Before her eyes the seasons changed, all grim, but one by the very pathos of brevity sad.  In the brief luxuriant summer came the Indians to trade their pelts, came the keepers of the winter posts to rest, came the ship from England bringing the articles of use or ornament she had ordered a full year before.  Within a short time all were gone, into the wilderness, into the great unknown world.  The snow fell; the river and the bay froze.  Strange men from the North glided silently to the Factor’s door, bearing the meat and pelts of the seal.  Bitter iron cold shackled the northland, the abode of desolation.  Armies of caribou drifted by, ghostly under the aurora, moose, lordly and scornful, stalked majestically along the shore; wolves howled invisible, or trotted dog-like in organized packs along the river banks.  Day and night the ice artillery thundered.  Night and day the fireplaces roared defiance to a frost they could not subdue, while the people of desolation crouched beneath the tyranny of winter.

Then the upheaval of spring with the ice-jams and terrors, the Moose roaring by untamable, the torrents rising, rising foot by foot to the very dooryard of her father’s house.  Strange spirits were abroad at night, howling, shrieking, cracking and groaning in voices of ice and flood.  Her Indian nurse told her of them all—­of Maunabosho, the good; of Nenaubosho the evil—­in her lisping Ojibway dialect that sounded like the softer voices of the forest.

At last the sudden subsidence of the waters; the splendid eager blossoming of the land into new leaves, lush grasses, an abandon of sweetbrier and hepatica.  The air blew soft, a thousand singing birds sprang from the soil, the wild goose cried in triumph.  Overhead shone the hot sun of the Northern summer.

From the wilderness came the brigades bearing their pelts, the hardy traders of the winter posts, striking hot the imagination through the mysterious and lonely allurement of their callings.  For a brief season, transient as the flash of a loon’s wing on the shadow of a lake, the post was bright with the thronging of many people.  The Indians pitched their wigwams on the broad meadows below the bend; the half-breeds sauntered about, flashing bright teeth and wicked dark eyes at whom it might concern; the traders gazed stolidily over their little black pipes, and uttered brief sentences through their thick black beards.  Everywhere was gay sound—­the fiddle, the laugh, the song; everywhere was gay color—­the red sashes of the voyageurs, the beaded moccasins and leggings of the metis, the capotes of the brigade, the variegated costumes of the Crees and Ojibways.  Like the wild roses around the edge of the muskegs, this brief flowering of the year passed.  Again the nights were long, again the frost crept down from the eternal snow, again the wolves howled across barren wastes.