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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 51308
   :PG.Title: My Strange Rescue
   :PG.Released: 2016-02-26
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: \J. Macdonald Oxley
   :DC.Title: My Strange Rescue
              and other stories of Sport and Adventure in Canada
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1903
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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MY STRANGE RESCUE
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      :alt: "*He found himself in a large room flooded with light*." Page 192.

      "*He found himself in a large room flooded with light*." Page `192`_.

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      MY STRANGE RESCUE

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      AND OTHER STORIES

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      of Sport and Adventure in Canada

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      BY

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      \J. MACDONALD OXLEY

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      *Author of "In the Wilds of the West Coast," "Diamond Rock,"
      "Up Among the Ice-Floes"
      &c. &c.*

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      THOMAS NELSON AND SONS
      *London, Edinburgh, and New York*

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      1903

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   PREFATORY NOTE.

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The Author begs to express his acknowledgments
to the publishers of *Our Youth*, *Youth's
Companion*, *Harper's Young People*, *Golden Days*,
and other periodicals, in whose pages many of
these stories and sketches were first published.

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\J. \M. \O.

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   CONTENTS.

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`MY VERY STRANGE RESCUE`_

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`A BLESSING IN STERN DISGUISE`_

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`IN PERIL AT BLACK RUN`_

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`TOUCH AND GO`_

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`THE CAVE IN THE CLIFF`_

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`TOBOGGANING`_

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`A MIC-MAC CINDERELLA`_

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`BLUE-NOSE FISHER FOLK`_

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`LOST ON THE LIMITS`_

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`A STRANGE HELPER`_

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`FORTY MILES OF MAELSTROM`_

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`THE CANADIAN CHILDREN OF THE COLD`_

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`FACE TO FACE WITH AN "INDIAN DEVIL"`_

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`IN THE NICK OF TIME`_

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`SNOW-SHOEING`_

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`THE SWIMMING MATCH AT THE ARM`_

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`HAROLD'S LASTING IMPRESSION`_

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`HOW WILBERFORCE BRENNAN VISITED WHITE BEAR CASTLE`_

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`OUTSIDE THE BOOM`_

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`FOUND AFTER MANY DAYS`_

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`MRS. GRUNDY'S GOBBLERS`_

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`ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE SNOW-RIDGE`_

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`THROUGH THE TRACKLESS FOREST`_

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`WRECKS AND WRECKERS OF ANTICOSTI`_

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`A LUMBER CAMP`_

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`LACROSSE`_

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`A PILLOW-SLIP FULL OF APPLES`_

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`LOST ON LAKE ST. LOUIS`_

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`ICE-SKATING IN CANADA`_

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`THE WILD DOGS OF ATHABASCA`_

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`BIRDS AND BEASTS ON SABLE ISLAND`_

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`THE BORE OF MINAS BASIN`_

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`THE GAME OF RINK HOCKEY`_

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`ON THE EDGE OF THE RAPIDS`_

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`THEO'S TOBOGGANING TRIUMPH`_

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.. _`Chapter I headpiece`:

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   Chapter I headpiece

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.. _`MY VERY STRANGE RESCUE`:

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   MY VERY STRANGE RESCUE.

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A shout of laughter rang through the kitchen and
went echoing up the great chimney when, much
more in fun than in earnest, I hinted that if they could
not manage to kill the bear themselves I would have to
do it for them.

Now it was no new thing for me to be laughed at.  My
big brothers were only too fond of that amusement, and I
had got pretty well used to it; but this time I detected a
particularly derisive tone in their hilarity, which touched
me to the quick, and springing to my feet, with eyes
flashing and cheeks burning, I burst out hotly,—

"I don't care how much you laugh.  As sure as I'm
standing here, I'll put a bullet in that bear before this time
to-morrow night!"

At this they only laughed the louder, and filled the
room with sarcastic shouts of,—

"Hurrah for the Bantam!"—"I'll bet on the bear"—"What
will you take for his skin, Bantam?" until father
silenced them with one of his reproving looks, and drew
me to him, saying soothingly,—

"Don't mind the boys, Walter; and don't let your
temper betray you into making rash vows that you cannot
keep."

I sat down in the sulks, and soon after skipped off to
bed; but it was a long time before I got to sleep, for my
brain was in a whirl, and my blood coursing through my
veins like fire.

I was the youngest in a family of six sturdy boys, and
consequently came in for much more than a fair share, as
I thought, of good-natured ridicule from my big brothers.

They were all fond enough of me, and generally very
kind to me too; but they had a notion, and perhaps not
altogether a mistaken one, that I was inclined to think too
much of myself, and they took great pleasure in putting
me down, as they were pleased to call it.

Of course I did my best not to be put down, and
they had nicknamed me "the Bantam," as a sort of
left-handed compliment to my fiery opposition against being
put down.

I was rather small for my age, and they could easily
beat me in nearly all the trials of skill and strength
country boys delighted in—not quite all, however, for,
much to my pride and satisfaction, I could hit the bull's-eye
chalked out on the big barn-door twice as often as the
best of them; and no small comfort did my skill in
shooting give me.

But this far from contented me, and in my foolish
feverish haste to get on a level with those big fellows, I
was constantly attempting all sort of reckless, daring feats,
that called forth my father's grave reproof and my mother's
loving entreaties.

Time and again would father say to me,—

"Walter, your rashness will be the death of you some
day.  Don't be in such a hurry to be a man before you've
quit being a boy!"

But reproof and entreaty alike went unheeded; and
that night, as I tossed restlessly about in bed, I made
solemn vows to the stars peeping in through the window that
next morning I would take Tiger and go off alone after
the huge black bear which had been prowling around the
sheepfold lately, and which father and the boys had
twice hunted in vain.

Soothed by the prospect of the glory success would
bring me, I fell asleep, and dreamed that, armed only with
my jack-knife, I was chasing hard after the bear, which
seemed half as big as the barn, yet ran away in the most
flattering fashion.

Next morning all my temper had vanished, and so much
of my valour had vanished with it that my bear-hunting
would never have probably got beyond dreamland had not
Jack, the moment I appeared, called out mockingly,—

"Behold the mighty hunter!  Make way for Bantam,
the renowned bear-slayer."

The chorus of laughter that greeted this sally set me in
a blaze again; but this time I held my tongue, and the
teasing soon stopped.

The mischief was done, however; I felt as though I
would rather die than go back on my word now.  Never
before in my life had I been stirred so deeply.

Determined to keep my purpose secret, I waited about
the house until all the others had gone off.  Then, quietly
taking down my gun, I put half-a-dozen biscuits in my
pocket, and, with well-filled powder-flask and bullet-pouch,
slipped off unobserved towards the forest, Tiger following
close at my heels.

Tiger was my own dog—a present from a city uncle
after whom I had been named.  He was half fox-hound,
half bull-terrier, and seemed to combine the best qualities
of both breeds, so that for sense, strength, and courage, his
superior could not be found of his size.  My affection for
him was surpassed only by his devotion to me.  He
acknowledged no other master, and fairly lived in the light
of my countenance.

This morning he evidently caught from my face some
inkling of the serious nature of our business, for instead
of bounding and barking about me in his wonted way he
trotted gravely along at my side, every now and then
looking up into my face, as though about to say, "Here
I am, ready for anything!"  And where could I have
found a trustier ally?

It was a glorious day in December.  A week of intense
cold had been succeeded by a few days of milder weather,
and over all the trees the frost had thrown a fairy garb of
white that sparkled brightly in the morning sun.  The
air was just cold enough to be bracing.  The spotless snow
crunched crisply under my feet as I walked rapidly over
it, and my spirits rose with every step.

Soon I had climbed the hill pasture, and with one look
backward at my dear old home, nestling among its beeches
and poplars in the plain below, I plunged into the dense
undergrowth that bordered the vast Canadian forest, which
stretched away inland for many a mile.

The snow lay pretty deep in the woods, but my
snowshoes made the walking easy.  Everywhere across the
white surface ran the interlacing tracks of rabbits and
red foxes, with here and there the broader, deeper print
of the wild cat; for it had been a long, hard winter, and
the wild animals, desperate with hunger, were drawing
uncomfortably close to the settled districts.

As I pushed on into the lonely, silent forest, its shadows
began to cool my ardour, and the inclination to turn back
strengthened every moment, so that my pride had hard
work to keep my courage up to the mark.

Presently I came to an open glade, almost circular, and
about fifty yards across, walled in on all sides by tall, dark
pines and sombre hemlocks.

It was so pleasant to be in full view of the sun again,
that I halted on the verge of this glade to rest a little,
leaning against a huge pine, and letting the sunshine pour
down upon me, although my long walk had started the
perspiration from every pore.

Tiger, who had been carefully scrutinizing every
paw-print, but following up none, as he saw I evidently was
not after small game that day, now bounded off along the
edge of the forest, and I watched him proudly as, with
nose close to the snow and tail high in the air, he ran
hither and thither, the very picture of canine beauty and
intelligence.

Suddenly he stopped short, snuffed fiercely at a track
in the snow, and then, with sharp, eager barks that sounded
like a succession of pistol-shots, and startled every nerve
and fibre in my body into intense excitement, sprang over
the snow with mad haste, until he brought up at the foot
of a tree just opposite me on the other side of the glade.

For some moments I stood as if spell-bound.  I felt that
nothing less than a bear-trail could have put Tiger in such
a quiver.  Perhaps he had struck the track of the bear,
about whose immense size father and the boys had talked
so much.

I confess that at the thought my knees trembled, my
tongue parched as though with hot thirst, and I stood
there utterly irresolute, until all at once, like a great wave,
my courage came back to me, the hunter instinct rose
supreme over human weakness, and grasping my gun
tightly, I hurried across to where the dog was still
barking furiously.

A bare, blasted tree-trunk stood out gaunt and gray, in
marked contrast to the dark masses of the pine and
hemlock around.  It was plainly the ruin of a magnificent
pine, which once had towered high above its fellows, and
then paid the penalty of its pre-eminence by being first
selected as a target for the lightning.

Only some twenty feet of its former grandeur remained,
and this poor, decapitated stub was evidently hollow and
rotten to the roots, for deeply scored upon its barkless
sides were the signs of its being nothing more or less
than a bear's den—the admirably chosen hiding-place of
some sagacious Bruin.

My gun was loaded with an extra charge of powder
and two good bullets.  I put on a fresh cap, made sure
everything was in good order, and took my stand a few
yards off from the tree to await the result of Tiger's
audacious challenge.

Minute after minute crept slowly by, but not a sound
came from the tree.  The tension of nerve was extreme.

At length I could stand it no longer.  If the bear was
really inside the tree-trunk, I must know it immediately.

Looking up, I noticed that an adjoining hemlock sent
out a long arm right over the hollow trunk, while a
little above was another branch by which I could steady
myself.

Taking off my snow-shoes, and laying my gun at the
hemlock's foot, I climbed quickly up, Tiger for a time
suspending his barking in order to look inquiringly
after me.

Reaching the branch, which seemed strong enough for
anything, I walked out on it carefully, balancing myself
by the one above, my moccasined feet giving me a good
foothold, until I was right over the deep, mysterious
cavity.

I peered eagerly in, but of course saw nothing save
darkness as of Egypt, and, half laughing at my own folly
had turned to retrace my steps, when suddenly, without
the slightest warning, the bough on which I stood snapped
short off a few feet from the trunk.

For one harrowing instant I clung to the slender branch
above, and then, it slipping swiftly through my fingers,
with a wild shriek of terror I plunged feet foremost into
the awful abyss beneath.

Just grazing the rim of the tree's open mouth, I fell
sheer to the bottom, bringing up with such a shock that
the fright and fall combined rendered me insensible.

How long I lay there I cannot say.  When I did come
to myself, my first impulse was to stand up.  And words
cannot express my relief when I found that, although much
shaken up, no bones were broken, thanks to the accumulation
of rotten wood at the bottom of this strange well.

But oh, what a fearful situation was mine, and how
bitterly I reproached myself for my folly!  Shut up in
the heart of that hollow tree; four long miles from home
and help; utterly unable to extricate myself, for the soft
decayed sides of my prison forbade all attempts at ascent;
only a few biscuits in my pocket; not a drop of water,
and already I was suffering with thirst; and, to crown all,
the possibility, ay, the certainty, of the bear returning in
a few hours, while I had no other weapon of defence than
the hunter's knife which hung at my belt.

Although it was mid-day now, intense darkness filled
my prison cell, and the air was close and foul, for Bruin
had evidently been tenant of the place all winter.

For some time I could do nothing but gaze at the little
patch of blue sky above me that seemed so hopelessly far
away, as if rescue must soon come from thence.  I could
faintly hear poor Tiger's barking still, and fearing he
might go off in search of me, I kicked and pounded against
the sides of the tree, shouting at the top of my voice.

I don't know whether he could hear me, but he did not
go away at all events.  It would have been far better for
him, poor fellow, if he had.

After some minutes the first bewildering paroxysm of
fright abated, and I set myself seriously to consider what
was to be done.  I could not give up all hope of escape,
desperate as my case seemed, and I felt sure I would lose
my mind if I did not keep myself constantly employed
in some way.

There seemed but one thing to do, and to that I
forthwith applied myself.  In my belt hung my strong,
keen-edged hunting-knife.  Since I could not climb out of my
prison, perhaps I could cut my way out.  So drawing the
knife, I set to work with tremendous vigour.

At first it was easy enough, for the soft decayed wood
offered little opposition to my keen blade, and I felt
encouraged.  But presently I reached the hard rind, and
then had to go warily for fear of snapping the steel off
short.

The close confinement, the heavy, poisonous air, and
the constrained position the work required, all told hard
upon me; but I toiled away with the determination of
despair.

I must have spent at least an hour thus, when, to my
delight, a hard blow sent the knife-blade clean through
the wood, and on drawing it back a blessed little bit of
daylight peeped through, which made a new man of me.

At it I went again, and paused not this time until I
had a jagged hole chipped out through which I could put
my hand.  If the bear did not come for a couple of hours
more I would be free.

The moment I put out my hand Tiger caught sight of
it, and came leaping up against the tree, wild with delight
at finding me again, for now of course I could easily make
him hear iny voice.

A few minutes' rest and the breathing of the pure, fresh
air that streamed in through the opening, and chip, chip,
chip, I cut away at the hard wood until a hole as big as
my face was made.

Another brief rest, for I was getting very tired,
when—ah, what is the matter?  Why is Tiger barking so madly?
Can it be that the bear is returning?  Yes, there he comes!

He was half-way across the glade already, and Tiger,
trembling with rage, was right below me at the root of
the tree, ready to defend me to the death.

Growling fiercely, the huge brute shambled rapidly
toward us.  Another minute, and Tiger the dauntless
sprang at his throat.

But the bear was too quick for him, and with one sweep
of his great fore-paw sent his puny opponent rolling over
on the snow.

.. _`"IN A FEW SECONDS WE WERE AT THE TOP."`:

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   "IN A FEW SECONDS WE WERE AT THE TOP." *Page* `22`_

Little hurt, and much wiser for this rebuff, the dog
attacked from behind, and bit so sharp and quick that
Bruin in self-defence, reared up on his hind legs, ready to
wheel round and drop on the dog at the first opportunity.

For minutes (which seemed hours) the unequal contest
went on before my straining eyes.  More than once the
bear, in sheer disgust at his inability to crush his agile
adversary, attempted to climb the tree, and my heart
seemed to stand still as his claws rattled against the wood.
But the instant he turned his back Tiger had his sharp
fangs deep into his hams, and with a fierce snarl down he
dropped to renew the conflict.

The afternoon shades were lengthening now, and a new
hope dawned within me.  My mother had ere this grown
anxious at my long absence from home, and perhaps my
father and brothers were even then tracing me through
the forest by my snow-shoe track.  They would hear
Tiger's furious yelps if they were anywhere within a mile
of us.  If my noble dog could hold out long enough we
should both be saved.

Full of this hope I cheered him vigorously, and seeming
to be as tireless as fearless, the little hero kept up the
fight.  They were both before me now in full view, and I
could watch every movement.  The scene would have been
ludicrous if my life had not hung upon its issue—the
bear was so clumsy and awkward, the dog so quick and
clever.

As it was, I almost forgot my anxiety in my excitement,
when, with a thrill of horror, I saw that Tiger's sharp
teeth had caught in the bear's shaggy fur, and he could
not free himself.  The bear wheeled swiftly round upon
him.  One instant more, and the huge, pitiless jaws had
him in their grasp at last.

There was an awful moment of silence, then a quick
half-smothered cry, a harsh exultant roar, and out of that
fatal embrace my brave, faithful dog dropped to the
ground, a limp, lifeless mass.

I could think of nothing but my dog at first; and in
frantic, futile rage I beat against the obdurate walls of my
prison, while the bear sniffed curiously at his victim, turned
him about with his great paws, and seemed to be exulting
over the brave spirit he had conquered.  But when, having
satisfied his pride, the brute turned to climb the tree, all
my thoughts centred upon myself, for I felt that my hour
had come.  I could feel his claws scraping against the
outside as, wearied with his exertion, he climbed slowly up.
There was nothing for me but to wait his coming, and
then sell my life as dearly as possible.

Firmly grasping my knife, whose keenness had, alas,
been spent upon the tough wood, and feeling as though
the bitterness of death were already past, I stood awaiting
my fate.  Watching closely the narrow opening at the
top, I noticed that the bear was descending tail foremost.
Foot by foot he came slowly down, striking his long, sharp
claws deep into the spongy wood, his huge bulk
completely filling the passage.

Not a movement or a sound did I make.  All at once,
as if by inspiration—was it in answer to my poor prayer?—an
idea flashed into my brain, at which I grasped as a
drowning man might grasp at a straw.

The bear was now close at my head.  I waited until
he had descended one step more, then reaching up both
hands, and taking a firm grip of his soft, yielding fur, I
shouted at the top of my voice.

For one harrowing moment the bear paused, as though
paralyzed.  Heaven help me if he drops, I thought.  Then,
with a wild spring, he started upward, dragging me after
him.  Putting forth all his vast strength he scrambled
with incredible speed straight up that hollow shaft, I
holding on like grim death, and giving all the help I could.

.. _`22`:

In a few seconds we were at the top, and with a joy
beyond all describing I emerged into daylight.  No sooner
did the bear reach the rim than he swung himself over,
and plunged headlong downwards without an instant's
pause.  At that moment I let go, and tried to make the
descent more slowly; but the reaction was too great.  My
senses deserted me, and I tumbled in a heap at the foot
of the tree.  In that condition my father found me just
before sunset; and although the deep snow had rendered
my fall harmless, the strain and shock told so heavily upon
me that many weeks passed before I was myself again,
and I am not likely to ever forget the very strange way
in which I was rescued by a bear.





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.. _`A BLESSING IN STERN DISGUISE`:

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   A BLESSING IN STERN DISGUISE.

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Bruno Perry's home was in about as lonely and
unattractive a spot as one could well imagine; an
unpleasant fact, the force of which nobody felt more
keenly than did Bruno himself, for he was of a very
sociable disposition and delighted in companionship.  But,
besides his father and mother, companions he had none,
except his half-bred collie, Steeltrap, who had been given
that name because of his sharpness, and who recognized no
other master than Bruno, to whom he was unflaggingly
devoted.

To find the Perry house was no easy task, for it lay
away off from the main road on a little road of its own
that was hardly better than a wood-path.  Donald Perry
was a very strange man.  He was moody and taciturn by
nature, and much given to brooding over real or fancied
wrongs.  Some years ago he had owned a fine farm not
far from Riverton, but owing to a succession of disputes
with his neighbours, about boundary-lines and other matters,
he had in a fit of anger disposed of his farm and banished
himself and his family to the wilderness, where he had
purchased for a mere trifle the abandoned clearing of a
timber-jobber.

Poor little Bruno, at that time only ten years old, cried
bitterly as they turned their backs upon the pleasant home
which he had come to love so dearly, and his mother joined
her tears with his.  But his father was not to be moved
from his purpose.  He had not much faith in or sympathy
for other people's feelings, or "notions," as he contemptuously
called them.  The only notice he took of his wife
and son in the matter was to gruffly bid them "stop
blubbering;" and they both knew him too well not to do
their best to obey.

That was full five years ago, and in all this time neither
Bruno nor his mother had had any other society than their
own, except an occasional deer-hunter or wood-ranger who
might beg the favour of a night's lodging if he happened
to find the farm-house after sundown.

"Oh, mother, are we always to live in this dreadful
place?" exclaimed Bruno one day, when he knew his
father to be well out of hearing.  "I'm sure I'll go clean
crazy if I don't get out of it soon.  Father will have it
that I must learn to run the farm, so as to take hold when
he gives up.  But I'll never be a backwoods farmer; I'd
rather die first!"

"Hush, hush, my boy," said Mrs. Perry, in gentle reproof.
"You must not talk that way.  You don't mean what you say."

"Yes, I do, mother—mean every word of it," replied
Bruno vehemently.  "I'll run away if father won't let me
go with his consent."

"And what would mother do without the light of her
life?" asked Mrs. Perry tenderly, taking her son's curly
head in both her hands and giving him a fond kiss on the
forehead.

Bruno was silent for a moment, and then exclaimed
petulantly,—

"Why couldn't you come too, mother?"

"Ah, no, boy," was the gentle response.  "I will never
leave my husband, even though my boy should leave me.
But be patient yet a little while; be patient, Bruno.  I
don't think God intended you for a backwoods farmer, and
if we only wait he will no doubt open a way for you
somehow or other."

"Waiting's precious poor fun, mother," replied Bruno
ruefully, yet in a tone that re-assured his mother, who,
indeed, was always dreading lest her son's longing for the
stir and bustle of city life should lead him to run away
from the farm he so cordially disliked, leaving her to bear
the double burden of unshared troubles and anxiety for
her darling's welfare.

Bruno Perry was not a common country boy, rough,
rude, and uncultivated.  His mother had enjoyed a good
education in her youth, and possessed besides a refined,
gentle spirit that fitted her far better for the cultured life
of the city than the rough-and-tumble existence to which
the eccentricity of her husband had doomed her.  Bruno
had inherited much of her fine spirit, together with no
small share of his father's deep, strong nature; and, thanks
to his mother's faithful teaching and the wise use of the
few books they had brought with them into the wilderness,
was a fairly well educated lad.  Every Saturday his father
drove all alone to the nearest settlement and brought back
with him a newspaper, which Bruno awaited with hungry
eyes and eagerly devoured when at last it fell into his
hands.  By this means he knew a little, at all events, of
the great world beyond the forest, and this knowledge
maintained at fever-heat his desire to be in the midst of
it.  Only his deep affection for his mother kept him at home.

The summer just past had been an especially restless,
uneasy time for Bruno.  His blood seemed fairly on fire
with impatience at his lot, and even the cool dark days of
autumn brought no chill to his ardour.  If anything, they
made the matter worse; for the summer, with its bright
sunny mornings, its delicious afternoon baths in the clear
deep pool beyond the barn, and its long serene evenings,
was not so hard to bear, even in the wilderness.  Neither
was the autumn, with its nutting forays, its partridge and
woodcock shooting, and its fruit and berry expeditions, by
any means intolerable.  But the winter—the long, dreary,
monotonous Canadian winter, when for week after week
the mercury sank down below zero and rarely rose above
it, when the cattle had to be fed and watered though the
hands stiffened and the feet stung with bitter biting cold,
while ears and cheek and nose were constantly being
nipped by pitiless Jack Frost!—well, the long and short of
it was that one night after Mr. Perry had gone off grimly
to bed, looking much as if he were going to his tomb,
leaving his wife and son sitting beside the big wood fire
in the kitchen, Bruno drew his chair close to Mrs. Perry's,
and, slipping his hand into hers, looked up into her sweet
face with a determined expression she had never observed
in him before.

"Mother," said Bruno, in low, earnest tones, "it's no use.
This is the last winter I shall ever spend in this place.  I
can't and won't stand it any longer.  Father may say
what he likes, but he'll never make a farmer of me."

"What will you do, Bruno dear?" asked his mother
gently, seeing clearly enough that it was no time for
argument or opposition.

"Why, I'll go right into town and do something.  I
don't care what it is, so long as it's honest and it brings
me bread and butter.  I'd rather be a bootblack in town
than stay out in this hateful place."

"But you hope to be something better than a bootblack,
don't you, dearest?" questioned Mrs. Perry, with a sad
smile, for she felt that the crisis in her boy's life had come,
and that his whole future might depend upon the way she
dealt with him now.

"Of course I do, mother," he answered, smiling in his
turn.  "But that will be better than nothing for a
beginning, and something better will turn up after a while."

"Very well, Bruno, so be it.  Of course it's no use
beginning business as a bootblack in winter-time, when
everybody is wearing overshoes.  But when the spring
mud comes then will be your chance, and perhaps before
spring-time a better opening may present itself."

Bruno felt the force of his mother's clever reasoning,
and with a quiet laugh replied,—

"All right, mother: I'll wait until spring as patiently
as I can."

The afternoon following this conversation Bruno thought
he would go into the forest and see if he could not get a
shot at something, he hardly knew what.  The snow lay
deep upon the ground, so he strapped on his snow-shoes,
and, with gun on shoulder and hatchet at belt, strode off
into the woods.  He was in rather an unhappy frame of
mind, and hoped that a good long walk and the excitement
of hunting would do him good.  His father's clearing was
not very large, and beyond its edge the great forest
stretched away unbroken for uncounted leagues.  Close at
Bruno's heels ran the faithful Steeltrap, full of joy at the
prospect of an afternoon's outing.  The air was very cold,
but not a breath of wind broke its stillness, and the only
interruptions of the perfect silence were the crushing of
the crisp snow beneath Bruno's broad shoes and the
occasional impatient barks of his canine companion.

Climbing the hill that rose half a mile to the north from
his home, Bruno descended the other side, crossed the
intervening valley, where a brook ran gurgling underneath its
icy covering, and ascended the ridge beyond, pushing further
and further into the forest until he had gone several miles
from the house.  Then he halted and sat down upon a log
for a rest.  He had not been there many minutes before a
sudden stir on the part of Steeltrap attracted his attention,
and, looking up, he caught sight of a fine black fox gazing
at him curiously for an instant ere it bounded away.  As
quick as a flash Bruno threw his gun to his shoulder, fired
almost without taking aim, and to his vast delight the shot
evidently took effect, for the fox, after one spasmodic leap
into the air, went limping off, dragging a hind leg in a way
that told clearly enough it was broken.

"After him, Steeltrap, after him!" shouted Bruno.

The dog needed no urging on.  With eager bark he
dashed after the wounded fox, Bruno following as fast as
he could.  Away went the three of them at the top of
their speed, the boy just able to keep his quarry in sight,
while Steeltrap was doing his best to get a good grip of
his hindquarters so as to bring him to the ground.  In
this fashion they must have gone a good half mile when
they came to a bear-trap, into which the fox vanished like
a shadow, while Steeltrap, afraid to follow, contented
himself with staying outside and barking vigorously.

On Bruno coming up he hardly knew what to do at first.
Telling Steeltrap to watch the door, he examined the trap
all round, and satisfied himself that there was no other way
for the fox to get out.  Then he made up his mind how
to act.

"Ha, ha, my black beauty!  You're not going to get
off so easily as that," he said.  And, kneeling down, he
slipped off his snow-shoes and stood in his moccasined feet.
Then, leaning his gun against the wall of the trap (which,
I might explain, is built like a tiny log hut, having a heavy
log suspended from the roof in such a way that on a bear
attempting to enter it falls upon his back and makes him
a prisoner).  Bruno took his hatchet from his belt and
proceeded to crawl into the trap, carefully avoiding the
central stick which held up the loose log.  It was very
dark, but he could see the bright eyes of the fox as it
crouched in the far corner.  Holding his hatchet ready for
a blow he approached the fox, and was just about to strike
when, with a sudden desperate dart, it sprang past him
toward the door.  With an exclamation of anger Bruno
turned to follow it, and in his hasty movement brushed
against the supporting-post.

.. _`"BRUNO STRUCK WITH ALL HIS MIGHT AT HIS LEG."`:

.. figure:: images/img-031.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "BRUNO STRUCK WITH ALL HIS MIGHT AT HIS LEG."

   "BRUNO STRUCK WITH ALL HIS MIGHT AT HIS LEG."

The mischief was done.  In an instant the heavy log
fell, and, although by a quick dodge to the left Bruno saved
his shoulder, the ponderous thing descended upon his thigh,
and, rolling down, pinned his right foot to the ground as
firmly as if he had been the bear it was intended to capture.

Here, indeed, was a perilous situation for poor Bruno.
Flat upon his back, with a huge log across his ankle, what
was he to do?  Sitting up he strove with all his might to
push the log off, but he might as well have tried to move
a mountain.  He was fastened down beyond all hope of
release without outside help.

But what hope was there of outside help?  No one
knew where he was, for he had not said anything to his
mother when setting out, and his father had gone up the
road some miles and would not return until dark.  The
one chance was that his father, on returning home, would
miss him, and perhaps come in search of him, following
the track made by his snow-shoes.  But, even if he did,
that could not be for hours yet, and in the meantime he
would freeze to death; for the cold was intense, the
thermometer being many degrees below zero.

An hour passed, an hour of pain and fruitless conjecture
as to the possibility of rescue.  As the evening drew near
Bruno became desperate.  He gave up all hope of his
father reaching him in time, and came to the conclusion
that he must either free himself or die; and he saw but one
way of getting free.  The log lay across his leg just above
the ankle.  His hatchet was near him.  To chop the log
away was utterly impossible, but it would be an easy thing
to chop off the foot that it held so fast.  Grasping the
hatchet firmly in his right hand, Bruno hesitated for a
moment, and then struck with all his might at his leg.  A
pang of awful agony shot through him, numbed as his
nerves were with the cold.  But, setting his teeth in grim
determination, he struck blow after blow, heeding not the
terrible suffering, until at length the bone snapped and
Bruno was free.

Well-nigh fainting with pain, and weakness, the poor boy,
on hands and knees, began the long and terrible journey
homeward.  His sufferings were beyond description; but
life was very precious, and so long as he retained
consciousness he would not give up the struggle.

Fortunately for him he had not gone more than a
hundred yards over the cold hard snow before a bark from
Steeltrap announced somebody's approach, and, just as
Bruno fainted dead away, an Indian trapper, who, by the
merest chance, had come to see if the trap had taken
anything, came striding through the forest already dusky with
the shadows of night.  With a grunt of surprise he
approached Bruno, turned him over gently, while Steeltrap
sniffed doubtfully at his leggings; and then, recognizing the
boy's face, and not waiting to investigate into the causes
of his injury, he bound his sash about the bleeding stump,
and throwing the senseless form over his broad shoulders,
set out for the Perry house as fast as he could travel.

Not sparing himself the utmost exertion, he arrived
there just as night closed in, and, pushing into the kitchen,
deposited his burden upon the table, saying to Mrs. Perry,
who came forward with frightened face,—

"Your boy, eh?  Me find him 'most dead.  Took him
up right away, eh?"

When Mr. Perry returned, and beheld his son's pitiful
and perilous condition, for once in his life he seemed moved.
"I must take him in to the hospital in the city the first
thing in the morning," said he.  "He'll die if we keep him
here."

And so it came about that, watched over by his parents,
Bruno was next day carefully driven to the city, where by
evening he was snugly ensconced in a comfortable cot in
the big bright ward of the hospital.

He got well again, of course.  So sturdy a lad was not
going to succumb even to such injuries as he had suffered.
But his foot was gone, and there was no replacing that.
And yet in time he learned to look upon that lost foot as
a blessing, for through it came the realization of all his
desires.  A boy with only one foot could not, of course, be
a farmer, but he could be a clerk or something of that
sort.  Accordingly, through the influence of a relative in
the city, Bruno, when thoroughly recovered, obtained a
position in a lawyer's office as copying clerk.  Some years
later he was able to enter upon the study of the law.  In
due time he began to practise upon his own account, and
with such success that he was ultimately honoured with a
seat upon the bench as judge of the Supreme Court.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN PERIL AT BLACK RUN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   IN PERIL AT BLACK RUN.

.. vspace:: 2

There were four of them—Hugh, the eldest, tall
dark, and sinewy, bespeaking his Highland descent
in every line of face and figure; Archie, the second, short
and sturdy, fair of hair and blue of eye, the mother's boy,
as one could see at a glance; and then the twins, Jim and
Charlie, the joy of the family, so much alike that only
their mother could tell them apart without making a
mistake—two of the chubbiest, merriest, and sauciest
youngsters in the whole of Nova Scotia.

Squire Stewart was very proud of his boys; and looking
at them now as they all came up from the shore together,
evidently discussing something very earnestly, his
countenance glowed with pride and affection.

When they drew near he hailed them with a cheery
"Hallo, boys! what are you talking about there?"

Archie's face was somewhat clouded as he answered, in
quiet, respectful tones, "Hugh and I were talking about
going over to Black Run for a day's fishing, and Jim and
Charlie want us to take them too."

"What do you think about it, Hugh?" asked the
squire, turning to his eldest son.

"Well, it's just this way, sir," answered Hugh.  "The
little chaps will only be a bother to us, and perhaps get
themselves into trouble.  We can't watch them and watch
our lines at the same time, that's certain."

"No, we won't," pleaded Jim, while Charlie seconded
him with eager eyes.  "We'll be *so* good."

"Oh, let them come," interposed Archie.  "I'll look
after them."

Hugh still seemed inclined to hold back; but the squire
settled the matter by saying,—

"Take them with you this time, Hugh, and if they
prove to be a bother they need not go again until they
are old enough to take care of themselves."

"All right, sir!  We'll take them.—But mind you,
youngsters"—turning to the twins—"you must behave
just as if you were at church."

Black Run was the chief outlet of the lake on which
Maplebank, the Stewart house, was situated.  Here its
superabundance poured out through a long deep channel
leading to a tumultuous rapid that foamed fiercely over
dangerous rocks before settling down into good behaviour
again.  The largest and finest fish were sure to be found
in or about Black Run.  But then it was full six miles
away from Maplebank, and an expedition there required
a whole day to be done properly, so that the Stewart boys
did not get there very often.

The Saturday to which all four boys were looking
eagerly forward proved as fine as heart could wish, and
after an early breakfast they started off.  Hugh and
Archie took the oars, the twins curled up on the stern-sheets,
where their elder brother could keep his eye upon
them, and away they went at a long steady stroke that
in two hours brought them to their destination.

"Where'll be the best place to anchor, Hugh?" asked
Archie, as he drew in his oars, and prepared to throw
over the big stone that was to serve them as a mooring.

"Out there, I guess," answered Hugh, pointing to a spot
about fifty yards above the head of the run.

"Oh, that's too far away; we won't catch any fish
there," objected Archie, who was not at all of a cautious
temperament.  "Let's anchor just off that point."

Hugh shook his head.  "Too close, I'm afraid, Archie.  The
current's awfully strong, you know, and we'd be sure to drift."

"Not a bit of it," persisted Archie.  "Our anchor'll
hold us all right."

But Hugh was not to be persuaded, and so they took up
their position where he had indicated.  They fished away
busily for some time, the two elder boys using rods, and
the twins simply hand-lines, until a goodly number of fine
fish flapping about the bottom of the boat gave proof of
their success.  Still, Archie was not content.  His heart
was set upon fishing right at the mouth of the run, for he
had a notion that some extra big fellows were to be caught
there, and he continued harping upon the subject until at
last Hugh gave way.

"All right, Archie.  Do as you please.  Here!  I'll
take the oars, and you stand on the bow, and let the
anchor go when you're at the spot."

Delighted at thus gaining his point, Archie did as he
was bidden, and with a few strong strokes Hugh directed
the boat toward the run.  So soon as they approached
she began to feel the influence of the current, and Hugh
let her drift with it.  Archie was so engrossed in picking
out the very best place that he did not notice how the
boat was gathering speed until Hugh shouted,—

"Drop the anchor, Archie!  What are you thinking about?"

Archie was standing in the bow, balancing the big stone
on the gunwale, and the instant Hugh called he tumbled
it over.  The strong line to which it was attached ran
swiftly out as the boat slipped down the run.  Then it
stopped with a sharp sudden jerk, for the end was reached,
and the stone had caught fast between the big stones on
the bottom.

When the jerk came, Archie, suspecting nothing, was
standing upright on the bow thwart, and at once, like a
stone from a catapult, he went flying head-first through
the air, striking the water with a loud splash, and
disappearing into its dark embrace.

.. _`"LIKE A STONE FROM A CATAPULT, ARCHIE STRUCK THE WATER WITH A LOUD SPLASH."`:

.. figure:: images/img-039.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "LIKE A STONE FROM A CATAPULT, ARCHIE STRUCK THE WATER WITH A LOUD SPLASH."

   "LIKE A STONE FROM A CATAPULT, ARCHIE STRUCK THE WATER WITH A LOUD SPLASH."

Hugh's first impulse was to burst out laughing, for he
knew Archie could swim like a seal; and when, a moment
later, his head appeared above the water, he hailed him
gaily: "Well done, Arch!  That was splendid!  Come
back and try it again, won't you?" while the twins
laughed and crowed over their brother's amusing
performance.

Archie was not disposed to take a serious view of the
matter either, and shouted back, "Try it yourself.  Come
along; I'll wait for you."

When, however, he sought to regain the boat, he found
the current too strong for him, and despite his utmost
exertions, could make little or no headway against it.  This
would not have been a cause for much alarm, however,
had not the banks of the run been lined with a dense
growth of huge rushes through which Samson himself
could hardly have effected a passage, while at their edge
the water ran deep and swift.  Moreover, it still had plenty
of the winter chill in it, for the time was mid-spring.

Beginning to feel a good deal frightened, Archie called
out, "You'll have to come and help me, Hugh.  I can't
get back to you."

Now unquestionably the proper thing for Hugh to have
done was to take up the anchor, and letting the boat drift
down to where Archie was, haul him on board.  But
strange to say, cool, cautious Hugh for once lost his head.
His brother's pale, frightened face startled him, and
without pausing to think, he threw off his coat and boots and
leaped into the water, where a few strenuous strokes
brought him to his brother's side.

The twins, in guileless innocence of any danger, thought
all this great sport.  Here were their two elder brothers
having a swim without first taking off their clothes.  They
had never seen anything quite so funny before.  They
kneeled upon the stern-sheets, and leaned over the
gunwale, and clapped their hands in childish ecstasy over
what seemed to them so intensely diverting.

But to the two elder brothers it was very far from being
diverting.  When Hugh reached Archie he found him
already half exhausted, and when, grasping him with his
left hand, he strove to force him upward against the
current, he realized that ere long he would be in the same
condition himself.  The strength of the current was
appalling.  The best that he could do, thus encumbered by
Archie, was to keep from slipping downward.  To make
any headway was utterly impossible.  Hoping that there
might be, perhaps, a helpful eddy on the other side of the
run, he made his way across, only to find the current no
less powerful there.  The situation grew more and more
serious.  The dense rushes defied all efforts to pierce
them, and the boys were fain to grasp a handful of the
tough stems, and thereby keep themselves from being
swept away by the relentless current into the grasp of the
fatal rapids, whose roar they could distinctly hear but a
little distance below.

Hugh says that the memory of those harrowing moments
will never lose its vividness.  Blissfully unconscious of
their brothers' peril, the twins laughed and chattered in
the stern of the boat, their chubby faces beaming upon the
two boys struggling desperately for life in the rushing
water.  Even in the midst of that struggle Hugh was
thrilled with anxiety as he looked back at them lest they
should lose their balance and topple over into the water,
and he shouted earnestly to them,—

"Take care, Jim!  Take care, Charlie!" whereat they
both nodded their curly heads and laughed again.

Hugh was now well-nigh exhausted, and sorely divided
in his mind as to whether he should stay by his brother
and, perhaps, go down to death with him, or, leaving him
in his desperate plight, struggle back to the boat, if
that were possible, to prevent a like catastrophe to the
twins.  Poor fellow! it was a terrible dilemma for a mere lad.

Happily, however, he was spared the necessity of choosing
either alternative.  Suddenly and swiftly a boat shot
out from the northern side of the run's mouth, and in it
sat a brawny farmer, whose quick ear caught at once
Hugh's faint though frantic shout for help.

"Hold on there, my lads; I'll get you in a minute," he
shouted back.  Sending his boat alongside that of the
Stewarts', he quickly fastened his painter to it, and then
dropped down the current until he reached the endangered
boys.  "Just in time, my hearties," said he cheerily.
"Now, then, let me give you a hand on board;" and
grasping them one after the other in his mighty arms, he
lifted them over the side into his own boat.

Neither Hugh nor Archie was any the worse for their
wetting, and the twins thought them even more funny-looking
in their wet, bedraggled condition than they were
in the water; but neither of them is nevertheless at all
likely to forget, live as long as they may, the time they
were in such peril at Black Run.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TOUCH AND GO`:

.. class:: center large bold

   TOUCH AND GO.

.. vspace:: 2

All the oldest inhabitants of Halifax were of one mind
as to its being the very coldest winter in their
recollection.  It really seemed as if some rash fellow had
challenged Jack Frost to do his best (or worst) in the
matter of cold, and Jack had accepted the challenge, with
the result of making the poor Haligonians wish with all
their hearts that they were inhabitants of Central Africa
instead of the Atlantic coast of British America.

One reason why they felt the cold so keenly was that,
owing to the situation of their city right on the edge of
the ocean, with the great Gulf Stream not so very far off,
their winters were usually more or less mild and broken.

But this particular winter was neither mild nor broken;
on the contrary, it was both steady and severe.  One
frosty day followed another, each one dragging the
thermometer down a few degrees lower, until at last a
wonderful thing happened—so wonderful, indeed, that the
already mentioned oldest inhabitants again were unanimous
in assuring inquirers that it had happened only once
before in their lives—and this was that the broad, beautiful
harbour, after hiding its bosom for several days beneath a
cloud of mist, called by seafaring folk the "barber,"
surrendered one night to the embrace of the Ice King, and
froze over solidly from shore to shore.

Such a splendid sight as it made wearing this sparkling
breastplate!  Not a flake of snow fell upon it.  From
away down below George's Island, up through the
Narrows, and into the Basin, as far as the eye could reach, lay
a vast expanse of glistening ice, upon which the boys soon
ventured with their skates and sleds, followed quickly by
the men, and a day or two later horses and sleighs were
driving merrily to and fro between Halifax and Dartmouth,
as though they had been accustomed to it all their life.
The whole town went wild over this wonderful event.
No—not quite the whole town, after all, for there were
some unfortunate individuals who had ships at their
wharves that they wanted to send to sea, or expected ships
from the sea to come in to their wharves, and they quite
failed to see any fun in sleighing or skating where there
ought to have been dancing waves.

If, however, some of the business men thought a frozen
harbour an unmitigated nuisance, none of the boys who
attended Dr. Longstrap's famous school were of the same
mind.  To them it was an unmixed blessing, and they
were so carried away by its taking place that they actually
had the hardihood to present a petition to the stern doctor
begging for a week's holiday in its honour.  And what
is still more extraordinary, they carried their point to the
extent of one whole day, with which unwonted boon they
were fain to be content.

It was on this little anticipated holiday that the event
took place which it is the business of this story to relate.
Two of the most delighted boys at Dr. Longstrap's school
were Harvey Silver and Andy Martin.  They were great
chums, being as much attached to each other as they were
unlike one another in appearance.  They lived in the
same neighbourhood, were pretty much of the same
age—namely, fourteen last birthday—went to the same school,
learned the same lessons, and were fond of the same sports.
But there the resemblance between them stopped.  Andy
was hasty, impetuous, and daring; Harvey was quiet, slow,
and cautious.  In fact, one was both the contrast and the
complement of the other, and it was this, no doubt, more
than anything else, which made them so attached to each
other.  Had their mutual likeness been greater, their
mutual liking would perhaps have been less.

"Isn't it just splendid having a whole holiday to-morrow?"
cried Harvey, enthusiastically, to his chum, as the
crowd of boys poured tumultuously out of school for their
morning recess, Dr. Longstrap having, with a grim smile,
just announced that in view of the freezing of the harbour
being such an extremely rare event, he had decided to
grant them one day's liberty.

"We must put in the whole day on the harbour," responded
Andy heartily.  "Couldn't we take some lunch with us,
and then we needn't go home in the middle of the day?"

"What a big head you have, to be sure!" exclaimed
Harvey, with a look of mock admiration.  "That's a great
idea.  We'll do it."

The following day was Thursday, and when the two
boys opened their eyes after such a sleep as only tired
healthy schoolboys can secure, they were delighted to find
every promise of a fine day.  The sun shone brightly, the
air was clear, the wind was hushed, and everything in
their favour.  As Harvey, in the highest spirits, took his
seat at the breakfast table, he pointed out the window,
from which a full view of the harbour could be obtained.
"Look, father," said he, "if there isn't the English mail
steamer just coming round the lighthouse!  There'll be no
getting to the wharf for her to-day.  What do you think
they'll do?"

"Come up the harbour as far as they can, and then land
the mails and passengers on the ice, I suppose," answered
Mr. Silver.

"But how can she come up when it's all frozen?"
queried Harvey.

"Easily enough.  Ram her way through until it is thick
enough to stop her."

"Oh, what fun that will be!" exclaimed Harvey.
"How glad I am that we have a holiday to-day, so we can
see it all!"

"Well, take good care of yourself, my boy, and be sure
and be back before dark," said Mr. Silver.

When, according to promise, Andy Martin called for him
soon after breakfast, Harvey dragged him to the dining-room
window, and pointing out the steamer, now coming
into the harbour at a good rate of speed, said gleefully,—

"There's the English mail steamer, Andy, and father
says she'll ram her way up through the ice as far as she
possibly can.  Won't that be grand?"

Shortly after, the two boys left the house, and hastened
off down Water Street until they reached a wharf from
which they could easily get out upon the ice.  They were
both good skaters for their age, strong, sure, and speedy,
and their first proceeding was to dart away across the
harbour, spurting against one another in the first freshness
of their youthful vigour, until they had reached the outer
edge of the Dartmouth wharves.  They then thought it
was about time to rest a bit and regain their breath.

"What perfect ice!" gasped Andy.  "It's ever so much
better than fresh-water ice, isn't it?"

Harvey, being very much out of breath, simply nodded.

Andy was right, too.  Whatever be the reason, the
finest ice a skater can have is that which forms upon salt
water.  It has good qualities in which fresh-water ice is
altogether lacking.

"Hallo, Andy! there's the steamer," cried Harvey
suddenly, having quite recovered his wind.

Sure enough, just beyond George's Island the great dark
hull of the ocean greyhound was discernible, as with superb
majesty she solemnly pushed her way through the thin,
ragged ice which marked where the current had been too
strong for the breastplate to form properly.  Full of
impatience to watch the steamer's doings, the two boys
hurried toward her at their best pace, so that in a few
minutes they were not far from her bows, and as far out
upon the ice as they thought it safe to venture.

No doubt it was a rare and thrilling sight, and not only
the boys, but all who were upon the harbour at the time,
gathered to witness it.  The steamer was now in the
thick, well-knitted ice, and could no longer force her way
onward steadily, so she had to resort to ramming.  Her
course lay parallel to the wharves, and about one hundred
yards or more from them.  Reversing her engines, she
would back slowly down the long narrow canal made in
her onward progress until some hundreds of yards away;
then coming to a halt for a moment, she would begin to
go ahead, at first very slowly, almost imperceptibly, then
gradually gathering speed as the huge screw spun round,
sending waves from side to side of the ice-walled lane;
faster and still faster, while the spectators, thrilling with
excitement, held their breath in expectation; faster and
still faster, until at last, with a crash that made even the
steamer's vast frame tremble from stem to stern, the sharp
steel bow struck the icy barrier, and with splintering
sound bored its way fiercely through, but losing a little
impetus with every yard gained, so that by the time the
steamer had made her own length her onset was at an end,
and sullenly withdrawing, she had to renew the attack.

