Jerry Island was formed by one of the side currents of the river that wandered off through the woods and lowland and rejoined the main stream above the Big Marsh.

The herons, bitterns and wild ducks swept low over the brush entangled water course and dropped into the quiet open places. Innumerable clusters of small mud turtles fringed the drift wood and fallen timbers that retarded the sluggish current. The patriarchs of the hard shelled brotherhood—moss covered and intolerant—spent their days on the half-submerged gray logs in somnolent isolation.

Kingfishers, crows and hawks found a fecund hunting ground along the winding byway. Squirrels and chipmunks raced over the recumbent trunks, and whisked their bushy tails in the patches of sunlight that filtered through the interlacing boughs above them.

At night the owls, coons, minks and muskrats explored the wet labyrinths, aged bull frogs trumpeted dolefully, and stealthy nocturnal prowlers came there to drink. Sometimes the splash of a fish broke the stillness, and little rings crept away over the surface and lost themselves among the weeds and floating moss.

Long ago the trails of wolves, deer, and other large animals appeared in the snow on the island during the winter; bear tracks were often found, and there is a legend among the latter day prosaics that a couple of panthers once had a den in the neighborhood. In later years most of the winter pathways were made by foxes and rabbits and their human and canine pursuers.

Near the bank of the main stream stood a decayed but well constructed old house. It was built of faced logs with mortar between them. There were three rooms on the ground floor, and some steep narrow stairs led into an attic next to the roof that sloped to the floor along its sides.

My friend “Buck” Granger, a gray haired old trapper and hunter, whose grandfather built the house about a hundred years ago, ushered me up the creaky stairs late one night.

The alert eyes of a red squirrel peered at us from the end of a tattered mink muff that lay on an oak chest close to the roof, and vanished. Apparently the small visitor was not greatly disturbed, for, after two or three gentle undulations, the muff was motionless.

After conventional but cordial injunctions to make myself at home, Buck departed to his quarters below.

The quaint and picturesque attic was full of interest. An old fashioned bedstead stood in the room, a cumbrous, home made “four poster.” Over its cord lacings was a thick feather bed, several comforters, and a multicolored patchwork quilt. The sheets and pillow slips were of coarsely woven linen.

Bunches of seed corn and dried herbs were suspended from pegs along the roof timbers; near the oak chest was a spinning wheel, and a broken cradle—all veiled with mantles of fine dust and cobwebs. The cradle, in which incipient genius may once have slumbered, was filled with bags of beans, ears of pop corn, and hickory nuts. Squirrels and white footed mice from the surrounding woods had held high revel in the tempting hoard.

The cradle had guarded the infancy of many little furred families after its first usefulness had ceased, for there were cosy tangled nests of shredded cotton and woolen material among its mixed contents.

Moths had worked sad havoc in the row of worn out garments that festooned the cross beams. Some rusty muskrat traps and obsolete fire arms were heaped in one corner, with discarded hats and boots.

Close to the roof, near the edge of the unprotected stairway, was a tall silent clock. It was very old. Most of the veneering had chipped away from its woodwork, parts of the enameled and grotesquely ornamented dial had scaled off, and across the scarred face its one crippled hand pointed to the figure seven. The worn mechanism had not pulsated for many years.

Innumerable tiny fibers connected the top and sides of the old clock with the sloping roof timbers, and a sinister watcher, hairy and misshapen—crouched within the mouth of a tubular web above the dial.

Tenuous highways spanned the spaces between the rafters. Gauzy filaments led away into obscurities, and gossamer shreds hung motionless from the upper gloom. There were mazes of webs, woven by generations of spiders, laden with impalpable dust, and tenantless. The patient spinners had lived their little day and left their airy tissues to the mercy of the years. Like flimsy relics of human endeavor, the frail structures awaited the inevitable.

There was an impression of mistiness and haziness in the wandering and broken fibers, and the filmy labyrinths—as of a brain filled with fancies that were inchoate and confused—an abode of idle dreams.

The web spanned attic pictured a mind, inert and fettered by dogma and tradition, in which existence is passive, and where vital currents are stilled—where light is instinctively excluded and intrusion of extraneous ideas is resented. Occupants of endowed chairs in old universities, pedantic art classicists, smug dignitaries of established churches, and other guardians of embalmed and encrusted conclusions, are apt to have such attics. Like the misshapen watcher within the tubular web above the dial, they crouch in musty seclusion.

