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THE INCREDIBLE JOURNEY

“Captivating! A tale of charm, high drama and some revelations of the love existing between man and beast.”

The New York Times

“An incredible book! A beautiful story so moving that it stays in the mind constantly. It is a gem to be treasured!”

The St. Louis Post-Dispatch

“I have read THE INCREDIBLE JOURNEY with much enjoyment. Obviously the author has a great knowledge of animals and a great love for them.”

Joy Adamson,

author of BORN FREE

ALSO AVAILABLE IN LAUREL-LEAF BOOKS:

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DEATHWATCH, Robb White

DOWNRIVER, Will Hobbs

THE ISLAND, Gary Paulsen

THE CROSSING, Gary Paulsen

THE NIGHT THE WHITE DEER DIED, Gary Paulsen

NIGHTJOHN, Gary Paulsen

DEADLY DECEPTION, Betsy Haynes

THE HOUSE ACROSS THE COVE, Barbara Hall

AK, Peter Dickinson

Published by

Bantam Doubleday Dell Books for Young Readers a division of

Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.

1540 Broadway

New York, New York 10036

Copyright © 1960, 1961 by Sheila Burnford

Copyright renewed © 1988 by Jonquil Graves, Juliet Pin, and Peronelle Robbins

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

The trademark Laurel-Leaf Library ®is registered in the U. S.

Patent and Trademark Office.

The trademark Dell ®is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

eISBN: 978-0-307-77834-5

RL: 6.0

Published by arrangement with the author’s estate

v3.1

TO MY PARENTS

I. P. AND W. G. C. EVERY

AND TO THEIR GRANDCHILDREN

PERONELLE, JONQUIL AND JULIET

WHO GREW UP UNDER THE DESPOTIC WHITE PAW OF DEAR BILL

Contents

Cover

Other Books by This Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

The Beasts

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

THE BEASTS

I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain’d ,

I stand and look at them long and long .

They do not sweat and whine about their condition ,

They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins ,

They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God

Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things ,

Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago ,

Not one is respectable or industrious over the whole earth .

—WALT WHITMAN, Leaves of Grass , “Song of Myself,” 32.

1

THIS JOURNEY took place in a part of Canada which lies in the northwestern part of the great sprawling province of Ontario. It is a vast area of deeply wooded wilderness—of endless chains of lonely lakes and rushing rivers. Thousands of miles of country roads, rough timber lanes, overgrown tracks leading to abandoned mines, and unmapped trails snake across its length and breadth. It is a country of far-flung, lonely farms and a few widely scattered small towns and villages, of lonely trappers’ shacks and logging camps. Most of its industry comes from the great pulp and paper companies who work their timber concessions deep in the very heart of the forests; and from the mines, for it is rich in minerals. Prospectors work through it; there are trappers and Indians; and sometimes hunters who fly into the virgin lakes in small amphibious aircraft; there are pioneers with visions beyond their own life span; and there are those who have left the bustle of civilization forever, to sink their identity in an unquestioning acceptance of the wilderness. But all these human beings together are as a handful of sand upon the ocean shores, and for the most part there is silence and solitude and an uninterrupted way of life for the wild animals that abound there: moose and deer, brown and black bears; lynx and fox; beaver, muskrat and otter; fishers, mink and marten. The wild duck rests there and the Canada goose, for this is a fringe of the central migratory flyway. The clear tree-fringed lakes and rivers are filled with speckled trout and steelheads, pike and pickerel and whitefish.

Almost half the year the country is blanketed with snow; and for weeks at a time the temperature may stay many degrees below zero; there is no slow growth of spring, but a sudden short burst of summer when everything grows with wild abandon; and as suddenly it is the fall again. To many who live there, fall is the burnished crown of the year, with the crisp sunny days and exhilarating air of the Northland; with clear blue skies, and drifting leaves, and, as far as the eye can see, the endless panorama of glorious rich flaming color in the turning trees.

This is the country over which the three travelers passed, and it was in the fall that they traveled, in the days of Indian summer.

John Longridge lived several miles from one of the small towns in an old stone house that had been in his family for several generations. He was a tall, austerely pleasant man of about forty, a bachelor, and a writer by profession, being the author of several historical biographies. He spent much of his time traveling and gathering material for his books, but always returned to the comfortable old stone house for the actual writing. He liked the house to himself during these creative periods, and for many years had enjoyed an ideal arrangement whereby his domestic wants were cared for by a middle-aged couple, Mrs. Oakes and her husband Bert, who lived in a small cottage about half a mile away. Mrs. Oakes came in every day to look after the house and cook the main meals. Bert was in charge of the furnace, the garden and all the odd jobs. They came and went about their business without disturbing Longridge, and there was complete accord among them all.

On the eve of the incredible journey, towards the end of September, Longridge sat by a crackling log fire in his comfortable library. The curtains were drawn and the firelight flickered and played on the bookshelves and danced on the ceiling. The only other light in the room came from a small shaded lamp on a table by the deep armchair. It was a very peaceful room and the only sound was the occasional crackling from the logs or the rustling of a newspaper, the pages of which Longridge turned with some difficulty, for a slender wheat-colored Siamese cat was curled on his knee, chocolate-colored front paws curved in towards one another, sapphire eyes blinking occasionally as he stared into the fire.

On the floor, his scarred, bony head resting on one of the man’s feet, lay an old white English bull terrier. His slanted almond-shaped eyes, sunk deep within their pinkish rims, were closed; one large triangular ear caught the firelight, flushing the inside a delicate pink, so that it appeared almost translucent. Anyone unaccustomed to the rather peculiar points of bull terrier beauty would have thought him a strange if not downright ugly dog, with the naked, down-faced arc of his profile, his deep-chested, stocky body and whip-tapered tail. But the true lover of an ancient and honorable breed would have recognized the blood and bone of this elderly and rather battered body; would have known that in his prime this had been a magnificent specimen of compact sinew and muscle, bred to fight and endure; and would have loved him for his curious mixture of wicked, unyielding fighter yet devoted and docile family pet, and above all for the irrepressible air of sly merriment which gleamed in his little slant eyes.