As at the beginning, so at the end of the steamer's
charge, there was a moment when she stood perfectly still.
This was when all her impetus was exhausted, and for a
brief second she paused before rebounding and backing
away.  During this almost imperceptible instant it was
just possible for a swift skater to dart up and touch the
bow as it towered above the ice hard pressed against it.
There was absolutely nothing in such a feat except its
daring.  Yet—and perhaps for that very reason—there
were those present rash enough to attempt it.  Big Ben
Hill, the champion speed skater, was the first, and he
succeeded so admirably that others soon followed his
example.  Harvey and Andy were intensely interested
spectators as one after another, darting up just at the right
moment, touched with outstretched finger-tips the steamer's
bow, and then, with skilful turn, swung
safely out of the way.

.. _`"THE ICE OPENED BENEATH HIS VERY FEET."`:

.. figure:: images/img-049.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "THE ICE OPENED BENEATH HIS VERY FEET."

   "THE ICE OPENED BENEATH HIS VERY FEET."

"I'm going to try it too," said
Andy, under his breath.

"You'll do nothing of the kind, Andy," answered Harvey.
"It's just touch and go every time."

"Yes, I will.  Buntie Boggs just did it, and if he can
do it, I can," returned Andy eagerly.

As he spoke, the steamer came gliding on for another
charge.  With eyes flashing, nerves tingling, muscles tense,
and heart beating like a trip-hammer, Andy awaited her
onset.  Crash, crack, splinter; then pause—and like an
arrow he flew at her bow.  Harvey tried to hold him
back, but in vain.  Over the smooth ice he shot, and right
up to the big black bow.  With a smile of triumph he
stretched out his hand, when—crash! the ice opened
suddenly beneath his very feet, and he pitched headlong into
the dark swirling water.

A cry of horror went up from the crowd, and with one
impulse they moved as closely as they dared to the edge
of the open water.  There was a moment of agonized
silence, then a shout of joy as a fur cap, followed by a
dark body, emerged from the water, and presently Andy's
frightened face was turned imploringly toward them.  He
could swim well enough, and keep himself afloat all right;
but the steamer retreating along the narrow canal created
a strong current, which bore him after her, and he was in
no slight danger.

"Save him! oh, save him, won't you?" cried Harvey,
grasping Ben Hill's arm imploringly.

"I will that, my lad; never fear."

But how was it to be done?  All along the edge of the
canal in which Andy was struggling for life, and for some
yards from it, the ice was cracked and broken into
jagged fragments, making it impossible for any one to
approach near enough to the boy to help him out, and
for the same reason he was unable to climb out by himself.

"A rope! a rope!  I must have a rope!" shouted Ben
Hill, looking eagerly around him.  His quick eye fell upon
a schooner lying at the head of a wharf near by.

"Cheer him up, boys," cried Ben; "I'll be back in a
second;" and like a flash he sped off toward the schooner.

Almost in less time than it takes to tell it he reached
her side, sprang over the low bulwarks on to the deck,
snatched up a coil of rope that lay upon the cabin poop,
leaped back to the ice, and with mighty strides came
down toward the water, amid the cheers of the onlookers.

"Look out for yourself, Andy!" Ben shouted, as he
drew close to the canal's edge, coiling the rope for a throw.
"Now, then, catch!" and the long rope went swirling
through the air.

A cry of disappointment from the crowd announced
that it had fallen short.

"All right, Andy—better luck next time," called Ben,
as he rapidly recovered the rope for another fling.  Venturing
a little nearer, and taking more pains, he flung it out
with all his strength, and this time a shout of joy
proclaimed that his aim had been true.

"Put it under your arms," called out Ben.

Letting go the cake of ice to which he had been
clinging, Andy slipped the rope under his arms.

"Now, then, hold tight."  And slowly, carefully, hand
over hand, big Ben, with feet braced firmly and muscles
straining, drew Andy through the broken cakes and up
upon the firm safe ice.  The moment he was out of danger
a shout burst forth from the relieved spectators, and they
crowded eagerly round rescued and rescuer.

"Out of the way there, please! out of the way!" cried
Ben, as he gathered Andy's dripping form up in his arms.
"This lad must be beside a fire as soon as possible."

Fortunately the crew were still on board the schooner
from which the precious rope had been borrowed, and they
had a fine fire in the cabin.  Into this warm nook Andy
was borne without delay.  His wet clothes were soon
stripped off, and he was turned into a bunk until dry ones
could be procured.  A messenger was despatched with the
news to his home, and before long his mother, with feelings
strangely divided between smiles and tears, drove down
for the boy who had come so near to being lost to her
for ever.

That evening, as Harvey and Andy were sitting by the
fireside recounting for the tenth time the stirring incidents
of the day, and voicing together the praises of big Ben
Hill, Andy, with a sly twinkle of the eye, turned to
Harvey, saying, "Do you remember saying to me that it
was a touch and go every time?"

"Yes, Andy; what of it?"

"Well, I was just thinking that in my case I didn't
touch, but I went—under the water, and I won't be in a
hurry to try it again."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE CAVE IN THE CLIFF`:

.. class:: center large bold

   THE CAVE IN THE CLIFF.

.. vspace:: 2

"Say, Bruce, don't you think we could manage to put
in a whole week up among the hills this autumn?"
asked Fred Harris of Bruce Borden, as the two friends
strolled along together one September afternoon through
the main street of Shelburne, one of the prettiest towns
upon the Nova Scotian sea-board.

"I guess so, Fred," responded Bruce promptly.  "Father
promised me a week's holiday to spend any way I chose if
I stuck to the shop all summer, and I've been thinking for
some time what I would do.  That's a grand idea of yours.
When would we go?"

"About the first of next month would be the best time,
wouldn't it?  We could shoot partridges then, you know,
and there won't be any mosquitoes or black flies to
bother us."

"All right, Fred.  Count me in.  I'm just dying for a
shot at the partridges; and, besides, I know of a lake 'way
up in the hills where there are more trout than we could
catch in a year, and splendid big fellows, too!  Archie
Mack was telling me about it the other day."

"Why, that's the very place I wanted to go to; and it
was Archie who told me about it, too," said Fred.  "I'll
tell you what, Bruce, we must get Archie to come with us,
and then we'll have a fine time for sure."

"Hooray!  You've got the notion now," cried Bruce
with delight.  "Archie's a splendid fellow for the woods,
and he's such a good shot; he hardly ever misses.  Why,
I wouldn't mind meeting a bear if Archie was present."

"Ah, wouldn't you though, Mr. Bruce!" laughed Fred.
"I guess if either you or I were to come across a bear he'd
see more of our heels than our face.  I know I wouldn't
stop to make his acquaintance."

"I'll warrant Archie wouldn't run from any bear," said
Bruce, "and I'm not so sure that I would either.  However,
there's small chance of our seeing one, so it's not
much good talking about it.  But I must run back to the
shop now.  Won't you come in after tea to-night, and we'll
make our plans?"

Fred promised he would, and went on down the street,
while Bruce returned to his place behind the counter; and
if he was a little absent-minded in attending to the
customers, so that he gave Mrs. White pepper instead of
salt, and Mrs. M'Coy tea instead of coffee, we must not be
too hard upon him.

Bruce Borden was the son of one of the most thriving
shopkeepers in Shelburne, and his father, after letting him
go to school and the academy until he was sixteen years
of age, had then put an apron on him and installed him
behind the counter, there to learn the management of the
business, which he promised him would be Robert Borden
and Son in due time if Bruce took hold of it in the right
way.  And Bruce did take hold.  He was a bright, active,
energetic lad, with a pleasant manner, and made an
excellent clerk, pleasing his father so well that as the first
year's apprenticeship was drawing to a close, Mr. Borden,
quite of his own accord, made glad Bruce's heart by saying
that he might soon have a whole week's holiday to do
what he liked with, before settling down to the winter's
work.

Bruce's friend, Fred Harris, as the son of a wealthy
mill-owner who held mortgages on half the farms in the
neighbourhood, did not need to go behind a counter, but,
on the contrary, went to college about the same time that
Bruce put on his apron.  He was now at home for the
vacation, which would not end until the last of October.
He was a lazy, luxurious kind of a chap, although not
lacking either in mind or muscle, as he had shown more
than once when the occasion demanded it.  Bruce and he
had been playmates from the days of short frocks, and
were very strongly attached to one another.  They rarely
disagreed, and when they did, made it up again as soon as
possible.

In accordance with his promise, Fred Harris came to
Mr. Borden's shop that same evening just before they were
closing up, bringing Archie Mack with him; and after
the shutters had been put on and everything arranged for
the night, the three boys sat down to perfect their plans
for the proposed hunting excursion to the hills.

Archie Mack bore quite a different appearance from his
companions.  He was older, to begin with, and much
taller, his long sinewy frame betokening a more than
usual amount of strength and activity, he had only of
late come to Shelburne, the early part of his life having
been spent on one of the pioneer farms among the hills,
where he had become almost as good a woodsman as an
Indian, seeming to be able to find his way without
difficulty through what looked like trackless wilderness, and
to know everything about the birds in the air, the beasts
on the ground, or the fish in the waters.  This knowledge,
of course, made him a good deal of a hero among the town
boys, and they regarded acquaintance with him as quite
a privilege, particularly as, being of a reserved, retiring
nature, like all true backwoodsmen, it was not easy to get
on intimate terms with him.  He was now employed at
Mr. Harris's big lumber-mill, and was in high favour with
his master because of the energy and fidelity with which
he attended to his work.

"Now then, Fred, let's to business," said Bruce, as they
took possession of the chairs in the back office.  "When
shall we start, and what shall we take?"

"Archie's the man to answer these questions," answered
Fred.  "I move that we appoint him commander-in-chief
of the expedition, with full power to settle everything."

"You'd better make sure that I can go first," said
Archie.  "It won't do to be counting your chickens before
they're hatched."

"Oh, there's no fear of that," replied Fred.  "Father
promised me he'd give you a week's holiday so that we
could go hunting together some time this autumn, and he
never fails to keep his promises."

"All right then, Fred, if you say so.  I'm only too
willing to go with you, you may be sure.  So let us
proceed to business," said Archie.  And for the next hour or
more the three tongues wagged very busily as all sorts of
plans were proposed, discussed, accepted, or rejected, Archie,
of course, taking the lead in the consultation, and usually
having the final say.

At length everything was settled so far as it could be
then, and, very well satisfied with the result of their
deliberations, the boys parted for the night.  As soon as he
got home, Fred Harris told his father all about it, and
readily obtained his consent to giving Archie a week's
leave.  There was, therefore, nothing more to be done than
to get their guns and other things ready, and await the
coming of the 1st of October with all the patience at their
command.

October is a glorious month in Nova Scotia.  The sun
shines down day after day from an almost cloudless sky;
the air is clear, cool, and bracing without being keen; the
ground is dry and firm; the forests are decked in a
wonderful garb of gold and flame interwoven with green whose
richness and beauty defy description, and beneath which a
wealth of wild fruit and berries, cherries, plums, Indian
pears, blackberries, huckleberries, blueberries, and pigeon-berries
tempts you at every step by its luscious largess.  But
for the sportsman there are still greater attractions in the
partridges which fly in flocks among the trees, and the trout
and salmon which Hash through the streams, ready victims
for rod or gun.

Early in the morning of the last day in September the
three boys set out for the hills.  It would be a whole day's
drive, for their waggon was pretty heavily loaded with
tent, stove, provisions, bedding, ammunition, and other
things, and, moreover, the road went up-hill all the way.
So steep, indeed, were some of the ascents that they found
it necessary to relieve the waggon of their weight, or the
horse could hardly have reached the top.  But all this was
fun to them.  They rode or walked as the case required;
talked till their tongues were tired about what they hoped
to do; laughed at Prince and Oscar, their two dogs—one a
fine English setter, the other a nondescript kind of
hound—as they scoured the woods on either side of the road
with great airs of importance; scared the squirrels that
stopped for a peep at the travellers by snapping caps at
them; and altogether enjoyed themselves greatly.

Just as the evening shadows were beginning to fall they
reached the farm on which Archie Mack's father lived,
where they were to spend the night, and to leave their
waggon until their return from camp.  Mr. Mack gave
them a hearty welcome and a bountiful backwoods supper
of fried chicken, corn-cake, butter-milk, and so forth, for
which they had most appreciative appetites; and soon
after, thoroughly tired out, they tumbled into bed to sleep
like tops until the morning.

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!  Time to get up!  Out of bed
with you!" rang through the house the next morning, as
Archie Mack, who was the first to waken, proceeded to
waken everybody else.

"Oh dear, how sleepy I am!" groaned Fred Harris,
rubbing his eyes, and feeling as though he had been asleep
only a few minutes.

"Up, everybody, no time to waste!" shouted Archie
again; and with great reluctance the other two boys,
dragging themselves out on the floor, got into their clothes
as quickly as they could.

Breakfast wras hurriedly despatched, and soon after, with
all their belongings packed on an old two-wheeled cart
drawn by a patient sure-footed ox, and driven by Mr. Mack
himself, the little party made their way through the
woods to their camping-ground, which was to be on the
shore of the lake Archie had been telling them about.
Without much difficulty they found a capital spot for
their tent.  Mr. Mack helped them to put it up and get
everything in order, and then bade them good-bye, promising
to return in six days to take them all back again.

The first four days passed away without anything of
special note happening.  They had glorious weather, fine
fishing, and very successful shooting.  They waded in the
water, tramped through the woods, ate like Eskimos, and
slept like stones, getting browner and fatter every day, as
nothing occurred to mar the pleasure of their camp out.
On the afternoon of the fourth day they all went off in
different directions, Fred taking Prince the setter with
him, Bruce the hound Oscar, and Archie going alone.
When they got back to camp that evening Bruce had a
wonderful story to tell.  Here it is in his own words:—

"Tell you what it is, fellows, we've a big contract on
hand for to-morrow.  You know that run which comes
into the lake at the upper end.  Well, I thought I'd follow
it up and see where it leads to; so on I went for at
least a couple of miles till I came to a big cliff.  I felt a
little tired, and sat down on a boulder to rest a bit.  Oscar
kept running around with his nose at the ground as if he
suspected something.  All of a sudden he stopped short,
sniffed very hard, and then with a loud, long howl rushed
off to the cliff, and began to climb a kind of ledge that
gave him a foothold.  I followed him as best I could; but
it wasn't easy work, I can tell you.  Up he went, and up
I scrambled after him, till at last he stopped where there
was a sort of shelf, and at the end of it a big hole in the
rock that looked very much like a cave.  He ran right up
to the hole and began to bark with all his might.  I went
up pretty close, too, wondering what on earth Oscar was
so excited about, when, the first thing I knew, one bear's
head and then another poked out of the hole, and snarled
fiercely at Oscar.  I tell you, boys, it just made me creep,
and I didn't wait for another look, but tumbled down that
ledge again as fast as I could and made for camp on the
dead run.  It was not my day for bears."

"You're a wise chap, Bruce," said Archie, clapping him
on the back.  "You couldn't have done much damage with
that shot-gun, even if you had stayed to introduce yourself.
I'm awfully glad you've found the cave.  Father told me
about these bears, and said he'd give a sovereign for their
tails.  There's an old she-bear and two half-grown cubs.
I guess it was the cubs you saw.  The old woman must
have been out visiting."

"If I'd known that they were only cubs I might have
tried a dose of small shot on them," said Bruce regretfully.

"It's just as well you didn't," answered Archie.  "We'll
pay our respects to them to-morrow.  I'll take my rifle,
and you two load up with ball in both barrels, and then
we'll be ready for business."

So it was all arranged in that way, and then, almost too
excited to sleep, the three lads settled down for the night,
which could not be too short to please them.

They were up bright and early the next morning, bolted
a hasty breakfast, and then proceeded to clean and load
their guns with the utmost care.  Fred and Bruce each
had fine double-barrelled guns, in one barrel of which they
put a bullet, and in the other a heavy load of buckshot.
Archie had his father's rifle, and a very good one it was,
which he well knew how to use.  Besides this each carried
a keen-bladed hunting-knife in his belt.

Thus armed and accoutred they set forth full of
courage and in high spirits.  They had no difficulty in
finding and following Bruce's course the day before, for
Oscar, who seemed to thoroughly understand what they
were about, led them straight to the foot of the cliff, and
would have rushed right up to the cave again if Archie
had not caught him and tied him to a boulder.  Then they
sat down to study the situation.  For them to go straight
up the ledge with the chance of the old bear charging
down upon them any moment would be foolhardy in the
extreme.  They must find out some better way than that
of besieging the bears' stronghold.

"Hurrah!" exclaimed Archie, after studying the face
of the cliff earnestly.  "I have it!  Do you see that ledge
over there to the left?  If we go round to the other side
of the cliff we can get on that ledge most likely, and it'll
take us to right over the shelf where the cave is.  We'll
try it, anyway."

Holding Oscar tight, they crept cautiously around the
foot of the cliff, and up at the left, until they reached the
point Archie meant.  There, sure enough, they found the
ledge two sharp eyes had discovered, and it evidently led
over toward the cave just as he hoped.  Once more tying
the dog, who looked up at them in surprised protest, but
was too well trained to make any noise, the boys made
their way slowly along the narrow ledge, until at last they
came to a kind of niche from which they could look
straight down upon the shelf, now only about fifteen feet
below them.

"Splendid, boys!" whispered Archie, gripping Fred's
arm.  "We're as safe as a church-mouse here, and they can't
poke their noses out of the cave without our seeing them."

Keeping very still and quiet, the boys waited patiently
for what would happen.  Then, getting tired of the
inaction, Bruce picked up a fragment of rock and threw
it down upon the ledge below, where it rattled noisily.
Immediately a deep, fierce growl came
from the cave, and a moment afterwards
the old bear herself rolled out into the sunshine.

"The top of the morning to you, missus!" called out
Archie saucily.  "And how may your ladyship be feeling
this morning?"

At the sound of his voice the bear turned quickly, and
catching sight of the three boys in such close proximity to
the privacy of her home, uttered a terrible roar of rage,
and rearing up on her hind legs, strove to climb the piece
of cliff that separated them from her.

Bruce and Fred, who had never seen a wild bear before,
shrank terror-stricken into the corner, but Archie, looking
as cool as a cucumber, stood his ground, rifle in hand.

"No, no, my lady; not this morning," said he, with an
ironical bow.  "You're quite near enough already."

Foiled in her first attempt, the great creature gathered
herself together for another spring, and once more came
toward them with a savage roar.  As she did so her broad,
black breast was fully exposed.  Without a tremor of fear
or excitement Archie lifted his rifle to his shoulder and
aimed straight at the bear's heart; a sharp report rang out
through the clear morning air, followed close by a hideous
howl of mingled rage and pain; and when the smoke
cleared away the boys, with throbbing hearts, looked down
upon a huge black shape that writhed and struggled in
the agonies of death.  A simultaneous shout of victory
burst from their lips and gave relief to their excited
emotions.

.. _`"ARCHIE AIMED STRAIGHT AT THE BEAR'S HEART."`:

.. figure:: images/img-063.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "ARCHIE AIMED STRAIGHT AT THE BEAR'S HEART."

   "ARCHIE AIMED STRAIGHT AT THE BEAR'S HEART."

"Hurrah, Archie!  You've done for her," cried Fred,
clapping him vigorously on the back.

"Yes.  I reckon she won't have any more mutton at
father's expense," said Archie with a triumphant smile.
"Just look at her now.  Isn't she a monster?"

In truth she was a monster; and even though the life
seemed to have completely left her, the boys thought it
well to wait a good many minutes before going any
nearer.  After some time, when there could be no longer
any doubt, they scrambled down the way they came, and,
unloosing Oscar, approached the cave from the front.
Oscar bounded on ahead with eager leaps, and catching
sight of the big black body, rushed furiously at it.  But
the moment he reached it he stopped, smelled the body
suspiciously, and then gave vent to a strange, long howl
that sounded curiously like a death lament.  After that
there could be nothing more to fear; so the three boys
climbed up on the shelf and proceeded to examine their
quarry.  She was very large, and in splendid condition,
having been feasting upon unlimited berries for weeks past.

"Now for the cubs," said Archie.  "The job's only half
done if we leave these young rascals alone.  I'm sorry
they're too big to take alive.  Ha, ha!  Oscar says they're
at home."

Sure enough the hound was barking furiously at the
mouth of the cave, which he appeared none too anxious to
enter.

"Bruce, suppose you try what damage your buckshot
would do in there," suggested Archie.

"All right," assented Bruce, and, going up to the mouth,
he peered in.  Two pairs of gleaming eyes that were much
nearer than he expected made him start back with an
exclamation of surprise.  But, quickly recovering himself,
he raised his gun and fired right at the little round balls
of light.  Following upon the report came a series of
queer cries, half-growls, half-whimpers, and presently all
was still.

"I guess that did the business," said Bruce.

"Why don't you go in and see?" asked Archie.

"Thank you.  I'd rather not; but you can, it you like,"
replied Bruce.

"Very well, I will," said Archie promptly, laying down
his gun.  And, drawing his hunting-knife, he crawled
cautiously into the cave.  Not a move or sound was there
inside.  A little distance from the mouth he touched one
soft, furry body from which life had fled, and just behind
it another.  The buckshot had done its work.  The cubs
were as dead as their mother.  The next thing was to get
them out.  The cave was very low and narrow, and the
cubs pretty big fellows.  Archie crawled out again for a
consultation with the others.  Various plans were suggested
but rejected, until at length Archie called out,—

"I have it!  I'll crawl in there and get a good grip of
one of the cubs, and then you fellows will catch hold of
my legs and haul us both out together."

And so that was the way they managed it, pulling and
puffing and toiling away until, finally, after tremendous
exertion, they had the two cubs lying beside their mother
on the ledge.

"Phew!  That's quite enough work for me to-day,"
said Fred, wiping the perspiration from his forehead.

"For me too!" chorused the others.

"I move we go back to camp and wait there until
father comes with his cart, and then come up here for the
bears," said Archie.

"Carried unanimously!" cried the others, and with that
they all betook themselves back to camp.

The rest of the story is soon told.  Mr. Mack came
along that afternoon, praised the boys highly for their
pluck, and with experienced hands skinned and cut up the
bears.  To Archie, as of right, fell the skin of the old bear,
while the others got a cub-pelt apiece, with which they
went triumphantly home to be the heroes of the town for
the next nine days at least.

.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"THE PERFECTION OF MOTION."`:

.. figure:: images/img-068.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "THE PERFECTION OF MOTION."

   "THE PERFECTION OF MOTION."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TOBOGGANING`:

.. class:: center large bold

   TOBOGGANING.

.. vspace:: 2

If skating be the poetry of motion—and who shall say
no?—tobogganing is certainly the perfection of
motion.  There is nothing of the kind to surpass it in the
world; for coasting, however good, is not to be mentioned
in the same breath with this glorious sport.  No previous
acquaintance with fast going—speeding along behind a
fast trotter, or over the shining rails at the tail of a
lightning locomotive—would prepare you for the first shoot
down a regular toboggan slide.

The effect upon a beginner is brightly illustrated by
the replies of a fair American who made her first venture
at the Montreal Carnival.  Arriving safely at the bottom
after a particularly swift descent, she was asked how she
liked it.

"Perfectly splendid!" she gasped, as soon as she
recovered her breath.  "I wouldn't have missed it for the
world."

"Then, of course, you'll take another?"

"Oh no, indeed!  Not for the entire universe."

But she did, all the same, and soon became as enthusiastic
over the fun as any of her Canadian cousins.

All ages and all sorts and conditions of people toboggan
in Canada.  Indeed, if you were to ask what is the
national winter sport of the New Dominion, the answer
would infallibly be tobogganing.  In no other country
was it ever known until within the past few years, when
such accounts of its delights have gone forth that it bids
fair to come into common use wherever there is snow
enough to permit it.  While it can be enjoyed to perfection
only at the slides specially prepared for the purpose, any
smooth sharp slope with a bit of level plain at its foot,
well covered with snow having a good hard crust, affords
the means for fine sport.

The advantage of the artificial slide is that it can be
kept constantly in order, and therefore may be in first-class
condition for sliding when the snow is altogether too soft
and deep upon the hills.  These slides are to be seen in
every part of Canada, their gaunt framework rising up
tall and stiff out of some level field, or, better still, upon
a hill-top, thus securing a double elevation.  They are
roughly yet strongly constructed of beams and boards, and
comprise one, or sometimes two, long troughs placed side
by side, with a flight of stairs adjoining.  These troughs
are curved in the shape of a cycloid, and are from three to
five feet wide, the length, of course, varying with the height
of the structure.  When winter has finally set in they are
paved with big blocks of ice from bottom to top, over
which loose snow is scattered, and then abundance of
water poured on, until, Jack Frost kindly assisting, the
whole is welded together into one solid substantial mass.

A slide once properly prepared, and kept in order by the
addition of a little more snow and water now and then,
will last all winter; and the more it is used, the faster and
truer it becomes.  In the grounds of Rideau Hall, the
official residence of the Governor-General of Canada, there
are two immense slides, and tobogganing may there be
enjoyed in full perfection.

Let us suppose we have been invited to one of those
brilliant torchlight fêtes which form so popular an item
in the programme of the viceroy's winter hospitality.  A
more beautiful scene than that which lies all around and
underneath us, when we have accomplished the toilsome
ascent of the steep, slippery stairs of the toboggan slide,
can hardly be imagined.  Stretching away from the narrow
platform upon which we stand, two long double lines of
flaring torches mark out the slides, slanting sharply
downward until they reach the level far below, and then run
off to hide their endings somewhere in the dusky recesses
of the forest.  At our left another line of torches,
interspersed with Chinese lanterns, encircles a gleaming mirror,
upon whose surface the skaters glide smoothly this way
and that, while from its centre—looking oddly out of
season, it must be confessed—a Maypole flaunts its rainbow
ribbons.

A little further on, the long, low curling rink, gaily
decorated, proclaims good cheer from every lighted window.
Turning to our left, we catch through the trees a glimpse
of the other skating pond, with its ice palace for the band
and quaint log hut for tired skaters.  Right in front of us
a huge bonfire blazes up, making music with its merry
crackling.

But we have lingered too long in taking all this in.  We
are stopping the way, and an impatient crowd is pressing
hard upon us.  Let us place our toboggan, then, carefully
in the centre of the groove, adjust the cushions, coil up the
cord, and seat ourselves securely, with stout grasp upon
the hand-rail.

"All ready?" cries the steerer.

"Ay, ay!" we reply.

Giving the toboggan a strong shove, he springs on behind,
with foot outstretched for rudder, and the next instant—well,
the only way to describe what follows is that we just
drop into space.  We don't simply coast, for so steep, so
smooth is the descent that we are not conscious of having
any connection whatever with the solid earth for at least
twenty-five yards, and then, with a bump and rattle and
scrape of hard wood against still harder ice, we speed like
an arrow through lines of flashing light and rows of
open-eyed onlookers, until full four hundred yards away we
come gently to a stop in the soft, deep snow amid the
trees.

The ordinary toboggan is made in the following fashion:
Three strips of birch or bass wood, a quarter of an inch
thick and from four to eight feet long by eight or nine
inches broad, are put side by side and held in position by
cross-pieces placed about two feet apart, the whole being
bound tightly together by lashings of gut, for which
grooves are cut in the bottom so that they may not be
chafed by the snow.  The thin end of the strips is then
turned up and over, like the dashboard of a sleigh, and
secured by strong pieces of gut tied under the first cross-piece.
A long thin pole on either side, made fast by loops
to the cross-pieces, for a hand-rail; a comfortable cushion,
stuffed with straw, shavings, or wool, and a long cord, are
then added, and behold your toboggan is complete.

As may be guessed from the use of gut for fastenings,
the toboggan is an Indian invention, and was in use among
the red men as a means of winter conveyance for centuries
before the white man saw in it a source of delightful
amusement.  It is doubtful if the Indian way of making
toboggans can be much improved upon, although within
the past few years pale-face ingenuity has been exerted
toward that end.  The peculiarity of the new toboggans
consists in narrow hard-wood slats being used instead of
the broad, thin boards, and screws in place of gut lashings.
For my own part, I prefer the old-fashioned kind.  The
new-fangled affairs are no faster, are a good bit heavier,
more liable to break, and being much stiffer, have not that
springy motion which forms so attractive a feature of the
others.

A third kind, just now making its appearance, has the
hand-rail held some inches high by means of metal sockets,
and the front is gathered into a peak, while it too is put
together with screws.  The higher hand-rail is unquestionably
an advantage, and if it prove durable, will probably
render this last style very popular.

In choosing a toboggan you must be careful to select
one whose wood is straight-grained, and as free from knots
as possible, precisely as a cricketer would choose his bat.
The cross-pieces should be closely examined, for they have
to endure severe strains, and will be sure to snap if there
is a weak spot in them.  Then the gut lashings ought to
have close inspection, especial care being taken to see that
they are well sunk into the wood along the bottom, so as
to be safe from chafing.  Where the gut has given way I
have substituted strong brass wire with very good results,
after once it was drawn tight enough; but this I found no
easy matter.

Having selected a toboggan to your satisfaction, the
next thing is to cushion it.  The cushion should run the
whole length, and be not less than two inches thick.  Good
stout furniture rep, stuffed with "excelsior," makes a capital
cushion, although some prefer heavy rug material, and
extravagant folk even go the length of fur trappings.  The
cushion must be well secured to the hand-rail, or it will
give trouble by slipping off at the first bump.

As to the management of a toboggan, it is not easy to
say much more than that it requires a quick eye, a good
nerve, and strength enough to steer.

There are several ways of steering.  One is to sit with
feet turned up in front, and guide the machine by means
of sticks held in the hands.  Another is to kneel, and
employ the hands in the same way.  Then some very
daring and reckless fellows will venture to stand up, and
using the cord as reins, go careering down the slope, with
the danger of a tremendous tumble every moment.  The
most sensible and effective way of all, however, is to sit
sideways, having one leg curled up underneath you, and
the other stretched out behind, like the steering oar of a
whale-boat, "Yankee fashion," as it is called in Canada.
This mode not only gives you perfect control of your
toboggan, but has the further and very important advantage
of making it easy for you to roll off, and acting as a
drag, bring the whole affair to a speedy stop in the event
of danger appearing ahead.  More than once have I escaped
what might possibly have been serious injury at the cost
of a little rough scraping over the snow.

From two to six people can sit comfortably on a toboggan,
according to its length.  The perfect number is four—a
man at the front to bear the brunt of danger, and
ward off the blinding spray of snow, two ladies next, and
then the steerer bringing up the rear, and responsible for
the safety of all.  Ah me! but what a grand thing it is
to be young enough to thoroughly enjoy the tobogganing
season.

The toboggan has many advantages over the sled such
as is used for coasting.  Wherever a sled can go, a toboggan
can go also, while on many a hill that offers splendid
tobogganing, a sled would be quite useless.  Again, it is
much lighter than the sled, which means that you do not
have to work half so hard for your fun.  A third advantage
is its safety, more especially in the hands of children.
It has no sharp iron-shod ends to make ugly gashes in
little legs.  Tobogganing has its perils, of course, and I
might, if I chose, tell some experiences that would perhaps
cause a nervous thrill; but what sport is absolutely free
from danger?  And since Mark Twain has earned the
gratitude of us all by proving that more people die in their
beds than anywhere else, why should the most timid be
deterred by the faint possibility of peril from enjoying one
of the finest and most healthful winter amusements in the
world?

.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Tobogganing tailpiece`:

.. figure:: images/img-075.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: Tobogganing tailpiece

   Tobogganing tailpiece





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A MIC-MAC CINDERELLA`:

.. class:: center large bold

   A MIC-MAC CINDERELLA.

.. vspace:: 2

The dear old stories that delighted us in our nurseries
as mother or sister lured the lingering dustman
to our eyes by telling them over and over, do not by any
means belong to us alone.  They are the common property
of mankind.  Even the most rude and ignorant peoples
have them in some form or other, and the study of these
myths and the folk-lore associated with them is one of
the most interesting branches of modern philology.  "Jack
the Giant-Killer," "Puss in Boots," "Aladdin and his
Wonderful Lamp," and all the rest of them, have their parallels
in the farthest corners of the globe.  They are to be
found, too, among the dusky race whose mothers told
them to their children long before pale-face eyes looked
covetously upon American shores and pale-face powder
sent terror into the hearts of brown-skinned braves.  Take
this pretty legend of Tee-am and Oo-chig-e-asque as it was
told to an unforgetful listener beside a Mic-Mac camp-fire
in Nova Scotia, and, comparing with our own familiar
fable of Cinderella, see if the two are not alike in so
many points as to make it easy to believe they had a
common origin.

In the heart of one of those vast forests that used to
cover the Acadian land with billowy seas of verdure as
boundless seemingly as the ocean itself, lay a large, long
lake, at one end of which an Indian village of more than
usual size had grown up.  It was a capital place for a
settlement, because the lake abounded with fish, the
surrounding forest with game, and near at hand were sunny
glades and bits of open upon which sufficient corn, beans,
and pumpkins could be raised for the needs of the inhabitants.
So highly did these village folk value their good
fortune that they would allow no other Indians to share
it, and any attempt to settle near that lake meant the
massacre or flight of the rash intruders.  A little way
from the village the lake shore rose up into a kind of
eminence having a clump of trees upon its crown, and in the
midst of this clump stood a wigwam that had more interest
for the maidens of the place than any other.  They
would often watch the smoke-wreaths curling up through
the trees, and wish that in some mysterious way they
could get into the interior of that wigwam without the
occupants having any warning; and many times they would,
quite by chance, you know, wander off in that direction,
or along the beach below, where the owner's canoe would
be drawn up when he was at home, looking out very
eagerly and very hopefully from their brown eyes, but
always returning from their quest disappointed.

Now what was the reason of their curious conduct?
Well, I'll tell you in a few words.  In this wigwam, which
was larger and finer than any in the village, lived a young
chief named Tee-am (the Moose), who was not only very
handsome and very rich, but who—most aggravatingly
attractive quality of all—possessed the power of making
himself invisible at will, so that he could be seen only by
those to whom he was pleased to reveal himself.  Taking
these three things into account, and adding a fourth—to
wit, that Tee-am was generally understood to be meditating
matrimony—is it any wonder that the dusky lasses
with seal-brown eyes and ebon locks took a particularly
lively interest in the wigwam on the Point?

As was very natural under the circumstances, the
possessions, merits, and designs of Tee-am formed the most
important item of village gossip, especially as he had made
it known that he would select his wife after so curious,
not to say ungallant, a fashion; for instead of his going
awooing among the girls, he proposed that the girls should
come awooing to him.  Adorned in their bravest attire,
and looking their very prettiest, the maidens were to
present themselves before him, and the first one that could
see him plainly enough to describe what he had on, he
would marry.  The way they went about it was as
follows:—They washed their faces, anointed their heads,
bedecked themselves with their brightest ornaments, and
then directed their steps to the wigwam of Tee-am,
arranging it so as to arrive there a little before the hour of
the young chief's return from his daily hunting foray.
Tee-am's sister, who kept house for him, and of whom he
was very fond, would receive them graciously, and together
they would go down to the shore to await the hunter's
coming.  Presently a fine canoe would be seen gliding
swiftly over the lake's calm surface.  Eagerly the maidens
peer through the gathering shadows; but the canoe seems
impelled by magic, for no human hand is visible.  As it
nears the shore the sister asks,—

"Nemeeyok richigunum?" (Do you see my brother?)

Every eye is strained in the direction of the canoe, and
some over-eager maiden—imagination coming to the aid
of desire—would perhaps pretend she could see its
mysterious occupant.

"Coo-goo-way wisko-book-sich?" (Of what is his
carrying-strap made?) is then asked.

This was a poser.  But a lucky guess might possibly hit
the mark; so the aspirant for the chief's hand would make
answer that it was a piece of raw hide, or withe, or something
else that had been known to be applied to such a use.

"Oh, no!" the sister would reply softly, but crushing
out all hope.  "Let us go home.  You have not seen my
brother."

And so they would go back to the wigwam, where, a
little later, they would be tantalized by seeing the sister
taking a load of game apparently from the air, and a pair
of moccasins from feet that obstinately refused to be
visible.  Thus they were convinced that there was no
deception—that Tee-am was really present, although they could
not see him.  One after another the village maidens had
tried their luck "Moose-hunting," as they called it; but all
had failed alike to catch even a glimpse of the provoking
master of the wigwam on the Point.

Matters had gone on in this unsatisfactory fashion for
some time, and the fastidious Tee-am bid fair to be an old
bachelor, when he was saved from so sad a fate in the way
I shall now proceed to relate.  Near the centre of the
village stood a large wigwam, in which dwelt a widower who
had three daughters, the eldest of whom was a tall,
fine-looking girl: the second a medium-sized, rather plain girl;
and the youngest a short, slight, delicate little creature,
with a pretty, pleading face, who was despised by her big
sister, and very cruelly treated by her, because she seemed
so weak and useless.  In fact, poor Oo-chig-e-asque led a
wretched life of it; for her sister, who was of course
mistress of the tent, would lay far heavier tasks upon her
than she could possibly perform, and then if they were not
done, would beat her most unmercifully, and sometimes
even burn her with brands from the fire.  When her
father, who, to tell the truth, was but an indifferent sort
of a parent, would find her covered with burns and bruises,
and ask the meaning of it, the elder sister would reply
that she had fallen into the fire, or tripped over a tree
root, or something of that kind; and neither Oo-chig-e-asque
nor the second sister dared contradict her, they were both
so much afraid of her strong hands.  So this shameful
state of affairs continued until the poor girl's condition was
most pitiable; for her hair was singed off close to her
head, her face and body scarred with burns and bruises,
and her back bent with toil it was not strong enough to
bear.

.. _`"'WE ARE DISCOVERED AT LAST,' HE SAYS."`:

.. figure:: images/img-081.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "'WE ARE DISCOVERED AT LAST,' HE SAYS."

   "'WE ARE DISCOVERED AT LAST,' HE SAYS."

Of course the two elder sisters had been among the
candidates for Tee-am's hand: and, proud as they were of their
good looks and of their finery, both had failed utterly to
see the mysterious chief.  Their despised little sister knew
of their going only too well, for her persecutor gave her a
wicked beating when she came home disappointed, by way
of working off her ill-humour.  One day, when Oo-chig-e-asque
was sitting alone in the wigwam weeping over her
hard fate, the thought suddenly flashed into her mind—why
should *she* not try her fortune at Moose-hunting?  It
seemed absurd, of course, but it could hardly make things
any worse; and even though Tee-am would not think her
worth marrying, he might in some way not very clear to
the poor girl's troubled mind shield her from her sister's
cruelty.

Oo-chig-e-asque had no fine clothes to put on.  A few
beads given her by a compassionate squaw were her only
ornaments.  But this did not deter her.  Gathering a
quantity of birch-bark, she fashioned for herself an odd,
misshapen gown, that was ill-fitting enough to give even
an Indian *modiste* "a turn;" an old pair of her father's
moccasins were soaked to soften them, and drawn over her
bruised feet; and then, with a queer head-dress to hide her
singed poll, and her scanty beads arranged to the best
advantage, she set off quietly one afternoon toward the camp
on the Point.  Her big sister, seeing the direction she was
taking, screamed after her to come back; but she only
hastened her steps forward.  The people of the village stared
rudely at her as she passed, and, divining her purpose,
hooted derisively after her; but she kept steadily on, and
paid no heed to them.  Her whole heart was in her
enterprise, and she felt as though she would die rather than
turn back.  At length she reaches Tee-am's lodge.
Tee-am's sister comes to the door, and receives her pleasantly.
At the proper time she conducts her to the landing-place,
where they await the hunter's return, the sister soothing
her visitor's throbbing pulse by gentle inquiries as to her
life and kindly sympathy for her woes.  Just at dusk a
canoe comes toward them, shooting swiftly over the water,
and the sister says,—

"That's my brother's canoe.  Can you see him?"

"Yes," murmurs Oo-chig-e-asque, her heart beating high
with hope.

"Of what, then, is his carrying-strap made?"

"Muncwan," is the quick reply.  "It is a piece of rainbow."

"Very good," responds the sister, with a brilliant smile.
"You have indeed seen my brother.  Let us go home and
prepare for him."

So they hasten back to the wigwam, Oo-chig-e-asque's
heart palpitating betwixt delight at her success and anxiety
lest Tee-am, when he found what an insignificant little
creature she really was, might refuse to keep his promise
to marry the girl who should first be able to see him.  As
soon as they reach the tent the sister proceeds to prepare
her visitor for the nuptial ceremony, and the young girl
gives herself unhesitatingly into her hands.  The uncouth
birch-bark dress is stripped off and flung into the fire, and
a handsome robe, richly adorned with beads, takes its
place.  Pure spring water is brought, and as the kind
sister dashes it over the girl's face, and rubs the scarred
features softly with her hands, lo! every scar and spot and
blemish vanishes, and the face comes out fair and beautiful
as it never was before.  Realizing the wondrous change,
the young girl utters an exclamation of delight; then
checks herself, and puts her hand to her head.

"Ah!" she says sadly, "I have no hair.  Tee-am will
despise me when he sees I have no hair."

"Never fear, little one," the sister answers reassuringly,
and, passing her hands over the singed and frizzled hair,
behold another marvel! for it springs out in richer
profusion than ever before, and falls in long thick tresses
down the back of Oo-chig-e-asque, now too happy to speak.
Catching it up, the sister coils it deftly round the young
girl's head; and then, just as the toilet is complete, and
radiant with joy, hope, and beauty Oo-chig-e-asque stands
in the centre of the lodge.  Tee-am comes bounding in with
his load of game.  At sight of the charming girl before
him he stops short, and looks inquiringly at his sister.
Then the situation dawns upon him.

"Way-jool-koos" (We are discovered at last), he says,
with a bright smile, taking the young girl's hand.

"Yes, brother, your wife has come at last," replies the
sister, "and is she not a beauty?"

So Tee-am and Oo-chig-e-asque were married, and, like
the heroes and heroines of all true fairy tales, lived happily
ever after.




.. _`COD-FISHING ON THE BANKS OF NEWFOUNDLAND.`:

.. figure:: images/img-085.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: COD-FISHING ON THE BANKS OF NEWFOUNDLAND.

   COD-FISHING ON THE BANKS OF NEWFOUNDLAND.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BLUE-NOSE FISHER FOLK`:

.. class:: center large bold

   BLUE-NOSE FISHER FOLK.

.. vspace:: 2

Scattered up and down the rocky, foam-fringed
shore of Nova Scotia, sometimes standing out bravely
upon a promontory that projects into the very midst of the
breakers, sometimes nestling away cosily in the curve of a
quiet bay, the white cottages of the hardy fisher folk give
touches of warmth and life to a scene that would otherwise
be one of unredeemed desolation.

They are not very imposing edifices, and viewed from
the respectful distance which the dangers of that
inhospitable coast compel the passing ship to keep, they seem
still smaller than is really the case; but they are all
homes, and in their two or three cramped rooms boys
and girls have been born and bred, the young people made
love and mated, and the old people closed their eyes in
the last long sleep, as generation has succeeded generation.

So it is no wonder that the lads who thence go forth
into distant parts of the world, as many of them do, find
their hearts turning longingly back to the little cottage by
the sea, and that they often return to spend their last
years in the old place.

Voyaging along the coast some lovely summer afternoon,
and from your comfortable chair on the steamer's deck
watching these pretty cottages with their black roofs and
white sides coming into view as point after point is opened
out, and noting how trim and secure they seem, and the
glorious prospect they command from the windows which
look out from either side the central door, like sleepless
eyes, it is easy to imagine that the fishermen's sons must
have a fine, free, healthy life of it, and be far better off
than the boys in the dusty, noisy, over-crowded cities.

Well, no doubt they are better off in some respects.
They have plenty of fresh air and sunshine, and room to
grow in, while nothing could be more wholesome than their
food of fish and potatoes.  But their life is a hard one,
nevertheless, and I doubt if many city-bred lads would be
eager to exchange with them, could they first have a year's
experience of it.

If the mackerel, herring, cod, and haddock upon which
the fisher folk depend for their living, were more regular
in their habits, ami turned up at the same place at the
same time every year, so that the men with the nets and
hooks could count upon their harvests as the men with
the scythes and hoes can upon theirs, the fisherman's lot
would be a fairly comfortable one.

But there is nothing in this world more uncertain than
fish.  Not the slightest reliance can be placed upon them.
They are here to-day, and off somewhere else to-morrow.
One season, school after school of mackerel will pour into
the little bay where Norman Hays and John Mackesey and
George Brown have their fishing "berths," as the area
assigned to each man is called, and fill the seines of these
lucky fellows to repletion again and again as fast as they
can spread them.

Then perhaps one, two, three seasons will pass without
enough fish putting in an appearance to make one good haul.

The mackerel catching is the most interesting as it is the
most profitable phase of the fisherman's toil, and for both
reasons the boys like it the best, although from its being
at the same time the most uncertain in its results, they
know very well it cannot be depended upon for a living.

The season for these beautiful and delicious fish begins
about the end of June, and so soon as it is time for them to
appear, the highest points along the coast are taken possession
of by men and boys, who stay there all day long watching
intently the surface of the sea below them for the first
sign of the silver scales which, when caught, can be turned
into silver coins.

It is often long and weary work this watching.  Day
succeeds day without bringing anything: but through
scorching sun or soaking rain, fine weather or foggy weather,
the look-outs patiently persevere.  At last some bright
morning, when the sea seems still asleep, Jack Hays' keen
young eyes descry a curious ripple on the water far beneath
his eyrie.

His heart gives a throb, and his pulses beat like
trip-hammers, but he is afraid at first to shout, for fear it is
only a morning zephyr.  Shading his eyes with his hand,
and fairly quivering with excitement, he gazes intently for
one moment more, and then shouting, "A school! a school!"
at the top of his strong young voice, he goes bounding
down the hill-side like a loosened boulder, till he reaches
the cluster of cottages far below.

In an instant all is activity and bustle.  The men spring
into the boats lying ready at the little wharves, the boys
tumble in pell-mell after them, the wives and daughters
fling their aprons over their heads to keep off the sun, and
run out to the end of the wharves, or climb up on the
flakes, so that they may see as much as possible.

In a minute more the boats are heading for the mackerel
as fast as brawny arms can drive them.  Half a mile away
the calm blue water is dark and disturbed for a space about
the size of an ordinary tennis-court; it looks, in fact, as if
it were boiling and bubbling just there, though all around
is still and smooth.

Toward this spot the boats are hurried.  Presently they
reach it.  Then they stop.  One of the smaller boats goes
up to the long flat-bottomed, high-stemmed craft that
carries the seine, and takes one end of the net on board.
Everything is done quietly, for the fish are easily frightened,
and if alarmed will sink right down into the deep
water, where they cannot be got at.

As quickly as sinewy arms can send her along, the small
boat describes a circle round the fish, that continue to frisk
about, all unconscious of their peril.

At length a shout of joy announces that connection has
been made.  The two ends of the seine are joined, and, if
it be a purse-seine, the bottom is drawn together also, and
then the tired, excited fishermen can take a little rest, and
they try to guess how many barrels this "stop" of
mackerel will make.  Jack Hays and the rest of the boys can
hardly contain themselves with delight, for won't they all
have a trip up to the city so soon as the fish are ready
to be sold, and these trips are the great events of their
life.

Having got the fish nicely caught inside the seine, the
next thing is to get them out again.  The big net with its
precious load is drawn as near the shore as possible, the
boats crowd round it, and a busy scene ensues, as the
blue-backed, silver-bellied beauties are taken from the
meshes, and piled up in the boats until these little craft
can hold no more.

In a little while all the fish are safely on shore, and then
comes the splitting and salting, in which not only the boys,
but the girls and their mothers too, take a hand, for the
more quickly it is done the better.

The dexterity shown by the workers is astonishing.
Holding a sharp knife in their right hand, they stand
before a pile of glistening mackerel.  With one motion they
seize a fine fat fellow, with another they split him open from
head to tail, with a third they despoil him of his entire
digestive apparatus, with a fourth they put in its place
a handful of salt, with a fifth fling him upon a pile beside
them, and the whole operation is done in the twinkling of
an eye.