I opened the queer looking bed, that had evidently been made up a long time, and lay for half an hour or so, trying to read by the light of the sputtering candle. The subtle spell of the old attic at length overcame the charm of my author, and I gave myself over to a troop of thronging fancies.

Although the invisible inmate of the muff gave a life accent to the room, the quiet was oppressive. A sense of seclusion from realities pervaded the human belongings. Intimate personal things, that only vanished hands have touched, seem to possess an indefinable remoteness—as if they pertained to something detached and far away—and lingered in an atmosphere of spiritual loneliness.

When the moon beams came through the cobwebbed window frame, and crept along the floor to the ghostly old clock, it haunted the room with a vague impression of weariness and futility. It seemed to stand in mute and solemn mockery of the eternal hours that had passed on and left it in hopeless vigil by the wayside.

The watcher in the web—grim and silent, like a waiting sexton—awakened uncanny thought. There was gruesome suggestion in the dark stairway hole at the foot of the clock—as if it had been newly dug in the earth.

Like evil phantoms into an idle mind, a pair of bats glided swiftly in through the open window, circled noiselessly about, and departed.

The moon rays touched something in the rubbish at the further end of the room that reflected a dull light. After restraining my curiosity for some time, I arose, crossed the floor, and picked up a strange looking box. It was about fourteen inches long, nine inches high, and a foot wide. Its hasp and small handle on the cover appeared to be of wrought iron, but the embossed facing that covered the sides and ends, and the strips that protected the edges, were of brass, studded with nails of the same metal. It seemed in the dim light to be much corroded by time.

Hoping that something might be learned of its history in the morning, I placed the box on the floor near the bed, and was finally lulled to belated slumber by the crickets in the crevices of the logs, and the rustlings of tiny feet among the contents of the cradle. Speculations regarding the brass bound box softly blended into dreams.

During breakfast the next morning my host told me that the box had once belonged to a Jesuit priest; some Indians who formerly lived on the island had given it to his grandfather, and it had been in the attic ever since the house was built. He had often looked at its contents but could make nothing of them, and considered that “they were not of much account.” He said he would be glad to have me go through them and see if they were of any value. He also said that there was a bundle of old papers in the oak chest that he hoped I would look over, as his grandfather had written much concerning the river and the Indians that might interest me.

Filled with anticipation of congenial occupation during the rainy day, I went with Buck to the attic after breakfast. We dragged a decrepit walnut table to the window and dusted it carefully. Buck brought from the chest a small bundle that was tied up in brown paper and left it with me. The tenant of the muff had decamped, probably resenting the intrusion into his domain. I brought the brass bound box, found a comfortable hickory chair, lighted a tranquilizing pipe, and was soon absorbed in the stack of closely written manuscript that I found in the bundle.

Some parts of it were illegible and the spelling was unique. The old man probably considered correct spelling to be an accomplishment of mere literary hacks, and that it was not necessary for an author who had anything else to think of to pay much attention to it.

There was much information regarding the Indian occupation of the river country. It appeared that there were about fifty wigwams on the island when the red men were compelled to leave by the government. Most of them were taken to a reservation out west, and a number went to some lands of their kindred along the St. Joseph river in Michigan. Eventually a few returned and lived in scattered isolation, but their tribal organization was broken up.

The head of the village on Jerry Island was a venerable warrior named “Hot Ashes.” He was a friend of Buck’s grandfather, and it was he who gave him the brass bound box when the Indians left. He said it had been brought to the island by the “Black Robe” many years before, and that he had left it in the mission house when he went away.

The box had been treasured by the Indians, for it was supposed for a long time to be a “great medicine,” but when they departed they considered it a useless burden. There had been much misfortune after the Black Robe left and their faith in its powers gradually ceased.

The going away of the kindly priest was much mourned by his dusky flock. He was supposed to have departed on some mysterious errand, and to have met fatality in the woods, but they were never able to find any traces of him.

Hot Ashes believed that the Black Robe had a great trouble, as, before his disappearance, he neglected the work of his mission for several days, and walked about on the island, carrying a little bundle which he was seen to throw into the river the day he left.

There was no further reference in the manuscript to the Black Robe, or to the brass bound box, which I now opened.

