses, in consequence of some dealing with the local storekeeper and a chattel mortgage, was not included in the company. There had long been a feud between Black Jack and Yankee, so it was considered a good thing that they were not both to be represented in the contest.

It was a great occasion. The course was staked out on the ice with ceremony, little cedar bushes were stuck up to mark the quarter miles, and there was a flag at the judge’s stand. William Foret held Joe Bogg’s big silver stop watch to mark the time, Andy Drapeau had a stump of pencil and an old envelope on which to record it and the stakes were as much as two dollars.

The start was made, all horses had run, and the race, oddly enough, lay between Bogg’s gray and Yankee’s old hack, when—

“Ping!”

A shot sang out from somewhere, far back on the point, and Yankee’s horse dropped like a stone. His driver was leaning far out over the wretched creature’s back, belaboring him with a great gad. The halt was so sudden that away he went, straight on over the horse’s head, landing hard on the ice. Up he jumped raging, and ran back to the stupified group at the stand.“Is any man in the crowd got his gun?” he demanded.

Every man was abundantly able to prove that his gun rested behind the door of his own cabin.

“Is Black Jack in the crowd?” inquired Yankee.

He was not, and Yankee was immediately convinced that his cousin, Black Jack, had fired that shot.

Then in the midst of the excitement Black Jack himself appeared, striding unconcernedly down the hill. He had been hidden among the bushes, far back on the point, and, unable to endure the thought of Yankee’s bragging if his horse should win, had raised his gun and shot the wretched animal, at the very instant of victory, and when, in Yankee’s mind, the two dollars was as good as spent.

History does not tell what Yankee did to get even. Probably nothing, for no one in the countryside cares to interfere with Black Jack. He is known as a man of his hands and a good person to let alone.

All this and more I remembered when I saw Jack sitting on the shore. But he was not wearing his usual devil-may-care swagger and cheerful grin. Instead, his square, dark face was grim, his great shoulders were bent, his long arms hung relaxed and his black eyes gazed moodily over the water. He looked tired and gaunt and gray. Presently he rose heavily and, without seeing me, strode off to his boat, stepped in and rowed away and the next I heard of him, he had enlisted and was off to Valcartier to learn to be a soldier.

Following his example went Little John Beaulac and his son Louis, to the despair of poor Rose, and later, Charley McDougal and George Drapeau.

“It’s the meal ticket with those fellows,” commented Henry Blake. “What do they know about this war? They don’t even know what they’ll be fighting for. No, it’s the money they’re after. The mines are not working, there’s little or no wood-cutting to be done, and they’re up against it for food. Jack thinks that he’ll get a pension for his woman and a bounty for each one of the kids. The recruiting sergeants get so much a head for every man they bring in and so, of course, they promise these poor fellows anything. But they find out different after they’ve enlisted. Black Jack’ll never stick at it. He’ll desert, and if he does they’ll never catch him. He’s here to-day and fifty miles away across the hills to-morrow. He travels like a mink, Black Jack does.”

Poor Jack! He will find the restraint of barracks and drill intolerable, he who has never known any law but his own will. Will he stand the life? I wonder.