To see the girls at this—and none are more expert than
they—takes a good deal of the romance out of one's ideas
of fisher-maidens; but it cannot be helped.  They cannot
afford to be romantic, or look picturesque.  Their life is
too hard for that kind of amusement.

In the catching of mackerel and herring there is not
much danger, and the fishermen need not go far from
home.  But it is different with the cod and haddock and
hake.  To get these big fellows you must go out upon the
Banks, as those strange, shallow areas in the Atlantic
Ocean are called; and going out upon the Banks means
being away for long weeks at a time, and exposed to many
dangers.

Storms are frequent there, and the waves run mountain
high, so that stanch and trim as the fishing craft are, and
thoroughly expert their masters, hardly a season passes
without the loss of a *Nancy Bell* or *Cod-Seeker* with all on
board.  Often, alas! do

   |  "The women go weeping and wringing their hands,
   |  For those who will never come back to the town."

.. vspace:: 2

Another danger ever present, ever indeed growing greater,
is that of being run down some foggy night by the great
ocean steamers that are thronging past in increasing numbers.

Picture to yourself a dense, dark night, when you can
hardly see your hand before your face; a little schooner
tossing at anchor on the Banks, all but one of her crew
asleep in their bunks.  Suddenly there falls upon the
solitary watcher's ear a sound that thrills him with terror:
it is the throbbing of mighty engines and the onward rush
of an ocean greyhound as she spurns the foaming water
from her bows.

Springing upon the poop he shouts with all his might,
the crew below leap from their berths, and though only
half awake join him in the cry.

But it is of no avail.  The mast-head light is seen by
the steamer's look-out too late to change her course.  There
is a splintering crash, the iron monster feels a slight shock,
hardly enough to waken the lightest sleeper in her staterooms,
and the sharp prow cuts through the little schooner
as though it were but another wave.

Then the frenzied shrieks of strong men in their agony
ring out upon the midnight air; then all is silent again, and
the steamer speeds on to her destination, while to another
home in Herring Cove comes the dreadful experience of
which the poet says,—

   |  "How much of manhood's wasted strength,
   |  Of woman's misery,—
   |  What breaking hearts might swell the cry,
   |  They're dear fish to me."

.. vspace:: 2

Yet it is the ambition of every boy at Herring Cove
or Shad Bay to have a share in a Banker, or, better still,
to own one all by himself; and to this he looks forward,
just as city boys do to being bank presidents or judges or
editors of newspapers.

Hard work, much danger, a little schooling, and still
less playing is the summary of a fisher-boy's life.  It makes
him very healthy, brown, and strong, but it never makes
him rich.  The most he can do is to earn enough to build
and furnish a cottage when he marries, and provide plain
food and coarse clothing for the family that soon springs
up around him.

Now and then—that is, whenever he has fish to sell—he
goes up to the city; and this is his only holiday.  While
still a boy he generally behaves himself well enough on
these visits, but, growing older, he does not always grow
wiser, I am sorry to say, and I have often seen sad-faced
wives rowing the heavy boat wearily home, while their
husbands lay in the stern-sheets in a drunken stupor.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`LOST ON THE LIMITS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   LOST ON THE LIMITS.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center medium bold

   (A CHRISTMAS STORY.)

.. vspace:: 2

"I wish you had taken my advice and stayed at the
shanty, Harry."

The speaker was a stalwart young man, so closely
wrapped in a blue blanket capote that only a portion of
his face showed itself, and the one addressed was a boy of
sixteen, similarly accoutred.

"I felt more than half-afraid of this storm overtaking
us," the young man continued; "and now we're in a
pretty fix.  I can't imagine how we'll ever reach the
depot."

There was something so despondent in his tone that one
might have expected his words to exercise a dispiriting
effect upon his companion; but, instead of that, Harry
answered brightly,—

"Reach the depot!  Of course we will; and in good
time for our Christmas dinner, too!  You mustn't worry
on my account, Mr. Maynard.  If anything should happen,
it would be all my own fault, you know.  You wouldn't be
the least bit to blame."

Mr. Maynard shook his head negatively.

"It's very good of you to say so, Harry, but I can't
help feeling responsible all the same.  Oh!" he cried, with
a gesture of irritated protest against the situation, "what
a plague this snow is!  Surely we had enough of it
already, and didn't need this storm."

John Maynard was the bush superintendent on one of
the great timber limits of Booth and Bronson, the millionaire
lumbermen of Canada.

The duty devolved upon him of driving about from one
"shanty" (as the permanent camps of the log-cutters are
called) to another, taking account of the work done, and
giving directions as to the bunches of timber next to be
attacked.

This was a very arduous occupation, entailing as it did
long and lonely drives through forest roads, passable only
in winter, across the broad bosoms of frozen lakes, and
along the winding courses of ice-bound rivers.  For this
purpose he had a pair of powerful horses and a low, strong
sleigh, made altogether of wood, that had accommodation
for just two persons and some baggage.

As a rule he made these journeys alone, but this winter
he had been favoured with a companion in Harry Bronson,
the eldest son of a member of the firm, who had asked
permission to spend the winter at the "shanties."

His request had been readily granted, for he would have
to take his father's place in the business in due time, and
the more thoroughly he knew its details the better.
Consequently Mr. Bronson was very glad to let him go, while
Harry rejoiced at getting away from the confinement of
the office, and at the prospect of having some exciting
experiences before he returned.

So far he had been having a very good time.  John
Maynard was as pleasant a companion as he was a competent
bush superintendent, and, while going the round of
the shanties, there were many chances for shots at
partridges or rabbits, and always the exciting possibility of
encountering a bear.

Then at the shanties their welcome was always so warm,
and the French-Canadian shantymen were so amusing
with their exhaustless fund of song and dance and story,
that Harry never knew what it was to feel dull for a
moment.

Christmas week found him at the shanty on the Opeongo—the
one that stood farthest away of all from the
depot at which Maynard made his headquarters, and to
which it was his intention to return in time to celebrate
Christmas there.

The superintendent was particularly anxious to get back
by that time, because, having completed a round of the
shanties, he could leave them unvisited for a fortnight or
so, and he proposed to spend Christmas week in Montreal,
where he had many friends.

Harry on his part was hardly less anxious to get to the
depot; for, although he did not intend going any further,
he had been promised lots of fun there by the clerk in
charge, and a first-class Christmas dinner into the bargain.

Accordingly, when certain infallible signs of a change
for the worse in the weather, which had hitherto been
almost perfect, made their appearance, and Maynard, willing
to take any risk himself, but reluctant to expose Harry to
danger, suggested that the boy should remain at the
Opeongo shanty until the threatened storm passed, and then
get back to the depot by one of the ordinary teams, Harry
would not hear of it.

"No, no, Mr. Maynard," said he stoutly.  "If you can
stand the storm, I can too.  I'm going with you."

Clearly enough the superintendent would have to either
allow Harry to accompany him or stay at the shanty
himself.  He could not accept the latter alternative, so he
replied,—

"Very well then, my boy, we'll start; and if bad weather
catches us, we'll have to do the best we can."

The distance between the Opeongo shanty and the depot,
as the crow flies, was fifty miles; but the circuitous route
that was necessary in order to avoid ranges of rocky hills
and impassable gullies made it full half as long again, and,
in view of the state of the road, Maynard calculated that
two days might be required to make their destination.
Accordingly they set out in the morning of the second day
before Christmas.

It hardly needed the practised eye of a wood-ranger to
foretell a coming change in the weather.

The sun's bright face was hidden behind a dense veil of
sullen clouds; the air, that had been so crisp and clear,
seemed dank and heavy like a dungeon's; and both man
and beast moved about in a listless way, as if every
movement was an effort.

More than once the superintendent's mind misgave him
ere they had gone many miles.  He was naturally a
cautious, far-seeing man, not disposed to run unnecessary
risks, although utterly regardless of personal peril in any
matter of duty.

Not that he felt any concern on his own account; but
he would have felt much easier in his mind had Harry
been persuaded to stay at the shanty.

Yet how could he reasonably expect that, when he himself
was pushing on to the depot?

Harry's argument, that if the superintendent could stand
the storm he could also, was not easy to answer, and it
prevailed.

"If this confounded road was only in better shape, we
might get there to-night," said Maynard impatiently that
afternoon as the sleigh slowly toiled up a steep ascent, the
horses sinking above their fetlocks in the fine dry snow at
every step.

Had their way been as well broken as a city street they
might indeed have accomplished this feat, but under the
circumstances the best they could hope for was to reach
the depot early on Christmas eve.

Harry, understanding that he was the chief object of the
superintendent's concern, felt it incumbent upon him to
take as hopeful a view of matters as possible, so he
responded in his cheeriest tone,—

"Oh, we'll get there to-morrow afternoon right enough!
We're more than half way to Wolf Hollow now, aren't we?"

"Yes, a good bit more; but there's the snow beginning.
We must drive ahead as fast as we can.  It'll soon be dark."

The horses accordingly were urged to the utmost speed
possible, and, by dint of some rather reckless driving,
Wolf Hollow was safely reached in the face of a blinding
snowstorm ere the darkness fell.

At this place there stood a shanty which had been
abandoned some years before, all the timber being cut in
the neighbourhood, and here Mr. Maynard proposed to
spend the night.

The building was found to be in good condition—quite
storm-proof, in fact—and it did not take long to gather an
abundant supply of firewood wherewith to expel the cold,
damp air that filled it.

The horses could not be left out, of course, exposed to
the pitiless storm, so they were allotted the farthest corner
of the long, low room.  The sleigh, too, was brought inside
with all its contents.

A substantial supper was prepared and enjoyed, the
horses were given a good feed of oats, and then both the
travellers being thoroughly tired, they fitted up one of the
bunks with the sleigh robes, and, so as to waste no heat,
lay down side by side, and were soon sound asleep.

At daybreak the superintendent got up and hastened to
see how matters looked outside.  The prospect was
anything but cheering.

Snow had been falling heavily all night, and there
seemed no sign of its ceasing.  All marks of the road were
completely obliterated, and it would evidently test to the
utmost his knowledge of woodcraft to keep in the right
track.

Such was the condition of affairs that called forth the
exclamation reported at the beginning of this story.

However, there was nothing to gain by delay, so hardly
waiting to snatch a bite of food and to allow their horses
to finish their portion of oats, they harnessed up and drove
forth into the storm.

Even had the track been easily distinguishable, they
could not have made rapid progress, for the snow came in
big, blinding flakes that were very bewildering, and had
already covered the ground to a depth of nearly a foot.

By the aid of familiar landmarks, Mr. Maynard was
able for a time to direct their course accurately enough;
but about mid-day they reached a wide lake which they
had to cross, and here their real difficulties began.

The broad expanse of Loon Lake had presented a fine
playground for the wind, and upon it the snow was heaped
in vast drifts, far surpassing anything met with in the
woods, where the trees afforded protection.

In these drifts the horses and sleigh soon stuck so fast
that their extrication was evidently quite beyond the
power of the passengers.

There seemed no alternative but to abandon them to
their fate, and to continue the journey on snow-shoes,
which, fortunately, were lashed to the back of the sleigh.

Mr. Maynard felt sorely reluctant to desert his faithful
horses, but no time could be spared for unavailing regrets.

"There's no help for it, Harry," he said resolutely.
"We'll have to leave them where they are.  We cannot
get them out, and we've enough to do to look after
ourselves."

The poor creatures whinnied appealingly as their human
companions moved off, and made frantic efforts to follow,
but the remorseless snow-drift held them fast.

.. _`"THE POOR CREATURES WHINNIED APPEALINGLY."`:

.. figure:: images/img-101.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "THE POOR CREATURES WHINNIED APPEALINGLY."

   "THE POOR CREATURES WHINNIED APPEALINGLY."

It was certainly a pity to leave two such fine animals
to perish, but yet what could be done?

Striding along on the snow-shoes, in the use of which
they were both expert, the superintendent and Harry
made better progress than they had been doing in the
sleigh, and now the chief anxiety was to hit the right spot
on the other side of the lake, where the road continued
through the woods.

On a clear day Mr. Maynard would have found little
difficulty in doing this, but in the midst of a blinding
snowstorm it was no easy task; yet their very lives
depended upon its successful accomplishment.

When they reached the middle of the lake they were
dismayed to discover that the heavily-falling snow
shrouded not only the shore for which they were making,
but the one which they had left.  They were absolutely
without a mark to guide them.

Here was an unexpected peril.  Mr. Maynard halted
and strove to peer through the ominous obscurity of white,
but on every side it was the same.

"What are we to do now, Harry?" he cried in a tone
of deep concern.  "I can't make out our way at all."

By this time Harry's spirits, which had hitherto
been keeping up bravely, were beginning to fall, for
he was growing weary of the long struggle with the
storm.

"I'm sure I don't know," he responded ruefully.  "I
suppose there is nothing else to do but to push ahead and
take our chances of hitting the shore somewhere."

"That's about all, Harry," was the superintendent's
reply.  "Just rest a minute to get your breath, and then
we'll make a dash for it."

For a little space they stood still and silent, the mind of
each absorbed in anxious thought, and then Mr. Maynard
called out,—

"Come along now, Harry.  Keep right in my tracks,
and I'll see if I can't make the shore all right."

For half-an-hour they toiled steadily onward, and well
it was for both that they had such skill in the use of
snow-shoes.  Without them they could not have made a
hundred yards' headway, so heavy was the snow.  Even as
it was, the hard work told upon Harry, and presently he
had to call to his companion,—

"Hold on a minute, Mr. Maynard; I'm out of breath."

The superintendent stopped short and came back to him.

"Not played out already, are you, Harry?" he asked,
peering anxiously into his face.

"Oh, no!" and the boy made a gallant effort at a
reassuring smile.  "I just want to get my wind; that's all.
This abominable storm nearly suffocates me."

As they rested again for a few minutes, the wind
suddenly shifted, parting the whirling snow to right and
left, and through the rift thus made, Mr. Maynard's keen
eyes caught a glimpse of a dark mass rising dimly into the
air a little more than a mile away.

With a shout of joy he slapped his companion upon the
back, crying,—

"Eagle Rock, Harry.  See!" and he pointed with a
quivering finger to the spectral appearance.  "Once we make
that, I can find the road all right enough.  Come along!"

Cheered by the sight, which the next moment the
snow-curtain again hid from them, they pushed forward with
renewed energy.

It was terribly hard walking.  Their snow-shoes sank
deep into the drifts at every step, and it was an effort
each time to release them.  The afternoon was also waning
fast, and they had not more than an hour of daylight left
at best.  Truly they were in desperate straits.

On they went over the drifts that seemed to be determined
to bar their way, the superintendent straining his
eyes for another glimpse of Eagle Rock.  At last, as Harry
was about once more to cry halt, his companion exclaimed
joyfully,—

"There's Eagle Rock, Harry!  I see it.  We're making
straight for it.  A few minutes more will take us there."

The cheering announcement revived the boy's failing
energies for another effort.  He shut his lips upon the
request for a rest, and doggedly tramped on after his guide.

Ten minutes more and they were at the foot of the
lofty crag called Eagle Rock, in a friendly recess of
which they found welcome shelter from the furious wind.

"Thank goodness!" ejaculated Harry, throwing himself
wearily down upon a snow-bank, "we've got thus far
anyway.  How many miles more, Mr. Maynard?"

"About ten, Harry," was the answer, given in quite a
matter-of-fact tone.

"Ten!" echoed Harry in dismay.  "I hoped it would
only be about five.  I'll never do it in the world."

"Oh yes, you will, my boy!" replied Mr. Maynard.
"I'll help you you know."

To their vast relief the snow now began to abate, and
presently ceased falling altogether.

"That's something to be thankful for," said the
superintendent.  "Are you ready to start again?"

"Go ahead," was the response.

But no sooner had one danger passed than another
presented itself.  The light began to fail, for night was at
hand.

A ten-mile tramp on snow-shoes through a desolate
forest was not much to be desired under any circumstances.
To accomplish it in the dark, tired as they both
felt already, was a feat the achieving of which seemed
more than doubtful.

Mr. Maynard had his misgivings, but he carefully concealed
them from his companion, and even started whistling
a lively march as he led the way along the faintly
discernible road.

Never will either of them ever forget that awful tramp.

The night soon enfolded them, leaving only the scant
light of the glimmering stars for guidance.  Every step
they took had to be carefully considered, lest they should
stray from the track and be hopelessly lost.

Again and again the silence through which they marched
was broken by the blood-curdling cry of the lynx or the
dismal howl of the wolf, seeking what they might devour.

The superintendent's rifle hung at his back, and Harry
had a good revolver; but they prayed in their hearts that
they might have no occasion to use them.

Every little while they had to pause that the boy might
take a brief rest.  Then on they went again.

Mile after mile of the dreary, toilsome way was slowly
yet steadily overcome, each one adding to poor Harry's
weariness, until he felt as if he must give up the struggle
and throw himself down in the snow to die.

But Mr. Maynard cheered him up and helped him, and
kept him going, knowing well that to give up really meant
death.

At last the exhausted boy sank down with a piteous
wail,—

"It's no use, Mr. Maynard, I can't take another step."

"Oh yes, you can, Harry!" said the superintendent
soothingly; "just take a little rest, and then you'll be all
right."

While Harry rested he went on ahead a short distance,
for it seemed to him that they could not be very far from
the depot.

Presently there came from him a glad hurrah, and
running back he put his arm around his companion, and
helped him to his feet, exclaiming joyfully,—

"I can see a light, Harry.  We're safe now.  It's the
depot."

And he was right.  They were within half a mile of
their haven.  Forgetting all their weariness, they put on
a gallant spurt, and in less than ten minutes were in the
midst of their friends, telling the story of their thrilling
experience.

All's well that ends well.  The superintendent kept his
appointments in the city; Harry had a royal Christmas
time with the clerks in the depot; and, happy to relate, the
horses were not lost, for a relief party that went out the
following morning with a big sledge found them still alive,
and brought them and the sleigh back to the depot, little
the worse for the long imprisonment in the snow-drift.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A STRANGE HELPER`:

.. class:: center large bold

   A STRANGE HELPER.

.. vspace:: 2

"There's nothing for it, Maggie, but to let the place
go.  I've tried my best to raise the money, but
those that are willing to help a fellow haven't it to lend,
and those that have it ain't willing to help.  It's mighty
hard lines, I tell you," and, with a groan of despair, Alec
M'Leod buried his head in his hands, as he leaned heavily
upon the table.

Hard lines it was, indeed, as no one knew better than
Moses Shearer, the money-lender, to whose conduct was
due Alec the miller's anguish of mind.  He had chosen
that particular time for enforcing satisfaction of his claim,
because he understood that it could not be done without a
sale of the mill property; and this was just what he
desired, as he intended to bid it in for himself.

It did seem a cruel thing for Mr. M'Leod to be sold out
of the snug, well-equipped mill that represented his whole
fortune; and all for a debt of one hundred pounds, incurred
under special circumstances for which he was in no wise to
blame.

No wonder that he was sorely cast down, and that
gloom reigned in his household, which consisted of a
devoted wife and two children—Robert, the elder, a sturdy,
enterprising lad of fourteen, and Jessie, a sweet, fair-haired
lassie two years younger.  They were all in the room
when the miller gave voice to his despair, and Rob, full of
sympathy, hastened to say something comforting, with all
the hopefulness of youth.

"Don't give up yet, father," said he.  "The sale is more
than a week off, and you may be able to get the money
somehow before then."

Mr. M'Leod shook his head without raising it from his
hands.  He had exhausted every available resource, and
saw no way in which help could come.  He was not a
religious man, although of unblemished integrity of character,
and had no faith to sustain him in his grievous trial;
nor did his wife know how to lay hold upon God, and
claim the fulfilment of his promises.

In this they both had much to learn from their own
children, for, thanks to sound teaching in Sunday school,
Rob and Jessie believed in the prayer of faith.  They
believed God was always ready and willing to respond in
his wisdom to the petitions of his children, and when they
learned of their father's trouble, their thoughts took the
same direction.

That night, when Rob went up to his room, he found
Jessie there.

"O Rob!" she hastened to say, "I've been waiting for
you to come."

"What do you want to do, Jessie?" inquired Rob.

"Why, Rob, you know when father told us of his
trouble, I made up my mind to ask God to help him out
of it.  What is that in the Bible about God doing anything
that two of his people agree to ask for?"

Proud of his memory, Rob promptly repeated the verse:
"If two of you shall agree on earth as touching anything
that they shall ask, it shall be done for them."

"Yes, that's it!" exclaimed Jessie.  "Now then, Rob,
can't we agree to ask God to help father to pay off that
dreadful Mr. Shearer?"

"Of course we can," responded Rob heartily; "and we'll
do it right away."

So down on their knees they went, and each in turn
presented an earnest, simple petition to God that aid should
be granted their father in the present emergency.  When
they rose their faces were radiant.

"It will be all right now, won't it, Rob?" said Jessie, as
she went to her own room.

The following day passed without any sign of an
answer, and so did the next.  Rob, boy-like, began to grow
impatient, but Jessie was more trustful.  Each night they
renewed their united requests.

On the third night Rob, the window of whose room
overlooked the mill-pond, happening to awake about
midnight, thought he heard a most unusual splashing noise
coming from the pond.  Sitting up in bed, and listening
attentively, he asked himself:—

"What can it be?  Has somebody fallen into the pond?
No, it can't be that, or there would be cries for help.
Oh! it's only some old cow that's fooling around."

He was about to accept this explanation and settle down
to sleep again, when there was added to the frantic splashing
a hoarse bellow such as no domestic animal ever uttered.

"I must see what that is," said he to himself.  So out
of bed he jumped, hurried on his clothes, and slipping
quietly out of the house, hastened across the yard to the
mill-platform, from which he could command a view of the
whole pond.

It was a bright, clear night, with the moon at the full,
and the still waters of the pond reflected its silver rays
like a huge mirror.  At first the boy could see nothing to
account for the strange noises he had heard, but presently
he discovered a big creature, whose exact nature he could
not make out, in the deepest part of the pond, where,
surrounded by the floating logs which had rendered futile all
its efforts to extricate itself, it was, for the moment, resting
quietly as though exhausted.

Rob's appearance upon the platform evidently aroused
the creature to fresh exertions, and it proceeded to fling
itself about with reckless fury, in the course of which its
head emerged from the shadow into a broad band of light,
and with a cry of astonishment Rob, who had been bending
over the edge of the platform, sprang to his feet.

"Why, it's a moose!" he exclaimed; "and a monster
one, too.  And I'm going to catch him."  Then looking
down at the imprisoned animal, he added: "Just stay
there, my beauty; I'll be back in a jiffy to look after you."

Darting over to the house he quickly aroused his father,
who, as soon as he had assured himself that his son's story
was correct, hastened to call up some of the neighbours.
He did not stop to think what he would do with the
moose when he had him safely secured.  He was merely
glad of a diversion that would help him to forget his
troubles for a while.

But Rob already had a scheme worked out in his mind,
of which, however, he intended to say nothing until the
capture had been successfully accomplished.  Then he
would let it be known.

The neighbours responded readily to Mr. M'Leod's
summons, and in a quarter of an hour half-a-dozen men were
upon the scene, some armed with pitchforks, others with
stakes, and all eager to have a share in the honours of the
capture.

Many and various were the suggestions as to the best
plan for getting the animal out of the pond uninjured, but
no sooner had Mr. M'Leod offered his than it was
unanimously adopted as the best.

By pushing away the logs a clear space could be made
leading to the incline up which the logs were drawn to
meet their fate at the saw's teeth, and the miller's idea
was to lasso the moose by the antlers, drag the creature
through the water to the foot of the incline, then attach
the rope to the chain for drawing up the logs, and turn on
the water-power.

The strongest animal that ever stood on four legs could
not resist the tug of the chain, and thus the moose would
be drawn up on the platform, and kept there, a safe
prisoner, until he could be removed to the barn.

Mr. M'Leod had little difficulty in getting the rope
fastened to the big branching antlers, and not much more
in towing his captive around to the foot of the incline.
But then came the rub.  The monarch of the forest fought
frantically against being drawn out of the water, and it
seemed as if he might kill himself in his desperate efforts
for freedom.

.. _`CAPTURING THE MOOSE.`:

.. figure:: images/img-113.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: CAPTURING THE MOOSE.

   CAPTURING THE MOOSE.

There was no resisting the inexorable strain of the log-chain,
however, and foot by foot he was compelled to ascend
the incline until he reached the platform.  Then the power
was shut off, and Mr. M'Leod decided that it was best to
allow the great creature to stay where he was until daylight.

The men all went back to their beds, but Rob remained.
He did not want to leave the prize which had thus
strangely fallen into his hands, and which he hoped to
make signally helpful in his father's trouble.  So he chose
a corner of the platform where he could keep the moose in
full view, and composed himself to wait for the morning.

As he sat there his heart went up in gratitude to God,
for right before him had he not the answer to the prayer
he and Jessie had united in offering?

With the dawn Mr. M'Leod and the other men returned,
and by dint of much shouting, flourishing of pitchforks,
and tugging of ropes, the moose, after many furious
attempts at breaking away, was at length safely conveyed
to the barn, and securely fastened up in such a manner
that he could do himself no hurt, struggle and kick as he
might.

"Hip, hip, hurrah!" shouted Rob as the big door closed
with a bang, and he flung himself against it to make sure
that it was shut tight.  "We've got him all right enough.
He can't get out of there until we want him."

"And now that you have got him, Robby," said the
miller, laying his hand affectionately on the boy's shoulder.
"perhaps you'll tell us what you are going to do with him."

Up to this point Rob had kept his own counsel, because
his Scotch shrewdness told him it would be best to do so
until the capture was successfully effected.  But now there
was no longer need for reserve.

"You remember that gentleman who was here hunting
last winter, don't you, father?" said he, looking up eagerly
into Mr. M'Leod's face.

"You mean Professor Owen from New York."

"Yes.  Well, you know he said he'd give a hundred
pounds for a full-grown moose alive; and now you must
write and tell him you've got a beauty for him, and to
come along and get it."

The miller's face became radiant as his son spoke.  He
now understood what had been in Rob's mind, and why he
had shown such intense anxiety to secure the moose
uninjured.

"God bless you, my boy!" he exclaimed, throwing his
arms around his neck, for the revulsion of feeling broke
down his characteristic reserve.  "I see what you've been
driving at.  You always were a bright lad, and now,
maybe, you're going to save me from ruin.  I won't wait
to write Professor Owen; I'll telegraph him.  He left me
his address so that I might let him know when the
hunting was good."

Mounting his best horse, Mr. M'Leod hastened to the
village, and sent this despatch to the professor: "Have a
splendid live moose in my barn.  Do you want him?"

Before many hours the reply came: "Am coming for
him by first train."

The following evening Professor Owen appeared.  When
he saw the moose he fairly shouted with delight.

"A perfect specimen, and in the very prime of life," he
cried.  "I'll give you a hundred pounds for him on the
spot.  Will that be right?"

The offer was gladly accepted; and as soon as the
necessary arrangements could be made, the moose was taken
away to become the chief attraction in a famous zoological
garden.

On the day before the sheriff's sale Mr. M'Leod, greatly
to the money-lender's chagrin, paid his claim in full, and
cleared his property from all encumbrance.

That night they had a praise-meeting at the mill; for
when Mr. M'Leod was told about Rob and Jessie praying
together for his deliverance from the grasp of Moses
Shearer his heart was deeply stirred, and he joined in
thanking God who had thus signally answered the children's
petitions.  Not only so, but both he and his wife
were moved to withhold no longer from God's service, and
they became active, happy members of the church.

As for Rob and Jessie, their faith was wonderfully
strengthened, and often afterwards the recollection of this
incident helped them to be trustful in the midst of many
difficulties.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`FORTY MILES OF MAELSTROM`:

.. class:: center large bold

   FORTY MILES OF MAELSTROM.

.. vspace:: 2

The Canadian Pacific train, speeding swiftly on toward
Winnipeg, had just dashed over an iron bridge
which threw its audacious spider-web across a foaming
torrent.  Pointing down at the tumbling water beneath,
one of the men in the smoking compartment of a palace
car exclaimed,—

"I'd like to try that rapid in my *Rice Lake*."

"Are you so fond of a wetting as all that?" asked
Charlie Hall with a smile.

"Oh, I'd risk the wetting.  I've been through worse
rapids than that without so much as being sprinkled."  He
proceeded to support his assertion by relating some of
his adventures.

When Jack Fleming came to the end of his tether, the
others had their say, for they had not been without
experiences of a similar nature.  Meanwhile, the fourth
member of the group had been listening with interested
attention, as if their stories were so novel that he did not
wish to lose a word of them.  He was merely a chance
acquaintance, who had fallen into conversation with his
fellow-travellers through the freemasonry of the pipe.
They knew his name; Ronald Cameron, but they knew
nothing more about him.

It was more for the sake of saying something courteous
than with any idea of drawing the stranger out that
Fleming turned to him and said, "Perhaps you know
something about running rapids too?"

The stranger's bronzed face broke out into a smile,
which meant unmistakably, "As well ask Grant if he
knew something about fighting battles;" but there was not
the faintest trace of boastfulness in his tone as he replied,
"I have run a few rapids in my time."

"Well, it's your turn now; tell us your experience,"
said Fleming, and without much urging Cameron began.

"I must explain that I am in the employ of the
Hudson Bay Company, and have spent many years in the
North-west districts.  My duties have required frequent
long trips by York boat and bark canoe, in the course of
which I have had my full share of tussles with rapids of
all kinds.  I could tell you half-a-dozen rather exciting
little episodes, but I'll give you only one just now, namely,
my passage of the Long Cañon of the Liard in a canvas boat."

"In a canvas boat?" broke out Fleming, half incredulously.

"Yes, in a canvas boat," repeated Cameron.  "Not a
particularly seaworthy craft, I must confess.  But it was
a notion of my own in order to get over the difficulty in
which I was placed.  I had been over in British
Columbia, and was on my way back to Athabasca.  The
season was growing late, and I had only two men with
me—an Indian and a half-breed.  The Indian was a
splendid canoe-man, but the half-breed was not of much
account.  The first part of the journey could be made by
boat easily enough, but for us three men to drag a heavy
boat over Grizzly Portage, which is about six miles long,
and has a portage-path that climbs a thousand feet up the
mountain side, was quite out of the question.

"So before I started I had a boat made out of tent
canvas, which would be no trouble to carry.  The wooden
boat was to be left at the head of Grizzly Portage to take
care of itself.

"Well, we got on smoothly until we passed the portage,
and the Long Cañon opened out before us.  As I looked
at its wild rush of water, and realized that this was only
the beginning, and far from the worst of it, I confess I felt
tempted to turn back.  But my pride soon banished that
thought, and I set about getting my frail craft ready for
the trip.  Dennazee, the Indian, did not show the slightest
concern; but Machard, the half-breed, was evidently much
frightened.

"Assuming a cheery indifference I by no means felt, I
went about the work in the most matter-of-fact way, and,
with Dennazee helping heartily, the canvas boat was put
together and set afloat.

"But it became evident immediately that she was not
minded to stay afloat long.  Although I had taken the
precaution to give the canvas a good coat of oil, no sooner
were we on board than, the treacherous stuff leaked through
every pore.  Clearly this must be remedied before we
could attempt the passage.

"Bidding the men gather all the gum and balsam they
could find, I put the whole of our bacon, some ten pounds
at least, half-a-dozen candles, and the gum and balsam into
our pot, set it over a brisk fire, and produced the most
extraordinary compound you can imagine.

"With this we thickly daubed the outside of the boat
from stem to stern, and then left her for the night.  The
next morning she was as tight as a drum, and we started
off, the poor half-breed muttering prayers in full expectation
of a watery grave, the Indian as stolid as a statue,
and myself much more anxious at heart than I cared to
have either man know.

"The cañon is about forty miles long, and in that distance
the river falls quite five hundred feet.  Old Lepine,
who has piloted boats up and down the Liard for thirty
years or more, asserts that once, when the water was
unusually high, he went through the whole length of the
cañon in a York boat in two hours.  The old man may be
a few minutes short of the record, but there is no doubt
that in the spring, when the snow is melting on the mountain
slopes, the river runs at a fearful rate.  I had hoped
for low water, but, as luck would have it, a sudden spell
of intensely hot weather had set the snow going, and the
Liard was just high enough to be a very ugly customer.

"Well, we paddled out into the current, and then there
was nothing to do but steer.  I had the stern, and Dennazee
the bow, while Machard clung tightly to the centre
thwart, and was useful only as ballast.  Like an arrow our
little boat sped down stream, darting this way and that,
dipping and dancing about like a cork, doing exactly what
the water willed.

"At the very first swirl I found out something that
gave me an additional shiver.  This was that the boat
could bear very little pressure from the paddle.  If the
water pulled one way and the paddle the other, the frail
thing squirmed and twisted like a snake instead of obeying
the steersman, so that it was quite impossible to make her
respond readily or to effect a sharp turn.  No doubt Dennazee
discovered this as soon as I did, but he gave no hint
of it, as with intent face and skilful arm he did his part of
the work to perfection.

"The first few miles were not very bad, but we soon
came to a place where whirlpool followed whirlpool in
fearfully quick succession, and I no sooner caught my
breath after escaping one than we were struggling with
another.  Our canvas cockle-shell appeared to undulate
over the frothing waves rather than cut through them.  I
seemed to feel every motion of the water through her thin
skin.  In the very thick of it I could not help admiring
the wonderful skill of the Indian in the bow.  Again and
again he saved us from dashing against a rock, or whirling
around broadside to the current.

"For mile after mile we were tumbled about, and tossed
from wave to wave like a chip of bark.  My heart was in
my mouth.  I could scarcely breathe.  My knees quaked,
though my hand was firm, as, with eyes fixed upon
Dennazee, I instantly obeyed every motion of his paddle.

"In this fashion, one hairbreadth escape succeeding
another, we did half the distance unscathed, and made the
shore by the aid of an eddy at the head of the Rapids of
the Drowned.  These rapids got their forbidding name
from the fate of eight voyagers, who lost their lives while
attempting to run them in a large canoe.  Being studded
with rocks, these rapids are extremely dangerous.  As
the cañon widens out sufficiently to leave a narrow beach
at this point, we preferred portaging our canvas boat to
impaling her on one of the rocks.

"It was a strange thing that our sudden appearance
should have so startled two moose who were standing on
the shore that, instead of retreating up the hill, they
plunged boldly into the river, of whose pitiless power they
evidently knew nothing, and were borne helplessly away
to destruction.  A little later we saw their bodies stranded
on a shoal, and the sight gave me a chill as I thought that
that perhaps would be our fate, too, before we escaped
from the Long Cañon.

"We had hard work getting the boat and ourselves over
the broken, boulder-strown beach beside the Rapids of the
Drowned, and the boat had more than one 'close call' as
we slipped and stumbled about.  I've no doubt Machard
would have been glad to see it perforated with a hole
beyond repair.  But by dint of great care and hard work
we did manage to bring it through uninjured, and then we
halted for a rest and a bit of dinner.

"When it came to starting again, Machard vowed he
would not get aboard.  He pleaded to be allowed to follow
us on foot; but I would not listen to him.  I needed him
for ballast in the first place, and moreover, if we did get
through alive, I could not afford to waste half a day
waiting for him to overtake us.  Drawing my revolver, I
ordered him to get on board.  He obeyed, trembling, and
we started again, Dennazee as imperturbable as ever.

.. _`SHOOTING A FALL.`:

.. figure:: images/img-123.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: SHOOTING A FALL.

   SHOOTING A FALL.

"We had the worst part of the passage still before us.
The sides of the cañon drew close together until they
became lofty walls, between which the river shot downward
like a mill-race.  The great black cliffs to right and
left frowned upon us as if indignantly, and at every turn
in the cañon a whirlpool yawned, ready to engulf us.
Again and again I thought we were caught in a whirl, but
in some marvellous manner Dennazee extricated us, and we
darted on to try our fate with another.

"Extreme as our peril was, it had a wonderful thrill
and excitement about it, and in the midst of it I found
myself thinking that were I only in a big York boat I
would be shouting for joy instead of filled with apprehension.

"The great difficulty was to keep our boat straight with
the stream, for, as I have already told you, she was so
pliant that she bent and twisted instead of keeping stiff,
and more than once I felt sure she would cave in under
the tremendous pressure upon her thin sides.  To make
matters worse she began to leak again, and although I
commanded Machard to bail her out with a pannikin, he
did it so clumsily in his terror that I was afraid he would
upset us, and had to order him to stop.

"We must have had an hour or more of this, when for
the first time Dennazee spoke.  Turning round just for a
moment he pointed ahead, and exclaimed, 'Hell Gate!'

"I knew at once what he meant.  We had almost
reached the end of the cañon.  There remained only Hell
Gate, and our perils would be over.  *Only Hell Gate*!
I've not been much of a hand at praying, but I'm not
ashamed to confess that I imitated poor Machard's
example then.  As for him, the moment he heard what
Dennazee said, he fell on his knees in the bottom, and,
clinging to the thwart, set to praying with all his might
and main.

"With a thrilling rush we swept around the curve and
plunged into Hell Gate.  It is an awful place.  The walls
of the cañon are two hundred feet high, and not more than
a hundred feet apart.  The deep water spins along at the
rate of twenty miles an hour, while at the end is a sort of
drop into a black, dreadful pool, where the whirls are the
worst of all.

"We got through the narrow passage all right, and
then, with a dive that made my heart stand still, entered
the whirlpools.  There were three of them, and we struck
the centre one.  In spite of our desperate efforts, it got its
grip full upon us, and round and round we went like a
teetotum.

"It is not at all likely that I shall ever forget that
experience.  Our flimsy craft seemed to be trying to collapse
every moment.  It writhed and squirmed like a living
thing, and at every turn of the awful circle we drew nearer
to its centre, which yawned to engulf us.

"I had given up all hope, and was about to throw away
my paddle and prepare for the last struggle, when suddenly
there came a great rush of water down the cañon.  The
whirlpools all filled up and levelled over; for one brief
minute the river was on our side.

"With a whoop of delight Dennazee dug his paddle
deep into the water, and put all his strength upon it.  I
seconded his efforts as well as I could.  The boat hesitated,
then obeyed, and moved slowly but surely forward; and
after some moments of harrowing suspense we found
ourselves floating swiftly but safely onward, with no more
dangers ahead."

Cameron ceased speaking, and picked up his pipe.
There was a moment of silence, and then Fleming, drawing
a deep breath, said with a quizzical smile, "Perhaps you
do know something about running rapids."

.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ESKIMO WOMAN WITH TAIL AND AMOOK, OR HOOD.`:

.. figure:: images/img-127.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: ESKIMO WOMAN WITH TAIL AND AMOOK, OR HOOD.

   ESKIMO WOMAN WITH TAIL AND AMOOK, OR HOOD.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE CANADIAN CHILDREN OF THE COLD`:

.. class:: center large bold

   THE CANADIAN CHILDREN OF THE COLD.

.. vspace:: 2

After centuries of seclusion and neglect, broken only
by the infrequent visits of ambitious seekers for
the north pole, or mercenary hunters for the right whale,
and by the semi-religious, semi-commercial ministrations of
the Moravian missionaries, the Eskimos of the Labrador
and Hudson Bay region suddenly had the eyes of the
world turned inquiringly upon them.

The shocking story was published far and wide that a
winter that did not change to spring in the usual way had
cut off their supply of food, and that in consequence they
were devouring one another with the ghastly relish of a
Fiji cannibal.  Although this report proved untrue,
happily, the Eskimos are sufficiently interesting to attract
attention at all times, and are little enough known to
furnish an adequate excuse at this time for a brief paper
upon them.

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium bold

   \I.

.. vspace:: 2

To aid me in presenting the earliest glimpses of the
Eskimos, I am fortunate in having before me a manuscript
prepared by the late Robert Morrow of Halifax,
Nova Scotia, an accomplished student of the literatures of
Iceland and Denmark.

That to the Norsemen and not to the Spaniards rightfully
belongs the credit of first discovering America is now
settled, and that when the Norsemen first touched American
soil they found the Eskimos already in possession is
also certain.  Yet it was not these bold adventurers that
gave these curious people the name by which they are
most commonly known.  In the expressive Norse tongue
they were described as "Skraelings"—that is, the "chips,
parings."  The intention was not, of course, to convey the
idea that they were cordially accepted as "chips of the old
block," but, on the contrary, to show that they were
regarded by their handsome and stalwart discoverers as little
better than mere fragments of humanity—a view which,
however unflattering, their squat stature, ugly countenances,
and filthy habits went far to justify.

The name "Eskimo" was given to them by the Abenaki,
a tribe of Indians in southern Labrador.  It is an
abbreviation of "Eskimautsik," which means "eating raw fish,"
in allusion to their repulsive custom of eating both fish
and flesh without taking the preliminary trouble of cooking
it.  The Eskimos themselves assert very emphatically
that they are "Innuit"—that is, "the people"—just as
though they were the only people in the world (and, by
the way, it is worth noticing that each particular tribe of
these "Huskies" thinks itself the entire population of the
globe until undeceived by the advent of visitors).  Their
national name, if they have one at all, is "Karalit," the
plural of "Karalik," meaning "those that stayed behind."

With reference to this latter title, Mr. Morrow points
out a curious fact, which is suggestive.  Strahlenburg, in
his description of the northern part of Asia, states, on the
authority of the Tartar writer Abulgazi Chan, that Og, or
Ogus Chan, who reigned in Tartary long before the birth
of Christ, made an inroad into the southern Asiatic
countries, and as some of his tribes stayed behind, they were
called in reproach "Kall-atzi," and also "Karalik."  Now
this "Karalik," with its plural "Karalit," is the very name
that the Eskimos give themselves.  So striking a
resemblance, amounting in fact to identity, can surely be
accounted for in no other way (and for this suggestion I
must assume all responsibility) than that those who stayed
behind in Tartary subsequently moved over to the
American continent.

When Eric the Red sailed across from Iceland to
Greenland (somewhere about the year 985), he found many
traces of the Eskimos there: and when Thorvald, some
twenty years later, ventured as far south as Vinland,
identified as the present Martha's Vineyard (with which he
was so delighted that he exclaimed, "Here is a beautiful
land, and here I wish to raise my dwelling"), the unexpected
discovery of three skin boats upon the beach affected
him and his followers much as the imprint of a human
foot did Robinson Crusoe.  They found more than the
boats, however, for each boat held three men, all but one
of whom they caught and summarily despatched, for
reasons that the saga discreetly forbears to state.

But retribution followed fast.  No sooner had the invaders
returned to their ships than the Skraelings attacked
them in great force, and although the Norsemen came out
best in the fighting, their leader, Thorvald, received a
mortal wound.  He charged his men to bury him upon
the cape "at which he had thought it best to dwell;" for,
as he pathetically added, "it may happen that it was a
true word that fell from my mouth that I should dwell
here for a time."  His men did as they were bid.  They
set up two crosses over his grave, whose site is now known
as Summit Point.  They then hastened homeward.

After the lapse of two years, one Thorfinn Karlsifori,
fired by what he heard in Iceland of the wonderful
discoveries made by the hardy sons of Eric the Red, fitted
out an imposing expedition, his boats carrying one hundred
and sixty men, besides women, cattle, etc., and set sail for
Vinland.  He reached his destination in safety, and
remaining there for some time, improved upon his
predecessor's method of treating the Skraelings.  Instead of
aimlessly killing them, he cheerfully cheated them, getting
huge packs of furs in exchange for bits of red cloth.  He
has thus described his customers' chief characteristics:
"These men were black and ill-favoured, and had straight
hair on their heads.  They had large eyes and broad
cheeks."  All of which shows that although the Eskimos
have changed their habitat since then, they have not
altered much in their appearance.

After two years of prosperous trading, the relations
between the Norsemen and the Skraelings became strained
from a cause too amusing not to be related.  As already
stated, the visitors brought a few of their cattle with them,
and it happened one day that a huge bull had his feelings
excited some way or other, perhaps by a piece of red cloth
thoughtlessly paraded in his view; at all events he
bellowed very loud, and charging upon the terrified Eskimos,
tossed them about in the most lively fashion.  They
incontinently tumbled into their boats, and, without a word of
farewell, rowed off, to the vast amusement of the bull's
owners.  But the latter's laughter vanished when presently
the runaways returned "in whole ranks, like a rushing
stream," and began an attack in which the Norsemen were
vanquished by sheer force of numbers, and deemed it
prudent to make off without standing upon the order of
their going.


.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium bold

   \II.

.. vspace:: 2

With the departure of the Norsemen, the curtain of
obscurity falls upon the Eskimos, and is not lifted again
until we find them, not luxuriating amid the vine-entangled
forests of Vinland, but scattered far and wide over the
hideous desolation of the far north, and engaged in a
ceaseless struggle with hunger and cold.  Just when they
thus moved northward, and why, does not yet appear.  If
their innate and intense hatred of the Red Indian be of
any service as a clue, it is, however, within the bounds
of reason to believe that they were driven from their
comfortable quarters by their more active and warlike
fellow-aborigines, and given no rest until they found it amidst
the icebergs and glaciers of Labrador and Hudson Bay,
where they may now be met with in bands numbering
from a dozen to a hundred or more.  Throughout the
whole of this Arctic region they fearlessly range in search
of food.

The Eskimos are, in fact, the only inhabitants of a vast
territory, which includes the shores of Arctic America, the
whole of Greenland, and a tract about four hundred miles
long on the Asiatic coast beyond Behring Strait, thus
extending over a distance of five thousand miles from east to
west, and three thousand two hundred miles from north
to south.  Notwithstanding this wide distribution, there is
a remarkable uniformity, not only in the physical features
of the Eskimos, but also in their manners, traditions, and
language.  Consequently very much that may be said of
the Canadian Children of the Cold (that is, the Eskimos of
Labrador and Hudson Bay) would be equally true of the
other branches of the race.

For a great deal of interesting information concerning
them we are indebted to the writings of such men as
Ribbach and Herzeburg, Moravian missionaries, who, with
a heroic zeal that only those familiar with their lot can
adequately appreciate, have devoted themselves to "the
cure of souls" among the Eskimos.  There are six of these
Moravian missions scattered along the eastern coast of
Labrador.  Nain, the chief one, was established as far
back as 1771, Okkak in 1776, Hopedale in 1782, and
Hebron, Zoar, and Ramah more recently.

The bestowal of so attractive Biblical names helps very
little, however, to mitigate the unfavourable impression
produced by the forbidding surroundings of these tiny
oases almost lost in a seemingly illimitable desert.  Sheer
from the sea, except where broken by frequent gulf and
fiord, the coast line towers up in tremendous and unpitying
sternness, and at its base the breakers thunder with a force
and fury that knows little pause throughout the year.
From end to end the shore is jagged like a gigantic saw
with innumerable bays and inlets, sprinkled thick with
islands and underlaid with hidden reefs, which makes
these waters difficult to find and dangerous to navigate.

The interior of the country is equally repellent.
Although toward the west it becomes less mountainous and
slightly undulating, like the American prairie, it presents
nothing but an inhospitable and savage wilderness, covered
with immense forests, broken by numerous swamps and
lakes, and untouched by human foot, save when now and
then a band of Red Indians venture thither, lured by the
hope of food and fur.

The Eskimos upon the eastern coast of Labrador are,
as a rule, small of stature, not much exceeding five feet.
Those upon the western shore, however, are taller and more
robust; they are quite strongly built, with hair and beard
sweeping down over the shoulders and chest.  When the
good seed sown by the patient missionary finds lodging
in a Husky's heart, he usually signalizes his adoption of
Christianity by indulging in a clean shave, or at least by
cutting his beard short with a pair of scissors, in deference
perhaps to the judgment of St. Paul that "if a man have
long hair, it is a shame unto him."