There were two compartments, divided into sections, one on either side of a larger opening in the middle. These contained various small articles. Two of them fitted low square bottles, one of which was half filled with a black powdery substance. On the label, that fell off when I removed the bottle, I deciphered the word ENCRE. Experiment justified the conclusion that the powder had been added to water when ink was needed. A dry coating on the inside of the other bottle indicated that it had been used for this purpose.

In a larger section were some beads that were once a rosary, fragments of a silk cord that had held them together, and a crucifix.

At the center of each end of the box, were half circular rests, probably designed to hold a chalice. The space contained a breviary, bound in leather, and much worn, some ink stained quill pens, a small box of fine sand that had been used for blotting, and some loosely folded papers. They consisted mostly of letters from the Superior of the Mission, and pertained to routine affairs, suggestions regarding the work of the little mission, and congratulations on its successful progress.

Comparison of the depth of the opening with the outside of the box revealed the existence of a secret space, and it was only after long study and experiment that I discovered the means of access to it. On lifting its cover I found a flexible cloth covered book and a letter enclosed in oiled silk, that was much tattered.

The book, which was yellow with age, and frayed at the edges, contained closely written pages in French, many of them much faded, obscure, and in some places entirely obliterated.

The chirography was in the main neat and methodical, but apparently the writing had been done under many varying conditions that made uniformity impossible. Several small drawings were scattered through the text. Some of them showed considerable skill and care, and the others were rough topographic sketches and memorandums of routes.

The book was the journal of Pierre de Lisle, a young Jesuit missionary who left France in 1723 to carry salvation to the heathen in the remote wilderness of the new continent.

The early entries related to his novitiate in Paris, his work in the Jesuit college, and the preparations for his departure for America. They reflected his hopes for the success of his perilous undertaking.

There were vague references to a deep affliction, and to periods of heart sickness and mental depression, by reason of which he had taken the long and difficult path of self denial and self effacement that led him into the activities of the Society of Jesus.

He had spent the required years in the subjugation of the flesh and the sanctification of mind and soul, when he went on board the vessel that was to take him to Quebec.

In the hope of finding a clue to Pierre’s sorrow, I extracted the letter from its silk covering. It had evidently been cherished through the vicissitudes of purification and the perils of arduous journeyings. It was signed by Marie d’Aubigney, and told of her love, that was undying but hopeless, and of her approaching compulsory marriage to “M. le Marquis.” His name did not appear in the letter.

Mingled with the musty odor of the ancient missive, I thought I detected a faint lingering perfume—at least there was one in the message, if not in the paper that bore it.

Several pages of the journal were devoted to the tempestuous voyage across the Atlantic, and a gloomy week spent in the fog off the Grand Banks. The vessel finally reached Quebec, where Pierre reported to the Superior of the Canadian Mission.

He and several other missionaries, accompanied by voyageurs and Indian guides, made a long and eventful trip up the St. Lawrence and Ottawa rivers to Georgian Bay. They skirted its shores to Lake Huron, where a violent gale scattered their boats, and wrecked two of them.

After much danger and hardship the party landed on the wild coast, but the food supplies had been lost in the turbulent waters. In an attempt to find sustenance, Pierre and one companion wandered a considerable distance from the camp and lost their way in a snowstorm. They found an Indian village that had been depopulated by small pox, and took refuge in one of the squalid huts, where they were besieged by a pack of wolves for several days. Had it not been for some scraps of dried fish that they fortunately found in the hut, they would have starved. They were finally rescued, and Pierre ascribed their deliverance to St. Francis.

The Indians succeeded in killing some game in the woods, and, after a hazardous journey, the party reached Mackinac. Pierre went from there to Green Bay. He stayed a few months and departed for the mission on the St. Joseph river, where he remained a year.

The journal gave many details of his life as an assistant at this mission, where he baptized numerous converts, and greatly increased the attendance at the mission school.

In the hope of enlarging his usefulness, he sent a letter to Quebec, asking permission to found a new mission among the Indians inhabiting the river country south of the St. Joseph. With the doubtful means of communication the letter was a long time in reaching its destination, and he had about given up hope when a favorable reply came.

With one of his converts as a guide, he departed for the field of his new labors. They ascended the St. Joseph in a canoe, made the portage from its headwaters, and descended the Kankakee.

Frequent mention was made in the journal of the faithful guide, who proved invaluable, and of the beautiful scenery of the route. Camps were pitched on the verdant banks at night, but once, in passing through one of the vast marshes, they lost the uncertain channel and were compelled to sleep in the canoe.