They have small, soft hands, broad shoulders, big flat
faces, large, round heads, and short, stubby noses,

   |  "Tip-tilted, like the petals of a flower,"

and very generous mouths, which, being nearly always on
the broad grin, make free display of fine rows of sharp,
white teeth.  In complexion they are tawny and ruddy,
and the face is of a much darker shade than the body.
At spring-time, when the sun's burning rays are reflected
from glistening banks of snow, they become almost as
black in the face as negroes; but new-born babes may be
seen as fair as any English child.  Their eyes are small
and almost uniformly black, and peep brightly out at you
from underneath a perfect forest of brow and lash.  Their
hair is black, also, and very thick and coarse.

Their ordinary food is the flesh of the seal, with its
attendant blubber, and the fish that abound along the
shore.  They are not particular whether their dinner is
cooked or not, and I seriously question whether a professional
pugilist in the height of his training could swallow
his beef-steak as "rare" as the Eskimos will their seal
cutlets.  They are also very partial to tallow, soap, fish
oil, and such things, which they look upon as great delicacies,
a big tallow candle being rather more of a treat to
an Eskimo youngster than a stick of candy to a civilized
small boy.

That these peculiar and decidedly repulsive tastes are,
after all, bottomed on the laws of nature, is clearly shown
by the fact that when the natives around a mission station
adopt a European diet (and they soon become passionately
fond of bread and biscuits) they inevitably grow weak and
incapable of standing the intense cold.  When Joe, that
heroic Eskimo who supported Hall's expedition by his
hunting, after Hall himself had died, was transplanted to
America and thence to England, he soon languished and
grew consumptive, despite every effort to preserve his
health.  On joining Captain Young in the *Pandora*, his
only remark, uttered with a depth of eager, confident hope
that was very touching, was, "By-and-by get little seal
meat; then all right,"—a prediction that was fulfilled to the
very letter when he regained his native ice.  As soon as
they killed their first seal Joe was given free rein, and he
began to revive at once.  His hollow cheeks resumed their
old-time chubbiness (and smeariness too, no doubt), his
languor left him, and he was, in short, another man.

The seal is, in fact, everything to the Eskimo.  What
the buffalo was to the American Indian, what the reindeer
is to the European Laplander, all that, and still more, is
the seal to these Children of the Cold.  Upon its meat and
blubber they feed.  With its fur they are clothed.  By its
oil they are warmed and lighted.  Stretched upon
appropriate framework, its skin makes them sea-worthy boats
and weather-proof tents.  While, unkindest use of all, with
its bladder they float the fatal harpoon that wrought its
own undoing.  To sum it all up in one sentence, take
away the seal, and the Eskimo could not exist for a month.

There is not much room for fashion's imperious sway in
Labrador.  Seal-skin from scalp to toe is the invariable
rule; and there would be no small difficulty in distinguishing
between the sexes, if the women did not indulge in a
certain amount of ornamentation, upon their garments, and
further indicate their femininity by appending to their
sacques a curious tail reaching almost to the ground, which
they renew whenever it becomes so dirty as to shock even
their sluggish sensibilities.  Still another distinguishing
mark, permissible, however, only to those who have attained
the dignity of motherhood, is the amook, a capacious
hood hung between the shoulders, which forms the safest
and snuggest of all carrying places for babies that
otherwise would be "in arms."

.. _`SEAL-HUNTING.`:

.. figure:: images/img-137.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: SEAL-HUNTING.

   SEAL-HUNTING.


.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center medium bold

   \III.

.. vspace:: 2

In addition to the records of the Moravian missionaries,
the reports of the Arctic explorers and the stories brought
back by whalers concerning the Eskimos, much information
has been gained of late through the measures taken by the
Canadian Government to determine the practicability of
Hudson Bay as a commercial highway.  For three
successive years expeditions on an extensive scale have been
despatched to that little-known region, and observing
stations have been maintained throughout the year at
different points along the coast of Labrador and the shores of
that great inland sea which has not inappropriately been
termed the "Mediterranean" of Canada.  As one result of
these expeditions, much attention has been drawn to the
natives.  Lieutenant Gordon, who has commanded all three,
has many kind words for them.  He finds them docile,
amiable, and willing to work, and apparently much pleased
with the prospect of increased intercourse with the white
man.  Occasionally one is met that has been sufficiently
enterprising to acquire the English language, while many
others understand well enough what is said to them in
that language, although they cannot be persuaded to
speak it.

They are wildly fond of any article of civilized clothing,
and the head-man at one settlement exhibited no little
pride in the possession of a stand-up linen collar, almost
worthy to be placed beside one of Mr. Gladstone's.
Although he displayed it to the utmost advantage, he did
not, like the Fiji chieftain, consider all other clothing
superfluous.

When stores were being landed at the stations, the
Eskimos would gather about and offer their services, which
were always accepted, and then all day long they would
toil cheerfully side by side with their white brethren,
requiring no other remuneration than biscuits.  When so
much has been written by Arctic explorers about the
incorrigible kleptomania of the natives, it is no less a
matter for surprise than for gratification that Lieutenant
Gordon can bear this testimony as to the moral status of
the Eskimos at Hudson Bay: "One word may be said
in regard to their honesty.  Although scraps of iron and
wood possess a value to them which we can hardly appreciate,
they would take nothing without first asking leave.
Not even a chip or broken nail was taken without their
first coming to ask permission of the officer who was on
duty!"

No doubt the fact that practical prohibition prevails
has something to do with this highly commendable showing.
The law, aided and abetted by the vigilant missionaries,
shuts out everything stronger than lime-juice, and
the path of the Eskimo is free from the most seductive
and destructive of all temptations, except when some
unprincipled whaler offers him a pull out of his flask.  This,
however, is a rare occurrence, and there is no record of any
such disturbance ever having been raised as would in more
highly civilized communities call for the interference of the
police.  Although the simplicity of their life and their
freedom from many modern vices conduce to longevity,
these advantages are more than counterbalanced by the
strain put upon their constitutions by the severity of the
climate and the incessant struggle for food.  Consequently
they soon age, and seldom live beyond sixty years.

The doctrine that cleanliness is next to godliness finds
few adherents in Eskimo land.  The rule seems to be to
eschew washing throughout the year, and many a mighty
hunter goes through life innocent of a bath, unless, indeed,
he should happen to be tumbled out of his kayak by some
irate walrus with other than sanitary designs in mind.
Mr. Tuttle, the historian of the first Hudson Bay expedition,
is authority for the statement that the children, when
very young, are sometimes cleaned by being licked with
their mother's tongue before being put into the bag of
feathers that serves them as bed, cradle, and blanket; but
one cannot help thinking that this particular version of "a
lick and a promise" is rather too laborious to have
extensive vogue.

So familiar has the world been made through the
medium of Arctic exploration literature with the igloos
(huts), kayaks and umiaks (boats), sledges, dogs, harpoons,
and other possessions of these people, which are precisely
the same wherever they may be found, that reference to
them seems unnecessary, especially as the Canadian
Eskimos offer nothing peculiar.  But, before concluding, a
few words must be added as to the intellectual and moral
characteristics of the race.  Their intelligence is considerable.
In some instances they display not only a taste but
a talent for music, chart-making, and drawing.  One case
is mentioned where a mere lad drew an excellent outline
of the coast for over a hundred miles, indicating its many
irregularities with astonishing accuracy.  They are capital
mimics, and are apt at learning the songs and dances of
their white visitors.  But they are poor men of business.
They generally leave to the purchaser the fixing of the
price of anything they have to sell.

It is said that in their private lives their state of
morality is low, although they avoid indecency calculated
to give public offence.  Stealing and lying were unknown
among them until these "black arts" were introduced by
the whites as products of civilization, and, unhappily, the
natives are proving apt pupils.  They are also somewhat
given to gambling.  Although by no means without courage,
they seldom quarrel, and never go to war with one another.

As to religion, the Eskimos, before they accepted
Christianity, had little or none that was worthy of the name.
They believe in the immortality of the soul, but liberally
extend this doctrine to the lower animals also, which they
endow with souls.  They hold, also, that human souls can
pass into the bodies of these very animals.

With respect to the higher powers, their creed is that
the world is ruled by supernatural beings whom they call
"owners;" and as almost every object has its owner, this
would seem to be a kind of Pantheism.  After death
human souls go either up or down; but in curious contrast
to the belief of all other races, the good, in their opinion,
go to the nether world, where they bask in a land, not of
milk and honey, but of inexhaustible seal meat and
blubber.  The bad, on the other hand, go to the upper world,
where they suffer what a fashionable preacher euphemized
as "eternal uneasiness," not from excess of heat but from
frost and famine.  There they are permitted to lighten
their misery by playing ball with a walrus head, which
diversion, by the way, in some inexplicable fashion, gives
rise to the aurora borealis.

Like all aborigines they have their own legend of the
deluge, and to this day they proudly point out a large
island lying between Okkak and Hebron, rising to the
height of nearly seven thousand feet, which they claim was
the only spot left uncovered by the flood, and upon which
a select party of their antediluvian ancestors survived the
otherwise all-embracing catastrophe.

The future destiny of this interesting race may be
readily forecast.  In common with the Red Indian of the
plains, the swarthy Eskimo may adopt with reference to
the white man those words of fathomless pathos uttered by
John the Baptist in reference to the Messiah, "He must
increase, but I must decrease."  It is merely a question of
time.  All over the vast region he inhabits are signs
showing that his numbers were far greater once than they are
at present.  The insatiable greed of his white brothers is
rendering his existence increasingly difficult.  The seal
and the walrus are ever being driven farther north, and
that means a sterner and shorter struggle for life.  As the
Indian will not long survive the buffalo, so the Eskimo
will not long survive the seal.  There are, perhaps, fifteen
thousand of them now scattered far and wide over the
tremendous spaces between Labrador and Alaska.  Each
year their numbers are growing less, and ere long the last
remnant of the race will have vanished, and the great lone
North will return to the state of appalling solitude and
silence that only the Canadian Children of the Cold had
the fortitude to alleviate by their presence.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`FACE TO FACE WITH AN "INDIAN DEVIL"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   FACE TO FACE WITH AN "INDIAN DEVIL."

.. vspace:: 2

There were three of us, and we were all untiring
explorers of the forests and streams within reach
of our homes in quest of such possessors of fur, fin, or
feather as our guns and rods could overcome.

Plenty of luck did we have too, for we lived in a
sparsely-settled part of Nova Scotia, and the trout and
partridges and rabbits had not had their ranks thinned by
too much hunting.  It was no uncommon thing for us to
bring back, as the result of an afternoon's whipping of the
brooks, two or three dozen speckled trout weighing from
half-a-pound to three pounds each, while less than a
dozen brace of plump partridges or bob-tailed rabbits was
looked on as a very poor bag for a day's shooting.

Adventurous and enterprising as we were, however, one
stream of which we had knowledge remained undisturbed
by our lines.  It was known among the Mic-Macs, a band
of whom roamed about the neighbourhood, as Indian Devil
Run, being so called because of their belief that the dense
dark forest in which it took its rise was the fastness of a
family of panthers, of which they stood in great dread.

Nor was the name without good foundation, for one
autumn a hunter with gun and trap ventured into this
place, and returned with the body of a panther, stating
that he believed others still remained.

Indian Devil Run began somewhere in the North Forest,
ran through its heavy shadows for several miles, and then
appeared to add its contribution to the Digdequash River,
at which point we made its acquaintance.

We often talked about following it up into the depths
of the forest, but the Indian stories made us pause, until
at last one evening in September, Jack Johnston, craving
some fresh excitement, dared us to make the attempt, and
we rashly accepted the challenge.

The following morning we set off, letting no one know
the object of our expedition.  We were armed in this
fashion: Charlie Peters bore an ancient Dutch musket,
warranted when properly loaded to kill at both ends;
Johnston had a keen tomahawk, which the Indians had
taught him to use like one of themselves; and I carried
an old-fashioned smooth-bore shot-gun, dangerous only to
small game.

"Now, if we come across an Indian devil, Charlie," said
Johnston, "you give him a broadside from 'Dutchie,' and
I'll finish him with my tomahawk."

"And where do I come in?" I asked, with a smile.

"You?  Oh, you blaze away at him with your pepperpot;
you might perhaps put his eyes out, you know," Jack
laughingly responded, and so our order of battle was settled
upon.

We crossed the Digdequash in a canoe, hid our craft in
the underbrush, and in high feather entered upon the
exploration of Indian Devil Run.

It proved to be a succession of falls and rapids,
overshadowed by huge trees for several miles, and we had
hard work making our way up its course.  But we toiled
steadily on, and just before mid-day were rewarded for
our pains by reaching a lovely spot, where the banks of
the stream widened to form an enchanting pond encircled
by a meadow, and offering every inducement to stay and
rest.

Glad were we to do so.  The pond evidently swarmed
with trout.  Quickly adjusting our fishing-tackle, we got
to work.  Shade of Izaak Walton! what a paradise for
anglers!  The water fairly boiled as the hungry trout
fought for the privilege of being hooked.  In one hour we
landed as many as we could carry home, and they were
fine fellows every one of them.

"The greatest place for trout I ever struck!" exclaimed
Charlie Peters, throwing down his rod.  "I positively
haven't the heart to catch any more.  It seems like taking
a mean advantage of them."

So we stopped the slaughter—apparently much to the
disappointment of our prey, who hung about asking to be
made victims—and proceeded to dispose of the ample
lunch with which our thoughtful mothers had provided
us.  Then we had a refreshing plunge in the clear water,
scaring the trout nearly out of their skins, and by this
time it was necessary that we should retrace our steps.

On our way up I had brought down a fine brace of
birds, and to save carrying them to and fro had hung
them to a high branch, intending to pick them up on the
return journey.

"Don't forget your partridges, Hal," said Jack to me, as
we shouldered our bags heavy with trout.

"No fear of that," I replied.  "I know exactly where I
left them."

Hitherto we had seen and heard nothing to justify the
Indians' superstitious dread of the locality.  No signs of
wild animals were visible, and in high spirits at having
discovered so rich a fishing-ground we hastened homeward.

"I guess the Indian devils have got tired of this place
and left," remarked Charlie Peters.  "But don't let us
give it away all the same.  We must keep this run all to
ourselves as long as we can."

Hardly had he spoken when an appalling shriek pierced
the silence of the woods, and brought us to a sudden stop,
while we looked into one another's faces with an
apprehension we made no attempt to conceal.  We were close
to the tree where the partridges had been hung.

"It's the Indian devil!" exclaimed Jack Johnston, under
his breath.  "He's eaten the partridges, and now he wants
to eat us."

We fully realized our danger, and after the first shock
of fright braced ourselves to meet it with a determined
front.  Johnston, as the eldest and coolest of the three,
took command.

"Charlie," said he, "you must let him have Dutchie full
in the face the moment we sight him.—Hal, you blaze
away with your shot-gun, and I'll stand by to finish him
with my tomahawk."

nodding assent to these directions, we stood side by
side, gazing eagerly into the forest gloom.

"There he is!" said Johnston.  "See! on that big limb."

We followed the direction of his finger, and saw the
brute clearly enough, stretched upon a limb not twelve
yards away, his great green eyes glaring horribly at us.

"Quick, Charlie!" cried Jack.  "He's going to spring.
Rest your gun on my shoulder, and aim for his chest."

Charlie did as he was bid, and pulled the trigger.
Bang went the old musket with a tremendous report.
Over went Charlie on his back, his shoulder well-nigh
dislocated by the kick of his weapon; and down came the
panther to the ground, badly wounded in his neck and
breast.  The instant he touched ground I let him have the
contents of my shot-gun.  But they only served to bother
him for a moment, and looking terrible in his fury, he was
just gathering himself for a spring into our midst, when
Johnston, stepping forward, sent his tomahawk whizzing
through the air with all the force of his strong right arm.

.. _`"JOHNSTON SENT HIS TOMAHAWK WHIZZING THROUGH THE AIR."`:

.. figure:: images/img-147.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "JOHNSTON SENT HIS TOMAHAWK WHIZZING THROUGH THE AIR."

   "JOHNSTON SENT HIS TOMAHAWK WHIZZING THROUGH THE AIR."

It was a perfect throw.  No Mic-Mac could have done it
better.  Like a flash of lightning the bright steel blade
went straight to its mark, and buried itself in the panther's
forehead right between those awful eyes, whose malignant
gleam it extinguished for ever.

Lifting Charlie to his feet we rushed forward, and stood
in triumph over our fallen foe, shaking hands across his
mighty body.  How our hearts swelled with pride at the
thought of the sensation our exploit would make!

With a twisted withe for a rope we laboriously dragged
our prize to the canoe, and so got it across the river.
Here we met the Indian who had been Johnston's teacher
in the art of tomahawk-throwing.  He seemed immensely
relieved at seeing us.

"Me see you boys go over this morning, then hear devil
scream this afternoon, and hear you go bang.  Me 'fraid
you all deaded this time."

Then as he discovered the fatal gash in the brute's head,
his face lit up with pride.

"Johnston, you do that!" he cried.  "Ah! smart boy.
Me learn you how throw tomahawk like that."

Jack blushingly acknowledged the fact, and gave his
Indian instructor due meed of praise for having taught him
so well.

It was too big a job to get the heavy carcass of the
panther any further, so the Indian took off the head and
skin for us, and we presented him with the body, which
he said was good to eat, and would "make Indian strong."

Our arrival at home with the trophies of our triumph
over the terror of the forest caused great rejoicing.  We
were the heroes of the hour, and Charlie quite forgot his
bruised shoulder in the pleasant excitement of the occasion.

We often revisited Indian Devil Run after that, and
took many a fine fare of fish from its well-stocked waters,
but we never saw another panther.  We had apparently
killed the last of the brood.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN THE NICK OF TIME`:

.. class:: center large bold

   IN THE NICK OF TIME.

.. vspace:: 2

"Will you be out to practice this evening, Charlie?"
asked Rob M'Kenzie of his friend Kent, as the
two, who had been walking home from the high school
together, parted at a corner.

"Indeed, that I will," was the reply; "and every evening,
too, until the match comes off.  It'll take all the
practice we can put in to beat those Riverside chaps, I can
tell you."

"Pshaw!  What makes you think they'll be so hard to
beat this time?" returned Rob.  "We've always had our
fair share of the games so far."

"So we have; but they didn't have Sam Massie playing
with them."

"Sam Massie! who's Sam Massie?" exclaimed Rob, in
surprise.

"Don't you know who Sam Massie is?  Why, he's one
of the first twelve of the Torontos," replied Charlie, looking
somewhat astonished at his friend's ignorance.

"Then how on earth can he play with the Riversides?"
asked Rob.  "Can't we protest?"

"Oh, that's all right enough.  His uncle lives in Riverside,
and he is staying with him for a while, so we can't
object to his playing."

"Humph!" growled Rob.  "It's a pity we can't.  We've
got nobody to match him."

"I don't think it's a pity at all," returned Charlie
cheerfully.  "I'd a good deal rather see a crack player like Sam
Massie, and get some points from him, than object to his
playing, even if he gains the match for the other fellows.
We'll do our best to give him a good day's work, any way.
So let's practise hard."  And Charlie went off whistling.

There was an intense rivalry between the villages of
Riverside and Heatherton in the matter of lacrosse.  Each
village had a good club, in which not only the players but
the people also took a hearty interest, and the matches
that were played once a month alternately in each village
during the season never failed to draw out to see them
everybody in the population that could possibly manage
to be present.  They were always played on Saturday,
because then the farmers from round about came in to the
village to do their week's business early in the morning,
and by rushing things a little could easily get through by
three o'clock, and then they and the shopkeepers and the
rest of the village folk would adjourn to the lacrosse-field
and have a lively time of it, shouting, and cheering, and
laughing as the game went on before them.

Charlie Kent and Rob M'Kenzie were the two youngest
members of the Heatherton lacrosse twelve, and they
naturally felt very proud of their position, which they had
won by proving themselves the best players in the high
school, and thereby attracting the attention of the
Heatherton captain quite early in the season.  The day when big
Tom Brown called them both aside and invited them to
play with the first twelve was one of the proudest in their
lives; and Tom had had no reason to regret his invitation
on any game that summer, for the two "young cubs," as
he called them, proved themselves very useful additions,
being quick, careful, plucky, and, best of all, thoroughly
obedient, always doing exactly what he told them.

The next match with Riverside was of special importance,
because it would be the final and decisive one of five
which the two clubs were playing for a fine set of silk
flags, which had been offered as a trophy by some generous
friends of lacrosse in both villages.  Each club had won
two matches, and now on the approaching Saturday the
fifth and final match would take place, rain or shine.

The rumour of Sam Massie being with the Riversides
had reached Heatherton early in the week, and caused no
little concern, some of the players being disposed to make
a protest if he appeared on the field, and even a refusal to
play.  But Tom Brown would not listen to them.  Sam
Massie was, for the time being at least, a resident in
Riverside, and to object to his playing would be acting in a way
he did not approve of, so the dissatisfied ones were fain to
hold their tongues.

The eventful Saturday came, and was as fine as heart
could wish.  It was Heatherton's turn to have the match,
and the home team rejoiced at this, because it would in
some measure compensate them for the advantage their
opponents undoubtedly possessed in having Sam Massie
with them.

Never before had so large a crowd assembled to watch
the match.  It really seemed as if half the population of
Riverside and three-fourths of the population of Heatherton
had turned out.  The whole field was surrounded with a
fringe of spectators, ready to applaud every good point in
the game.

In due time the Riverside team made their appearance,
looking very jaunty in their blue jerseys, caps, and
stockings, and white knickerbockers, and all eyes were turned
upon them to discover the redoubtable Sam Massie.  It
was easy to distinguish him from the others, and he
certainly was a dangerous-looking player.

He was not of more than medium size, but the perfection
of his condition, the graceful ease and quickness of
his movements, and the unfailing accuracy of his catching
and throwing, as the team indulged in the usual
preliminary exercise, impressed everybody with the idea that
he fully merited his reputation.

Charlie Kent's place was centre-field, his quickness and
steadiness entitling him to that important position, while
Rob M'Kenzie was the next man between him and the
opponent's goal.  Charlie was very anxious to see where
the Riversides would put Massie, and was not at all sorry
when that player took his place at cover-point, for now
he would be certain to cross sticks with him more than
once during the match, and find out just how strong a
man he was.

Amid the breathless suspense of the spectators the two
teams lined up, were briefly adjured by the referee to
indulge in no rough play or fouls, and then in pairs
departed to their places, the white and blue of the Riversides
contrasting picturesquely with the white and crimson
of the Heathertons as the players strung out from goal to
goal.

"Are you all ready?" cried the referee.

The captains nodded their heads, the two centre-fields
kneeled opposite one another for the face, the ball was
placed between the lacrosse sticks, and with a shout of
"Play" the referee sprang aside, and the struggle began.

There was a second's scuffle between the two centres,
and then the Heathertons raised a shout; for Charlie had
got the ball away from his opponent, tipped it cleverly to
Rob, who, after a short run, had thrown it to "outside
home," and the Riverside goal was in danger.

But before outside home could do anything, Massie was
down upon him with the swoop of an eagle.  With a sharp
check he knocked the ball off his stick, then picked it up
at once, and dashed away down the field, dodging in and
out between his two opponents like a veritable eel.  Not
until he reached the Heatherton cover-point was he obliged
to stop, and then he took a shot at goal, which, but for the
plucky goalkeeper putting his broad chest squarely in the
way, would certainly have scored.

Back the ball went, however, to the other goal, and
continued thus to travel up and down for fully fifteen
minutes before some skilful passing and sharp dodging on
the part of the Heathertons brought it in front of the
Riverside goal, when, after a hard tussle, it was swiped
through by a lucky stroke from Charlie Kent.

Great was the elation of the Heathertons at scoring the
first game.

"Guess they're not invincible, after all, if they have Sam
Massie," said Charlie to Captain Brown.

"Mustn't crow too soon, Charlie," replied Brown cautiously.
"We've got the afternoon before us yet."

When the Riversides, thanks to a brilliant run of
Massie's, won the next game in five minutes, Charlie felt
somewhat less confident; and when, after a severe struggle,
they by a pure piece of luck took the third game in
twenty minutes, he began to feel a little down in the mouth.

But the winning of the fourth game by the Heathertons
braced him up again, and he went into the fifth and final
struggle with a brave and determined heart.

The excitement had now become intense.  It had been
agreed before play commenced that the game should be
called at six o'clock, and if not then finished, played over
again at Riverside the following Saturday.

The Heathertons fully appreciated the advantage of
playing oh their own ground, and were determined to settle
the fate of the flags before six o'clock if at all possible.

The Riversides were equally determined to play out the
time if they could do nothing better.  Accordingly they
concentrated all their strength upon the defence, and
surrounded the redoubtable Sam Massie with the best men in
the team.

Once more Charlie Kent won the face, and again tipped
to Rob, who did not fail to send it well down towards the
goal, but the stone-wall defence quickly sent it back.
Again and again the rubber sphere went flying through
the air or bounding along the ground towards the Riverside
goal, and again and again it returned, not even being
permitted to stay there a moment.

The minutes passed quickly, and six o'clock drew near.

"Charlie, can't you and Rob manage to get that ball
down between you?  Never mind your places; just play
for the goal," said Captain Brown earnestly to Charlie.

"All right, captain, we'll do our best," replied Charlie,
as he passed the word to Rob.

As luck would have it, the Riversides, grown bold by
their success, opened out their defence just then, and moved
nearer the Heatherton goal.  Charlie's quick eye noted the
change of tactics instantly.

"Look sharp now, Rob," he called, and Rob nodded
meaningly.

A moment later the ball came flying his way, and
springing high he caught it cleverly, amid a howl of
applause from the spectators.  Then, signalling Rob to
keep parallel with him, he dashed off at full speed towards
the Riverside goal.

Charlie was lightly built and long-winded, and constant
practice had made him the fastest "sprinter" in Heatherton.
But he had never run before as he had then.

The onlookers held their breath to watch him as he
sped on.  One, two, three opponents were safely passed! by
brilliant dodging, and now only Sam Massie stood between
him and the goal.

He knew it would be useless to try to dodge Sam.
But there was a better play.  Before Sam could reach him
he tipped the rubber over to Rob.  Instantly Sam turned
upon Rob, and brought his stick down upon Rob's with a
resounding whack.  But the ball was not there.  Already
it was rolling towards Charlie, who had continued straight
on, and scooping it up from the ground, with a straight,
swift overhand throw he sent it flying through the goal-posts
just in time to allow the cry of "Goal! goal!" to be
triumphantly raised ere the six-o'clock whistle sounded the
hour for calling the game.

Charlie Kent was, of course, the hero of the day.  Sam
Massie, brilliantly as he had played, was quite forgotten.
But he did not forget to come up and clap Charlie warmly
on the back, saying,—

"Bravo, my boy!  You'll make a championship player
some day.  You must come up to Toronto.  We want your
kind up there."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`SNOW-SHOEING`:

.. class:: center large bold

   SNOW-SHOEING.

.. vspace:: 2

Three things have the "red children of the forest"
given to the white children of the cities which are
so perfect in their way that it is hardly possible there
will ever be an invention filed in the pigeon-holes of
the patent-office that will surpass them.  The canoe for
shallow water and what might be called cross-country
navigation, the toboggan, and the snow-shoe for deep snow,
seem to be the very crown of human ingenuity, even
though they are only the devices of ignorant Indians.
One cannot help a feeling of hearty admiration when
looking at them, and noting how perfectly they fulfil the
purpose for which they were designed, and are at the same
time as light, graceful, and artistic in form and fashion as
the most finished work of highly-civilized folk.  They all
follow the line cf beauty so closely that it is no wonder
the ladies love to decorate their drawing-rooms and boudoirs
with them, or to have their pins and brooches modelled
after them.

.. _`SNOW-SHOEING.`:

.. figure:: images/img-159.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: SNOW-SHOEING.

   SNOW-SHOEING.

To the Indian the canoe, snow-shoe, and toboggan were
quite as important implements as the spade, the plough,
and the rake are to the farmer.  Without them he could
not in winter-time have roamed the snow-buried forests,
whose recesses supplied his table, or voyaged in the
summer-time upon the broad rivers and swift-running streams,
whose bountiful waters furnished him their ready toll of
fish.  His white brother has in adopting them put them
to a different use.  He had no particular need for them
in his work, but he was quick to see how they would help
him in his play, and erelong they had all three become
favourite means of sport and recreation.

Snow-shoeing disputes with tobogganing the honour of
being Canada's national winter sport; for although
snow-shoes have been seen in Siberia and Tartary, and are used
to some extent in Scandinavia, in none of these places do
the people derive much amusement from them.  Simple
as the snow-shoe seems, I would not advise any one to try
to make a pair for himself.  Only the Indians can do
this really well, and even in Canada the vast majority of
shoes are put together by dusky hands.

This is how they make a shoe of three feet six inches,
which is a fair average size:—A piece of light ash about
half-an-inch thick, and at least ninety inches in length, is
bent to a long oval until the two ends touch, when they
are lashed strongly together with catgut.  Two strips of
tough wood about an inch broad are then fitted across
this frame, one being placed about five inches from the
curving top, the other some twenty inches from the
tapering end.  The object of these strips is to give both
strength and spring to the shoe.  The three sections into
which the interior of the frame has thus been divided are
then woven across with catgut, each having a different
degree of fineness in the mesh, the top section being very
fine, the middle section, upon which almost the whole
strain comes, coarse and strong, and the end section a
medium grade between the other two.  The gut in the
middle section is wound right around the framework for the
sake of greater strength, but in the other two is threaded
through holes bored at intervals of an inch or so.  Just
behind the front cross-bar an opening about four inches
square is left in the gut netting, in order to allow free
play for the toes in lifting the shoe at each step.  Both
wood and gut must be thoroughly seasoned, or else the
one will warp, and the other stretch and sag until the
shoe is altogether useless.

The shoes are made in many shapes and of many sizes,
ranging from two to six feet in length, and from ten to
twenty inches in breadth.  But for all practical purposes
a shoe measuring three feet six inches by twelve or fifteen
inches is the best.  In racing, narrower shoes are used,
but they rarely go below ten inches, that being the
regulation measurement for club competitions.  Then, again,
some snow-shoes are turned up in front like tiny toboggans,
instead of being flat, this kind being worn principally by
ladies.

And now supposing that we have a pair of shoes entirely
to our satisfaction, let us constitute ourselves members of
a snow-shoe club, and take a tramp with it.  Snow-shoeing
is immensely popular in Montreal, as all visitors to the
winter carnival well know.  There are twenty or more
organized clubs there, the membership in most cases being
rigidly confined to the masculine gender, and every fine
night in the week, all winter long, some club or other has
a meet.  Discipline is pretty strictly enforced at these club
tramps, and seeing how earnestly the members go about
the business, an onlooker might well be pardoned for
thinking that there was quite as much work as play in
this particular amusement.  The pace set and the distance
travelled are both beyond the powers of beginners, so that
unless one is willing to stand a good deal of merciless
chaffing, and have a pretty hard time of it altogether, it is
better to wait until fairly familiar with the use of the
*raquet* (the French name for the snow-shoe) before joining
a club.

.. _`THE START.`:

.. figure:: images/img-163.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: THE START.

   THE START.

Let us imagine, then, that it is one of those glorious
nights in midwinter when this dull old earth of ours seems
transformed into fairy-land.  The snow lies in white depths
upon the ground, dry and firm as ocean sand; Jack Frost
has brought the mercury away down some points below
zero, and the keen air sets every nerve a-tingle; a superb
full-orbed moon swings high in the heavens, flooding the
wintry world with her silver splendour, and a hundred
active, muscular young fellows have gathered at the
rendezvous, clothed in white blanket coats with rainbow borders,
brilliant blue sashes and tuques (conical knitted caps sacred
to snow-shoeing), knickerbockers of the same material as
the coats, and stockings of the same colour as the sashes,
while on their feet are soft moccasins skilfully decorated
by Indian fingers.  Sharp on time the club captain arrives,
and in a trice all hands are down upon their knees fastening
the raquets to their feet.

"Are you all ready?" shouts the captain.  A hearty
chorus of "Ay, ay," rings out on the keen air.  "Off, then!"
he answers, striding rapidly away, his followers stringing
out in a long line behind, for the walking is always done
in Indian file, and they set forth to attack the mountain,
which towers up so grandly behind the city, forming one
of the finest parks in the world.

The line of march is made up very simply.  The captain
who is selected for that much-coveted position because
of his renown for speed and endurance, as well as his
knowledge of the best routes, takes the lead.  The rank
and file follow in any order they please, and the rear is
brought up by the whipper-in.  Although the post of
whipper-in is *not* much coveted, that officer ranks next in
importance to the captain, and should be one of the strongest
and most experienced members in the club.  His really
arduous duties are to quicken up the laggards, assist the
unfortunate, and inspire the despondent, for upon him it
depends to have the club all in together at the end of the
tramp.  Wending along the snow-covered tree-bordered
paths, or diving deep into the forest where there are no
paths at all, the long thin line climbs steadily upward,
growing longer as the steep ascent begins to tell upon the
weaker ones, and they lag behind.  At length the summit
is reached, and a halt is called for a few minutes, that the
panting, perspiring climbers may get their breath, and
close up the gaps in their ranks.

.. _`THE CLOSE.`:

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   :alt: THE CLOSE.

   THE CLOSE.

"All up?" inquires the captain.  "All up," is the cheery
response.  "Then forward!" and off they go again, this
time down instead of up, with head thrown back, shoulders
braced firmly, muscles at high tension, and eyes alert
for dangers in the shape of hidden stumps or treacherous
tree branches.  Faster and faster grows the pace as the
impetus of the decline is more and more felt, the shoes
rattle like castanets, and the long line of white-coated,
blue-capped figures undulates in and out among the tree
clumps, appearing, vanishing, and reappearing like some
monstrous serpent in full chase after its prey.

Ha!  What's that?  A fence right across the path?
What is to be done now?  The leader soon answers this
question, for over the obstacle he goes as lightly as a bird,
and his followers imitate him as best they may, some
being content to crawl gingerly across by dint of hands
and knees.  One luckless wight, tripping on the top, takes
a sudden header into the snow-bank on the other side,
leaving only a pair of legs in sight to mark the place of
his downfall.  But the whipper-in comes to the rescue, and
soon has him on his shoes again.  What between fences,
hedges, ditches, and other difficulties, the line is far from
being well kept up.  Gaps are frequent and wide.  Some
have fallen, and lost time in getting upright; others have
been outstripped; but the leaders, like time and tide, wait
for no man, and soon the welcome lights of the club-house,
nestling in the valley, flash cheeringly across the snow.

Then the captain pauses a few minutes, that those who
have been distanced may regain their places; and all being
once more together, a final spurt at racing speed brings
them, with shouts of joy and sighs of relief, to their goal.
Here shoes are slipped off tired feet, coats and tuques
thrown gleefully aside, and parched mouths cooled with
refreshing drinks.  An hour or more is spent in rest and
frolic, and then the return journey made by the well-beaten
road with the shoes strapped upon the back.

The distance "across the mountain" is nearly three
miles, yet it has been done by an amateur in sixteen
minutes twenty-eight seconds, which, considering the nature
of the course, is remarkably good going.  The best
amateur time for a hundred yards on the flat is twelve and
a half seconds, so that, clumsy and cumbersome as the
raquets may seem at first glance, they are really a very
slight bar to speed when the wearer is thoroughly expert
in their use.

Hare and hounds on snow-shoes is a sport that must
commend itself to all strong and vigorous boys who have
a taste for cross-country work, if only for the reason that
the snow-shoes make the sport possible at a time when it
would otherwise be out of the question.  The "hare" can
be followed by his tracks, thus doing away with the
necessity of carrying cumbrous bags of paper "scent."

Snow-shoeing differs from many other sports in being
very easy to learn.  Once you have mastered the art of
sliding one shoe over the other with very much the same
motion that you would make in skating, instead of lifting
it up high as though you were wading in deep snow, as
you are sure to do at first—once you properly understand
this your chief difficulty is conquered, and proficiency
comes with a little practice.

Throughout the length and breadth of Canada snow-shoeing
is popular with young and old.  Every centre of
population has its clubs.  Competitions are held every
winter, at which tempting prizes are offered to the winners
in races at different distances, from one hundred yards up
to ten miles.

.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Snow-shoeing tailpiece`:

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   :alt: Snow-shoeing tailpiece

   Snow-shoeing tailpiece





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SWIMMING MATCH AT THE ARM`:

.. class:: center large bold

   THE SWIMMING MATCH AT THE ARM.

.. vspace:: 2

"Frank, Frank: Hold on there a second," cried Jack
Stone breathlessly, as he ran after his friend.

Frank halted until Jack caught up to him.

"Well, Jack, what's your news?  You seem to be
excited about something," said he.

"So I am," panted Jack, "for I've big news to tell you.
Uncle William has offered a sovereign to the fellow that
makes the best time swimming across the North-west
Arm.  What do you think of that?"

"Why, I think it's just splendid of him, and I'm going
to try, for one."

"And I, too, you may be sure.  And George Murray
and Hal Hemming say they're going in.  I was telling
them about it this morning.  Of course we can't all win,
but the more the merrier, you know, and I think you and
I will stand as good a chance as any of them."

"Just about as good," assented Frank.  "That is, if none
of the big boys are allowed to try.  Did your uncle make
any rule about that?"

"Of course he did," replied Jack.  "Nobody over fifteen
can compete."

"Oh, that's all right!  And it's only fair, too," said
Frank, evidently much relieved.

"S'pose we go out and have a practice this afternoon,"
suggested Jack.  "It's so hot that the water ought to be
as warm as milk."

"All right!" said Frank.  "Just wait till I leave this
parcel at the house and get a couple of towels, and then
I'm with you."

Accordingly, a few minutes later the two boys, with
towels in hand, were trudging toward the North-west Arm,
impatient to be in the water, for the sun was sending down
lots of heat that summer afternoon.

Frank Brookfield and Jack Stone were very great friends;
had been so, indeed, almost from their nursery days.  They
got along about as well together as two boys who had each
his own share of spirit and selfishness could; and although
they were rivals in a good many of their boyish sports,
they had a wise way of looking at the matter, for, next to
coming out first himself, each was eager that the other
should, and consequently they had no occasion to quarrel
over the result.

In the science of swimming they were very evenly
matched; what Jack lacked in strength as compared with
Frank, who stood an inch taller, being about made up by
a superiority in style that was natural to him in everything
he did.

Hot as the afternoon was, they were too eager for their
dip to walk slowly, and when they reached the projecting
rock from which they were accustomed to bathe—Black
Rock it was called, being a mass of dark, rusty
iron-stone—they were both very warm and in a high state of
perspiration.

This, however, would not have mattered much if they
had undressed immediately and plunged right in; but
instead of doing so, they laid aside their outer clothes and
then sat down to cool off, thus allowing a reaction to set in
that came near having serious consequences.

When they thought they had cooled sufficiently, they
finished their undressing and were ready for the water.

"I've half a mind to swim clear across," said Frank, as
they stood out on the end of the rock, hesitating for a
moment, as all swimmers do, before diving into the cool,
green depths.

"Better not," said Jack, who was the more cautious of
the two.  "You might be too tired to swim back."

"Well, then, I'll tell you what we'll do.  We'll swim
out to the middle and back again, and that'll be just the
distance for the race."

"All right!  Here goes!" assented Jack.

And with a plump! plump! the two boys, like two
gigantic bull-frogs, went head first into the water, coming
up again three or four yards away, with dripping heads
and blinking eyes, and striking out vigorously toward
the centre of the Arm.

"Ah, but it's cold!" exclaimed Frank, half gasping.

"You bet," concurred Jack, very heartily—"cold as ice!
What business has the water to be so cold on such a broiling
day as this?"

"Oh, it's just a little way it has," said Frank.  "But
cold or not cold, I'm going out to the middle."

And with a powerful overhand stroke he ploughed his
way through the rippled brine, his shoulders gleaming
white as he bent to his work.

Jack, using the ordinary breast stroke, kept close up to
him, and they worked too hard to do much talking until
the centre of the Arm was reached, and they could see the
whole beautiful sheet of water from end to end.

Then they paused, and Frank, saying he was beginning
to feel tired, turned over on his back for a little rest, Jack
forthwith imitating his example.

"Sakes alive, but this water is cold!" cried Jack.  "If
we stay in it much longer we'll be getting the cramps.
Let's make for the shore."

"All right!  Go ahead; I'm after you," replied Frank.

Jack accordingly turned his face shoreward, and, trying
the side stroke now, was making pretty good progress,
having got about half-way in, when a cry from Frank, who
was a few yards behind, made him stop suddenly and wheel
round to see what was the matter.

"Come here, Jack," said Frank, in a troubled voice.

And Jack immediately went back to him.

"What's the matter, old chap?" asked he anxiously

"Why," answered Frank, "I seem to be losing all my
strength.  See!  I can hardly take a stroke."

And, sure enough, his strength seemed to have left him.
and instead of the wide, powerful sweeps he usually made,
he could manage to do little more than paddle enough with
his hands to keep his head afloat.

The fact of the matter was that he had been seized with
muscular cramp, and was in great danger, for there was no
boat in sight, and the shore lay nearly fifty yards away,
with water deep enough between to swallow an ocean
steamer.

Jack fully realized the danger, but was too sensible to
say so.  Taking a firm, grasp of Frank's right shoulder
with his left hand, he said cheerily,—

"Come along now; I'll give you a lift."

Then, putting forth all his strength, he pushed Frank
forward; while the latter could just manage to keep his
head above water, and pointed in the right direction.

In this fashion they crept slowly along, Frank growing
more helpless and Jack more tired every yard.  Frank
now could not even keep his mouth above water, for the
deadly cramp was drawing him all together, his back being
bent like a bow, and his arms and legs contracted until
they were almost altogether useless.

Jack, too, began to feel the cruel cold fastening upon
him, and his strength departing from him.  His heart sank
as he looked at the distance still ahead, and felt himself
weakening at every stroke.

In his extremity, the temptation to let go of Frank, and
strike for the shore alone, even flashed into his mind, only
to be contemptuously dismissed with the silent resolution
to stay by his friend whatever happened.

At length, by dint of grim determination, Jack got Frank
within ten yards of the shore, and then, feeling as though
any further effort on his part were impossible, he gave him
a big push forward, saying,—

"Now then, Frank, do the rest yourself."

With a muffled, half-finished cry of "For heaven's sake,
Jack!" poor Frank, utterly helpless, went under, half
turning over on his back as he did so.

Not for a moment did Jack hesitate.  Weak and chilled
as he was, the sight of his playmate's peril nerved him to
fresh exertions, and summoning all his energies for one
supreme final effort, he grasped Frank's shoulder once more,
and with desperate spasmodic strokes fought his way
through the water.

Never will he forget that wrestle with death.  Frank,
fortunately, still keeping collected and quiet, could get but
an occasional breath, for now nearly his whole face was
submerged, and Jack himself seemed to be swimming in
some dense fluid that stubbornly opposed the movements
of his arms.  But foot by foot he struggled on, until at
length, just when every atom of strength and hope seemed
exhausted, he saw below him the dark, seaweed-covered
rock, and putting down his foot, found solid bottom
beneath him.

"Thank the merciful Father, we're saved, Frank!" he
cried, half sobbingly, as he drew his companion up on to
the rock.

"God bless you, Jack! you've saved my life," replied
Frank, with a fervour that showed how clearly he
understood the magnitude of the peril through which he had
passed.  "Yes, Jack, you've saved my life, and some day
I'll show you how grateful I am."

"Oh, that's all right!" said Jack.  "You'd do the same
for me if you had the chance."

"I hope I won't have the chance, all the same," answered
Frank, "for perhaps I wouldn't keep as cool as you did;
and then where would we be?"

Half-an-hour's basking in the hot sun took all the cramp
out of the boys' bodies, and they went back home, not a
whit the worse for their experience, and a good deal wiser.
They kept the matter to themselves, prudently thinking
it would only alarm their parents if it came to their ears,
and perhaps make them worry, while really there was no
occasion for further anxiety.

The following Saturday afternoon was the time fixed
for the swimming race, and the two friends practised
diligently, determined that the sovereign should fall to one
of them at all events, or perhaps be divided between them
if they came out a tie.

The eagerly-anticipated day dawned sunnily, and proved
as fine, bright, and warm as heart could wish.  A great
deal of interest was felt in the swimming race, for at least
six boys had entered for it, and in the afternoon the Arm,
at the place where the swimming would take place, was
dotted over with boats, containing the fathers, mothers,
sisters, cousins, aunts, and friends of the different
contestants.

Uncle William (or, to give him his proper title,
Mr. William Cunard) was the judge at the finish, and the six
boys, wearing the scantiest possible bathing suits, were
rowed across to the other side of the Arm in boats.

"I'm awfully excited," said Jack Stone to Frank Brookfield
on the way over, in so low a tone that none of the
other boys heard him.  "Father says he'll double the prize
if I win.  But if I don't win, I hope to goodness you
will."

"Whoever wins will have a hard fight for it," said Frank.
"Both George and Hal can swim like fishes.  I don't know
about the other two."

Presently the boat touched the shore, and the boys all
leaped out and took up their positions upon the ledge of
rock from which they were to start.

"Are you ready?" called out the starter. "Then go."

And with a tremendous splash the whole six plunged
into the water like one man.

The next moment they were all at the surface again,
and cleaving the calm water at the top of their speed.

Frank was using his favourite overhand stroke, Jack
the side stroke, and the rest the ordinary breast stroke.

For some distance there was little difference between
them.  You might have covered them with a handkerchief,
so to speak.  Then, little by little, Frank and Jack,
keeping well together, began to draw away from George and
Hal, who in their turn led the other two.

By the time the centre of the Arm was reached, it was
plain to all that the race lay between the two friends, and
amid cheers and shouts of "Go it, Frank!" "Hit her up,
Jack!" "Pretty work, both of you; keep it up!" they
ploughed through the water side by side.

.. _`"JACK FELT HIMSELF WEAKENING."`:

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   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "JACK FELT HIMSELF WEAKENING."

   "JACK FELT HIMSELF WEAKENING."

Three-fourths of the distance was now covered, and their
positions were unchanged, when with a pang that went
right to his heart Jack felt himself weakening.

Inch by inch his stroke shortened, and first Frank's
head, then his neck, then his shoulders slipped past him.

Gritting his teeth with fierce determination, and breathing
hard, he strained every nerve to recover his lost ground;
but all in vain.  Frank gained steadily until his heels were
in a line with Jack's head.

Already they were raising the shouts of victory, when
Frank, turning to see what lead he had, caught sight of
Jack's pale face, in which disappointment and despair were
already showing themselves, and it brought up in his mind
that same face a week before, when, pallid but resolute,
just as it was now, it cut the water close beside him, while
the boy to whom it belonged struggled so bravely with the
death that threatened.

A mist came in his eyes and a lump rose in his throat
as he thought of this.

"He saved my life," he murmured to himself.

"Hallo! what's up with Frank?" said Mr. Cunard.
"He has almost stopped.  He must be done out.  Just
shove out that boat there toward him, will you?"

"Go on and win, old chap," said Frank to Jack, when
the latter came up to him.  "I'm used up.  I'll just paddle
in slowly.  Oh, I'm all right," he added, as Jack showed
signs of stopping to help him, "Tired out, that's all."

Cheer after cheer rang out as Jack, nearly exhausted
himself, but undaunted in spirit, swept by Frank, now
paddling quite leisurely, and finished the course amidst a
general chorus of congratulation.

He felt as proud as Punch, and when Frank came ashore,
threw his arms around him affectionately, saying,—

"You're a dear, good fellow to let me beat you."

Not that he had the slightest suspicion as to how it had
really happened.

Frank never told him.  Indeed he never told anybody
except his mother, and she alone of all the people who
witnessed it knew the secret of Frank Brookfield's sudden
collapse in the swimming match at the Arm.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HAROLD'S LASTING IMPRESSION`:

.. class:: center large bold

   HAROLD'S LASTING IMPRESSION.

.. vspace:: 2

"Harold, Harold, Harold!" cried Mrs. Owen, at the
top of her clear, strong voice, her anxiety increasing
as no answer came back.  "Mercy on me! what can
have become of that boy?  As sure as anything, he has
gone down to the wharf again—and after all that I have
said to him too.  I do wish something would make a
lasting impression upon him."  And with a feeling of
uneasiness she could not shake off, the troubled mother went
back to her house-work, sighing over her boy's disobedience.

Now Harold Owen was not really a bad boy.  He loved
his mother dearly, and always felt sorry when he had
grieved her; but he was such a thoughtless little chap.
Eight years old last October; stout, cheery, and brave;
full to overflowing of animal spirits; eager to do
everything he saw the older boys doing, and always wanting to
be with them; quite as heedless and forgetful as he was
affectionate and obliging, sturdy little Hal was just the
kind of boy to make a mother whose only child he was no
less anxious than proud about him.  And in these lovely
summer days, when nobody wanted to be indoors between
daylight and dark, except to eat their meals, poor
Mrs. Owen had her hands full in trying to keep track of her
son, who would stray off in spite of her orders to stay near
home.  You see, Harold did not just mean to flatly disobey
his mother.  For days together he would do exactly what
she told him, and make her very happy.  But every now
and then some of the boys in the neighbourhood—Jack
Hardie, perhaps, or Frank Lawson—would come along, and
get talking with Hal over the garden fence; and as sure
as they did, it ended in the little fellow's forgetting all
about his mother's commands, and going off to the wharves,
where sometimes he stayed so long as to give his mother
quite a fright.

That was exactly what had happened this glorious July
morning, when Mrs. Owen, missing her boy's shouts from
the front garden, ran out to the door, her bare arms all
white with flour, for she had been making a cake, and
called "Harold, Harold, Harold!" so loud that you might
have heard her half-way down to the wharves.  If, indeed,
she could have been heard all the way down, perhaps her
call might have brought Harold back; and in that case
he should not have got his lasting impression, and I would
have had no story to tell.  But just at this time our little
man was altogether too much taken up with what Jack
Hardie was telling him to hear anything less noisy than a
steam-engine.

"I'll bet my boots, Hal, you never saw such a funny
little chap in your life.  He is about as big as our baby,
but nothing like so fat, and he has long hair all over
him—over his face too—and he jumps around, and talks away
at the fellows, and sits up on his hind legs to eat nuts and
crackers.  Oh, I tell you he's lots of fun!"

.. _`RESCUER AND RESCUED.—*See page 183*.`:

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   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: RESCUER AND RESCUED.—*See page 183*.

   RESCUER AND RESCUED.—*See page* 183.

This was part of Jack's account of a very interesting
monkey belonging to the black cook of a large ship then
at the wharf; and it was the promise of showing him this
monkey—what eight-year-old boy could resist such a
temptation?—that had lured Hal away from home.
Down to the wharf they ran as fast as their legs could
carry them, and there they found half-a-dozen other
youngsters much about their own age, all evidently bent
on the same errand.  The stately *Roseneath* lay right
across the end of the wharf, and was being fed with long,
yellow, sweet-smelling deals that would make houses in
England some day.  The boys stood for a while watching
the huge planks sliding through the bow-ports into the
dark mysterious hold, and then there was a general rush
for the stern, where they expected to find the rope-ladder
by which they would climb on board.  But, much to
their disappointment, no ladder could they see, and no
way of climbing up except a thick rope that dangled over
the side, reaching quite down to the wharf; the truth of
the matter being that the sailors, getting rather tired of
the boys' frequent invasions, had taken away the ladder
and put the rope in its place, thinking thus to put a stop
to their coming on board.  The tide was high, and the
great black hull of the ship towered above the wharf like
the side of a house.  The boys looked pretty blank at
first; but then you know it takes a good deal to stop an
enterprising boy when his heart is set on anything; and
presently, after a little talk together, Jack Hardie said he
would see if he couldn't shin up the rope.  So he clasped
the rope tight in his brown fists, twined his
strong legs around it, and up he went, not
very fast, to be sure, but gaining a
bit at every wriggle, until at last he
reached the bulwarks, and the
boys gave him a cheer as he
called out, "Come
along, fellows; it's not so hard; you can all do
it."  Frank Lawson tried next, and he got up all right.  Then
Charley Wright followed.  And now Master Harold thought
he would try his luck.  So, too, did Jim Norton; and
when Harold got the rope first, it made Jim so cross that,
like the rough, heedless chap he was, he gave Hal an angry
push just as the little man had let go from the wharf, and
was clinging to the rope.

Of course, Jim did not really mean any harm, but he
came pretty near doing dreadful harm all the same; for
his push was such a hard one that it loosened unlucky
little Hal's hold upon the rope, and with a cry of fright
down he dropped between the vessel and the wharf, falling
with a great splash into the dark green water.

Poor little Hal! you may well wish you had not disobeyed
your mother's orders, for now there is small chance
of your ever being able to disobey them again.  The tide
had begun to run out, and although Harold struggled up
to the surface twice, so that his terrified playmates caught
a glimpse of his pale, frightened face for a moment, the
cruel current dragged him down again, and the horrid salt
water rushed into his mouth, as he opened it to cry for
help.  His father had given him some lessons in swimming
that summer, and he tried to put them in practice now,
striking out bravely with his plump fists and sturdy legs;
but of course such swimming as that could not help him,
and he sank deeper and deeper.  Then at last he gave up
trying to save himself.  He lost all sense of suffering, and
as he drifted passively away with the current, a strange
thing happened to him—something that he will never
forget, though he lives a hundred years—and it was this:
all his past life appeared before his mind in a series of
pictures, in fact, just like the panorama of the American
rebellion he had enjoyed the winter before.  All his doings,
good and bad, but more particularly the bad ones, seemed
to come up clearly before him, and as he saw what a
naughty, thoughtless boy he had been, he felt sorry enough
never to disobey his dear, fond mother again.  But wasn't
it too late now?

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



What! up in the sunshine once more, and sitting on the
solid yellow deals, with his companions crowding round
him, laughing and crying, and patting him on the back,
and acting so comically, while all the time the water is
dripping down off his clothes, and making a puddle at his
feet, and he does feel so uncomfortable underneath his
blouse.  And who is the big strong man standing near,
just as wet as himself, and looking at him with his
handsome bronzed face full of pride and pleasure?  And isn't
that father coming down the wharf as hard as he can run,
with face so white that he looks like a ghost?

Bewildered little Hal couldn't at first understand what
it all meant; and when his father, catching him up in his
arms, pressed him passionately to his breast, the little man
just burst out crying, and hid his wet face on his father's
shoulder.  In this fashion he went back home, the boys
following in a triumphal procession.

An hour afterwards, when Master Harold had got rid of
the uncomfortable feeling under his blouse, and put on a
warm, dry suit of clothes, Jack Hardie told him how, when
he fell plump into the water, the boys had all shouted out
for help; and how the mate of the *Roseneath* had sprung
out of his cabin at the first cry, and, directed by Jack,
without waiting even to take off his coat, had dived right
down into the deep, dark water: how he had come up once
without finding Hal, and, after taking breath, had gone
down a second time in search of him; how he had hunted
around in the water until at last, seeing something black
below him, he had stretched down his leg, and his toe
catching Hal under the chin, the gallant mate drew him
up into his arms, and then made for the daylight; and
how, when Harold first came out of the water, he seemed
to be dead, but in a few minutes came to life again, and
sat up, blinking his eyes like a young baby.  All this, and
more too, did Jack Hardie, proud of having such an
audience—for, besides Mr. and Mrs. Owen, a dozen or more
of the neighbours had run in to hear all about it—relate
with great gusto.  And as Harold realized how very near
he had come to losing his life, and looked into his darling
mother's face streaming with tears of joy and gratitude,
which but for the brave sailor would have been tears of
bitter sorrow, he gathered up his little features into a most
determined expression, and said,—

"Mother, I'll never disobey you again."

Thus did his mother get her wish, and Master Harold
his lasting impression, which many a time saved him from
falling again into disobedience.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HOW WILBERFORCE BRENNAN VISITED WHITE BEAR CASTLE`:

.. class:: center large bold white-space-pre-line

   HOW WILBERFORCE BRENNAN VISITED
   WHITE BEAR CASTLE.

.. vspace:: 2

"Wilby!  Wilby! come here; I want you," called
a woman's shrill voice at the foot of the stairs.
And down from the little attic room came the answer
promptly,—

"All right, mother; I'm just coming."

A minute later a stout, hearty lad of fifteen presented
himself before his mother, and dutifully awaited her commands.

"Why, Wilby," said she, "I was just thinking I had
better send you over to Aunt Matilda's to tell her that
your father was going to town to-morrow.  She's pretty
sure to want him to do something for her, and he goes
so seldom nowadays she'll be disappointed if we don't let
her know."

"Well, mother," replied the boy, looking rather doubtfully
out of the window, from which a vast expanse of
desolate, snow-covered fields could be seen, "it's not just
the best kind of an afternoon to be going away over to
aunty's.  There's a heap of snow on the ground, it's
awfully cold, and the wind's rising."

"Tut! what does a big strong boy like you care for the
cold?  Besides, you can put on your snow-shoes, and take
the short cut through the wood-lot.  You won't feel the
wind in the woods.  I really must send Aunt Matilda
word, and father won't have time to go over himself."

"Very well, mother, if I must I must, I suppose; but,
all the same, I wish it could wait till to-morrow."

So saying, Wilby, with a sigh of resignation, went off
to get ready for his tramp.

It was no trifling affair, this errand over to Aunt
Matilda's, I can tell you.  She lived six good miles away
by the road, and even taking the short cut through the
pasture and wood-lot, it was not less than four miles.

Of course, with fine weather and good going, four miles
was not much of a task for Wilby's sturdy legs, and he
never failed to get so warm a welcome and such delicious
cake at his aunt's that generally he was only too glad to
go.  But in mid-winter, with four feet of snow on the
ground, the thermometer right down to zero, and the wind
cutting like a knife, it seemed a very different matter.

However, Wilby, as his mother called him for short
(Wilberforce being kept for company or for when she
wanted to be very emphatic), was quite as plucky as he
was obedient, and a quarter of an hour after his mother
first called him he started out on his errand, muffled up
to the eyes, with his snow-shoes well strapped to his feet,
and his good dog Oscar trotting along beside him.  It was
well for him that he did have wise old Oscar, as we shall
presently see.

Bending his head low, so as to protect his face as much
as possible from the keen wind, and swinging his arms
to and fro in time with his stride, Wilby went swiftly
down the hillside, across the river, and up the other slope,
until he reached the shelter of the woods, where the wind
bothered him no longer, and he could take things more
quietly.

Oscar ran soberly along at his heels, and Wilby was
glad of his company, for the short winter day was already
drawing to a close, and the lonely wood-lot was not the
most cheerful place in the world to be in at that time.

Wilby was a great boy for books, and had just finished
reading Colonel Knox's delightful story, "The Voyage of
the *Vivian*," of which the most interesting part to him
had been that relating to the polar bears; and now, as he
trudged steadily along through the silent woods, he fell to
thinking about these bears, and wondering what he should
do supposing he should meet one.

Of course, he knew well enough that the nearest white
bear was at least a thousand miles away, and that even
an ordinary black bear had not been seen in that
neighbourhood for years; but, all the same, he could not get
those cruel white monsters out of his thoughts.  In fact,
he became quite nervous over them, and would peer eagerly
ahead and anxiously around, just as if one of them might
rush in upon him at any minute.

At length his nervousness got so much the better of
him that walking seemed altogether too slow, and he
started off on the hard run.  Only two miles of the
distance to Aunt Matilda's was left at this time, and one of
these soon disappeared as Wilby hurried onward, with
Oscar bounding joyfully beside him.

Ten minutes more at the farthest, and they would be
safe at their destination.  Already Wilby thought he
could catch through the trees a gleam of light from the
kitchen window, when suddenly something unfortunate
happened.

It had been hard work keeping to the wood path, so
buried was it under the snow; and he must have strayed
a little from it, for he found his way barred by a huge
tree-trunk, which certainly ought not to have been there.

The wisest thing, of course, would have been to retrace
his steps a bit; but instead of that, Wilby rashly tried a
running leap over the obstacle, and it was not a success.

Without snow-shoes he might have cleared it easily;
but with these encumbrances on his feet, he not only made
a very poor attempt, but in some way or other they got
entangled together, and in a violent effort to keep his
balance, he sprained his right ankle so badly that, to his
great dismay, he found he could no longer bear any weight
upon it.

Here was a pretty state of affairs indeed!  A whole
mile from Aunt Matilda's, not yet clear of the woods, not
a living soul within reach of his voice, his right leg utterly
useless and hurting awfully, and the cold growing more
intense every minute!

It did not take poor Wilby long to realize that he was
in no little danger.  As he could do nothing with his
snow-shoes, he took them off, and tried to get along
without them; but the snow was so dry and soft that he sank
right into it, and could make no advance at all.

His only hope seemed to be to shout at the top of his
voice on the small chance of somebody hearing him.  So
he called for help with all his might.

Oscar was much puzzled by his master's conduct, and
circled impatiently around him, as if to urge him onward.

For quite a long time Wilby shouted, until what between
cold and weariness there was no more shout left in
him.  Presently he felt an intense longing to sleep stealing
over him.  He strove desperately hard to shake it off, for
he knew well what it meant; but in spite of all his efforts
the deadly drowsiness crept steadily and surely over his
senses, and he was just lapsing into unconsciousness when
there was a crashing in the underbrush ahead, and before
he had time to ask himself what it could be, the small
trees in front of him parted violently, and out stepped a
great white bear.

"What do you mean by all this shouting?" he demanded
rather crossly.

Curiously enough, Wilby was not quite so terrified as
he expected he would be if a white bear happened along,
and found courage to say very humbly,—

"Please, Mr. Bear, I hope I didn't disturb you.  But,
you see, I've sprained my ankle badly, and I was shouting
for some one to come and help me."

"Ho, ho! you are hurt, are you?" was the reply, in
rather a gentler tone.  "Well, I'll look after you."

And so saying, the bear picked the big boy up in his
arms as though he had been a little baby, and marched off
with him through the woods at a rapid rate.

Wilby knew resistance was vain, so he just made up
his mind to take things as quietly as possible; which,
under the circumstances, was a very wise thing to do.

After about five minutes' walking, his captor came to
a large tree which had been torn up by the roots.  Under
this he quickly dodged, and entered what seemed to be a
long, dark passage.

In spite of his good resolution, Wilby could not help
a kind of groan at this.

"Shut up!" growled the bear, giving him a by no means
gentle cuff on the side of the head.

Wilby did shut up, and for a time nothing was to be
heard save the soft thump, thump, thump of the bear's
broad feet on the hard floor of the passage.

At last they stopped.  The bear gave something a kick,
a door flew open inward, and then there burst upon the
bewildered Wilby such a sight as he had never even
dreamed of in his life before.

.. _`192`:

He found himself in a large room, flooded with light and
warmth from a glorious wood fire that was crackling away
in a huge fireplace at one end.  At first he thought the
whole place had just been newly whitewashed, but soon
discovered his mistake.

Everything in and about that room was marble—white
marble—pure and glistening as the snow outside.  Floor,
walls, ceiling, tables—they were all marble alike, and they
looked wonderfully fine, with the firelight flashing upon
them.

But before Wilby had time to take much more in, he
heard a deep bass voice asking,—

"Hallo, Major! what have you got there?"

And turning his head, he saw a splendid white bear, a
good deal bigger than his rescuer, coming toward them
from the far end of the room.

"Some farmer's son, Max," answered the Major, at the
same time gently depositing his load on a couch near the
fire.  "I found him 'most frozen to death in a snow-drift..
I guess we can make him all right again."

"Of course we can," exclaimed another voice, much
livelier in tone than the first speaker's, and a third bear,
quite as white but not so tall as either of the others,
emerged into the firelight from a dark corner, where he
had been attending to some household duty.

"Of course we can, if you say so, Minor," growled the
one called Max, good-humouredly.  "We'll begin by giving
him a good dinner, at all events."

By the way, I forgot to mention that the full names of
Wilby's new friends were Ursa Minor, Ursa Major, and
Ursa Maximus, but for convenience' sake they called one
another simply Minor, Major, and Max.

Feeling surprisingly at his ease, in view of his strange
surroundings, Wilby stretched himself out on his comfortable
couch, and almost forgot the pain from his sprained
ankle in his delight at his novel experience.

"What a lot I'll have to tell them at home!" he said
exultingly to himself.  "They won't believe one-half of it,
I know."

Maximus was evidently head of the household, and
superintended in a dignified way, while Major and Minor
bustled about getting dinner ready.

In a little while all the preparations were complete, and
Major, who seemed to feel especially responsible for Wilby,
brought him a steaming bowl of something which the
hungry boy was not long in sampling.  And it proved to
be such delicious rabbit-stew that he could not help
exclaiming,—

"My sakes, but this is fine!  Mother couldn't make a
better stew herself,"—which compliment pleased Minor,
who had prepared the stew, so much that he filled Wilby's
bowl up again before it was fairly empty.

Besides the stew there were roast partridges and baked
potatoes, and also apples and nuts, so that Wilby had just
about as much as he could comfortably eat—in fact,
perhaps a little more.  At all events, his waistband began
to remind him it was there.

Dinner over, the dishes were cleared away and the room
set in order again, Wilby watching everything with the
liveliest interest, determined to have such a story to tell
as would make him the hero of the country-side for a
whole month at least.

He was particularly struck with the deftness with which
the bears went about their work.  Although their big
paws looked clumsy enough, the dear knows, they did
things as handily as Wilby himself could have done them.

When every sign of the dinner had vanished, Max,
Major, and Minor drew up their chairs (for they each had
a big arm-chair) in front of the fire, and sat down to talk
over the events of the day, quite ignoring the addition to
their family,—who, indeed, was very well pleased at being
left alone, as he much preferred using his eyes to his
tongue, when everything around him was so delightfully
novel.

The bears' voices were so low and deep that Wilby
could not make out one-half they were saying.  Besides,
what with the warmth of the room and his own weariness,
he began to feel very sleepy again, especially as the couch
was extremely comfortable.  In fact, he had just about
dozed off, when he was awakened by Maximus jumping up
from his chair, and saying in a loud tone,—

"Come, fellows, let us have a song, and then we'll turn in."

Whereupon the three of them stood up together around
the fire, and sang very heartily the following song, the
words of which, so far as he heard them, Wilby had no
difficulty in remembering, although the tune went
completely out of his head.  He had not much of an ear for
music, any way.

   |  "Three jolly white bears are we,
   |  Who can sing right merrily.
   |  For our hearts are light and free
   |        From any care.
   |  We have always lots to eat,
   |  And we keep our house so neat
   |  That it's really quite a treat
   |        To be a bear.

   |  "Yes, indeed, we're happy bears,
   |  Since nobody knows our lairs,
   |  Where we mind our own affairs
   |        So quietly.
   |  Of course we have to work,
   |  But none of us ever shirk;
   |  For who'd be a lazy lark,
   |        Don't you see?

   |  "When the snow is on the ground,
   |  We go hunting all around
   |  For the bunnies which abound
   |        Among the trees.
   |  And when summer-time is here,
   |  How the berries disappear
   |        Down our throats—"

.. vspace:: 2

But Wilby never heard the end of the third verse, for
the simple reason that sleep overcame him just then, and
song, singers, and marble palace alike faded away into
nothingness.

He had no idea how long he slept, but when he awoke
he was both surprised and disappointed to find himself on
the sofa in Aunt Matilda's very plain, though cozy, sitting-room,
instead of on his couch in White Bear Castle, while
now not only his ankle but his whole body gave him
pain—every nerve tingling, and face and hands smarting
dreadfully.

Minor, Major, and Maximus were all gone too, and in
their place dear old Aunt Matilda and kind Uncle Lemuel
were bending over him, with faces full of relief at his
return to consciousness.

"O Wilby dear, how glad I am to see you open your
eyes again!" exclaimed Aunt Matilda joyfully.  "You
were so long coming to that I began to fear that it might
be all over with you."

"Yes, Wilby, my boy," added Uncle Lemuel, "you've
had a close shave.  But for Oscar there would not be
much life left in you by this time."

Wilby was too dazed for some time to understand it all,
but later on his uncle explained the matter.

It seemed that wise old Oscar, as soon as Wilby lost his
senses, scampered off to Uncle Lemuel's as hard as he
could go, and by barking and scratching at the door soon
let them know he was there.  Then by signs whose meaning
they were not long in guessing, he persuaded them to
go back with him, until poor Wilby was found where he
had fallen beside the big tree.

Oscar capered about, wild with delight, when his master
was carried off to the house, and Uncle Lem could not say
enough about his cleverness.

Wilby felt very grateful to Oscar and to his uncle also,
and thankful that he had not lost his life.  Yet he could
not help a twinge of regret at the thought of never seeing
his white bear friends again, seeing how kindly they had
treated him in spite of their character for cruelty.

However, it was no small consolation to have such a
rattling good story to tell, and tell it he did very
graphically many a time, much to the enjoyment of his hearers.

Whether they all believed it or not is a question that,
if you do not mind, I will leave it to you to settle.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`OUTSIDE THE BOOM`:

.. class:: center large bold

   OUTSIDE THE BOOM.

.. vspace:: 2

Mort Henshaw was a boy who had implicit faith
in himself.  He cherished the firm conviction
that whatever any other boy could do came within the
range of his capabilities.  He had only to find out the
way it should be done in order to accomplish it.

This was a pretty large view to take of things in
general, yet it must be confessed that Mort was not
without a fair degree of justification for having what the
Scotch would call so good a conceit of himself.

Blessed with a strong, symmetrical frame, a quick eye,
a sure hand, a perfect constitution, and abundant courage,
he came easily by a mastery of the different sports he
entered into, and had few equals, and fewer superiors, at
cricket, football, lacrosse, baseball, swimming, rowing, and
the other amusements of the day.

There was one pastime, however, of which, although he
had heard much, he knew nothing, and that was sailing.
The pretty little stream which ran by his home afforded
no facilities for this glorious sport, and the pleasures of it
he knew about only from the descriptions of his more
fortunate companions.

Great, then, was his delight when the spring that found
him fifteen years of age brought with it an invitation from
one of his uncles to spend the whole summer with him at
his cottage on Lake Deschenes, a splendid sheet of water
not far from the city of Ottawa.

The invitation mentioned, as one of the attractions of
the place, that he would be able to have all the sailing that
his heart could wish.

"Hurrah! hurrah!" shouted Mort, capering about the
room with a face beaming like the sun.  "All the sailing
I want!  Just think of it!  Won't that be grand?  The
very thing I've been looking for."

"It will be grand, Mort dear," said his mother,
"provided you take good care not to run any unnecessary
risks.  You must do exactly what your uncle tells you,
just as if he were your father."

"Oh yes, mother, I'll do that," quickly responded Mort,
ready to promise anything in the exuberance of his joy.
"I'll be his crew, you know, and obey orders just as if I
were at sea with him."

Very impatiently did Mort await the coming of the day
when he should set forth for Deschenes.  His uncle was
principal of the Collegiate Institute at Ottawa, and had
three months' vacation, which he usually spent at the lake
in sailing, rowing, bathing, and fishing, until the return of
autumn recalled him to his duties.

It was the last week in June when Mort arrived at
Lake Deschenes, and his first question, after exchanging
greetings with his uncle and aunt, was,—

"Will you show me your boat, please, uncle?"

Smiling at his eagerness, Mr. Turner took him over to
the boathouse, where a number of boats and canoes lay upon
the floor, or were suspended upon racks against the wall.

Mort had never seen so many or such fine boats in his
life before.  They were nearly all built of cedar, and were
varnished instead of being painted, the copper fastenings
dotting their shining sides with regular lines.  The boy
gave a great gasp of admiration, and it was some time
before he recovered himself sufficiently to ask,—

"And which is your boat, uncle?"

Mr. Turner pointed to one lying just in front of them.

"Oh, what a beauty!" cried Mort.  "She's the best of
them all."

His uncle smiled a complacent assent, for that was precisely
his own opinion.  As to beauty of lines, perfection
of finish, completeness of outfit, and speed on any tack, he
considered the *Gleam* without a superior on Lake Deschenes,
and Mort's prompt recognition of the fact pleased
him as much as the cordial praise of her baby does a
young mother.

"You are not far from right, my boy," said he.  "The
*Gleam* is both a beauty to look at and a good one to go,
as you shall see for yourself very soon."

The *Gleam* belonged to the class of boat known as the
"St. Lawrence skiff," the swiftest and safest boats of their
size—when not over-canvassed—that carry sails.  She
was about twenty-two feet long, and had a half-deck all
round, with a six-inch combing to keep out the water.
Two tall masts carried big bat-wing sails, which would
have soon toppled her over but for the heavy iron
centre-board that kept her stiff in an ordinary breeze.
Everything about her was of the best, and Mort thought her the
most beautiful object his eyes ever beheld.

That afternoon he had his first sail in the *Gleam*, and
as, responding perfectly to every puff of the wind and turn
of the tiller, she went flying across the lake, his heart
thrilled with delight, and became filled with a passionate
desire to master the art of handling such a craft.

"O uncle, won't you teach me how to steer and to
manage the sails before I go back home?" he pleaded,
looking earnestly into Mr. Turner's face.

"Certainly, Mort, certainly," was the kindly reply; "and
I think you ought to make a very apt pupil, too."

Mr. Turner was altogether as good as his word.  He
took much pains in initiating Mort into the mysteries of
sailing, teaching him the way to tack, when it was
permissible to jibe, how to run before the wind, and so forth,
until, by the end of the first month, Mort had become
tolerably proficient, and could be trusted to manage the
*Gleam* alone in an ordinary breeze.

This special privilege he was then allowed to exercise,
provided he did not go outside the "boom"—that is, the
long line of shackled logs which enclosed the bay where
the boathouse stood, and which was intended to keep the
saw-logs from stranding on the beach.

Inside the boom was a stretch of shallow water nearly a
mile long by a quarter of a mile wide, on which plenty of
sailing might be had without going out through the gap
into the body of the lake.

For a time Mort was content with this enclosed space,
and, whenever his uncle permitted him, would get the boat
out, and go tacking up and down from end to end, feeling
almost as proud of his newly-acquired skill as if he had
been discoverer of the science of sailing.

But of course it was not many days before he began to
cast longing eyes beyond the line of swaying logs, and to
feel that the thing he most desired in the world was to be
allowed to sail the *Gleam* across the lake and back.

But when he hinted as much to his uncle he met with
no encouragement.

"No, no, Mort.  You must be content with staying
inside the boom; for, besides the chance of a squall, there
is the danger of being caught in the current and carried
into the rapids, which would soon make an end of both
you and the boat."

Now it happened that one morning both Mr. and Mrs. Turner
had to go into the city, not to return until by the
night train, and Mort was left entirely to his own
resources.  Of course he turned to the *Gleam* for company,
and as soon as the morning breeze came up, taking with
him two other lads about his own age, he launched the
boat, and went skimming from end to end of the bay.

"This is good fun," said Ted Day, "but it would be
better still outside the boom."

"Oh yes!" cried Charlie Lister.  "Do go outside; just
a little bit, Mort."

Mort shook his head, and tried to look very decided.
His own heart was beating a lively response to the
suggestions of his companions, but his answer was,—

"No, Charlie; uncle does not allow me to go outside,
you know."

Once the idea had been mooted, however, it refused to
go to rest again.  The morning seemed a perfect one.
There was a steady breeze from the north-west, just the
direction best suited for a slant across the lake and back
without having to tack at all.

.. _`"MORT CRAWLED UPON THE STAGE AND FASTENED TO IT THE BOAT'S PAINTER."`:

.. figure:: images/img-203.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "MORT CRAWLED UPON THE STAGE AND FASTENED TO IT THE BOAT'S PAINTER."

   "MORT CRAWLED UPON THE STAGE AND FASTENED TO IT THE BOAT'S PAINTER."

Ted and Charlie begged and coaxed Mort to make one
trip out, any way.  Mr. Turner would never know anything
about it, and they could easily be back before mid-day.

Mort's resolution, which had been rapidly weakening,
finally gave way altogether.

"All right," said he, allowing a sudden spirit of reckless
ambition to submerge his compunctions at doing what he
knew well enough was a mean betrayal of his uncle's
confidence in him.  "We'll just make one trip across.  It
does seem a pity to lose the chance this glorious morning."

So out through the gap the *Gleam* darted, as if glad of
her freedom, and went flying over the blue water toward
Blueberry Point.

"My, but this is grand!" exclaimed Charlie rapturously,
as the boat careened before the freshening breeze, so that
the water lapped the lee-combing.

"You are right; it is—eh, Mort?" echoed Ted, turning
to Mort, who, holding the tiller in one hand and the end
of the main sheet in the other, watched every move of the
boat with feelings strangely divided between anxiety and
proud delight.

The passage across was quickly made, and then, being
thirsty, Charlie proposed that they land for a few minutes
to get a drink at a spring near the shore.  After the drink
Ted suggested a bathe; and thus an hour slipped by, during
which an ominous change took place in the weather.  The
sky clouded over, the wind, which had been steady, began
to come in fitful gusts.

"I don't like the look of things," said Mort, in a tone of
concern.  "I wish we were inside the boom."

"Well, let's hurry and get there as quickly as we can,"
responded Ted.

It was all well enough to say this, but with the change of
weather had come a change of wind, which was now against
them, so that they would have to tack all the way home.

By dint of careful sailing they had got about a third of
the distance, when suddenly the sky darkened, some large
drops of rain, pattered upon them, and the next moment a
sharp squall struck the *Gleam* full upon her quarter.

In order to give his whole attention to the steering,
Mort had asked Charlie to hold the main-sheet, impressing
upon him to take only one turn around the cleat.  But
Charlie, who was of the lazy sort, finding the sheet hard
to hold, had taken two turns, and done it in such a way
that the rope had jammed.  Consequently, when Mort
shouted to him, as he put the tiller hard a-port, "Let
go the main-sheet instantly, Charlie!" and he attempted
to obey the order, he could not do so in time to meet
the emergency, and the next instant, amid simultaneous
shrieks from all three boys, the *Gleam* went over on her
beam ends.

Fortunately they were all good swimmers, and did not
get entangled in any of the ropes, so that, without much
difficulty, they succeeded in climbing up on the side of the
boat, where it was easy enough to hold on for a while.

There was no fear of the *Gleam* sinking, as she bore no
ballast to carry her down, and had air-tight compartments
in both bow and stern.  Nevertheless, the position of the
boys was one of great peril, for the boat was right in the
channel leading to the rapids at the lower end of the lake,
in the direction of which the wind was now blowing.  To
get into these rapids meant utter destruction for both boys
and boat, yet to keep out of them was impossible without
help, while to swim ashore was far beyond their powers.

They shouted and shrieked for aid, but there was no
one in sight to hear them, and soon the storm burst upon
them in full fury, blotting out the shore on both sides, and
threatening to beat them off the boat as it tossed up and
down in the white-caps.

How bitterly Mort regretted having ventured beyond
the boom, and how fervently he vowed never to do so
again if he could only be saved this time!

When the squall passed and the air cleared, he saw that
they were fast drawing near the rapids.

"O Charlie," he groaned, "why did you make me go
outside the boom?"

Charlie made no reply.  He could think of nothing else
but his imminent danger.

Steadily and surely the *Gleam* drifted downward.  In
another fifteen minutes she would be in the remorseless
grasp of the rapids.  The wind went down almost to a
calm, but the current grew stronger, so that there was no
slacking of her speeding toward destruction.

The boys held desperately on to the keel, saying nothing
to each other, but praying as best each could.

On, on the boat moved.  Oh, was there no chance of
help?  Must they go down, to death in sight of so many
homes?

A couple of hundred yards above the rapids was a
floating stage, strongly moored, which was used by the men
looking after the saw-logs that came down the river in
great droves from time to time.  As they neared this a
bright thought flashed into Mort's mind.

"Say, boys," he cried, "I've got it!  Do you see that
float?  Let's push the *Gleam* over to it."

The others caught the idea at once.  All getting on the
same side of the boat, they proceeded to push her toward
the stage by swimming with their legs.

It was exhausting work, but they were encouraged by
seeing that they were making headway, and they persevered
until at last success crowned their efforts, and
with a glad cry of relief Mort crawled upon the stage and
fastened to it the boat's painter.

All actual danger was now over, and at once Mort regained
his self-possession.  Under his directions the masts
were taken out, the boat righted and bailed dry, and
everything stowed snugly aboard.  Then with the oars
she was rowed back to Deschenes, not a whit the worse
for her wetting.

As soon as his uncle returned, Mort told him the whole
story.

Mr. Turner was very sorry to learn of his nephew's
breach of trust, and, as a penalty therefor, withdrew from
him for the rest of the summer the privilege of taking the
boat out alone, which was a sore deprivation; but Mort
felt that it was richly deserved, and it only strengthened
his resolution to be more obedient to orders in the future.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`FOUND AFTER MANY DAYS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   FOUND AFTER MANY DAYS.

.. vspace:: 2

"Edie!  Edie!" rang out in a clear, strong voice from
the door of a farmhouse, where stood a comely,
brown-faced woman, shading her eyes with her right hand,
as she swept the sunny space around in search of her
daughter.

"I'm coming, mother," was the prompt response.

And the next instant there appeared from behind the
barn a little girl not more than eight years old, who looked
the very picture of health and happiness.

"You know where your father's chopping to-day, don't
you, Edie?" asked Mrs. Hazen, with a glance of affectionate
pride at the sturdy little figure before her.

"Oh yes, mother," replied Edie, swinging around and
pointing with her plump forefinger, stained by the juice of
the raspberries she had just been picking, to the top of the
hill that sloped upwards from the other side of the road.
"Father's over there in the back pasture, near the
blackberry patch."

"That's right, pet," said Mrs. Hazen, lifting up the bright
face for a hearty kiss.  "And now wouldn't you like to
take him his dinner?"

"Indeed I would," cried Edie, dancing around and
clapping her hands.  "And may I stay with him until he
comes home?"

"I suppose so—if he wants you," assented Mrs. Hazen.
"But in that case you must come in and have your own
dinner first."

A half-hour later, with a well-filled basket on her arm,
and her mother's parting injunction not to loiter on the
way in her ears, Edie set forth full of joy on her mission.

"She's a little thing to send so far," mused the mother,
following the retreating figure with eyes full of tender
concern.  "But she does so love the woods, and seems to make
her way through them like an Indian."

With heart as light as any bird chirping by the wayside,
Edie hastened through the gate, across the road, between
the lower bars of the pasture gate, and then, climbing the
hill behind which lay the back pasture, entered the bush,
in which her pink calico sun-bonnet soon vanished from view.

Mr. Hazen's farm stood on the very edge of civilization,
in the northern part of New Brunswick.  The most of his
acres he had cleared himself, and he never lost an
opportunity of hewing his way further and further into the
mighty forest, whose billows of birch, pine, and hemlock
rolled away northward, eastward, and westward for
uncounted leagues.

This day he was working at a bunch of timber a little
beyond the eastern edge of the clearing, called the "back
pasture."

As mid-day drew near he began to feel hungry, and
more than once paused in his work to go to the edge of the
clearing, to see if there were any signs of an approaching
dinner.

"I hope Esther hasn't forgotten me to-day," he thought,
after doing this for the third time to no result.  "It's not
like her to do it."

The great golden sun moved steadily on to the zenith,
and then inclined westward, but still no messenger appeared
bearing the needed refreshment.

Mr. Hazen felt strongly tempted to shoulder his axe and
go home.  But the day was so favourable to his work that,
after a good deal of grumbling at what he supposed to be
his wife's neglect, he decided not to quit it.  So, tightening
his belt, he grasped his axe anew and strove to forget his
hunger in the ardour of his toil.

He did not, however, work as late as common that day,
for in addition to his hunger, there grew upon him a feeling
of uneasiness, which at length became so disturbing that he
could not endure it.  Accordingly, fully an hour before his
usual time, he shouldered his axe and strode off homeward,
saying to himself,—

"I hope nothing's gone wrong; but I don't know what
gives me such an apprehensive feeling."

When he approached the farmhouse, he caught sight of
his wife coming up the road that led to the nearest
neighbour, about half-a-mile away.

Hurrying on to meet her, he asked in a tone not
altogether free from irritation at his needless fears,—

"Why, Esther, where have you been?  And where is Edie?"

"I ran over to neighbour Hewett's for the paper,"
Mrs. Hazen responded.  "But"—and her face filled with sudden
alarm—"Edie?  Wasn't Edie with you?"

"Why, no!" replied Mr. Hazen, while in his face was
reflected the expression of his wife's; "I haven't seen her
since breakfast."

"Not seen her!" repeated Mrs. Hazen.  "O Henry, what
has happened?  I sent her with your dinner just before
mid-day, and she asked me if she might stay with you
until you came home."

Mr. Hazen was a man prompt to action.  Taking his
wife's arm and fairly pushing her along the road, he said,—

"There's not a moment to lose, Esther.  Edie's lost her
way, and we must go after her."

Without returning to the farmhouse, they pressed up the
hill and through the back pasture into the forest.

Hither and thither they hunted, now one and now the
other raising the echoes of the leafy fastness by calls of
"Edie!  Edie!" but getting no response save the cries of
startled birds or the mocking chatter of a squirrel.

As night drew on Mr. Hazen realized that a more
organized effort was necessary; and hastening home with
harrowed hearts, his wife got ready some food, while he rode
over to Hewett's to obtain assistance.

Both Mr. Hewett and his eldest son returned with him.
They hurriedly snatched a meal, and then, provided with
guns and lanterns, set off to renew the search.

All that night they tramped through the gloom of the
forest, meeting from time to time to take counsel
together, and then separating, to cover as much ground as
possible.

But the day dawned without bringing any comforting
news for the haggard woman who anxiously waited their
return at the gate, and, when they came without her
daughter, sank down on the ground, half fainting with
uncontrollable grief.

As soon as possible the eager search was renewed, and
continued from day to day, until at last even the heart-broken
parents had to give up all hope, and strove to resign
themselves to the awful conviction that their darling
Edith—their only one—had met her death all alone in the depths
of the great forest, having either died of hunger and exposure
or fallen a victim to the bears and wolves with which
its solitudes abounded.

In the meantime, how had it fared with Edie, who had
gone forth so joyously to carry her father's dinner to him?

Her intention at the start was certainly to make a
straight course to her destination.  But the attention of
little folks is easily attracted, and in this instance, just as
she entered the edge of the forest, and should have turned
off to the left, a saucy little squirrel challenged her on the
right, and in trying to get near him Edie pushed further
and further into the forest, until presently she began to
wonder if she had not lost her way.

At once losing interest in the squirrel, she put down her
basket to look about her.  With a pang of sharp dismay,
the child realized that she had lost her bearings, and did
not know which way to turn.

Just at that moment her keen ear caught a sound that
she immediately recognized.  It was the regular blows of
an axe falling upon a tree-trunk.

Her face lit up, and she clapped her hands for joy.

"That's father chopping!" she exclaimed.  "Now I
know which way to go!"

And picking up her basket, Edie trotted off in what she
took to be the direction from which the sound came.

On she trudged bravely for some distance, hoping each
minute to come upon her father, until, growing weary of
her burden, she put it down to rest a moment.

As she rested it seemed to her that the sound of chopping
had grown fainter—so much so, indeed, she could hardly
make out which way it came to her ears.

"Oh dear!" she sighed; "where can father be?  I'll
call for him."  And she made the place ring with shrill
cries of "Father! father!  Where are you?"

But they evoked no response, and then, more alarmed
than ever, Edie picked up her basket again, and pushed on
with all her little strength.

Unhappily every step increased the distance between
Mr. Hazen and herself; for it was not the real sound of the
chopping Edie had followed but the echo, and instead of
making toward him, she had been going in directly the
opposite direction.

At the end of an hour she felt very tired, and throwing
herself down on a bank of moss at the foot of a forest
monarch, gave way to the tears that hitherto she had
resolutely restrained.

"Oh dear!" she said, "I'm lost, I'm lost! and how ever
will father find me?"

After the first passion of tears had passed, Edie began
to be conscious of the pangs of hunger, and the thought
came that she might as well eat something out of the
basket, as she could not find her father to give it to him.

So she ate a little of the bread and meat, and took a sup
out of the bottle of milk, and then, feeling refreshed,
renewed her tramp, first listening eagerly, but in vain, for
the sound of her father's axe.

All that afternoon the lost child alternately walked and
rested, often crying softly to herself, then drying her tears
and seeking to take heart from the hope of yet finding her
father before darkness came on.

She was a brave little thing, accustomed to a good deal
of outdoor life, and to running through the woods; but
when night closed around her and the forest shade deepened
into impenetrable gloom, poor Edie gave up the struggle,
and sank down in a mossy hollow, shivering with terror.

Yet so weary was she that presently she fell asleep, and
did not awake until dawn, when, though feeling very stiff
and sore from the unwonted exertions of the day before,
she ate her breakfast out of the basket and renewed her
progress.

The following day she wandered about, only getting
deeper and deeper into the forest.  Her basket was empty
before evening, and she was fain to make her supper of
the berries, which fortunately were very plentiful.  They
were not altogether satisfying, but they were better than
nothing.

Another day passed, the weather providentially continuing
bright, clear, and warm,
and the little wanderer still
kept on, not knowing
whither she was going.
That night strange things
began to happen.  She was
more wakeful than usual, and
as she lay at the foot of a tree, she saw some large animals
moving about in the dim light, and her bosom thrilled
with joy, for she thought they must be her father's oxen.
So she called out,—

"Buck!  Bright!  Come here!"

.. _`"HE LEVELLED HIS RIFLE IN READINESS TO FIRE."`:

.. figure:: images/img-215.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "HE LEVELLED HIS RIFLE IN READINESS TO FIRE."

   "HE LEVELLED HIS RIFLE IN READINESS TO FIRE."

But at the sound of her voice they started as if
greatly frightened, and at once dashed off through the
woods at the top of their speed; which showed her that
they must have been moose, such as her father sometimes
shot.

The following night two great, black, shaggy dogs, which
she supposed must be neighbour Hewett's, came near her;
but when she called them by their names they seemed
more surprised than the moose, for they stood up on their
hind legs, looked very hard at her for a few moments, and
then, dropping down on all fours, hastened away into the
darkness again, where, as Edie thought, she heard them
howling.  In this, however, she must have been doubly
mistaken.

What she took to be dogs were no doubt black bears,
then quite numerous in that district, being, attracted by
the berries; and the howling, of course, was done by wolves,
which, luckily, seemed afraid to attack her.

On the fourth afternoon, Edie, by happy chance, came
across the deserted shanty of an early pioneer, standing in
the middle of a clearing that was thickly overgrown with
raspberry bushes.

Here she remained for three days, feeding upon the
berries during the daytime, and sleeping in the shanty at
night.  The nights were so warm that she needed no fire,
and inside the shanty she was safe from the attacks of
bears or wolves.  It was dreadfully lonely, yet still she
hoped that her father would come and find her.

A whole week thus passed away.  Edie had been given
up for lost by her heart-broken parents, and the
neighbours who were assisting in the search had returned to
their homes, when a gentleman—Mr. Barker by name—had
an experience such as no sportsman surely ever had
before.

He had been out on a hunting expedition for a fortnight,
and that day came to the banks of Bear Creek.

He was preparing to cross on a fallen log almost
spanning the stream, when his keen ear caught the sound
of soft footsteps, accompanied by a continuous rustling
movement in the thicket of wild raspberries that covered
the opposite bank.

At once with a tremor of delight he suspected the
approach of a deer, or possibly a bear, and dropping behind
a bush, he levelled his rifle in readiness to fire.

The next moment, as his eager eyes intently scanned the
raspberry bushes, his sportsman's feeling of delight suddenly
changed to a thrill of horror when a tiny brown,
berry-stained hand was quietly raised to pull down a loaded
branch of fruit.

"Well, of all things!" cried the hunter, as his finger fell
from the trigger that had so nearly sent the bullet upon its
fatal mission.  "What an awful mistake I almost made!"

Throwing down his rifle he sprang across the log, to catch
in his arms a little girl not more than eight years old, whose
torn garments, tangled locks, soiled hands, and thin, pale face,
told in a glance the story of many days' hapless wanderings.

Oh, how glad poor Edie was to see him, and how artlessly
she told the story of her wonderful adventures!  And
how thankful to Providence the hunter was that he had
chanced to find her ere it was too late!

Forgetting all about his hunting, her rescuer now applied
himself to the task of getting her home.  They were far
from the nearest house, and the poor child was so weak
from lack of proper food that he had to lift her up on his
broad shoulders.

But Mr. Barker was as strong as he was kind-hearted,
and he pushed resolutely on, guiding himself by his compass,
until at last, just as dusk was closing around them, and he
began to fear they would have to pass another night in the
forest, they came upon a clearing, at the far side of which
stood a neat log house.

Edie shouted her joy at the sight.  It meant that all
her perils were over; and the hunter, putting on a big spurt,
dashed across the clearing at a run and deposited her on
the doorstep, exclaiming in a tone of vast relief,—

"There now, my child, that's the end of your wanderings!"

The good people of the house gave them both a warm
welcome.  Edie received every attention; and the following
morning, looking altogether a different girl, with dress
mended, hair neatly brushed, hands free from berry-stains,
and face radiant at the prospect of returning to her parents,
she took her seat in the farmer's waggon to be driven home.

How shall the joy of the Hazens be described when the
little daughter they had mourned for as dead came back to
them, looking thin and worn, it is true, but otherwise not
a whit the worse for her thrilling experience!

Mr. Barker watched them with brimming eyes, murmuring,
as he fondly patted the stock of his Remington,—

"The best day's work you ever did was when you didn't
go off at all.  A lucky chance, indeed!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MRS. GRUNDY'S GOBBLERS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   MRS. GRUNDY'S GOBBLERS.

.. vspace:: 2

Mrs. Grundy (or, as the boys disrespectfully called
her, Mrs. Grumpy) was certainly not a favourite
with the young people of Westville.  In the first place,
she did not like children.  The fact that she had never
been blessed with any of her own no doubt had a great
deal to do with this dislike for other people's, which she
manifested by vigorous use of hand and tongue at the
slightest provocation.

Many a sharp speech and stinging slap did Mrs. Grundy
inflict—and not always upon those who deserved it most,
either; for so hot was her temper, so hasty her action
when irritated, that she would visit her wrath upon the
first youngster she could reach, without waiting to investigate
the extent of her luckless captive's guilt.

Another reason why Mrs. Grundy was not popular was
that, although she owned the finest orchard and garden in
all Westville, not one crimson strawberry, purple plum, or
golden apple was she ever known to bestow upon boy or
girl; and woe betide the adventurous urchin that dared to
take one unbidden, even though it be a half-spoiled
windfall, if he fell into her strong hands!  Forthwith he was
marched off, amid a storm of slaps and scolding, despite
his sobs and vows of penitence, into the awful presence of
Squire Hardgrit, and, his alarmed parents having been
duly summoned, was in their presence condemned to that
most appalling of punishments—a whole day in the house
of detention!

This method of dealing with the would-be or actual
fruit-filchers had one advantage, so far as Mrs. Grundy
was concerned—it gave her a sharer in the burden of her
unpopularity, which perhaps might otherwise have proved
insupportable; for so hard, cold, and unsympathetic was
Squire Hardgrit, and such evident pleasure did he take in
imposing his penalties, that if the Westville boys hated
anybody as cordially as they did Mrs. Grundy, it was
certainly the stern, severe squire.

For some time past the relations between these two
worthies and the boys had, as the newspapers say about
the great Powers, been more than usually strained.  Not
content with fiercely defending her garden and orchard from
juvenile depredation, Mrs. Grundy had asserted her right
to keep everybody off the broad, smooth plot of grass that
lay between her cottage and the road, and had been upheld
in her claim by the squire, to the profound disgust of the
boys, who had long made it their gathering-place in the
summer evenings; for although too small to play a game
of baseball upon, it was big enough for pitching and
catching, chase, leap-frog, and that sort of thing.