They stopped at a few Indian villages along the river and were received with kindness. The journey was continued down stream beyond Jerry Island. The populous communities above and below that point commended it to his judgment. He returned and began the work of establishing his mission.

Although he found the manifold vices of paganism in the villages, he was treated with bountiful hospitality. Successive feasts were prepared in his honor, in which boiled dog was the “piece de resistance.” Willing hands assisted in the construction of the mission house, and the date of the first mass was recorded in the journal.

There was much sickness among the Indians when Pierre came, the nature of which did not appear. Orgies and incantations continued day and night to conjure away the epidemic. He performed the consolatory offices of his church in the afflicted wigwams. Soon after his arrival practically all of the sickness disappeared. Their recovered health convinced the credulous savages that the Black Robe possessed a mysterious power, and the small bottle of black powder was thought to be a mighty magic.

Ink has swayed the destinies of countless millions, but here its potency seems to have played a strange role.

Much of the journal was devoted to happenings that now seem trivial, but to the zealous disciple of Loyola—a protagonist of his faith on a spiritual frontier—they were of great moment. Detached from their contemporary human associations, events must affect the emotions or the interests of the mass of mankind if their records endure.

Pierre assisted in the councils, gave advice on temporal affairs, and patiently inculcated the precepts of his religion in the minds of his primitive flock. Impressive baptisms and beautiful deaths were noted at length. Converts who strayed from the fold, and were induced to return, were given much space.

Here and there poetic reflections graced the faded pages, and pious musings were recorded. Original verse, and quotations from favorite authors, that seemed inspired by melancholy hours, mingled with the text. The names of the various saint’s days were often used as captions for the entries, instead of calendar dates.

In the back of the book was a list of names of converts, dates of baptism, marriages and deaths, and a vocabulary of about three hundred words of the Pottowatomie dialect of the Algonquin language, with their French equivalents. Variations in the chirography indicated that the lists had grown gradually, as additions were made with different pens.

A gloomy spirit seemed to pervade the dim pages. The broken heart of Pierre de Lisle throbbed between the lines of the story of his life in the wilderness. He had carried his cross to the far places, and, in isolation, he yearned for the healing balm of forgetfulness on his fevered soul. There were evidences of a great mental conflict among the last entries. He mentioned the arrival at the island of Jacques Le Moyne, a Jesuit priest, who was on his way to a distant post on the Mississippi, and spent several weeks with him. They had been boyhood friends in France and had entered the Jesuit college at about the same time. His coming was a breath of life from the outer world.

Le Moyne told him of the death of the Marquis de Courcelles, whose existence had darkened Pierre’s life, and all of the precepts, tenets, and pageantry of the Church of Rome floated away as mists before a freshening wind.

Pierre was born again. The dormant life currents quickened, and his virile soul and body exulted in emancipation and new found hope.

The entries in the journal closed with a sorrowful farewell to his spiritual charges, of which they probably never knew, and an expression of pathetic gratitude to his friend Jacques, who had opened a gate between desolation and earthly paradise, for warm arms in France were reaching across the stormy seas, and into the wilds of the new world for Pierre de Lisle.

It seemed strange that he had left the journal and the letter of Marie d’Aubigney. He was probably obsessed by his one dominant thought, and naturally excluded everything not needed for his long journey, but if his mind had not been much perturbed and confused he might have taken or destroyed the journal, but he surely would have carried the precious letter with him.

The little bundle that he threw into the river, the day he left the island, may have contained his sacramental chalice, for in it his lips had found bitter waters.

He probably dissembled his apostasy and utilized such Jesuit facilities as were available in getting back to his native land, lulling his conscience with one of the maxims of the Society of Jesus—“the end justifies the means”—but be that as it may, the chronicles in the attic had come to an end.

I sat for a long time, listening to the patter of the rain on the old roof, and mused over the frail memorials.

There is but one great passion in the world. With it all human destiny is entwined. Votaries of established religion have ever been recruited from the disconsolate. The gray walls of convents and monasteries have lured the heart stricken, and in remote fields of pious endeavor unguents have been sought for cruel wounds. In the waste places of the earth have been scattered the ashes of despair, but while life lasts, it somewhere holds the eternal chords. At hope’s vibrant touch the enfeebled strings awake and attune to the sublime strains of the Great Lyric.

The faint echo of a song lingered in the brass bound box. The silk covered letter intoned a dream melody that the years had not hushed.