This appropriation of the grass plot, which had hitherto
been regarded as public property, was quite too much for
the boys.  It was the last drop in the cup of bitterness,
and in desperation they called a meeting to be held in
Thompson's barn on Saturday night to consider the
situation.

Saturday night came, and a dozen of the brightest boys
of Westville gathered in solemn conclave around a lantern
to see if some way could not be devised of getting even
with Mrs. Grumpy and the squire.

As the barn belonged to his father, Charlie Thompson
was chosen chairman, and he promptly opened the
meeting as follows:—

"Now, fellows, we can't stand this sort of thing any
longer.  Something must be done, if we perish in the
attempt.  The honour of the country demands" (Charlie,
whose memory was particularly good, had not yet forgotten
the last 4th of July oration) "that measures should
be taken to show to our oppressors that we are not slaves
and cowards.  The meeting is now open, and the chair
will be pleased to receive suggestions."

And amid a vigorous round of boot-heel applause
Charlie sat down, feeling that he had proved himself quite
equal to the occasion.

For a few moments there was a dead pause, all having
some sort of a scheme, more or less hazy, in their heads,
but none wishing to speak first.

At last little Tommy Short, the youngest in the group,
piped out,—

"Let's tar and feather 'em.  Father has lots of tar in
his back shop, and I know where there's a big pot."

A roar of laughter greeted this suggestion, the impracticability
of which was exceeded only by its absurdity, could
it have been carried out.

Dame Grundy and Squire Hardgrit would certainly
have made a most mirth-provoking sight, done up in suits
of tar and feathers.

The speech served its purpose, however, in loosening the
other tongues, and plans and projects now poured in thick
and fast.

"S'pose we burn their barns down," said Dick Wilding,
who was a great reader of cheap-novel literature.

But all the rest shouted "No" at once.

"What do you say to ham-stringing their horses?"
asked Bob Henderson, in rather a dubious tone, as if he
had not much confidence in the wisdom of his scheme,
which, in fact, just occurred to him because he had read
that that was the way the Arabs treat their enemies' horses
when they get the chance.

"Stuff and nonsense!" cried the chairman.  "That's
not the sort of thing we mean at all.  We're not
hankering after the penitentiary."

"Give us your plan, then, Mr. Chairman," said Dick
Wilding.

"Well, fellows, I'll tell you what I was thinking of.
Let us hook the old lady's gobblers, and hide them until she
thinks they're gone for good.  You know what a heap she
thinks of them, and it will worry her awfully to lose them."

"Capital! capital!" shouted the rest of the boys
"The very thing!"

"But where shall we hide them?" asked Sam Lawson.
"It'll have to be a pretty safe place, for Mrs. Grumpy will
turn the town upside down hunting for her precious
turkeys, you may be sure."

While all this talk was going on, Harold Kent had
been sitting on an upturned box which served him as
a chair, without opening his mouth.  Now, however, taking
advantage of the pause which followed Sam's question,
he said quietly,—

"Why not hide the gobblers in one of the empty rooms
in Squire Hardgrit's building?  You know, the squire's
been trying to get these Bronze Gobblers from
Mrs. Grumpy for ever so long, and she won't let him have
them; and if they're found on his premises, she'll be sure
to think that he had something to do with hooking them."

It was just like Harold to propose something so original
and daring in its conception as to fairly take his
companions' breath away, and they now looked at him with
feelings divided between admiration and amazement.

The chairman was the first to speak.  Bringing his
hand down upon his knee with a crack that made the
others jump, he cried,—

"Magnificent!  Boys, we'll do it, or perish in the
attempt."

Whereat the others shouted in chorus,—

"Hoorah!  We'll do it!"

"Since we're all agreed, then," said Charlie, "the next
business before the meeting is to plan how to do it."

As before, all sorts of wild suggestions were put
forward, and again it was left for Harold Kent to advance
the most practicable scheme.

This was it: the shed in which Mrs. Grundy's famous
flock of turkeys was carefully secured at night stood at
some distance to the back of her house, and as she slept
in one of the front rooms, there was slight risk of her
seeing or hearing anything.  What Harold proposed was,
that, slipping out of their rooms after everybody was
asleep, they should meet behind the turkey-shed, bringing
with them three gunny sacks and a dark lantern.  Having
got the gobblers safely into the sacks, they would then
creep round the back way to the building in which the
squire's office was situated, climb in through a lower
window, and so upstairs to the room in which the turkeys
were to be left.

"You've a great head, Hal," said Jack Wilding admiringly,
when all this had been detailed, "and you can count
on us every time—can't he, boys?"

"You bet he can," chorused the crowd.

A satisfactory plan of campaign having thus been
settled upon, the meeting was adjourned until Monday
midnight, then to assemble behind Mrs. Grundy's turkey-shed.
The eventful night came; and as midnight drew near,
one by one the boys gathered with throbbing hearts at the
rendezvous.

At length all but Tommy Short, whose courage had
failed him, and Bob Henderson, whose father had nabbed
him in the act of slipping out, and sent him back to bed
with a spank, turned up.

.. _`"THEY WERE TOO BEWILDERED BY THE BLAZE TO MAKE ANY NOISE."`:

.. figure:: images/img-224.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
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   :alt: "THEY WERE TOO BEWILDERED BY THE BLAZE TO MAKE ANY NOISE. *Page* 227"

   "THEY WERE TOO BEWILDERED BY THE BLAZE TO MAKE ANY NOISE. *Page* 227"

It was an intensely dark night and blowing half a gale.
all of which was in favour of the enterprise.  The shed
door was found to be simply secured with a wooden latch,
and lifting this the conspirators tip-toed inside; and then
Charlie Thompson, who carried the dark lantern, suddenly
turned its glare full upon the startled gobblers as they
nodded solemnly side by side upon their roost.

.. _`227`:

They were too bewildered by the blaze to make any
noise, and before they could recover their self-possession
sufficiently to exclaim at so extraordinary an apparition,
the other boys had stepped behind them, and with quick,
deft movements slipped the big sacks over their heads,
thus reducing them at one bold stroke to helpless captives.

The poor turkeys struggled and "gobbled" a good deal
in their narrow quarters, but all to no purpose; and
full of terror, no doubt, at their strange treatment, were
hurried out of the shed into the lane, and thence through
dark and silent ways to the rear of the squire's building.
Here the conspirators paused for breath and consultation.

"Now, fellows," whispered Harold Kent, "we needn't
all go inside, you know.  I'll take the lantern, while the
three biggest of you carry the gobblers, and the rest will
stay here until we come back."

Somewhat reluctantly this was assented to, for all
wanted to share the danger as well as the fun; and then
Harold, lantern in hand, followed by Dick Wilding, Sam
Shaw, and Frank Cushing, each bending beneath a bag of
struggling, "gobbling" turkey, climbed in through the low
window, crept softly in stocking feet along the narrow
hall and up the creaking stairs; while their companions,
with hearts beating like trip-hammers, shrank close together
in the darkest corner outside and anxiously awaited
their return.

It was no easy task that the four boys had in hand.
True enough that the building was uninhabited at night,
but there were people living next door, and any unusual
noise could hardly fail to be heard through those thin
wooden walls; while, late as the hour was, the sound of
footsteps on the plank side-walks would ever and anon
send a chill of terror through the anxious watchers
below.

Moreover, to carry three big turkeys up a flight of
stairs and deposit them in an empty room without filling
the whole place with their noise was the hardest part of
all.  Nevertheless they succeeded admirably.

Five minutes after they disappeared they rejoined their
companions, trembling but triumphant, having left their
captives in good order and condition in the front room,
just across the room from Squire Hardgrit's office, where
they would be certain to make themselves seen and heard
in the morning.

This done, the boys scattered to their homes, creeping
back noiselessly to their beds, in which, being thoroughly
tired out, they slept as soundly until morning as if they
had not been up to any mischief whatever.

The great gathering-place of the Westville boys was
the blacksmith's forge, which stood across the road from
Mrs. Grundy's, and thither the conspirators came one by
one the following morning in expectation of seeing the fun.

Nor were they disappointed.  Their enemy thought too
much of her precious turkeys to intrust any person else
with the duty of feeding them, and so every morning
carried them a big dish of corn-meal mush after she had
finished her own breakfast.

"There she goes!" exclaimed Dick Wilding presently,
as the boys were laughing and talking somewhat nervously
together.

And, sure enough, Mrs. Grundy's portly figure emerged
from the house and went slowly toward the shed.

Soon after a sharp cry of "Susan!  Susan!" cut the
still morning air, and the prim maid-servant was observed
to hurry to her mistress.

A moment later the two women could be observed
running hither and thither through the garden and
orchard, calling, "Turkey! turkey! turkey!" at the top
of their voices.

Great indeed was Mrs. Grundy's concern, and soon the
whole neighbourhood was made aware of her loss.

"It's those rascally gipsies, sure's I'm alive," she cried.
"Who else would steal my beautiful gobblers, that I
wouldn't sell even to the squire?  I'll have every one of
them sent to jail, see if I don't.  Just wait till the squire
comes!"

And so she stormed while awaiting the arrival of the
squire at his office.

The moment he appeared she poured her woful tale
into his ears, while a curious crowd gathered outside, eager
to see what the majesty of the law could effect.

Most prominent in the crowd were, of course, the boys,
who alone held the clue to the mystery, and were now
eagerly expecting the grand *denouement*.

It was not long in coming.  Mrs. Grundy had only about
half finished her confused recital of facts, suspicions, and
theories to the gravely listening squire, when a vigorous
"Gobble-gobble-gobble!" was distinctly heard coming from
somewhere near at hand, just as a shout broke in from
the street of,—

"There they are—up in Squire Hardgrit's room!  Look
at them!"

Before the squire could take in the situation, his excited
client sprang to her feet, rushed out of the office, across
the hall, threw open the door into the opposite room, and
there, behold! as large as life, and as cross as three
gobblers could be, were her missing turkeys, who, the
instant the door was opened, charged straight through it,
almost upsetting their mistress, and went flapping violently
downstairs and out into the street, where they were
greeted with a shout of laughter from the surprised
spectators.

It would be impossible with either pen or pencil to give
an adequate conception of the old lady's countenance as
she returned to the squire's office, and met that worthy
magistrate just rising from his chair.

Surprise, suspicion, indignation, and wrath chased one
another swiftly across her features, and, once her feelings
found utterance, there was poured upon the amazed squire
such a torrent of reproach and contumely that he was fairly
stunned into silence; and before he could recover himself
sufficiently to make his defence, his accuser, with a scornful
swing of her ample skirts that was simply magnificent,
flounced out of the office, while he sank back into his
chair, the very picture of helpless bewilderment.

That he, Squire Hardgrit, the incorruptible guardian of
the people's rights, should be suspected of having stolen,
or causing to have stolen for him, the turkeys of a
neighbour, whose situation as a lone widow was such as to
make the crime seem particularly heinous—that any
person should for one moment suspect anything so abominable;
and not only suspect it, but charge him to his face
with his supposed guilt before the whole village (for the
squire was well aware that Mrs. Grundy's shrill utterances
had been audible clear across the street), it was awful,
perfectly awful, and not to be borne for a moment!  He
must see Mrs. Grundy immediately, and compel her to
listen to him.

Accordingly, away he posted to the widow's cottage,
where he arrived just in time to check the poor dame
from going off into a fit of hysterics.

Her turkeys being once more safely in her yard, and
her anger pretty well abated, Mrs. Grundy was quite
willing to listen believingly to the squire's indignant
denials, and graciously accept his assurance that no pains
would be spared to ferret out the real delinquents.

The former harmony was restored, and an alliance,
offensive and defensive, sealed with a glass of gooseberry
wine, for both were strongly of the opinion that "those
wicked wretches of boys" were at the bottom of the whole
mischief.

Thanks to those same boys holding their tongues, however,
neither Mrs. Grundy nor the squire could ever get
hold on any evidence more solid than their own suspicions,
and they both had too much sense to take any action
upon them.

But the nocturnal travels of the turkeys were not in
vain; for their mistress, realizing that the boys, if pressed
too far, might do something worse next time, thought it
wise to mitigate her severity toward them, and even
softened to the extent of calling a lot of them into her
orchard that very autumn to fill their pockets with the
windfalls.

This stroke of diplomacy was not lost upon the boys,
who reciprocated after their own fashion: and thus matters
went smoothly on, until at length most harmonious
relations were established, and in all the countryside no
creatures were safer from the youngsters' mischief than
Mrs. Grundy's gobblers.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE SNOW-RIDGE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE SNOW-RIDGE.

.. vspace:: 2

One of the Fur Commissioners of the Hudson Bay
Company at Winnipeg was entertaining a number
of the factors and other officials at Christmas dinner, and
after the successive courses had received appreciative
attention, the guests settled themselves at ease about the
table to enjoy the excellent cigars and one another's
conversation.

Made up as the gathering was of men who had for ten,
twenty, thirty years or longer, in the pursuance of their
vocation, experienced most moving adventures by flood and
field, good stories followed fast.  One told of a thrilling
trip through the dangerous rapids of the Portage of the
Drowned; another, of the narrow escape from meeting
death at the hands of a grizzly among the foot-hills of the
Rockies; while a third held the attention of all as he
graphically described the fearful struggle that he had with
a wounded bull bison in the valley of the Bow River.

Thus the story-telling went around until it reached
Hugh M'Kenzie, one of the oldest officials in the active
service, who, in response to a unanimous demand, spun the
following interesting yarn of mountain-sheep hunting.

"It was in the third year of my clerkship, and they
had sent me away out to Fort George, right in the heart
of the Rockies.  I would rather have stayed on the plains,
where the buffalo were in plenty; but you're not asked as
to what you'd like best in the company.  You're just told
to go, and there's an end of it.  I found it very dull at
Fort George, and to while away the time I did all the
hunting I could.  To help me in this I had two fine dogs,
of whom I was extremely proud.  They were half-bred
collies, not particularly handsome creatures, but full of
pluck, and as knowing animals as ever wagged tails.

"Having had pretty good luck with bear and other game
to be found in the neighbourhood of the fort, I became
possessed of a strong desire to secure the head of one of
those Rocky Mountain sheep which have their home high
up among the peaks, and are as difficult animals to hunt
as there are in the world.

"Again and again I went out without success, although
my dogs, Bruce and Oscar, seemed as eager to get sheep as
I was myself; but instead of becoming disheartened, I
grew all the more determined, and longed for the winter to
come, when the snow, by covering their higher pasturing
grounds, would drive the sheep lower down the mountain,
and thus make them more getatable.

"The winter began with a series of heavy snowfalls
which shut us all up in the fort for several weeks, and it
was early in December before I thought it safe to have
another try after the sheep.

"Then one fine, bright morning I started off, feeling very
hopeful that I would return with my much-coveted prize.
The dogs, of course, went with me, but I had no other
companion, nobody else having sufficient sporting ardour
to share in the risks of my expedition; for it certainly
was full of risks, and had I been older and wiser I would
never have undertaken it.  But I was young and strong
and full of spirit, and my eagerness to obtain a set of
horns had become a bit of a joke against me with the
fellows; so that I was not in the mood to soberly weigh
the pros and cons of the matter.

"Thinking it possible I might be out all night, I rolled
up some provisions and matches in my thick plaid, and
strapped it on my shoulders.  With hatchet and
hunting-knife in my belt, a full powder-horn at my side,
snowshoes on feet and rifle in hand, I set out amid the
good-humoured chaffing of my fellow-clerks.

"Up into the mountains I climbed, keeping a keen
look-out for signs of the game I was seeking, while Bruce
and Oscar ranged right and left, so that we covered a good
deal of ground between us.  By mid-day the climbing
became so steep and difficult that I had to take off my
snow-shoes, and strapped them on my back.  They were
no longer necessary, at any rate, for the snow was covered
with a crust which bore me up admirably, and made easy
going for my moccasined feet.

"It was not until afternoon that the first sheep were
sighted, and, much to my delight, they seemed not far
away, and easy to get at.  There were five in the flock:
a huge ram with superb horns—just the thing I hankered
after—and four fine ewes, which, however, had nothing to
fear from me.

"Calling the dogs to heel, I proceeded to stalk the
unsuspecting creatures with all the skill I possessed.  It
proved a harder job than I thought.  They were on a
kind of ledge several hundred feet above me, and in order
to get a proper shot without giving them warning, it was
necessary to make a wide circuit, so as to reach a point
opposite their ledge from which a capital chance might
be had.

"By dint of great exertion, however, I reached the
point all right, and was just waiting a moment to catch
my breath before taking aim at the ram, when Oscar's
impatience overcame him, and he gave a sharp bark.
Instantly the whole live animals started to flee.  I threw
the rifle to my shoulder and pulled the trigger.  It was
nothing better than a snap-shot, yet it did not miss; for
with the report the ram sprang into the air, stumbled as
he came down, and then dashed off again, leaving behind
him a plain trail of blood-drops on the white snow.

"With an exultant shout I sent the dogs forward, and
followed as fast as I could.  I had to go down into a
ravine and get up the other side before reaching the
bloody trail.  Forgetting everything else in my wild
excitement, I pressed on, guided by my dogs' sharp
barking.  It was terribly hard work, and I had many a slip
and stumble; but the red splashes in the snow grew larger
the further I went.  Bleeding at the rate he was, the ram
surely could not keep up his flight for any great distance.

"Presently I came to a place that at any other time
would have brought me to a full stop.  A ridge of hard
frozen snow stretched between two rocky ledges.  On the
one side it reached down to the edge of a precipice, which
then fell away abruptly into an unknown depth.  On the
other side, in one unbroken sheet, it sloped down full
five hundred feet to a level upon, which the snow lay in
great drifts.  The ram was already half-way across the
ridge, although evidently in distress, and the dogs were
hard at his heel, barking fiercely, for they knew that
victory was not far off.

"Throwing all considerations of prudence to the winds,
I set out to follow them.  So narrow was the ridge that
I could not stand erect, but had to sit astride it, and push
myself forward by using both hands and feet.  I never
glanced below me, lest I should lose my head; and at
length, almost completely exhausted, I succeeded in making
the other side.

"Here awaiting me was my quarry, standing at bay
against the cliff, and butting off the dogs that were
springing for his throat.  It was some minutes before my nerves
were sufficiently steadied for me to use my rifle; then one
shot was sufficient.  With a convulsive spring the noble
animal scattered the dogs and fell dead at my feet.

"Oh, but what a proud moment for me!  The horns
were splendid.  A man might not get a finer pair in a
lifetime.  With the utmost care I detached the head, and
then, for the first time since the chase began, sat down to
rest.

"I was so tired that I would have been glad to camp
here for the night.  But there was absolutely nothing in the
way of shelter, and it promised to be bitterly cold and windy.
I must get back to the lower level before darkness came on.

"Securing the ram's head on my shoulders, where I
must say it felt abominably heavy, I returned to the ridge.
Not until then did I realize into what a critical position
my reckless ardour had brought me.  One look at that
perilous passage-way was sufficient to assure me that in my
wearied and unnerved condition to recross it was a feat
utterly impracticable.  My dogs—two clever, sure-footed
creatures as they were—shrank back in evident dismay,
although I sought to urge them forward; yet for me to
remain on that exposed ledge meant death by freezing
before morning.

"I was in a terrible predicament.  Little more than an
hour of daylight remained.  Whatever was to be done
needed to be done right away.  While I stood there
bewildered and irresolute, Oscar again ventured out a little
distance on the ridge, but, becoming frightened, tried to
turn back.  In so doing he lost his footing, and, despite
desperate efforts to regain it, shot swiftly down the slope
that ended in a level five hundred feet below.

"With keen concern I watched him through the waning
light rolling helplessly over and over until after a final
tumble he landed in a great drift, out of which, to my
great joy, he emerged the next moment, shook himself
vigorously, and sent back a brisk bark as though to say,
'Come along; it's not so bad as it looks.'

"Instantly I caught the idea.  If my dog made the
descent uninjured, why could not I?  Great as the risk
might be, it was, after all, no worse than staying on the
ledge all night.  To think was to act.  Loosening the
ram's head from my back, I sent it down after Oscar.  It
sped to the bottom and buried itself in a snow-bank.
Next I tied my rifle, hatchet, and hunting-knife on one of
the snow-shoes, and despatched them.  They, too, made the
trip all right, and vanished in the snow.  Then came my
turn.  Rolling up the plaid I lashed it on the remaining
snow-shoe, and committed myself to this extemporized
toboggan.

"What followed is more than I can tell.  So steep was
the slope that I seemed to drop into space.  I was not
conscious of touching anything, but simply of being shot
through the icy air, blinded by particles of snow, and
choking for lack of breath, until I was hurled like a stone
from a catapult into a mass of loosely-packed snow, and lost
consciousness.

"When I came to myself, Bruce and Oscar were both
beside me, licking my face with affectionate anxiety.  At
first I could not move, and my whole body was so full of
pain that I feared I had been seriously injured.  But,
after lying still awhile, I made shift to get upon my feet,
and to my vast relief found myself none the worse of
my wild descent, save for a scratched face and a severe
shaking.

"My next thought was for the horns.  I had no difficulty
in extricating them or the rifle from their snowy
bed, and found both were uninjured.  Strapping them
once more on my shoulders, and adjusting my snow-shoes,
I set off down the ravine.

"To get back to the fort that evening was, of course,
out of the question, but I hoped to find some cavity in the
cliff where I could spend the night safely.  Just before
dark I discovered a snug little place, perfectly protected
from the wind; and there, with my plaid wrapped tight
around me, and my dogs curled up close against me, I put
in quite a comfortable night.  As soon as the day broke I
started for the fort, and reached it by noon, half starved
and very tired, but as proud of my trophy as David was
of Goliath's head."

A hearty round of applause followed the conclusion of
the old Scotchman's story, and by general consent it was
voted the best told during the evening.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THROUGH THE TRACKLESS FOREST`:

.. class:: center large bold

   THROUGH THE TRACKLESS FOREST.

.. vspace:: 2

The two features of nature in which her might, her
majesty, her mystery, find fullest expression, are
the ocean and the forest.  Regarding their vastness and
their unchanging character, in our weak endeavour to find
terms for the infinite we have made them symbols of
eternity.  Irresistible, perennial is the fascination they
possess for man, and all-satisfying the measure with which
they respond to his demands.  On ocean's bosom or in the
forest's heart he finds free play for his noblest qualities.
In making them subservient to his will he has achieved his
grandest development.

Nowhere round the globe are the forests finer than on
this continent of ours.  Boundless in extent and endless in
diversity, the eye never wearies of resting upon them or
seeking to penetrate their depths.  Happily free as they
are from the dense matted undergrowth that makes
progress through the forests of the tropics a continuous
penitential pilgrimage, they present glorious vistas of silvan
shade, shot through with golden shafts of sunlight, down
which you may wander at your ease in unchecked
communion with nature.

By way of comparison just place these two pictures side
by side.

Seeking to give some conception of the interminable
Congo forest, in which he spent so many months of misery,
Stanley exclaims: "Take a thick Scottish copse dripping
with rain; imagine this copse to be a mere undergrowth,
nourished under the impenetrable shade of ancient trees,
ranging from one hundred feet to one hundred and eighty
feet high; briers and thorns abundant; lazy creeks
meandering through the depths of the jungle, and sometimes
a deep affluent of a great river.  Imagine this forest and
jungle in all stages of decay and growth—old trees falling,
leaning perilously over, fallen prostrate: ants and insects
of all kinds, sizes, and colours murmuring around;
monkeys and chimpanzees above, queer noises of birds and
animals, crashes in the jungle as troops of elephants rush
away; rain pattering down on you every other day in
the year; an impure atmosphere, with its dread
consequences, fever and dysentery, gloom throughout the day
and darkness almost palpable throughout the night."

Turn now to Parkman, who knows and loves his forests
as Miss Murfree her mountains, and who has once and for
all time painted the picture of the great American forest:
"Deep recesses, where, veiled in foliage, some wild, shy
rivulet steals with timid music through breathless caves of
verdure; gulfs where feathered crags rise like castle walls,
where the noonday sun pierces with keen rays athwart the
torrent, and the mossed arms of fallen pines cast wandering
shadows on the illumined foam; pools of liquid crystal
turned emerald in the reflected green of impending woods;
rocks on whose rugged front the gleam of sunlit waters
dances in quivering light; ancient trees hurled headlong
by the storm to dam the raging stream with their forlorn
and savage ruin; or the stern depths of immemorial forests,
dim and silent as a cavern, columned with innumerable
trunks, each like an Atlas upholding its world of leaves,
and sweating perpetual moisture down its dark and
channelled rind—some strong in youth, some gouty with
decrepit age, nightmares of strange distortion, gnarled and
knotted with wens and goitres, roots intertwined beneath
like serpents petrified in an agony of contorted strife:
green and glistening mosses carpeting the rough ground,
mantling the rocks, turning pulpy stumps to mounds of
verdure, and swathing fallen trunks, as, bent in the
impotence of rottenness, they lie outstretched over knoll and
hollow like mouldering reptiles of the primeval world,
while around, and on, and through them springs the young
growth that fattens on their decay—the forest devouring
its own dead.  Or, to turn from its funereal shade to the
light and life, to the open woodland, the sheen of sparkling
lakes, and mountains basking in the glory of the summer
noon, flecked by the shadows of passing clouds that sail on
snowy wings across the transparent azure."

No pestilent fever or insidious deadly miasma lurks in
our forests.  On the contrary, their pure, piny breath
brings back health to many an ailing mortal, and beneath
their feathery hemlocks and aromatic spruces one may lie
down at night in sweet security from snakes, or centipedes,
or other crawling horrors that make each night in a
tropical forest a period of peril.

Is there one of us recalling the life of the *coureurs de
bois*, the men who above all others made the trackless
forest their own, does not feel a stirring of the pulses of
admiration and envy, and a pathetic regret that those
romantic days in which they flourished are over for ever?
They were the natural outcome of the beaver trade, which
in the earliest stage of Canadian history formed the
struggling French colony's chief source of support.  All
that was most active and vigorous in the colony took to
the woods, thereby escaping from the oppressive control of
intendants, councils, and priests, to the savage freedom of
the wilderness.  Not only were the possible profits great,
but in the pursuit of them there was a fascinating element
of adventure and danger, which irresistibly appeals to the
spirit of enterprise and daring that civilization has not yet
quite extinguished within our breasts.

Though not a very valuable member of society, and a
thorn in the side of princes and rulers, the *coureur do bois*
had his uses, at least from an artistic point of view; and
his strange figure, sometimes brutally savage, but oftener
marked with the lines of a dare-devil courage, and a
reckless, thoughtless gaiety, will always be joined to the
memories of that grand world of woods which the nineteenth
century is fast civilizing out of existence.

.. _`COUREUR DE BOIS.  *Page* 244.`:

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   :alt: COUREUR DE BOIS.  *Page* 244.

   COUREUR DE BOIS.  *Page* 244.

Lost in the forest!  What a thrill runs swift to the
heart as we repeat the words!  Ever since our young eyes
overflowed at the immortal legend of the babes in the
wood, sleeping the sleep that knew no awakening beneath
the leafy winding-sheet brought them by their bird
mourners, we seem to have had a clear conception of all
the terrors the phrase implies, and we follow with throbbing
pulses and bated breath the recital of such an experience
as the foremost and noblest of all the pioneers of these
North American forests had.

One eventful autumn, nearly three centuries ago, Champlain
had caught sight of a strange-looking bird, and left
his party to go in pursuit.  Flitting from tree to tree, the
bird lured him deeper and deeper into the forest, then took
wing and vanished.  On essaying to retrace his steps
Champlain found himself at a loss.  Whither should he
turn?  The day was clouded, and he had left his compass
in camp.  The forest closed around him, trees mingled
with trees in limitless confusion.  Bewildered and lost he
wandered all day, and at night slept fasting at the foot of
a great tree.  Awaking chilled and faint, he walked until
afternoon, then happily found a pond upon whose bosom
were water-fowl, some of which he shot, and for the first
time broke his fast.  Kindling a fire he prepared his
supper, and lay down to sleep in a drenching rain.  Another
day of blind and weary wandering succeeded, and another
night of exhaustion.  He found paths in the wilderness,
but they had not been made by human feet.  After a time
the tinkling of a brook touched his ear, and he determined
to follow its course, in the hope that it would lead him to
the river where his party was encamped.  "With toilsome
steps he traced the infant stream, now lost beneath the
decaying masses of fallen trunks or the impervious
intricacies of matted windfalls, now stealing through swampy
thickets or gurgling in the shade of rocks, till it entered at
length, not into the river, but into a small lake.  Circling
around the brink, he found the point where, gliding among
clammy roots of alders, the brook ran out and resumed its
course."  Pressing persistently forward, he at length forced
his way out of the entanglement of underbrush into an
open meadow, and there before him rolled the river, broad
and turbulent, its bank marked with the portage-path by
which the Indians passed the neighbouring rapids.  The
good God be praised! he had found the clue he sought.
Inexpressibly relieved, he hastened along the river-side,
and in a few hours more was being joyfully welcomed by
his companions, who had been anxiously searching for him.
"From that day forth," we are told, "his host, Durantal,
would never suffer him to go into the forest alone."

Although the *coureur de bois* has long since made his
exit, there still remains in Canada a class of men who have
somewhat in common with him.  These are lumber-scouts
or bush-rangers, whose business it is to seek for "limits"
that will pay handsome profits.  It is boards, not beavers,
they have upon their minds.  They are often Indians or
half-breeds, and the skill of these self-taught surveyors is
sometimes very remarkable.  They will explore the length
and breadth of the *terra incognita*, and report upon the
kind and value of its timber, the situation, and capability
of its streams for floating out the logs, and the facilities
for hauling and transportation.  They will even map out
the surface of the country, showing the position of its
streams and lakes, its groves of timber, and its mountainous
or level appearance, with a skill and accuracy bewildering
to ordinary mortals, in whose eyes the whole district would
be one great confused wilderness.

No more interesting experience in woodcraft could be
had than a scouting excursion in such company.  The
trackless forest has no terrors, no mysteries for them.  To
them Nature opens her heart, and tells all her secrets.  In
lightest marching order, each man's entire equipment being
carried in a shoulder-pack upheld by a "tump-line" around
the forehead, they plunge into the wilderness.  With
unerring instinct they pursue their way, now following the
course of some winding stream, now circling a tiny lake
lying gem-like in a verdurous setting, now scrambling
amongst cliffs, where, to paraphrase Parkman, seeing but
unseen, the crouched wild-cat eyes them from the thicket;
now threading a maze of water-girded rocks, which the
white cedar and the spruce clasp with serpent-like roots;
then diving into leafy depths where the rock-maple rears
its green masses, the beech its glistening leaves and clear
smooth stem, while behind, stiff and sombre, stands the
balsam fir, and the white pine towers proudly over all.

When night falls they make their simple bivouac, and
their roaring camp-fire like a magician's wand strangely
transforms the scene.  As the flame casts its keen red light
around, wild forms stand forth against the outer gloom—the
oak, a giant in rusty mail; the mighty pyramid of the
pine; the wan and ghastly birch, looking like a spectre in
the darkness.  The campers gather close around the ruddy
flame made welcome by the cool breath of approaching
autumn, and after the broiled trout or roast duck have
disappeared, and an incense offering of fragrant smoke
ascended from their pipes, they curl up in their blankets,
and sleep as only those who live such a life can sleep,
serenely oblivious of the harsh shriek of the owl, the
mournful howl of the wolf, or the soft footfall of some
prowling beast that breaks in upon the breathless stillness.

Splendid as our forests are at midsummer when the
delighted eye roams unweariedly over their billowy
expanses of sumptuous verdure, it is in the autumn time that
they reach their rarest beauty.  Then for a brief space
before they strip themselves of their foliage to stand bare
and shivering through the long, cold winter, they change
their garb of green into a myriad of hues of gold and flame.

A keen frosty night following upon the decline of
summer heat, and lo, as though some mighty magician had
been at work, a marvellous transformation awaits our
admiration!  Where yesterday a single colour in various
tints prevailed, to-day we behold every possible shade of
brilliant scarlet, tender violet, sombre brown, vivid crimson,
and glittering yellow.  The beech, the birch, the oak, and
above all, the maple, have burst forth into one harmonious
and entrancing chorus of colour—the swan song of the
dying foliage—the stern, straight fir alone maintaining its
eternal green, as if it said: "Behold in me the symbol of
steadfastness."  Verily, the wide world round, a more
splendid and enchanting silvan panorama cannot be found.





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.. _`WRECKS AND WRECKERS OF ANTICOSTI`:

.. class:: center large bold

   WRECKS AND WRECKERS OF ANTICOSTI.

.. vspace:: 2

Right in the mouth of the great St. Lawrence, which
without exaggeration has been called "the noblest,
the purest, the most enchanting river on all God's beautiful
earth," lies a long, narrow island that might with equal
propriety be called the dreariest, most inhospitable, and
most destructive island on the earth; for it is doubtful if
any other spot of corresponding size has caused so many
shipwrecks and so much human suffering.

In ten years, according to official records, there have
been as many as one hundred and six wrecks, including
seven steamships and sixty-seven sailing-ships or barques,
having on board no less than three thousand precious souls,
and cargoes worth millions of pounds.

Years ago, before the Canadian Government erected
lighthouses and established relief stations, the wrecks were
more numerous still, and were rarely unattended with loss
of life.  But times are better now, and when a wreck
occurs, unless it be in one of those terrible winter storms
that seem to make this ill-omened isle their centre, the
crew generally manage to make the land in safety, where
they are well cared for by the government officials.

Far different was it in 1737, when the French sloop-of-war
*La Renommée* stranded upon a cruel ledge of rocks,
hardly a mile off shore, about eight leagues from the
southern point of Anticosti.

It was in the month of November, just as winter, which
could nowhere have been more dreadful than on that bleak,
barren, shelterless island, was fast closing in.  In their
mad haste to reach the land—for the waves were breaking
high over the vessel—the crew took little food with them,
although gallant Captain de Freneuse did not forget to
take the ship's colours.

When in the gray, grim morning they came to reckon
up, they found, to their dismay, that with six months of
hopeless captivity before them, they had barely enough
food for forty days, allowing the scantiest of daily rations
to each of the sixty-five men who had survived the
shipwreck.

The sequel, as related with simple, graphic pathos by
Father Crespel, one of the few who ultimately emerged
from the terrible ordeal, constitutes as grand a record of
human courage and endurance and as harrowing a history
of human suffering as ever has been told.

The poor castaways had nothing but a little canvas
to shelter them from the keen, biting blasts.  Fever
presently broke out amongst them.  Then half of them
set forth in two small boats to coast around that merciless
shore for forty leagues, after which they made a hazardous
dash across twelve leagues of open sea to Mingan, where
French fishermen were known to winter.

The "jolly-boat" was swamped after they had been
five days out, and its thirteen occupants were thus spared
further misery.  At last the ice setting in made the
progress of the other boat impossible, and they had no
alternative but to go into winter quarters and wait for the
tardy spring.

With two pounds of damp, mouldy flour and two pounds
of unsavoury fox-meat per day, these seventeen men,
housed in rude huts of spruce boughs, prepared to endure
the long agony of winter.  Once a week a spoonful of peas
was served out to each man; which constituted such a treat
that, as Father Crespel naively puts it, "On those days we
had our best meal."

Hunger, cold, and disease carried off one by one as the
months dragged themselves along, until at length only
three still lived, when a band of Indians came just in time
to save this remnant from perishing.

All this and more is told by heroic Father Crespel with
a quaint simplicity, a minuteness of detail, and a perfect
submission to the Divine will, that renders his recital
extremely touching.

Not less saddening is the story of the stout brig
*Granicus*, which in 1828 went to pieces off the east end of
the island, also in the month of November.  Many of the
crew escaped to land, but with little more than the clothing
they wore.

.. _`"HUNGER, COLD, AND DISEASE CARRIED OFF ONE BY ONE, UNTIL ONLY THREE STILL LIVED."`:

.. figure:: images/img-253.jpg
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   :alt: "HUNGER, COLD, AND DISEASE CARRIED OFF ONE BY ONE, UNTIL ONLY THREE STILL LIVED. *Page* 252"

   "HUNGER, COLD, AND DISEASE CARRIED OFF ONE BY ONE, UNTIL ONLY THREE STILL LIVED. *Page* 252"

Winter soon closed in upon them.  No succour came.
Their provisions gave out, and what followed may be
judged from the awful sight that met the eyes of some
government officials when the following spring they stumbled
across a rude hut strewn with human skeletons, and, in
the pot that hung over the long-dead ashes, some bones
that were not those of an animal.

Those dreadful days are happily past and gone.  Few
lives are lost on Anticosti now.  Four fine lighthouses send
their cheering rays across the anxious mariner's path,
signal-guns and steam-whistles sound friendly notes of
warning when the frequent fogs dim the lights, and
half-a-dozen telegraph-stations at different points are ready to
speed at once the news of disaster to the mainland by
means of the submarine cable.

Where wrecks are plentiful, and the controlling hand of
the law is absent, wreckers are sure to be plentiful also.
Anticosti has been no exception to this rule.  The island
has had its share of those who did not hesitate to pursue
this nefarious business.

From the earliest times the place has held out attractions
to the fisherman and the hunter.  The cod, halibut, herring,
and other fish that it pays to catch, abound along the coast;
huge lobsters play hide-and-seek among the sea-weeds, and
very good salmon and trout may be caught in some of the
streams, while round-headed, mild-eyed seals spend the
greater part of the year sporting in the waves or basking
on the shore.

Then away inland there are, or used to be, bears, otters,
martens, and foxes, to be had for the shooting or trapping.

Coming first to fish and hunt, the fishermen and hunters
in many cases stayed to play the part of wreckers.  There
was a good deal more money to be made out of the flotsam
and jetsam that the storms sent their way than out of fish
or fur, and they made the most of their opportunities.

One thing, however, must be said in their behalf.  They
have never been accused of luring vessels to destruction by
false lights, or of confirming their title to the goods cast up
by the sea by acting upon the principle that dead men are
not competent witnesses in court, and by despatching any
of the shipwrecked who might have survived the disaster.
On the contrary, more than one unfortunate crew have owed
the preservation of their lives to these very wreckers.

The most renowned of them all—a man of whom it might
in truth be said that there was not a St. Lawrence pilot
or a Canadian sailor who knew him not by reputation, or
a parish between Quebec and Gaspé where marvellous tales
were not told about him around the evening fire—was Louis
Olivier Gamache.  In these stories he figured as the
beau-ideal of a pirate, half ogre, half sea-wolf, who enjoyed the
friendship and special protection of a familiar demon.

The learned and loquacious Abbé Ferland, in his dainty
little volume of "Opuscules," which I hold in my hand,
tells us about this wonderful Gamache, that, according to
popular rumour, he had been seen to stand upright upon
the thwarts of his sloop, and command the demon to bring
him a capful of wind.  Instantly his sails were filled,
though the sea around him was in a glassy calm, and away
he went, while all about him were vessels powerless to
move.

During a trip to Rimouski he gave a grand supper to
the devil, not to a devil of the second class, but to the
veritable old gentleman himself.  Aided by invisible
assistants, he had massacred whole crews, and appropriated to
himself the rich cargoes of their vessels.  When hotly
pursued by a government boat sent to capture him, and
just about being overtaken, both sloop and Gamache
suddenly disappeared, leaving nothing behind but a blue
flame that went dancing over the waves in mocking defiance
of the disappointed minions of the law.

Upon such thrilling legends as these was founded the
reputation of the "Wizard of Anticosti," and so generally
were they believed that the genial abbé assures us that
the majority of the mariners in the gulf would rather have
attempted to scale the citadel of Quebec than to approach
by night the bay where Gamache was known to have his
stronghold.

We can put plenty of confidence in the abbé, for in the
year 1852 he had the courage to pay the wizard a visit,
and I am sorry that I have not room to give the full
particulars of that visit as they are brightly presented by
this ever-entertaining writer.

He found the terror-inspiring Gamache to be a tall,
erect, and vigorous old man, with snow-white hair but
piercing eyes, who came forward to meet his visitors with
an easy, dignified bearing that betrayed no concern or
troubled conscience.

His house appeared to be a perfect arsenal of deadly
weapons.  No fewer than a dozen guns, many of them
double-barrelled, grimly adorned the walls of the first room
they entered, and every other room up to the very garret
had at least two or three more, loaded and capped; they
hung upon racks, surrounded by powder-flasks, shot-bags,
swords, sabres, daggers, bayonets, and pistols, in most
imposing profusion.

The house itself was something of a fortress.  Every
possible precaution had been taken to prevent persons
entering it without the permission of its master.  All the
doors and windows were strongly barred and shuttered,
and so complete were the defences that one man inside
might have defied twenty outside.  In the sheds, arranged
in the most orderly manner, were long rows of barrels,
bales, casks, and other gifts of the sea.

Such was the den of the dreaded wrecker, a man not
one tithe so bad as wild rumour made him, but who,
nevertheless, took pains to intensify the public feeling
about himself, in order that he might be the more
undisturbed in the solitude he had chosen for himself in that
strange, wild place.

He had not always been alone, either.  Twice had a
woman been found willing to brave the rigours of his life
for love of him, and in both cases they had succumbed to
the terrible loneliness and desolation.  His second wife
died suddenly, while he was off on a hunting-trip in
mid-winter; and he returned, after a fortnight's absence, to
find her frozen form clasping to its icy breast the bodies
of their two little children, the one five and the other six
years old.

"That is how they will find me some day.  Each one
in their turn.  Ah! well—since she is dead we can only
bury her."

That was all the strange, taciturn man said to his
companion, a hunter who had been with him, and yet he had
always shown his wife the greatest kindness and affection.
It was not that he was heartless, but that he would rather
have died than reveal the depth of his feeling.

He amused the abbé very much by relating the various
devices to which he had resorted in order to heighten his
reputation for diabolic associations.  He would go to a
country inn, for instance, order a supper for two to be
served in a private room, stating that he expected a
gentleman in sable garments to share it with him.

When the supper was ready he would then lock himself
up in the room, polish the supper off unaided, and summon
the astonished landlady to clear the remains away, as he
and his friend had supped and were satisfied.  He would
further increase their mystification by sundry rappings, and
inexplicable openings and shuttings of doors.

He could also employ more sinister means of protecting
himself when necessary.  One day, when he was quite
alone, a canoe glided into the bay, and presently a gigantic
Montagnais Indian stepped ashore, armed to the teeth, and
advanced with a firm step towards the house.

He was evidently crazed with fire-water, and Gamache
felt in no mood to try a tussle with so brawny an
opponent.  Standing in the doorway, with a rifle in his
hands, he called out in his sternest tones,—

"Stop!  I forbid you to advance."

The intruder took not the slightest notice of him.

"Take another step and I fire," shouted Gamache.  The
step was taken, but before it could be repeated, the rifle
spoke and the Indian fell, his thigh-bone smashed with the
bullet.  In an instant Gamache was beside the wounded
man.  Removing his weapons, he lifted him to his shoulder,
and bore him tenderly to the house, and there nursed him
until he was completely recovered.

Then filling his canoe with provisions, he sent him back
to his tribe, with a warning never to intrude upon Gamache
again unless he wanted a bullet through his head instead
of his thigh.

In 1854, Louis Olivier Gamache died, like his poor wife,
alone and unattended.  For weeks no one had visited his
abode, and when at last some seafarers chanced that way
they found only the corpse of the once dreaded wizard,
whose supposed league with evil spirits did not avail to
save him from fulfilling his own prophecy.

The wrecks continue at Anticosti.  Not long ago the
shattered skeletons of four fine ocean steamers might have
been seen upon its fatal shores, but with Gamache the
reign of the wreckers ended, never to return.





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.. _`A LUMBER CAMP`:

.. class:: center large bold

   A LUMBER CAMP.

.. vspace:: 2

There is no summer in a Canadian lumber camp;
that is to say, there is nobody in the camp in
summer, which amounts to the same thing.  The season of
activity in the camps, or the "shanties" as they are
generally called, extends from late September to early April,
and all summer long they are left to the care of birds that
chirp and squirrels that chatter on the roof.

In the month of September the Canadian lumberman
joins the gang of sturdy, active men who are bound for
the "shanties," where a winter of hard work awaits them.
For him the forests exist only to be remorselessly cut down;
but though he may never stop to think about it, his is a
very romantic and fascinating occupation.

September is one of the loveliest months in the Canadian
calendar.  The days are still long and sunny.  The heat
of summer has passed away, and the chill of autumn not
yet come.  One cloudless day follows another, and nature
seems to be doing her best to make existence a delight.
This is the time when the shantymen gather into gangs,
and by rail or steamer journey northward until they pass
the limits of settlement.  Then taking to "shanks' mare"
they make their way into the depths of the forest.

Let us follow a gang that is going upon a "limit" still
untouched by the axe, far up the Black River, a tributary
of the Ottawa, a hundred miles or more from the nearest
village.  This gang consists of about forty men, including
the foremen, clerk, carpenter, cook, and chore-boy, all active,
sturdy, and good-natured fellows.  Most of them are
French-Canadians—*habitans*, as the local term is—but English,
Scotch, and Irish are found among them too, and quite
often swarthy, wild-eyed men whose features tell plainly
of Indian blood.

Scouts have previously selected the best site for the
camp.  It is usually in the midst of the "bunch" of timber
to be cut, so that little time may be lost in going and
coming.  On arriving, the first thing done by the gang is
to build the shanty, which is to be its home during the
long, cold winter.

This edifice makes no pretence to architectural beauty,
but nothing could be better adapted to its purpose.  It is
an illustration of simplicity and strength combined.  With
all hands helping heartily, a shanty forty feet long by
twenty-eight feet wide can be put up in five days.
Meantime the builders live in tents.

This is the way they go about it:—First of all, a number
of trees are cut down.  The trunks, cleared of all their
branches, are sawed into proper lengths, and then laid one
upon another until an enclosure with walls eight feet high
is obtained.  Upon the top of these walls strong girders
are stretched, which are supported in the centre by four
great pillars called "scoop-bearers."

Then comes the roof.  A Canadian shanty roof is neither
tiled nor shingled, but "scooped."  What is a "scoop"?
It is a piece of timber something like a very long railway
tie, one side of which is hollowed out, trough-wise, clear to
the ends.  Place two of these side by side, with the concave
sides upward, and then lay another on top of them, concave
side down, so that the edges overlap and fall into the
troughs, and you have a roof that will defy the heaviest
rains or wildest snow-storms that Canada can produce.

A floor of roughly-flattened timbers having been laid
and a door cut, it only remains to construct the "camboose,"
or fireplace, and the bunks, and the shanty is complete;
provided, of course, every cranny in the walls has been
chinked with moss and mud, and a bank of earth thrown
up all around the outside to make sure that no draughts
can sneak in when the mercury is far below zero.

The "camboose" is quite an important affair, and occupies
the place of honour in the centre of the room between the
four massive scoop-bearers.  Its construction is as rude and
simple as that of the rest of the shanty.  A bank of sand
about two feet deep and six feet square makes the hearth.
Over it hang two wooden cranes that hold the capacious
kettles, which are always full of the pea-soup or fat salt
pork that constitute the chief items in the shantymen's bill
of fare.

A mighty fire roars and crackles unceasingly upon the
hearth, its smoke escaping through a square hole in the
roof—a hole so big that one may lie in the bunks and
study the stars.  This rude chimney secures the best of
ventilation to the shantymen.  The bunks, which are simply
sloping platforms about seven feet in length, running around
three sides of the room, offer the sweet allurement of the
soft side of a plank to the tired toilers at the close of the
day.

Such is a shanty of the good old-fashioned sort.  In
later days such refinements of civilization as windows,
stoves, and tables have been added by progressive lumbermen,
but there are still scores of shanties to which the
above description applies.

The shantymen are now ready to begin operations against
the great trees that have been standing all about, silent,
unconscious spectators of the undertaking.  The forty men
are divided according to the nature of their work.  The
clerk, cook, and chore-boy are the "home-guard."  The
others, according to their various abilities, are choppers,
road-cutters, teamsters, sawyers, and chainers.

The only duty requiring explanation is that of chore-boy.
It is usually performed by the youngest member of the
gang, although sometimes it falls to the lot of a man well
up in years.  The chore-boy is the cook's assistant and
general utility worker of the shanty.  He has to chop the
firewood, draw the water, wash the dishes, and perform a
multitude of such odd jobs, in return for which he is apt
to get little thanks and much abuse.

The choppers have the most important and interesting
part of the work.  They always work in pairs, and go out
against the trees armed with a keen axe apiece and a
crosscut-saw between them.  Having selected their victim—say
a splendid pine, towering more than a hundred feet in the
air—they take up their position at each side.  Soon the
strokes of the axes ring out in quick succession.  For some
time the yellow chips fly fast, and presently a shiver runs
through the tree's mighty frame.  One of the choppers
cries warningly to the other, who hastens to get out of the
way.  A few more strokes are given with nice skill.  Then
comes a rending crack, whose meaning cannot be mistaken;
and the stately tree, after quivering a moment as though
uncertain which way to fall, crashes headlong to the ground,
making a wide swath through the smaller trees standing near.

A good chopper can lay his tree almost exactly where
he likes, and yet somehow accidents are of frequent occurrence.
Every winter additions are made to the long list of
men whom the trees have succeeded in involving in their
own ruin.  A gust of wind, the proximity of another tree,
or some such influence may cause the falling trunk to
swerve, and fall with fatal force upon the unwary chopper.

The tree felled, the next proceeding is to strip it of its
branches, and saw it up into as many logs as can be got
from it.  Two, three, four, or even as many as five logs
may be obtained from a single tree—the length of each
being thirteen and a half feet or sixteen and a half
according to the quality.  The odd half-foot is allowed for the
"brooming" of the ends as the logs make their rough
journey down the streams to the mills.

.. _`LUMBERING.  *Page* 266.`:

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   :alt: LUMBERING.  *Page* 266.

   LUMBERING.  *Page* 266.

Eighty logs felled, trimmed, and sawed is quite an ordinary
day's work for one pair of choppers; and when the choppers
have been "striving"—that is, each pair trying its best to
outdo the others—six hundred logs have been turned in by
a single pair as the splendid result of a week's work.

The logs are at first piled up on "roll-ways," which are
simply two tree-trunks placed a little distance apart.  Later
on, when the road-makers have done their part, the teamsters
bear them off to the bank of the stream or out upon
the ice of the lake, where they wait the coming of spring
to begin their journey by water to the mills.

The shantyman leads a free, hearty, healthy life.  From
dawn until dark he works in the open air, exercising lungs
and muscles.  When the autumn rains are over, and the
snow has come to stay, he breathes for four months the
clear, cold, bracing air of the Canadian winter, fragrant
with the scent of pine and cedar.  No matter how fond
of drink he may be, not one drop of liquor can he have,
although he may and does drink long and deep from the
"cup that cheers."

His fare possesses at least two sterling merits.  It is
substantial in quality and unlimited in quantity.  He
enjoys it most when the day's work is over, and, no less
weary than hungry, he trudges home to the shanty.  There
he finds the warm welcome of a steaming supper awaiting him.

Drawn up about the blazing fire he sees a pot of excellent
pea-soup, a boiler of strong tea, a big pan full of fat pork
fried and floating in gravy, another pan containing slices of
cold boiled pork, huge loaves of bread baked in great iron
pots buried deep in the ashes of the "camboose"—and
better than city baker ever made—and a pile of bright tin
basins.

Picking up two of the basins, he fills one with soup and
the other with tea.  Helping himself to a generous slice of
the hot bread, he makes use of it as a plate for a slice of
the pork.  Then he retires to the edge of his bunk, and
with the aid of his clasp-knife discusses this solid if not
varied repast.

There is not much change in the bill of fare all winter.
Occasionally, perhaps, if the roads permit, fresh beef "on
foot" will be sent up from the depot, and the lumbermen
may enjoy the luxury of steaks and roasts.  Quite often,
too, a bit of game will fall in their way while they are
working in the woods.  Great is the rejoicing when François
or Alec succeeds in bringing down a fat deer.  Bear-steak,
too, is not unknown.  The bear is trapped in a "dead fall,"
or small hut above the door of which a heavy log is hung
in such a way that it drops with crushing force upon the
bear pushing in to get at the bait.

Sometimes the shantymen do a little trapping on their
own account.  One of them, who wished to obtain a fine
bear-skin, paid dearly for his prize.  He had set his steel
spring trap, and returning after an interval, found that it
had disappeared.  The marks in the snow made tracking
easy; and hurrying along, he presently reached a great log
over which the trap had evidently been dragged.  His
haste made him careless, and springing across the broad
trunk without stopping to reconnoitre, he threw himself
right into the arms of the bear.  The animal, weary of
dragging the heavy trap, was resting on the other side.

The hunted creature was furious with pain.  The shanty-man's
only weapon was his sheath-knife, which he drew
and stabbed the bear again and again in the breast.  But
stab as he might he could not loose the brute's fatal grasp.
Next day his comrades, anxiously following up his trail,
found him dead, with the dead bear's paws still holding
him fast.

The shantyman's recess comes when the evening meal
has been despatched.  He has an hour or more before
bed-time.  It is pipes all round, and song and joke and story
win generous applause from the not over-critical audience.
The French-Canadians are especially fond of singing.  They
have many songs, some of which, like "À la claire fontaine"
and "En roulant ma boule," are full of spirit and beauty.
If François or Alec has remembered to bring his fiddle
with him—and he seldom forgets it—the singing is sure
to be followed by dancing as the evening goes on.

Bedtime comes early in the shanty.  By nine o'clock,
at the latest, all have "turned in."  The process of going
to bed consists simply in taking off one's coat and boots,
and rolling up snugly in a couple of thick blankets.  Many
a millionaire would gladly give one of his millions for the
ability to sleep as soundly and restfully in his soft bed as
does the shantyman upon his pine boards.

In the dusk of early morning the foreman's loud voice
is heard calling to the men,—

"Turn out now, and get your breakfast!"

The lumberman has been asleep ten good hours, but
he feels as if he had just lain down!

Sunday is the day the shantyman likes best.  No work
is done upon that day.  He can spend the time as he
pleases.  Generally he is content to lounge about smoking,
and enjoying the luxury of doing nothing.  A religious
service is so rare a treat that when there is one all attend
it without reference to their creed.

Thus the long winter slips by.  The logs accumulate
upon the river bank or out upon the icy lake.  When the
warm days of spring come the lumberman's labours are at
an end, so far as the shanty is concerned.  The great spring
drive begins.  The logs start upon their journey southward,
and the shantyman becomes a river-driver.  Armed with
pike-pole or camp-hook, he hurries his awkward squads of
logs down stream as a shepherd drives his flock to market.

This is often a very exciting and dangerous occupation.
The Canadian rivers abound in falls and rapids, past which
the flocks of tree-trunks have to be guided skilfully.  Many
a time the river-driver's life is in peril as he wades through
the turbulent, ice-cold water, or leaps from rock to rock,
or from log to log, in his efforts to prevent his charges
from stranding.

When the drive is finished the shantyman's labours are
over, until the return of autumn recalls him to the forest.

.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Lacrosse headpiece`:

.. figure:: images/img-270.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: Lacrosse headpiece

   Lacrosse headpiece





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`LACROSSE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   LACROSSE.

.. vspace:: 2

What the game of cricket is to England, and the
game of base-ball to the United States, is the
game of lacrosse to Canada; and yet it is worth noting
that, both cricket and base-ball flourish in Canada, which
goes to show that the young Canadian seeks for quantity
as well as quality in his sport.

The Indians invented lacrosse, just as they invented the
canoe, the snow-shoe, and the toboggan, and it is not
likely that their pale-face brother will be able to invent
something surpassing any of them.  How long ago they
invented lacrosse is a question not even Parkman nor
Catlin can tell us.  The redskins have never had
newspapers, and seem to have been poor hands at keeping
diaries; consequently we can never hope to know when
first the Iroquois champion team, led by the famous chief
"Throw-the-ball-half-a-mile," defeated the Cree champions
under the no less renowned "Stop-it-with-his-stomach-every-time."

Catlin, who saw it played by six hundred, eight hundred,
or even one thousand Choctaws at a time, tells us that the
players would trip and throw each other, and sometimes
take flying leaps over the heads of their stooping opponents,
or dart between their extended legs.  "There are times,"
he adds, "when the ball gets to the ground, when there is
a confused mass of sticks, shins, and bloody noses."  I may
add on my own account that those times are not altogether
past and gone.  Scratched shins and crimsoned noses are
still to be found on the lacrosse-field.

There is, of course, a good deal of difference between
lacrosse as played by the whites to-day and as it was
played by the redskins half a century ago.  In the first
place, the ground was not a level, smooth-shaven lawn,
with a cinder path around it, and beyond that rows of seats
for spectators, but a glade in the forest, interspersed with
stumps of trees, fallen trunks, and clumps of young spruce.
The goals were single poles or stakes, about eight feet high,
and the distance between them varied, in proportion to the
number of players, from five hundred yards to half-a-mile,
or even more.  Then the crosse was much shorter, and
smaller as to its netting, while among some tribes no netting
at all was used, but instead thereof two sticks having
spoon-shaped ends, between which the ball was caught and
carried.  As to the dress of the players—well, the difference
is not so very great.  The white men wear a little more
on their backs, and canvas shoes instead of moccasins on
their feet, and that is about the sum of the matter.

I will now try to describe the game as it is played by
the Canadian clubs to-day.  The ground should be a smooth,
level field one hundred and fifty yards in length by one
hundred in breadth at the very least, and for championship
matches another fifty yards each way is most desirable.
The goals should be one hundred and twenty-five yards
apart, but a lesser distance may be agreed upon between
the two captains if the nature of the ground requires it.
The side boundaries are formed by the fence or ring of
spectators, as the case may be.  If the ball goes over the
one, or gets tangled up with the other, it has to be brought
out and "faced."  The nature of "facing" will be explained
further on.  The goals are simply two poles six feet high
and six feet apart, and in front of them, at a lacrosse stick's
length from their base, a line is marked with whitewash,
inside of which no attacking player must enter unless the
ball has preceded him.  If he enters in advance of the ball,
the goal-keeper may drive him out at the point of his stick,
and use any violence necessary for that purpose.

The side consists of twelve players and a captain.  The
captain does not play; he simply runs round and shouts
at the other fellows.  It looks like an easy job, but it is
far from being so.  Upon the captain very often depends
the fate of his team, and he should always be a cool,
clear-headed, experienced player, thoroughly up to all the tricks
and subtleties of the game.  The lacrosse-sticks, or crosses
as they are called, are light, strong sticks, made of either
hickory, ash, or rock elm; the Indian preferring the first
because of its strength, and the white man the other two
because of their lightness.  There is no rule as to the
length of a stick, but practical experience has shown that
the most convenient length is equal to the distance from
the toe to the hollow under the arm.  Each player can
therefore suit himself in the matter.  The netting is of gut,
and should be about twenty-nine inches long, and must
not be more than twelve inches wide at its widest part.
Nine inches is a good average width.  There must be no
"bag" to the netting, and to guard against this the referee
is required to inspect the crosses carefully before allowing
the match to begin.  The ball is of sponge india-rubber,
about half-an-inch less in circumference than a base-ball,
and weighing about four ounces.  It should bounce freely,
as this adds greatly to the uncertainty and interest of the
game.

All the preliminaries having been satisfactorily arranged,
a fine day, a good ground, and a large gathering of spectators
secured, we will suppose that a championship match
between the representative teams of Montreal and Toronto
is about to take place.  At the appointed hour the teams
issue from their dressing-rooms amid the cheers of their
adherents and line up before the referee and umpires.
That is, they face one another in two parallel lines, and
then the referee proceeds to examine their crosses lest they
should be "bagged," and their shoes lest they may be
spiked.  He also addresses a word of warning to them
upon the subject of rough play, which, unhappily, has
become far too common of late.  He then dismisses them,
and they take up their places on the field.  When this is
done they take their positions in pairs, each man having
an opponent opposite him.  Thus the Montreal goal-keeper
has the Toronto "inside home" just in front of him; each
of the fielders has a man to "cover" him, as the term is,
and there is a Toronto "centre" as well as a Montreal
centre.

The game is begun by the two centre fielders.  They
half kneel opposite each other, and lay their crosses on the
ground, face to face, every nerve and muscle tingling with
excitement, for much may depend upon which gets the
advantage at the start.  This is called "facing the ball,"
and when the referee is satisfied that everything is in
readiness, he places the ball between the two crosses, taking
care that it is exactly in the middle.  At his shout of
"Play," the two centres strive, by a sharp, sudden twist of
the crosse, each to draw the ball in his own direction.  The
successful one immediately passes it to the nearest fielder
on his own side, who is instantly pounced upon by his
"cover," and then the fun begins in fierce earnest.

It is quite out of the question to convey through the
medium of print any adequate conception of the interest
and excitement that a game of lacrosse between two
well-matched teams affords.  For brilliancy of individual effort
as well as of combined team play, for incessant movement
and thrilling situations, for cheer-inspiring displays of
undaunted pluck or untiring fleetness, there is no game
that can compare with it.  The ball flies all over the field,
now soaring like a bird through the air, now skimming
along the ground like a frightened field-mouse.  First one
goal is in danger, and the players crowd so thickly about
it that you cannot see the goal-keeper.  Then a long throw
from his skilful stick sends the rubber away off to the side,
or perhaps almost down to the other goal, and two dangers
are over for the time.  Next an artful dodger will catch
the ball on his crosse, and turning, twisting, dodging this
way and that, dropping the ball when checked, only to
pick it up again deftly after the checker is eluded, will,
amid the shouts and cries of spectators and players alike,
carry it clear down the whole length of the field, and
perhaps, if he be very lucky, send a "grounder" between
the goal-posts ere the goal-keeper has time to recover from
the surprise of his onset.

In the throwing, catching, checking, running, and dodging
which the game calls for, every muscle and sinew is given
fullest exercise, and every man in the team has a share of
the work.  There is no "loafing" possible in lacrosse, as
there is in base-ball and cricket, when the out-field are
getting nothing to do.  Even the goal-keeper has plenty
of hard work, for whenever the ball goes behind the goal-posts
he must go after it, and struggle for it until he can
send it either to one of his own side or far down the field.
Indeed, the ability to play well "behind the flags" is as
important a quality in a goal-keeper as an argus-eyed
watchfulness over what is going on in front of him.

While individual brilliancy—"grand-stand play," as it
is sometimes called—is all very well in its way, good
team-playing is far more effective in the end, and it is just
because the whites excel in the latter that they have
become more than a match for the redskins, from whom
they have adopted the game.  One of the prettiest sights
imaginable is to see two expert players "tobying" to one
another for perhaps half the length of the field before they
can be stopped.  This tobying consists in their running
along ten or fifteen yards apart, and throwing the ball
from one to the other so soon as there is danger of the one
carrying it being checked.

Another valuable accomplishment in a lacrosse-player is
knowing how and when to "uncover"—that is, to stop
away from the opponent who has been deputed to cover
him, and consequently be free to snatch up the ball the
moment it comes his way.  When one team understands
this better than the other, the result is to convey the
impression that it must have more players, because there
always seem to be two of them at least wherever the
rubber is.

The game is won by the ball being thrown between the
goal-posts, not higher than an imaginary line drawn across
their tops.  It must, of course, be thrown through from in
front.  Formerly a match was decided by the winning of
three games, "best three out of five;" but in one of the
two lacrosse associations now existing in Canada a change
has been made, and unless one team wins three games
straight, play must be continued for two hours, and then
the team having the most games wins the match.  The
reason of the change was that in some cases a team would
take three games from their opponents in a few minutes,
and at this the spectators grumbled.

The most interesting recent event in the history of the
game in Canada is the visit of the famous Toronto twelve
to Great Britain.  They are a splendid lot of players, and
seem to have it all their own way, as might be expected.
The fact, however, that there are enough lacrosse
clubs in the Old Country to make it worth their while to
go over, proves that the game is making progress round
the world.  Indeed, it has been already heard of from
Australia, India, China, and other far-away quarters of the
globe.

In the United States it is spreading rapidly, and the
time cannot be far distant when we shall have international
struggles for supremacy in lacrosse as well contested as we
already have in some other sports.  Some years ago a team
from the United States crossed the Atlantic to contend
against their British cousins, and succeeded in winning
every match they played but one.






.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A PILLOW-SLIP FULL OF APPLES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   A PILLOW-SLIP FULL OF APPLES.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center

   "*\A. & \H. \O. \A. \S.*

.. vspace:: 1

"*The arch-room—ten o'clock to-night.  Bring a sheet and
pillow-slip.  ABRACADABRA.*"

.. vspace:: 2

Charlie Draper gazed at the piece of paper
containing these simple words and mysterious signature
with mingled feelings of pride and trepidation—pride
because it was the first time since his coming to Twin Elm
Academy that he had been the recipient of one of these
much-prized missives, and trepidation because he had very
vague notions of what his accepting the invitation it bore
might entail.

He was a new boy, just finishing his first month at the
academy, and being of rather reserved disposition, had
been slow in forming acquaintances.  Indeed, but for an
incident that suddenly brought him into prominence, he
might have made still poorer progress in this direction than
he did.

A few days before this communication from "Abracadabra,"
a party of the boys were bathing in the river
near Deep Pool.  A youngster who could not swim rashly
ventured too near the pool, and disappeared in its dark
depths.  There arose an immediate chorus of cries from
his companions, but no intelligent effort was being made
at rescue, when Charlie Draper, who had not been of the
party, came rushing up, threw off his cap and coat, plunged
into the pool, and brought out the drowning boy at the
first try.

Of course he was a hero at once, and the leaders of the
"A. & H. O. A. S."—the secret society of the academy, of
which Charlie had already heard much, and admittance to
which was the desire of his heart—lost no time in deciding
that he was beyond question one of the right sort, and
that he must become one of them forthwith.  Hence the
short but significant summons whose contents have been
already given.

Promptly at ten o'clock, Charlie, in his stocking feet,
and provided with pillow-slip and sheet, crept cautiously
up the long stairs that led to the arch-room.

All the students, except those who belonged to the
society, were already sound asleep, and the two tutors who
lived in the building, knowing nothing of this exception,
and imagining that every cot was duly occupied, had
settled down for a comfortable smoke and chat in the cozy
sitting-room of Mr. Butler, whose quarters were farthest
away from the arch-room.

Upon all this the members of the society had astutely
reckoned, and the coast was accordingly clear for them to
do as they pleased as long as they did not make too much
noise about it.

Bearing his note of invitation as a passport, Charlie
approached the door of the arch-room.  Suddenly out of
its shadow a masked and draped figure darted, and putting
its hand to his throat, inquired in a very husky voice,—

"What doest thou here?"

For answer, Charlie held up his sheet and slip of paper.

"'Tis well.  Pass on," said the husky mystery.

And with palpitating heart Charlie tiptoed through the
door.

The moment he passed the portal, two other masked
and draped figures seized him by either arm, and hurried
him before a fourth figure, who occupied a sort of throne
at the far corner of the room.

"Whom do you bring before me?" asked this potentate,
in the husky tone which seemed to be characteristic of the
society.

"Charles Draper, may it please your sublimity," was the
reply, accompanied by a reverent obeisance, in which
Charlie was directed to join.

"He hath been well recommended to us.  Let him be
put to the tests.  If he doth survive them and will take
the oaths, he may be admitted into membership."

Then followed a lot of the usual elaborate nonsense such
as boys delight to invent and execute in connection with
their secret societies; and at the end of fifteen minutes
or so, Charlie, flushed and excited, but triumphant, was
handed a gown and mask, and informed by the figure on
the throne, whose official title was the same as the
signature to the invitation, that he was duly admitted into the
membership of the society, whose full name he now learned
was The Ancient and Honourable Order of Apple Stealers.

The next piece of information he received rather
staggered him.  It was that, according to the rules of the
society, he must at once justify the confidence its members
had reposed in him by proving his prowess as an apple-stealer.

The August pippins in Squire Ribston's orchard were
reported to be ready to drop into one's mouth.  Upon the
novice, Charles Draper, devolved the perilous duty of
securing a generous sample of those juicy golden globes, so that
the ancient and honourable order might pronounce judgment
on their excellence.

So soon as he understood this, Charlie began to wish he
had not been in such a hurry to join the society.  He had
been at Twin Elm long enough to learn that old Squire
Ribston's dogs were as good in their way as his apples
were in theirs, and he did not at all relish the prospect of
having an argument with them in their own territory at
the dead of night.

But he was too stout of heart to back out, or even to
show any signs of flinching, as his sublimity proceeded to
give him his instructions.

Each member had brought a sheet with him.  These
were quickly converted into a rope, which reached from
the window of the arch-room to the ground.

Stuffing the pillow-slip into his pocket, and putting on
his shoes, Charlie, amid the whispered commands of his
companions—to "Be sure and fill the pillow-slip," "Don't
call the dogs bad names," "Give the compliments of the
order to the squire if you happen to meet him," and other
inspiring injunctions—climbed carefully out of the window,
and let himself down hand over hand to the ground.

Pausing only to kiss his hand circus-fashion to the faces
at the window, he hastened off noiselessly over the
dew-laden grass in the direction of the squire's orchard.

He knew his route well enough, and the distance was
not quite half-a-mile, so that a few minutes' quick walking
brought him to his destination.

The Ribston mansion stood well back from the road, and
the orchard lay to its rear.

Charlie therefore thought it well to leave the road before
he reached the gate, and to take a slant through the
fields that brought him up to the orchard fence about fifty
yards behind the house.

Here he crouched down, and listened, with strained ears
and throbbing pulses, for the slightest sound that might
indicate the proximity of a dog.  But not a growl, or bark,
or even sniff, broke the clover-scented stillness.

As it chanced, he had hit upon a particularly favourable
night for his enterprise, the good squire being wont to
spend his Friday evenings with admirable regularity at
Doctor Aconite's, where the genial rector of St. David's
and important Judge Surrebutter helped to make up a
quartette that could play whist by the hour without so
much as winking.

For the sake of company on the way home the squire
always took his dogs with him, so that until his return,
which was never later than eleven o'clock, the Ribston
premises were entirely unguarded.

Encouraged by the perfect silence, Charlie gently got
over the fence, and making his way to the August pippin-tree,
set diligently to work to fill his pillow-slip.

The boughs were bending low beneath their weight of
juicy fruit, and he had no need to shake them.  There
were far more apples within easy reach of his hand than
he could carry home.

Five minutes sufficed to fill the pillow-slip, and then,
with a vast sigh of relief, he crawled back over the fence,
hastened across the field, and came to the fence beside the
road.

Knowing nothing of the squire's whist club, he took it
for granted that all danger was practically over, and
without looking to right or left, he tossed his bag over the
fence and vaulted lightly after it.

Hardly had his feet touched the ground than a sharp,
suspicious bark came from only a few yards away, and the
next moment a collie dog, followed closely by a fox-terrier,
bounded toward him, barking fiercely, while looming dimly
through the darkness the portly form of their owner could
be descried, as he demanded angrily,—

"Who are you? and what are you about?"

Charlie could have answered both questions easily enough
had he chosen to do so.  But the time did not seem to
him altogether favourable, and instead of a verbal reply
he picked up his pillow-slip, threw it over his shoulder,
and took to his heels, with the dogs after him in full cry.

"Catch him, Grip; catch him, Oscar!" shouted the
squire to his dogs, as he joined in the chase with all his
might.

Although hardly in condition for a sprinting match,
Squire Bibston had been renowned for fleetness of foot in
his younger days, and he showed a surprising turn of speed
as he dashed down the road after the fleeing boy.

Now, had Charlie dropped his heavy pillow-slip, he
might have distanced his human pursuer easily, and as the
dogs seemed to be content with barking, and to have no
idea of biting, the irate squire would never have known
more about the daring raider of his orchard than his strong
suspicion that it was one of those rascally Twin Elm boys.

But to let go his burden was the last thing Charlie
thought of doing.

To his daring, determined nature only two alternatives
presented themselves—escape with his booty or capture
red-handed.

So away he sped, holding tight to the pillow-case, the
collie and terrier punctuating his strenuous strides with
short, sharp barks.

After his first furious spurt, the squire's speed rapidly
slackened until it became little more than a laboured
jog-trot; and by the time he reached the entrance to the long
avenue leading from the main road to the academy, Charlie
was under the window and jerking the sheet-rope by way
of a signal to the boys to haul him up.

Unfortunately, they were so occupied with some of their
nonsense that they did not at first observe the signal, and
precious moments were lost before
they responded, so that Charlie's
anxious ears caught the sound of
the squire's panting as he toiled
gamely along the avenue.

.. _`(Charlie climbing the sheet-rope)`:

.. figure:: images/img-285.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: (Charlie climbing the sheet-rope)

   (Charlie climbing the sheet-rope)

"Hurry up, boys!" he called, as loudly as he dared;
"the squire's after me!"

The boys responded with a sudden jerk that snatched
him off the ground, and nearly made him drop the apples.
Then up he went more steadily, foot by foot.

But he was not half-way to the window when the squire,
guided by his clever dogs, arrived upon the scene, and in
spite of the semi-darkness his keen old eyes took in the
situation at a glance.

"Aha, you young scoundrel!  I have you now.  Take that!"

And he hurled his stout oak cane at the ascending boy.
The result greatly exceeded his expectations, for the stick,
going straight to its mark, gave Charlie such a stinging
blow that he involuntarily let go of the weighty pillow-slip,
and down it dropped full upon the squire's pate,
crushing his tall gray beaver over his eyes and sending
him headlong to the ground.

It was some moments before he could pick himself up
again, and by that time Charlie was safe inside the window.
Beside himself with wrath, the squire assailed the front
door with furious blows, bringing both the tutors out in
startled haste.

To them, as well as his breathless, disordered condition
permitted, he explained himself, and was at once invited
to enter, while Mr. Butler went for Professor Rodwell.

On the professor's arrival all the boys were summoned
to appear in the school-room, and presently in they flocked,
all but the members of the A. & H. O. A. S. (who, by the
way, had managed to get into their night-gowns with
marvellous celerity), manifesting their innocence by their
unmistakably startled, sleepy faces.

"Are all the boys here?" asked the squire suspiciously,
on finding every one arrayed in his night-gown.

Professor Rodwell counted heads carefully.

"Yes, squire, all the boys are present," he replied.

"Humph!" snapped the squire.  "A clever trick; but
they can't pull the wool over my eyes in that way."

An anxious, expectant hush following, Professor Rodwell
addressed the boys in grave yet not unkindly tones:—

"Young gentlemen, it is clear beyond possibility of
denial that some of you have been guilty of robbing Squire
Ribston's orchard.  Now, I dare say, it will not be difficult
to trace out the culprits, but I would much prefer that
they should acknowledge their wrong-doing of their own
accord.  I therefore wait to give them the opportunity."

There was but a moment's pause, and then Charlie
Draper, stepping forward, said in a steady voice, looking
full at Professor Rodwell,—

"It was I that took Squire Ribston's apples.  Let me
bear all the punishment."

A look of mingled surprise and relief came into the
professor's troubled face, and even the squire's
anger-wrinkled countenance seemed to take on a softer expression,
touched with approval of this frank avowal.

"Charles Draper, I am very sorry," said Professor
Rodwell slowly.  "Although you've been but a short time
with us, I had thought better things of you than this."

Charlie's eyes fell and his lip began to tremble.  He
was already feeling deep regret for his part in the matter,
and these gentle words touched him to the heart.

He was just about to express his contrition and ask for
sentence upon himself, when the squire exclaimed,—

"Charlie Draper! is that Charlie Draper?"

"It is," replied Professor Rodwell, wondering why the
squire asked.

"The same boy that saved my little grandson Hughie
from drowning in Deep Pool a week ago?"

"Yes, squire, the same boy," replied the professor, now
beginning to catch the old gentleman's drift.

"Then," cried the squire, who was as quick of generous
impulse as he was of temper, jumping from his seat and
advancing toward Charlie, "I don't want this thing to go
any further.—Here's my hand, my brave lad.  You're
welcome to every apple on the tree, if you'll only come
after them in honest, manly fashion, and not be playing
such foolish pranks, skulking through the fields when you
ought to be abed.—Come, now, Professor Rodwell, let's cry
quits.  I'm willing to let the matter rest.  Boys will be
boys, and if your boys will promise never to go out robbing
orchards again, I'll promise to let 'em into my orchard on
Saturday afternoons and take every apple they find in the
grass so long as the crop lasts."

For a moment the boys were so bewildered by these
astounding words that they could hardly credit their ears.

Then a spontaneous cheer burst from their throats, and
the upshot of the whole matter was that they heartily gave
the promise the squire asked; and the professor, relieved
beyond measure at the turn affairs had taken, dismissed
them with the understanding that the night's doings should
be no further inquired into, provided good behaviour was
maintained in future.

The pledge thus given, taking away from the
A. & H. O. A. S. its principal reason for existing under that name,
did not, however, put an end to its career.  It simply
altered its title and amended its ways, and continued to
flourish as vigorously as before, with Charlie Draper as one
of its most popular and active members.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`LOST ON LAKE ST. LOUIS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   LOST ON LAKE ST. LOUIS.

.. vspace:: 2

The great river St. Lawrence, as if not content with
its ordinary ample breadth, a few miles above the
city of Montreal spreads out into a wide sheet of water
which is known as Lake St. Louis.  Lake St. Louis is
about twelve miles long by eight in width at its widest
part, and being famous for its cool breezes, the people from
the city go out there in throngs every summer, so that its
shores are well populated as long as the thermometer keeps
well above the seventy point.

In winter, however, it is very different.  Then Jack
Frost has a confirmed habit of sending the mercury away
down, down, down, not only below freezing-point, but below
zero even; and the blue waters of the lake turn into a
floor as hard as steel, over which the snows drift and pile
up and scatter again in fantastic windrows, until the warm
spring sunshine melts them into soggy slush, and a little
later rends the solid floor itself asunder and sends it
careering down the current in great jagged ice-floes.

There is nothing undecided about a Canadian winter.
The frost-king means business from the start, and for three
long months keeps a tight grip upon the land.  Some
winters, of course, he is more tyrannical than others.  The
Ross boys, for instance, thought that he had never before
in their experience been so unmerciful as during the season
that the event happened about which I am now going to
tell.  Day after day for weeks at a time the thermometer
would not get up to the zero mark at all, while it would
at night drop as much as thirty points below it.

"'Pon my word, this sort of weather isn't fair at all,"
said Bob Ross, in an impatient tone, at the breakfast-table
one morning.  "A fellow can hardly stir out of doors
without getting his nose or ears nipped.  My nose was
frost-bitten for the third time last night, and that's a little
too much of a good thing for me."

"Right your are, Bob," chimed in Phil, his elder brother,
from across the table.  "My poor ears have been nipped
nobody knows how often.  I expect one of them will drop
off some fine day."

"It's a keen winter, boys, no doubt," assented Mr. Ross.
"I don't remember many as sharp.  But the longest winter
has an end, and you'll forget all about the cold the first
warm day that comes."

"That may be, father," answered Bob, "but I'd like a
little mild weather right now if the weather-clerk has no
objections.  You know we're going over to the church
festival at Beauharnois to-morrow night; and an eight-mile
tramp in this cold weather is not just what I'm hankering
for—though I mean to go all the same."

"Tut! my lad, when I was your age I would have
thought nothing of double the distance, if only a certain
person were at the end of it," replied Mr. Ross, with a
meaning smile at his wife as he added, "But perhaps you
have no such attraction."

"Not I," laughed Bob.  "I'm going for the sake of the
supper; but I won't answer for Phil," looking quizzically
at his brother, who blushed violently and made a timely
diversion by springing up and saying,—

"Come along, Bob; let us get at our work, cold or no cold."

Whereupon the two lads went off together.

Mr. Eoss owned one of the largest and finest among the
many farms that bordered upon Lake St. Louis.  Although
he was what might be called a gentleman farmer, he was a
thoroughly practical farmer too.  He made his farm pay
him handsomely, and thought so well of his occupation
that he had brought up his two boys to follow it also.
When they were grown men he would divide the greater
part of his property between them, reserving only sufficient
to keep himself and his wife in independent comfort during
the remainder of their days.

The two sons, Phil and Bob, at the time of my story
about sixteen and fourteen years of age respectively, were
as satisfactory a pair of boys as parents could wish.  One,
the elder, tall and dark, the other short and fair, both were
strong, healthy, hearty lads, full of spirit, and fond enough
of having their own way, but thoroughly sound at heart
and passionately fond of father and mother.  Although
trained to all kinds of farm work, their education had not
been by any means neglected.  They had had a good share
of schooling, and Mr. Ross never went into the city without
bringing back a new book or the latest magazine, so that
they might keep up with the spirit of the times.

The church festival Bob spoke of was to take place the
following evening at Beauharnois, a village that stood
straight across the lake "as the crow flies" a distance of
about eight miles.  The snow was in capital condition for
snow-shoeing, and the two sturdy boys thought nothing of
the tramp there and back.  They would start from home
at four in the afternoon, make Beauharnois about six, enjoy
themselves there to the best of their ability until ten, and
then set off for home, where they ought to turn up soon
after midnight.

Much to their gratification, the cold next morning showed
signs of moderating.

"Looks as if the weather-clerk was interested in the
festival," remarked Phil in the course of the morning, his
beaming face revealing clearly enough that others than the
weather-clerk were interested in the same event.

"I'm glad it isn't quite so keen as yesterday," answered
Bob.  "A fellow will enjoy the spread all the better for
not going to it with his nose frozen."

"I shouldn't wonder if we had a regular change," said
Mr. Ross, casting a searching glance at the sky, which was
evidently losing its sharp blue tinge and becoming ashen
gray in colour.  "We often do have a soft spell about
this time of the year.  There'll most likely be snow soon.
I hope it won't begin before you get home, boys."

"Oh, I think not," replied Phil confidently.  "It can't
come much sooner than the morning."

The hours of the day slipped quickly by, and sharp at
four o'clock the two boys set forth on their long tramp.
They certainly were a prepossessing pair in their white
blanket-coats, that became them so well, tied with broad
scarlet sashes, and blue caps with scarlet tassels on their
heads.  Bidding good-bye to their parents, who stood at
the door watching them with fond pride, Phil and Bob
strode swiftly down the slope to the lake, and soon were
tramping over its broad bosom, upon which the snow lay
deep in undulating waves.  Barring the leaden hue of the
sky, the afternoon could hardly have been finer.  The
stinging cold was gone, yet the air was keen enough to be
bracing.  There was little or no wind.  The snow was
well packed; and, full of joyful expectations, the brothers
walked on side by side, their broad snow-shoes bearing
them easily upon the very surface of the drifts.  Eight
miles in two hours was no remarkable performance for two
such expert snow-shoers as they, and they accomplished it
without difficulty, reaching their destination just as the bell
in the tower of the church boomed out six solemn strokes.
Leaving their coats and snow-shoes at a friend's house,
they hastened to the place where the festival was in full
swing, and entered heartily into the enjoyments, each
following his own bent.  The expectations of both were
fully satisfied.  The supper presented more dainties on its
generous bill of fare than even the capacious appetite of
Bob could comfortably sample, and Phil was not
disappointed in the light that shone from a certain pair of
brown eyes that for some mysterious reason had more
attraction for him than anything else the entertainment
offered.

Ten o'clock came all too soon for him, especially as the
festival was not entirely over, although some of those who
lived at a distance had already left; but Bob was rather
glad, as the last hour had been somewhat slow, from his
point of view.  So siding up to Phil, he whispered
discreetly in his ear,—

"Time to go, Phil; it's 'most ten o'clock."

Phil pulled out his watch with an incredulous look; but,
alas! it told the same story as Bob, and dearly as he
would have liked to linger, he knew well enough that the
sooner they started now the better.  So, with a very
regretful adieu to the one whose presence had "made the
assembly shine," he joined his brother at the door.

When they got outside, the look of the night and the
feel of the air told them that the snow was nearer at hand
than they had expected.  In fact, a few soft, sly flakes
were already dropping noiselessly.  The friend at whose
house they had left their coats and snow-shoes suggested
their staying all night; but although Bob was nothing
loath, Phil would not be persuaded.

"Father said he'd wait up for us," he objected, "and
he'll get anxious if we're not home by twelve
o'clock.—Come along, Bob."

Accordingly, off they went into the darkness of the
night.  When they reached the shore of the lake, they
could just see the glimmer of the village lights by which
they were to be guided—their home lying about half-a-mile
to the left.  Although their pace was far from a loitering
one, they did not get over the snow by any means so fast
as in the afternoon.

Bob was not only tired and sleepy, but provoked with
Phil for refusing to stay all night at their friend's house.
Indeed, he hoped his brother would yet repent and return,
and so his feet dragged not a little.  Noticing this, Phil
said briskly,—

"Step out, Bob; we'll have all we can do to get across
before the snow comes."

"All well enough to say 'step out,'" answered Bob
gruffly.  "Why couldn't you stay overnight?  I'm too
tired to walk fast anyhow, snow or no snow."

"Oh, you're not tired, Bob.  You've eaten a little too
much supper, that's all," rejoined Phil pleasantly.

Bob vouchsafed no answer, and for some time the
brothers tramped along in silence.  As they neared the
centre of the lake, the snow-flakes, which had at first been
few and far between, thickened rapidly, and the wind at
the same time rose into gusts that blew them sharply into
the boys' faces.

A thrill of alarm shot threw Phil, and grasping Bob's
arm he called out,—

"It looks nasty, Bob; let's put on a spurt."

At this appeal Bob roused himself; and quickening
their pace to a trot, they hastened onward, their snow-shoes
rising and falling in steady, unbroken step.  Every minute
the snow and wind increased, until at length the storm in
full force burst upon the boys and almost blew them off
their feet.  All around them the air was filled with flakes
of white whirling about in bewildering myriads, splashing
like fine spray into their faces and stinging like small shot,
for the wind was bitterly cold.  Presently Phil halted, and,
peering hard into the blinding storm, cried anxiously,—

"What's become of the lights, Bob?  I can't see them a
bit; can you?"

"N-n-no," panted Bob.  "Let's turn back."

.. _`"THE FORMS OF THE TWO BOYS WERE EXPOSED TO VIEW."`:

.. figure:: images/img-297.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "THE FORMS OF THE TWO BOYS WERE EXPOSED TO VIEW."

   "THE FORMS OF THE TWO BOYS WERE EXPOSED TO VIEW."

"No use in that," replied Phil, turning
round.  "I can't see those behind us
either.  There's nothing for it but to push ahead."

"O Phil! are we lost?" asked Bob, with quivering lips.

Phil was more than half afraid they were; but to
reassure Bob he answered cheerfully,—

"It's all right.  I know how to steer.  Come along."  And
grasping Bob's hand he started off again.

On and on they plodded through storm and snow, Phil
half dragging Bob, who, between fright and real weariness,
found difficulty in making progress at all.  For half-an-hour
more they struggled thus, until at last Bob dropped
his brother's hand and flung himself down in the snow,
sobbing out despairingly,—

"It's no use, Phil, I'm dead beat; you'll have to go on
without me."

"Nonsense, Bob," said Phil, taking him by the shoulder.
"Jump up and go at it again."

Thus helped to his feet, Bob made another attempt, but
had not gone more than a quarter of a mile in a way that
was staggering rather than walking before down he slipped
again; and this time all that Phil could do failed to rouse
him from his stupor.  The cold and exhaustion had
completely overcome him.  He had but one thought, and that
was—to be allowed to sleep.  Phil fully realized the
danger, and, tired as he was himself, put forth every
exertion to keep his brother awake.  He even tried to
drag him along by his sash in what he thought was the
right direction, but of course soon found this impossible.

Desert his brother he would not, though they died
together; so, in order to keep himself from falling into the
same state, he made a circle around him, walking slowly.
While doing this he encountered a high drift whose lee
afforded some shelter from the blast.  An idea flashed into
his mind which he instantly proceeded to execute.

Returning to Bob he dragged him with infinite difficulty
to this spot.  Then slipping off one of his snow-shoes, he
proceeded to cover his body with snow, leaving nothing
but his head exposed; the poor boy, now fast asleep, offering
no objection to such strange bedclothes.  Then sitting
down beside him, with the big drift protecting his back,
he let the snow gather over himself, hoping he hardly
knew for what, and praying for the Lord who sent the
snow-storm to have mercy on them both.

In a vague way—for the stupor was fast creeping upon
him too—he wondered if his father had begun to miss them
yet, and whether he would come out in search of them.
He even dimly pictured his father sitting in the parlour at
home reading his book, and pausing every now and then
to listen for his boys' voices.  His mother, he knew, would
have gone to bed long ago.  He felt relieved that the snow
no longer stung his face, and that the wind had gone down
completely, and so his thoughts wandered on until he knew
no more.

.. vspace:: 2

One hour, two hours passed, and the drifting snow had
hidden the forms of the two boys from sight, when a long
line of men might have been seen coming from the village
and scanning carefully every mound and swell of the snow
as they hastened onward.  In advance of the rest strode
Mr. Ross, his face full of grave anxiety, his eyes intent
upon the white plain before him that seemed to have so
little to tell.  Now bounding on ahead and now returning
to look up in his face with inquiring eyes was his wise old
collie, Oscar, without whom he never went abroad.

"Find them, Oscar, find them, good dog," would Mr. Ross
say encouragingly, and the sagacious animal would dart on
again.  Presently he stopped beside a drift now grown to
huge proportions, sniffed sharply at the snow, and then
proceeded to dig into it with eager, vigorous paws.
Observing his action, Mr. Ross uttered a cry of joy and
sprang forward to the dog's side.  Going down on his
knees he tore at the snow-bank in a frenzy of haste.  In
another moment a red tassel appeared, then a blue cap,
then a white, still face, and, others coming to his aid, the
forms of the two boys were exposed to view, Phil still
sitting up with his head bent over his knees, and Bob lying
comfortably beside him.  That they were both alive was
clear enough, for they were breathing—very faintly, to be
sure, but undoubtedly breathing.

Mr. Ross caught up one after another in a passionate
embrace.  Then litters were quickly improvised out of
blanket-coats stripped from willing backs, and soon the
unconscious boys were speeding homeward as fast as
stalwart arms could bear them.

The rest of the story is quickly told.  Thanks to the
sturdy frames and perfect constitutions, the brothers were
only temporarily the worse for their experience.  They
both were frost-bitten, of course, Bob's poor nose and
Phil's feet coming in for the worst of it; but a few weeks'
good nursing cured everything, and no scars remained to
remind them, had they ever been likely to forget it, of the
night they were lost.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ICE-SKATING IN CANADA`:

.. class:: center large bold

   ICE-SKATING IN CANADA.

.. vspace:: 2

It is a glorious winter afternoon, and having left the
smoke and din and dust of the city far behind, we
are standing together at the foot of the first of the
Dartmouth lakes.  Straight before us, and spreading far out
on either hand, lies a glistening expanse, whose polished
surface flashes back the cheerful sunshine.  Three
unbroken miles in length, and more than one in width, this
icy plain awaits us in its virgin purity.  It were strange,
then, did not our fingers tremble with impatience and our
acmes snap with feverish haste.  They are on at last, and
now for the supremest luxury of motion.  The crisp, cool
air is charged with electricity; every answering nerve
tingles delightfully, and the blood leaps responsively
through the throbbing pulses.  Once out upon the ringing
ice, and we seem to have passed from the realm of solid
flesh and blood to that of "tricksy, dainty Ariel."  We
have broken loose from the bonds of gravitation, and as
with favouring wind we speed away to the farther shore,
every stroke of our steel-shod feet counting good for a
quartette of yards, the toiling and moiling of the
work-a-day world seem to have found at the margin of the lake
a magic barrier beyond which they may not follow us,
and with spirits light and free we glide off into a new
sphere where care and labour are unknown.  Mile after
mile flashes past, yet our muscles weary not, nor does the
breath grow short.  But what is this?  Is our flight
already ended; and must we turn back so soon?  The
fir-clad shores, which were a little while ago so far apart,
have drawn together, until they seem to meet not far
ahead, and put a bar to further progress.  A cunning
turn, a short, quick dash over the dangerous spot, where
the current runs swiftly and the ice bends ominously, and,
behold! we are out again upon a second lake, still larger
than the first, and dotted here and there with tiny
ever-green islets that look like emeralds in a silver setting.
For three miles more our way lies before us smooth and
clear; and then at last, as having reached the limit of our
enterprise we throw ourselves upon a fallen tree, to rest
our now tired limbs and catch our diminished breath, I
ask which, of wheelman, horseman, yachtsman, sculler, or
skater, enjoys the finest exercise?

No country in the world presents better facilities for
indulgence in the luxury of skating than Canada.  Holland
may with propriety boast of her smooth canals, Norway
of her romantic fiords, Scotland of her poetic lochs; but
for variety of lake, river, canal, pond, and frozen sea, from
the majestic St. Lawrence to the humblest stream that
affords delight to the village red-cheeked lads and lasses,
Canada is unsurpassed.  It is no wonder, then, that the
Canadians are a nation of skaters, and that the skating-rinks
should be as indispensable an adjunct to every city,
town, and village as the church and the concert-hall.
With a season extending over four and often five months,
the managers of rinks can count upon receiving profitable
returns upon their capital; and so those institutions
multiply.

Owing to the great quantity of snow which every
winter brings, the season for outdoor skating in Canada
is very short, consisting usually of the middle weeks of
December, when Jack Frost, by thoughtfully anticipating
the snow, allows of a fortnight's skating in the open air
before the mantle of winter hides his handiwork from
sight and use.  As a natural consequence, Canadians are
not remarkable for long-distance skating; and two winters
ago the swiftest fliers of our land had to lower their
banner before Mr. Axel Paulsen, the renowned Norwegian
skater, who made a triumphant tour through Canada
and the United States.

On the other hand, the long season enjoyed by the rinks
enables all who will take the trouble, and do not shrink
from a novitiate of bumps and bruises, to become exceedingly
expert at fancy skating; and it is hardly debatable
that the rinks of Toronto, Montreal, Halifax, and St. John
can send forth skaters who, for grace, precision, and
intricacy of movement, would find no superiors in the
world.  When Mr. Paulsen attempted to teach the
Canadians fancy skating, he was somewhat chagrined to
find himself soon reduced to the position of learner.  As
an ice-acrobat he did indeed perform one or two feats that
were novel, but they had only to be seen to be immediately
copied; while some of the Canadians were able to open
his eyes to possibilities of "didoes" which he thought it
not best to hurriedly attempt.  His visit was of permanent
value, however, because it awakened a deeper interest in
long-distance skating; and one may safely venture to
prophesy that, should Mr. Paulsen come this way again,
he will find the defeat of his whilom opponents at long
distances not quite such a holiday task as on the occasion
of his last visit.

What is known in England as "figure-skating," and
there very ardently indulged in by well-to-do members of
the various clubs, who can afford to acquire the art in
Norway or Scotland, is but little practised in Canada.  It
is not suitable for rinks, as it requires so much room, and
can only be done to advantage in large, open spaces, which
the "figurists" may have all to themselves.

Figure-skating is undoubtedly very effective and striking
when executed by a band of well-disciplined skaters
who thoroughly understand one another.  But it is so
elaborate, and takes so much time both in preparation and
performance, that it is not suited to the latitude of a
colony where the majority of those who skate have no
surplus leisure, and want to make the most of the time
at their disposal for recreation.

There is one phase of figure-skating, however, which
does flourish throughout Canada—to wit, dancing; and it
would delight the heart of Terpsichore herself to watch a
well-skilled quartette of couples gliding through the mazes
of the lancers or quadrille, or sweeping round in airy
circles to the music of the waltz.  The evolutions differ
somewhat, of course, from the steps taken on the floor, but
the identity of the dance is far from being lost, and the
pleasure of the dancer is greatly enhanced through the
surpassing ease of motion.  This dancing on the ice may
be seen in its perfection at Halifax, the capital of Nova
Scotia, which, being a garrison city, enjoys the unique
privilege of military bands; and the officers as a rule
becoming enthusiastic skaters, the ladies who grace the
fashionable rink by their presence have a grand time of
it gliding entrancingly about to the bewitching strains of
delightful music, and bringing all the artillery of their
thrilling eyes, tempting cheeks, and enslaving lips to bear
upon the gallant sons of Mars, who oftentimes find the
slippery floor more fatal than the tented field.

The finest rinks in Canada are those in Montreal,
Halifax, and St. John.  The rink at Halifax is really the
Crystal Palace of the exhibition grounds, and for size,
appearance, and convenience is surpassed by none.  One
of the most cheerful sights imaginable is this vast
building on band-night, when the snow-white arena is almost
hidden beneath a throng of happy skaters, youths and
maidens, circling round hand in hand—the maiden
glowing with pride at her admirer's dexterity, the youth
enraptured by his charmer's roseate winsomeness.  Here
doth Cupid bid defiance to the chilling blasts of winter,
and although the poets and painters have conspired to
confine him to a garb appropriate to the dog-days, the
sly wielder of the fatal bow must in winter enwrap
himself in furry garments, and like a tiny Santa Claus perch
his chubby form unseen among the rafters, and from that
coigne of vantage let fly his shafts thick and fast into the
merry company beneath.

One of the chief attractions of skating for the ambitious
disciple is that there is practically no limit to its
possibilities in the way of invention and combination.  It
would be extremely difficult to prepare for any skating
tournament a hard-and-fast programme which would meet
every requirement.  Hence in competitions of this kind
the custom is to lay down some twenty or thirty of the
best-known feats which every competitor is supposed to
do, and then leave each contestant to superadd thereto
such marvels of skill as he may have picked up or
invented.  At the same time, of course, there may be
almost as many degrees of skill represented in the execution
of the set programme as there are competitors, and the
judges must take this fully into consideration when making
their award, and not allow their judgment to be dazzled
by some particularly striking "extra."  Skating tournaments,
however, are not as frequent as they ought to be.
While every other recognized sport has its regularly
recurring trials of proficiency, skating has hitherto been
inexplicably neglected.  Surely nothing could be more
interesting or attractive than a gathering of accomplished
skaters of both sexes vying with one another in the ease
and grace with which they can illustrate the intricacies of
the "grape-vine," the difficulty of the "giant swing," or
the rapidity of the "locomotive."  Trials of speed are
common enough at all rinks, and are undoubtedly more
popular and exciting than trials of skill, but the more
refined and less demoralizing competition should not be
entirely neglected.

The speed attained by those who race in rinks, it need
hardly be explained, affords no criterion whatever whereby
to judge of what fast skaters are competent to accomplish.
The incessant turns, the sharp corners, the confined area,
all tend to materially reduce the rate of progression; and
only out on some broad lake or long-extending reach of
river can the skater do his best.  I have no records at
hand as I write, but my own experience justifies me in
venturing the assertion that a champion skater in perfect
form, and properly equipped with long-bladed racing
skates, would prove no mean antagonist for Maud S——
herself over a measured mile, while at longer distances he
would have the field to himself.

Like all other amusements, skating in Canada waxes
and wanes in popular estimation, according to the mysterious
laws of human impulse.  One winter skating will be
voted "not the thing," and the rinks will be deserted; the
next, they will be crowded, and even the heads of families
will be fishing out their rusty "acmes" from the
lumber-closet, and renewing their youth in the icy arena.  As
a means of exercise during the long, weary months of
winter, when the deep snow renders walking a toil devoid
of pleasure, and the muscles are aching for employment,
the skating-rink is an unspeakable boon, especially to him
whose lot it is to endure much "dry drudgery at the desk's
dead wood."  An hour's brisk spinning around will clear
the befogged brain, brace up the lax frame, and give a
keenness to the appetite that nothing else could do.  Then
the rink has its social as well as its sanitary advantages.
During the winter months it affords both sexes a pleasant
and convenient rendezvous, where, unhampered by the
conventionalities of the ball-room, and aided by the cheerful
inspiration of the exercise, they can enjoy one another's
society with a frequency otherwise unattainable.  On
band-days, indeed, the rink becomes converted into a
spacious *salle d'assemblée*, where the numbered programme
of musical selections enables Corydon to make engagements
in advance with Phyllis, and thus insure the
prosperous prosecution of his suit.

A carnival on ice—and every rink has one or more
during the season—affords a rarely interesting and
brilliant spectacle.  For these occasions the building dons
its gala dress, the gaunt rafters are hung with banners,
the walls are hidden beneath variegated bunting and
festooned with spruce embroidery, lights gleam brightly
from every nook and corner, and the ice is prepared with
special care.  Then, as the motley crowd glides swiftly by,
one may behold representatives of every clime and nation
mingling together in perfect amity.  It is true the tawny
Spaniard, the dark-eyed Italian, the impassive Turk, the
appalling Zulu, the soft and silent Hindu, and others
whose home lies beneath the southern skies, betray a
familiarity with the ice which seems to cast some doubt
upon its genuineness.

But when his Satanic Majesty himself, with barbed tail
and cloven hoof, confesses to an intimacy with the mazy
evolutions of the "Philadelphia grape-vine," the incongruity
attaching to visitors from cooler climes appears less
striking, and they may go on their way unchallenged.
Sometimes masks are *de rigueur* at these carnivals, and
then the inevitable clown and harlequin have unlimited
license, till even Quakers and friars, infected by their bad
example, vie with them in mad pranks, and the fun soon
waxes furious.  Masked or unmasked, the carnival skaters
have a joyous time, and the hours steal away with cruel
haste.

Such are some of the phases of ice-skating in Canada.
If this article has seemed to be devoted principally to indoor
skating, it is because that can be pursued through so much
greater a portion of the winter than the outdoor kind.
Skating in its perfection is of course only to be had in the
open air, and my most delightful recollections are associated
with the Dartmouth lakes, of happy memory.  Connected
with the same lakes, however, there is a recollection too
thrilling to be delightful, and which, in view of what
might have been, brings a shudder even now while I
rehearse it.

It happened in my college days.  I had been skating
all the afternoon, and, as the dusk grew on apace, found
myself away down at the head of the second lake, full six
miles from the point where I had got on the ice; so,
girding up my loins, I set my face towards home, and
struck out lustily.  After going about one hundred yards,
I thought I heard the sound of my name come faintly
to me over the ice.

Wheeling sharply about I saw nothing, except a dark
form some distance away, which through the gathering
gloom resembled a log or tree-branch; and I was just about
to start off again, when once more my name was called,
this time so clearly as to leave no chance for doubt, the
sound evidently coming from the seeming log.  Hastening
over to it with all speed, I was startled to find the professor
of classics at my college—who did not allow the loss
of an arm to debar him from the pleasure of skating—lying
on the ice, with his left leg broken sharp and clear
a few inches above the ankle, the result of a sudden and
heavy fall.  Here, indeed, was a trying situation for a mere
lad to cope with.  We were alone in a wilderness of ice,
and six miles away from the nearest house.  The shadows
of night were fast closing around us.  Those six miles had
to be gotten over in some way, and there was not a
moment to be lost.  Hurrying to the shore I cut down a
small spruce tree.  Upon this the helpless sufferer was
laid as gently as possible, and bound to it with straps.
Then upon this rude ambulance I slowly dragged him
down the lake, while he, with splendid self-control, instead
of murmuring at his terrible agony, charmed away my
weariness by his unconquerable heroism.  It was a
toilsome task, but help came when we reached the first lake,
and once the shore was gained, a long express waggon filled
with mattresses made the homeward journey comparatively
painless.  "All is well that ends well."  The broken
leg soon mended, and the following winter found the
professor skating as briskly as ever.

Yet I cannot help wondering sometimes with a shudder
how it would have fared with the interpreter of Greece
and Rome had not that first faint call reached my ears.  A
bitter cold night, a wide expanse of polished ice, a solitary
man lying prone upon it with one arm missing at the
shoulder, and one leg broken at the ankle—it were little
less than a miracle if ice-skating in Canada had not been
clouded by one more catastrophe that winter night.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE WILD DOGS OF ATHABASCA`:

.. class:: center large bold

   THE WILD DOGS OF ATHABASCA.

.. vspace:: 2

Old Donald M'Tavish was a wonderfully interesting
character.  In the service of the Hudson Bay
Company, which for nearly two hundred years held regal
sway over the vast unknown north-west of Canada, he had
spent half a century of arduous and exciting service, living
far away from civilization, one of a mere handful of white
men in the midst of a wilderness sparsely inhabited by the
Indian and the half-breed, but abounding in deer, buffaloes,
bears, wolves, and the smaller wild animals.

He had risen rapidly in the service, for he was a fearless,
stanch, trustworthy man, and for the latter half of two
terms had filled the important post of chief factor at
different forts; for it was his somewhat undesirable if
honourable lot to be sent to those stations that gave the
most trouble and the least returns to the company.  Such
was his reputation for shrewdness, courage, and fidelity,
that it was felt by the authorities that no other man
could so soon set matters straight as Donald M'Tavish.

Having filled out his fifty years with entire satisfaction
to his employers and no small credit to himself, he had
retired on his laurels to spend a hale and hearty old age,
in the enjoyment of the comfortable pension awarded him
by the company which he had served so well.

It was the delight of his declining days to recount for
the benefit of younger ears the many thrilling incidents of
his adventurous career, and one of his favourite stories
was that which I shall now attempt to tell, as nearly as
possible in his own words.

"It was early in the Fifties, when I had charge of old
Fort Assiniboine, away out on the Athabasca River, not far
from the Rockies.  Sir George Simpson, the governor of
the colony at Red River, like the thoughtful man he was,
had sent out to me by the spring brigade a splendid Scotch
stag-hound, one of half-a-dozen he had just brought with
him from the dear old land.

"O man, but he was a dog!  His back was on a level
with my belt, and when he raised himself on his hind legs
he could put his fore paws on my shoulders and rub noses
with me; yet I stood a good six feet in my stockings in
those days.

"His hair was as grizzled as old Ephraim's, and coarse,
and curled like what they stuff beds with.  His body was
long and lean, and so was his head, but he had a noble eye;
and then the way he could run, and leap over everything
that came in his path, it was a sight to see, I warrant you.

"We soon got very much attached to each other, and
wherever I went Bruce went too.  He did not seem to
take to any one else, and I was just as well pleased that
he did not, for I never wanted him out of my sight.

"That same summer a new hand was sent to the fort.
He was an Englishman, who gave his name as Heathcote,
and he brought with him a pure white female bull-dog that
was one of the most dangerous-looking brutes I ever laid
eyes on.  She minded nobody but her master, of whom, to
do her credit, she seemed fond enough.

"I never much cared for that breed of dog, but I must
say Vixen was about perfect in her way.  As to good-breeding,
there certainly wasn't much to choose between
her and Bruce.

"I was a little uneasy as to how the two dogs would
get on, and at first it did look as if there might be trouble,
for Bruce, who utterly despised the rabble of curs hanging
about the fort, evidently felt disposed to resent the coming
of this possible rival; but almost before I knew it, the
two were the best of friends, and would eat their dinner
side by side like two well-behaved children.

"After a while they took to going out a-hunting
together, and grand times they had.  They would work
along in company until a herd of deer was started, and
then Bruce would make for the fattest doe, his tremendous
speed soon bringing him to her throat; while Vixen, following
at her best rate, would come up just in time to help
him to finish her, and then they would have a fine feast.

"Once the dogs got into these ways neither Heathcote
nor I had much more satisfaction out of them.  They were
never on hand when wanted.  They kept growing wilder
and wilder, and finally, toward autumn, they disappeared
one day, and were never seen at the fort again.

"We hunted for them high and low, sending out the
half-breeds as far as Lake La Crosse on the east, and to
the foot-hills of the Rockies on the west, but not a sign or
trace could we find of them.  When winter came and they
did not return, we gave them up as lost, thinking that
something must have happened to them on one of their
hunting forays, or that perchance they had been killed by
the Indians.

"Two years went by, and Bruce and Vixen were almost
forgotten, when stories began to reach the fort of a strange
and fierce kind of wild dog that was being seen now and
then by hunters and trappers in the out-of-the-way valleys
and ravines of the foot-hills.

"It was not an easy job to get at the bottom of these
stories, for they passed from mouth to mouth before reaching
us; but at last a trapper turned up who had seen a
pack of the dogs himself, and after hearing his description
I had no longer any doubt but that these wild dogs which
were making such a stir were the offspring of our two
former pets which had gone away in company.

"By all accounts they were evidently dangerous brutes
to meet.  From Bruce they had got wonderful speed and
endurance; from Vixen, ferocity and fearlessness.  Swift,
savage, stubborn, and always going in large packs, there
was not an animal on the plains or up among the mountains
for which they were not more than a match.

"I felt eager to get a sight of the creatures, even though
it should mean some risk; for while, like all wild dogs,
willing enough to give men a wide berth, there was no
telling what they might do if pressed by hunger.  It was
therefore good news when, a year later, orders came from
Red River for me to make a trip to Fort George on the
other side of the Rockies, where there were some matters
that needed straightening up, as either going or coming
back I would run a good chance of seeing something of the
famous dogs.

"I left Fort Assiniboine in the autumn, and although a
sharp look-out was kept by all the party as we went over
to Fort George, not a sight nor sign of the dogs did we
stumble upon.

"But on my way back in the spring I had better luck,
and I certainly shall never forget my first and last sight
of those terrible brutes.

"We had crossed the Rockies, and were descending the
eastern slopes, getting down among the foot-hills.  One
day Heathcote and I pushed on together in advance of the
rest, both of us having the dogs on our mind.

"Early in the afternoon we came to a bluff that
overlooked a lovely little valley, which we at once decided
would be our camping-place for that night.  A bright
stream ran along the centre of the valley.  Having a
thought that perhaps a herd of deer might put in an
appearance if we kept out of sight, wo stretched ourselves
out comfortably on the bluff and awaited developments.
They proved to be interesting beyond all our expectations.

"We had been there about an hour, perhaps, when
Heathcote, who had been looking over at the opposite
bluff, suddenly grasped my arm, saying under his breath.—

"'Look there, M'Tavish!  What do you think of that?'"

.. _`"AGAIN AND AGAIN WOULD THE BEAR, RISING ON HIS HIND QUARTERS, HURL THE DOGS FROM HIM."`:

.. figure:: images/img-317.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "AGAIN AND AGAIN WOULD THE BEAR, RISING ON HIS HIND QUARTERS, HURL THE DOGS FROM HIM."

   "AGAIN AND AGAIN WOULD THE BEAR, RISING ON HIS HIND QUARTERS, HURL THE DOGS FROM HIM."

"A break in the bluff had made a sort of easy descent
into the valley, and down this were coming, in single file,
one, two, three, four—no less than a dozen bears of the
large and dreaded silver-tip kind; splendid fellows most
of them, bent on having a good time on the sunny slopes
beside the stream.

"We hardly dared to stir or breathe.  To have attacked
them would have been utter madness.  Thankful might
we be if we could crawl away without their attacking us.

"While lying there motionless, and wishing to the
bottom of our hearts that the rest of the party were on
hand to make matters even, a fierce bark came from the
bluff a little above where the bears first showed themselves.
It was followed by a whole chorus of deep-mouthed
baying, and an instant later there rushed into view, fairly
tumbling over one another in their impetuous haste, a
great pack of dogs that we at once recognized as those we
wished to see.

"They were certainly a fearsome lot of creatures.  Some
were long, lean, and shaggy, like Bruce; others were
thick-bodied and smooth of hair, like Vixen,—and all were
powerful, ravenous-looking brutes, a dozen of whom might eat a
good-sized buffalo for dinner without feeling uncomfortably
overloaded after their meal.

"They sighted the bears the moment they reached the
edge of the bluff, and at once rushed down to the attack,
barking as though they would split their throats.  The
bears made ready to receive them by massing together at
the top of a little knoll near the water, and before we could
fully realize what was taking place the fight had begun.

"So far as we could make out the dogs numbered fifty
at least, so that, considering their size and strength, the
odds were a good deal in their favour; but the bears
fought like heroes.

"At first they crowded together in a sort of circle, with
heads facing out; while the dogs ran round them, snarling
and barking, and watching their chance to spring.  A few
moments later the circle was broken up into a dozen
roaring, writhing, yelping groups, composed of a bear with
four or five of the dogs clinging tenaciously to different
parts of its body.

"It was the Vixen strain that told now.  Again and
again would the bear, rising on his hind quarters, hurl the
dogs from him with mighty sweeps of his huge fore paws,
only to be penned at once, and brought to the ground by a
fresh attack.

"At frequent intervals an agonizing death-howl would
pierce its way through the horrible clamour, as some
unfortunate dog, caught in the grasp of its maddened enemy,
would be crushed to death in his resistless embrace.

"The minutes slipped by, and the fight still raged, but
there could be no doubt how it would result.  The dogs
had the best of it as to numbers, and they were the equals
of the bears in courage, ferocity, and endurance, if not in
sheer strength.

"One by one the big brown bodies rolled over in the
stillness of death.  At the end of about half-an-hour the
fight was over.  Not a bear breathed, and around their
torn carcasses lay between twenty and thirty of the dogs,
as dead as themselves—the best possible proof of how
fiercely and obstinately they had fought.

"Not a word had passed between Heathcote and myself
while all this went on.  We were too much taken up with
the extraordinary conflict going on before our eyes even to
look at each other: but when it was all over, and the
surviving dogs, having satisfied themselves that the bears
were really all dead, lay down to lick their many wounds
before they began upon the feast their brave victims had
provided for them, I touched Heathcote on the shoulder,
and whispered,—

"'We've seen the dogs; let's take good care they don't
see us.'

"After such a proof of their powers as we had had, we
were in no mind to claim a nearer acquaintance with them
on the score of having once owned their ancestors.
Accordingly we crawled noiselessly away, and making a long
circuit, rejoined our party in time to prevent their turning
down into the valley, which we no longer considered a
good place to camp in for the night.

"That was my first and last sight of the wild dogs of
Athabasca.  The following autumn I went east, and never
returned to Fort Assiniboine.  Whether the dogs have
since been all killed off or are still running wild among
the far recesses of the Rockies, I don't know; but that
wonderful battle in the valley was one of the greatest
sights of my life, the like of which no one perhaps will
ever again see on this continent."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BIRDS AND BEASTS ON SABLE ISLAND`:

.. class:: center large bold

   BIRDS AND BEASTS ON SABLE ISLAND.

.. vspace:: 2

If you will take your atlas and turn to the map of
Canada, you may, by looking very carefully, discover a
small spot in the Atlantic Ocean almost due east from Nova
Scotia, and close beside the sixtieth parallel of longitude.
This little lonely spot is Sable Island, There it lies in the
midst of the waves, a long, low bank of gray sand without
a single tree upon it from end to end; nay, not so much as
a bush behind which a baby might play hide-and-seek.  It
seems, therefore, at first sight to be one of the most
unfavourable places in the world for the study of either birds
or beasts.  Yet, strange as it may seem, this island, which
is now but twenty miles long, and at its greatest breadth
but a mile and a half wide—once it was quite double that
size—has a wonderfully interesting history of its own, of
which not the least entertaining chapter is that relating to
its furry and feathered inhabitants.

Although when first viewed from the sea Sable Island
appears to be nothing better than a barren sand-bank, on
closer acquaintance it reveals inside its sloping beaches
vales and meadows that in summer-time seem like bits out
of a Western prairie.  There are green, grassy knolls, and
enchanting dells with placid ponds in their midst; and if
you only come at the right time and stay long enough, you
may gather pink roses, blue lilies, China asters, wild pea,
gay golden-rod, and, what is still better, strawberries,
blueberries, and cranberries in bountiful profusion.

Our concern at present, however, is not with the fruits
and flowers, but with the fur and feathers of this curious
place.

Seeing that Sable Island has no trees on the branches
of which nests may be built, it follows naturally that its
winged inhabitants are altogether of the water-fowl and
sea-bird variety.  All over the sides and tops of the sand-hills,
which rise to the height of thirty, forty, or fifty feet,
the gulls, gannets, terns, and other aquatic birds scrape
together their miserable apologies for nests, and hatch out
their ugly little squab chicks, making such a to-do about
the business that the whole air is filled with their chattering,
clanging, and screaming.

They are indeed very disagreeable neighbours; for
besides the horrid din they are ceaselessly making, they
are the most untidy, not to say filthy, of housekeepers.
After they have occupied their bird-barracks, as their
nesting-places might appropriately be called, for a few
weeks, the odour the wind bears from that direction could
never be mistaken for one of those spicy breezes which are
reputed to "blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle."

Then they have not the redeeming quality of being fit
to eat; for unless one were on the very edge of starvation,
one taste of their flesh, rank with suggestions of fish and
train-oil, would be sufficient to banish all appetite.

They have one or two good qualities.  They are brave;
for at the peril of their lives they will dauntlessly attack
any rash intruder upon their domains, swooping down upon
him with sharp cries and still sharper beaks.

Their movements illustrate the poetry of motion, as they
come sailing grandly in from the ocean spaces, and circle
about their own particular hillock in glorious dips and
curves and mountings upward, that fill the human observer
with longing and envy.

Much more satisfactory, however, are the black duck,
sheldrake, plover, curlew, and snipe, which nest by
uncounted thousands in the dense grass that girts the
fresh-water ponds, and afford dainty dishes for the table.  It is
easy work to make a fine bag on a favourable day, and
grand sport may be had by any one who knows how to
handle a double-barrel.

Many are the interesting stories connected with bird life
on Sable Island, but a single one, and that the oddest of
them all, must suffice.  I give it upon the unimpeachable
authority of Dr. J. Bernard Gilpin.

About forty years or more ago a lot of rabbits were sent
there as an experiment.  The idea was, if they prospered,
to furnish the human inhabitants of the island with a
pleasant variety from the salt junk which generally adorned
their tables.

The experiment succeeded admirably.  Bunny found the
firm, dry sands just the thing for his burrows, while the
abundant wild pea and other herbage furnished unstinted
food for his prolific brood.  But one fateful day in
spring—a dark day in the annals of rabbitdom—a big snowy
owl, that had somehow lost his bearings and been driven
out to sea by a westerly gale, dropped wearily upon the
island to rest his tired pinions.

While sitting on a sand-heap, thankful at his escape
from a watery grave, he looked about him, and to his
amazed delight beheld—of all sights the most welcome in
the world to a hungry owl—*rabbits*!  Rabbits young and
rabbits old, rabbits plump and rabbits lean, rabbits in sixes
and rabbits in sevens, were frisking about in the long
grass and over the sand, merrily innocent of their peril.

At first Sir Owl could scarcely believe his eyes, for it
was a bright, sunny day, and owls cannot see very well
when the sun is shining; but presently, as he still squatted
on the sand, perfectly motionless except his eyelids blinking
solemnly, a thoughtless little rabbit, which had grown
too much excited over a game of chase with his brother
to look where he was going, ran up against the bewildered bird.

This awoke the owl thoroughly.  With a quick spring
that sent all the other little cotton-tails scampering off to
their burrows in wild affright, he fastened his long claws
in the back of his unfortunate disturber, and, without even
stopping to say grace, made a dinner off him on the spot.

That was a red-letter day in the owl's calendar.  Thenceforth
he revelled in rabbit for breakfast, dinner, and supper,
and, had he been a very greedy owl, might have kept
his discovery of a rabbit bonanza all to himself; but he
didn't.  With a splendid unselfishness which some bipeds
without feathers might advantageously imitate, he had no
sooner recruited his strength than off he posted to the
mainland to spread the good news.

Four days later he came back, but not alone this time.
Bearing him company were his brothers, his sisters, his
cousins, his uncles, and his aunts, in such numbers that ere
the summer ended there was not a solitary bunny left upon
the island!

Since then the place has been restocked, and there having
been no return of the owls, the rabbits, despite the fact
that great numbers of them are killed for food, have so
multiplied as to become a positive nuisance, and the
experience of Australia being in view, the advisability of
their extermination is seriously considered.

Besides the rabbits, there have been, at different times,
the following animals upon Sable Island—namely, the
black fox, white bear, walrus, and seals; wild horses, cattle,
and swine; rats, cats, and dogs.  That makes quite a long
list.  Of course so small and bare an island could never
have held them all at once.

Now they are all gone except the rabbits, the horses, of
which several hundreds still scamper wild over the sand
dunes, and the seals, which come every year to introduce
their shiny little whelps into the world, and to grow fat
on the fish hurled continually upon the beach by the
tireless breakers.

It is a great many years since the black fox, white bear,
and walrus were last seen upon the island.  Too much
money could be made out of them when dead for the
fishermen, who knew of their presence, to let them live
long; and so with powder and shot and steel they were
ruthlessly exterminated.  The beautiful skins of the black
fox, worth one hundred golden crowns each, went principally
to France, where they were made up into splendid
robes for royalty.

Just how the wild horses and cattle found their way to
Sable Island is not positively known.

They were first heard of in those early days when ships
loaded with cattle, grain, and farming utensils were coming
over in little fleets from Europe to help to settle America.
In all likelihood some of these vessels got cast away on the
island—for it has ever been a dreadful place for wrecks—and
in some way the animals managed to scramble safe
ashore, and thus the place became populated.

The wild cattle disappeared early in the century; but
the horses, or rather ponies, are still there, and very
interesting creatures they are.

Winter and summer they are out on the sand in all
weathers.  Indeed, they scorn to go under cover even in
the wildest storms; and although shelters have been built
for them, they will not deign to enter them.  Another
curious thing about them is that they are never seen to lie
down, and apparently go to sleep standing.

There are now about four hundred of these ponies,
divided into troops, each under the charge and control of
an old stallion, whose shaggy, unkempt mane and tail
sweep the ground as he stands sentinel over his numerous
family.

They belong to the Dominion Government, and it has
been usual to cull out some forty or fifty of the best of
them each year and send them up to Halifax, where they
command good prices.

They are stanch, sturdy little animals, and very serviceable
when properly broken.  In my boyhood days I rejoiced
in the possession of a fine bay that, barring a provoking
habit of pitching an unwary rider over his head, was a
great source of enjoyment.

The manner of catching the ponies is for a number of
mounted men to surround a band and drive it into a corral
in which a tame pony has been placed as a decoy.  This is
often a very exciting experience: the cracking of whips,
shouting of men, neighing of ponies, combine with the
plunging of the frightened captives and the gallant charges
of the enraged stallions to make up a scene not readily
forgotten.

Once safely corraled, the best males are picked out and
lassoed, and the rest turned loose to breathe the salt air of
freedom once more.

As the breed has been observed to be degenerating
greatly of late years, means have been taken to improve
it, and it is probable that ere long Sable Island ponies
will be more desirable than ever.

A very amusing thing in connection with animal life on
Sable Island is the story of the rats, cats, and dogs.

First of all were the rats, who are reputed to be very
clever about deserting sinking ships, and who here found
plenty of opportunity to show their cleverness, for wrecks
are always happening.  They thus became so plentiful that
they threatened to eat the human inhabitants out of house
and home.  Indeed, they did make them do without bread
for three whole months upon one occasion.

This state of things, of course, could not be tolerated.
A large number of cats were accordingly imported, and
they soon cleared the premises of the rapacious rodents.
But it was not long ere the pussies in their turn grew so
numerous, wild, and fierce as to become a source of serious
trouble.  A small army of dogs was therefore brought upon
the scene, and they made short work of the cats, thus
rounding out a very curious cycle.

Did space permit I could tell something about the seals,
and their very quaint and attractive ways and manners.
But perhaps enough has been already written to convince
readers that however lonely, barren, and insignificant Sable
Island may seem, it has an interesting story of its own
which is well worth the telling.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE BORE OF MINAS BASIN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   THE BORE OF MINAS BASIN.

.. vspace:: 2

Upon the side of one of the rounded hills that rise
up gently from the wonderful sea of verdure
which Longfellow, without ever looking upon it for himself,
immortalized in his "Evangeline," Acacia Villa nestled
cozily in the midst of many trees.  Long lines of poplars
stood sentinel-like up and down the house front, and
marked out the garden boundaries, furnishing abundant
supplies of "peppers" for the boys in spring-time; and,
better still, a whole regiment of apple and pear trees
marshalled itself at the back, filling the hearts (and mouths)
of both young and old with delight in the autumn, when
the boughs bent so temptingly beneath their burden of
fruitage.  There could hardly be a more attractive
location for a boarding-school; and seeing what comfortable
quarters Mr. Thomson provided, and how thoroughly he
understood the business of teaching, it was no wonder that
boys came not only from all parts of Nova Scotia and
New Brunswick, but even from the United States, to be
grounded in classics, mathematics, and literature under his
direction.

The last boarder left Acacia Villa long ago, but twenty
years back its dormitories were filled to their utmost
capacity with lads of all ages and sizes, and the whole
neighbourhood felt the stirring influence of twoscore
lively, hearty, noisy boys in its midst.  For nearly ten
months out of the year the school was like a hive of bees
in honey-time—the term beginning in September and
finishing in June.  It was coming on toward midsummer
now, and excitement ran high throughout the school; for
while the drones were looking forward longingly to the
holidays which would release them from all horrid
lesson-learning for a couple of months, the workers were even
more eagerly expecting the final examinations, when books,
bats, balls, knives, and other things dear to the schoolboy's
heart, were offered by wise Mr. Thomson to the boys who
came out ahead in the different branches of study.  The
two boys strolling down toward the river this fine summer
afternoon were good representatives of the two
classes—Frank Hamilton being one of the brightest and most
ambitious, as Tom Peters, or "Buntie" in the saucy slang of
his schoolmates, was one of the dullest and least aspiring
in the school.  Yet, somehow or other, they had been
great chums ever since they came by the same coach to
the Villa two years before.  One could easily understand
that lazy, good-natured "Buntie" should find much to
admire and love in handsome, manly, clever Frank, who
was indeed a born leader; but just what Frank found in
Tom to make him so fond of him puzzled everybody, from
Mr. Thomson down.  In whatever lay the secret, the fact
was clear that the boys loved each other like brothers;
and the master, who delighted in classical allusions, used
to greet them as Damon and Pythias when he encountered
them together.  They were discussing the approaching
examinations, and speculating as to the prizes Mr. Thomson
would offer this year.

"No apples for me on that tree," said Tom; adding
with rather a rueful smile, "If Mr. Thomson would only
offer a prize for the most lickings and impositions, I guess
I'd run the best chance for it."

"Never mind, old boy," said Frank, consolingly.  "You
weren't cut out for a scholar, that's clear; but you'll come
out all right at something else, and perhaps make a bigger
name than even 'Yankee' himself, although it wouldn't
do to let him hear you say so."

"I'm 'fraid I'd have a poor sight to beat Yankee at
anything," answered Tom.  "But say, Frank, how do you
feel about giving him the go-by for the Starr prize?  It
'ud break my heart if you didn't come out first."

"Well, to tell the truth, Buntie, I don't feel any too
cocky about it.  Yankee's a tough customer to beat,"
replied Frank.  "But, hush! he's coming right behind us.
Must be going down to the river too, though it's more like
him to stick in his room and grind."

And as a tall, slight, dark-faced lad of about sixteen
went past them without exchange of greetings, the two
friends stopped talking and went on in silence.

"Yankee" was the nickname given to one of the
American boys at the school.  He had been thus distinguished
because both in face and figure he bore some
resemblance to the typical Uncle Sam, being longer, leaner,
and sallower than any of his companions.  He was of a
quiet, reserved disposition, and had few friends.  Indeed,
he did not seem to desire many, but kept very much to
himself, so that a lot of the boys disliked him.  Yet, on
the other hand, others respected although they might not
love him; for not only did he divide with Frank Hamilton,
whom they all worshipped, the highest honours in
scholarship, but once, when scarlet fever broke out and
seized upon six of the smallest boys before they could
escape to their homes, "Yankee," or, to give him his proper
name, Emory Haynes, although he had never had the fever
himself, stayed with Mr. Thomson through many anxious
weeks, and watched night after night by the sufferers'
bedsides, showing such tact and devotion as a nurse that
the doctor said at least two of the boys would never have
been saved from death had it not been for his help.

Walking with a rapid, almost impatient step that was
characteristic of him, Emory Haynes passed the two
friends, all three directing their course toward the
Gaspereaux River, which cuts a wide red gash through the Grand
Pré before adding its turbid torrent to the tossing waters
of Minas Basin.

"If Yankee beats me for the Starr prize, it will be the
biggest disappointment of my life," continued Frank.  "It's
not every day that a fellow can get hold of five pounds
in bright big gold pieces; and father has promised if I
win it to chip in as much more and buy me a splendid boat."

"O Frank, you're sure to get it.  Yankee works like a
slave, to be sure, but he hasn't half as good a head on
him," answered Tom confidently.

"I'm not by any means certain of that, Tom.  Just see
how easily he gets through his mathematics.  He's sure
to beat me on that, and I'll have to make up for it by
beating him in classics.  Anyhow, it is no use worrying
about it now.  Let's hurry up and have a dip."

So dropping the subject, the two boys ran off at a rate
that soon brought them to the river bank.

Here a lovely picture awaited them.  From their feet
the red banks of clay and sand stretched hundreds of
yards away (for the tide was out), until they were lapped
by the river, now shrunk into a narrow, sluggish stream.
To right and left and beyond the river the wide, level marsh
lands, redeemed from the water by the patient toil of the
Acadians, were waist-deep in verdure that swayed in long
lines of light and shadow before the summer breeze.  Not
far off began the great dikes that sweep clear round the
outer edge of the Grand Pre, the only elevation on all that
vast plain, and now waving to their summits with
"dusty-blossomed grass."  Behind them the hills rose gently in
fold upon fold, their broad shoulders flecked with frequent
patches of golden grain or the dark foliage of the orchards;
while over all rose a glorious summer sun that seemed to
thrill the whole landscape with life and warmth and
glory.

But the boys had no eyes for all this beauty.  They
were far more concerned about the tide, and felt inclined
to resent very warmly the fact that it should be out just
when they wanted to have a swim.

"What a fraud!" exclaimed Frank.  "'Pon my word,
I believe the old tide is twice as much out as it is in; now
isn't it, Buntie?"

"It is, sure's you're born," assented Tom.  "There's
nothing for it, I suppose, but to wait;" and so saying, he
threw himself down in the long grass, his friend
immediately following his example.

Twenty yards away Emory Haynes was already seated
with his face turned riverward, apparently lost in deep
thought.

"Wonder what Yankee's thinking about?" remarked
Tom.  "Puzzling out some of those confounded problems
he does so easily, perhaps," he added feelingly, for he had
had some humiliating experiences of his own inability to
get over the *Pons Asinorum* safely, or to explain why *a*
was equal to *x* under certain perplexing circumstances.

"More probably planning what he'll do with that five
pounds," said Frank, half petulantly.  "I guess it's more
likely to go into books than into a boat if he gets hold
of it."

"But he isn't going to get hold of it," objected Tom;
and then, without giving Frank a chance to reply, he
burst out, "Oh, I say, Frank, suppose instead of waiting
here we go down to meet the bore and have a race back
with it."

.. _`"THEY SAW THEIR COMPANION EMBEDDED NEARLY TO THE WAIST IN A QUICKSAND."`:

.. figure:: images/img-335.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "THEY SAW THEIR COMPANION EMBEDDED NEARLY TO THE WAIST IN A QUICKSAND."

   "THEY SAW THEIR COMPANION EMBEDDED NEARLY TO THE WAIST IN A QUICKSAND."

Frank hesitated a moment before answering, for what
Tom proposed was a very rash thing to do.  What is
known as the "bore" is the big wave produced by the
onrush of water in a place where the tides rise forty, fifty,
or even sixty feet, according to the time of year.  The
Bay of Fundy, of which Minas Basin is a branch, is
famous for these wonderful tides, and the movements of the
water make a sight well worth watching.  The two boys
had often looked on with lively interest as the returning
flood rushed eagerly up the channel and over the flats,
until in an incredibly short time what had been a waste
of red mud was transformed into a broad expanse of turbid
water.

"Rather a risky business, Tom, but I don't mind trying
it.  I'm in the humour for almost anything to-day; so
come along."

And without more ado the boys doffed their boots and
stockings, rolled up their trousers, and set out for the
water's edge.  Emory Haynes watched them in silence
until they had gone about fifty yards.  Then, as if
divining their foolish design, he called after them,—

"Frank—Tom—where are you going to?"

"Going to meet the bore.  Don't you want to come?"
Frank shouted back.  "Come along, Yankee, if you're not
afraid," he added, in a half scornful tone.

Not the words, but the tone in which they were uttered,
brought an angry flush out on Emory's sallow cheeks, and
without stopping to think of the folly of the thing, he too
flung off his boots and started after the others.

"Blessed if Yankee isn't coming, after all," said Tom,
under his breath, to Frank.  "The chap's got plenty of
grit in him."

Side by side, but in silence—for somehow or other they
felt ill at ease—the three boys picked their way carefully
over the slippery mud and soft sand, keeping a sharp
look-out for the sink-holes or quicksands, in which they
might easily sink to their waists, or even deeper, at one
plunge.  Hardly had they reached the edge of the channel
when Frank, who had been gazing down intently toward
the Basin, called out,—

"There it comes, fellows.  Doesn't it look grand?"

A good way off still, but drawing nearer with astonishing
speed, a wall of dark foam-topped water came rushing
up the channel and over the thirsty flats.  It was several
feet in height, and behind it followed the whole vast
volume of the tide.

The three lads had never been so close to the bore
before, and they stood still and silent watching the grand
sight until a shout from Emory broke the spell.

"Now then, boys, let's run for it."

As fast as their feet could carry them they sped over
the treacherous greasy flats, leaping the gaping gullies,
turning aside from the suspicious spots, and steering
straight for the place where they had left their shoes.
Frank and Tom were both famous runners, and soon
outstripped Emory; in fact, they were more than half-way
to the bank, when a sharp cry of alarm made them stop
and turn to see what was the matter.  One glance was
enough to tell them.  Twenty yards behind they saw
their companion embedded nearly to the waist in a
quicksand, from which he was madly struggling to extricate
himself, while his efforts seemed only to sink him the
deeper.  His situation was one of extreme peril.  The
bore had somewhat spent its force, but still advanced
steadily.  Unless Emory was rescued without delay, he
would be buried beneath its pitiless flood.

For one brief instant Frank hesitated, and Tom, as
usual, waited for him to lead.  Thoughts of the personal
risk, the small chance of succeeding, and even—though
ever after the mere recollection of it made his cheek burn
with shame—of the advantage it would be to have his
rival out of the way, throbbed through his brain.  But it
was only for an instant; and then with a shout of "Keep
cool, Yankee; we're coming!" he grasped Tom's arm, and
together they sprang to the rescue.  Running with all
their might, they reached their imperilled schoolmate just
a second before the bore did, and standing on either side
the treacherous spot were able to each seize a hand, and
with one tremendous effort draw him out of its deadly
embrace ere the great wave came sweeping down upon
them, tumbling them over like nine-pins into the midst of
its muddy surges.  Fortunately, however, all three were
good swimmers, and they had only to allow the water to
work its will with them, for after a little tossing about
it landed them safely on a sand-bank, whence they could
easily wade ashore.

Emory did not say much to his rescuers.  It was not
his way.  But no one could mistake the depth of feeling
expressed in the few words,—

"Frank, you've saved my life, and I'll never forget it."

Two weeks later the examinations came off, and amid
the applause of the school Frank Hamilton was declared
winner of the Starr prize, Emory Haynes being only just
a few points behind him.  Mr. Thomson was very well
pleased at the result; but there was one thing that puzzled
him a good deal—Emory, who was by far the best mathematical
scholar in the school, had somehow or other done
by no means so well in that branch as usual.  In fact, he
had actually left several not over-difficult questions
altogether unanswered, and this more than anything else had
lost him the prize.  Mr. Thomson mentioned the matter to
Frank Hamilton, at the same time expressing his surprise.

"I'm not surprised," said Frank, as something that
looked very like tears welled up in his eyes.  "When I
saved Yankee's life he said he'd never forget it.  That's
how he kept his word."

Mr. Thomson needed no further explanation.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE GAME OF RINK HOCKEY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   THE GAME OF RINK HOCKEY.

.. vspace:: 2

The part performed by Canada in making contributions
to the list of the world's amusements has
been by no means slight.  Lacrosse and canoeing for the
warm bright days of summer, snow-shoeing and tobogganing
for the crisp cold nights of winter, these make up a
quartette of healthy, hearty sports, the superiors of which,
in their appropriate season, any other country might
safely be challenged to show.  But apparently this
ambitious colony is not content with the laurels already
won, and in the bringing of the game of rink hockey to
perfection would add another to her garland; for this
fine game, as played in the Canadian cities to-day, is,
without question, a distinctly home product.

Not that hockey is native to the soil in the same sense
as lacrosse.  In a simpler form, and under different names,
it has long existed in England; but the difference between
the game as played there on the green and played in
Canada on the ice, is as great as that between an
old-fashioned game of rounders and a professional game of
base-ball.

The most ancient account of hockey is to be found in
that dear, delightful old book, Strutt's "Sports and
Pastimes of the People of England," where it figures under
the name of "bandy ball,"—what is now called the hockey
stick being then known as the "bandy;" and there is
attached to the description a comical little woodcut
representing two boys in short frocks, each wielding bandies
almost as big as themselves, playing with a ball half the
size of their heads.

As first played in Canada, hockey went by various
names, some of which were apparently merely local—hurley,
shinny, rickets, and so forth, It was played only
upon the ice in winter-time, and there was not much
pretence to rules, each player taking part as best he knew
how.  No effort toward systematizing the game appears
to have been made until the year 1875, when the members
of the Montreal Football Club, in search of some lively
athletic amusement for the long winter months, recognized
in hockey the very thing they wanted.

At first the rules adopted for the regulation of the
game were modelled upon those of the English Hockey
Association.  But as the game developed, many changes
were found necessary in adapting it to the requirements
of a rink, and the rules now used by the Amateur Hockey
Association of Canada are in the main original with it.

Starting from Montreal, the game has made its way to
Halifax and St. John on the east, and to Ottawa and
Toronto on the west, and from the enthusiasm with which
it has been taken up at these cities, it actually threatens
to displace tobogganing and snow-shoeing in the affections
of the young men.

Let me now try to give my readers some idea of the
game and the way in which it is played.  Please picture
to yourselves a skating-rink with an ice surface one
hundred and fifty feet in length by seventy-five feet in width.
At either end, close to the platform, are the goals,
consisting of two slender poles placed six feet apart, and
standing four feet high, with small red flags at their peaks.
Such is the field of battle, and upon it the players take
their places.  They are dressed much as they would be
for football, except that their feet are shod with skates
of a peculiar make, the heel projecting more than in an
ordinary skate, in order to guard against getting a nasty
fall when heeling up suddenly.  Each player is armed
with a hockey stick, as to the size of which the only rule
is that it shall not be more than three inches wide at any
part.  A good stick should be made of a single piece of
ash, bent, not sawed, into the proper curve, of the length
and weight the player finds to suit him best.  The bone
of contention between the contending sides is called the
puck, and is a circular piece of vulcanized rubber one
inch thick all through, and three inches in diameter.  It
is slightly elastic, and will rebound from the board sides
of the rink if sent violently against them; a fact which
enables an expert player to evade an opponent charging
down to wrest it from him, as by striking the puck against
the boards, and picking it up again on the rebound, he can
keep on his way unchecked.

The teams are arranged in the following manner:—Goal-keeper
takes his place between the posts, and a little forward
of them; point stands about four yards out, and a
little to one side, so as not to interfere with the
goal-keeper's view down the centre; cover-point's position is
from ten to fifteen yards out from goal, and on the
opposite side to
point; centre's post
is indicated by his
name; and the same may be
said of the right and left
forwards, and the half-back, who supports centre.

.. _`"THE GAME GOES ON IN LIVELY EARNEST."`:

.. figure:: images/img-343.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: "THE GAME GOES ON IN LIVELY EARNEST."

   "THE GAME GOES ON IN LIVELY EARNEST."

For the control of the game there are a referee, who
follows it about as does the referee at football, and two
umpires, one at either goal, the sole business of the latter
being to decide whether or not the puck has passed
between the posts, and not above the flags.

Play begins with a bully—that is, the puck is placed
between the two centres in the centre of the rink, and
they, after solemnly striking their sticks together, three
times, scramble for its possession, trying either to drive
it ahead into their opponents' territory, or behind to the
half-back, who immediately passes it to one of the
forwards.  Then the game goes on in lively earnest; and
when the teams are expert and well matched, there is
nothing on ice to compare with it for brilliancy and
excitement.  The exceeding swiftness of the players'
movements; the sudden variations in the position of the puck
as, under the impulse of sinewy arms, it darts from end
to end, from side to side, of the rink; the incessant grind
and clatter and ring of the skates; the crack of the
hockeys, and the shouts of the eager players—all combine
to work up the deepest interest among the spectators; and
the announcement of a match between two good teams
always insures a large and enthusiastic attendance.

The rules by which the game is governed are easily
understood.  So long as the puck is on the ice it is in
play, even though it be behind the goal line.  Of course a
goal can be won only from the front; but an opponent
who is not off-side may follow the puck behind the goal
line, and fight for the privilege of bringing it out again.
The rules as to on-side and off-side are precisely the same
as in Rugby football; that is to say, a player must
always be between his own goal and the puck when he
plays on it.  A violation of this rule calls for a bully at
the spot where the wrong stroke was made.  The referee
is the sole judge in all matters of this kind, and from his
decision there is no appeal.  The puck may be stopped,
but not carried or knocked on by any part of the body.
In striking it the stick must not be raised above the
shoulder.  The object of this rule is to check violence, and
the effect of it is to make the stroke move of a push than
a blow, insuring greater accuracy in shooting for goal or
a fellow-player, and adding greatly to the grace of the
game.  A practised player will, with wonderfully little
manifest effort, send the puck from end to end of the rink
if the ice is at all in good condition.

Another mode of propelling the puck which is at
present permissible, but is in danger of being ruled out, is
"lifting."  I cannot very well explain in words how it is
done; but by a deft turn of the wrist, gained only by
diligent practice, the rubber is made to spring into the air
and fly in the desired direction.  It is a very effective but
dangerous way of gaining ground, the danger consisting in
the liability of players to be struck by the weighty
missile, and ugly blows have often been received in this way.
A "lift" at the goals is very hard to stop, if sent in low
and swift, as I know by personal experience; for once,
when tending goal, the point of my opponents charged
down the length of the rink, and, without slackening
speed, "lifted" the puck, and sent it past me like a bullet,
while I was making ready to receive it on the ice, not
imagining that he could lift successfully while at full
speed.

No charging from behind, tripping, collaring, kicking, or
shinning is allowed; and if any player offends after two
warnings, it is the duty of the referee to order him off the
ice for the remainder of the match.  If the puck goes off
the ice behind the goals, it must be taken five yards out,
at right angles from the goal line, and there "faced" as at
the beginning of the game.  When it goes off the ice at
the sides, it must be faced five yards at right angles from
the side boundary.

The goal-keeper must not during play lie, kneel, or sit
upon the ice, but must maintain a standing position.  He
may stop the puck with his hands or feet, but may not
throw or kick it away from the goal.  He must play it
properly with his stick.

Two half-hours, with an intermission of ten minutes to
regain breath and wipe off the perspiration, is the time
allowed for a match, the team winning the most goals
being the victors.  There are no other points than goals
to be scored.

Such are the principal rules; and now for a few words
in conclusion of a general character.  Only those who are
in good condition and at home on their skates should
undertake to play hockey.  It is a violent game, and tests
both wind and muscle to the utmost.  The player must
make up his mind to many falls, and no lack of hard
knocks on shins and knuckles; for such things will happen,
however faithfully the contestants try to keep to the
rules.  At the same time, these very characteristics make
hockey one of the manliest of sports.  Strength, speed,
endurance, self-control, shrewdness, are the necessary
qualities of one who would excel in it.  Combination play is
just as effective in it as in football, and there is no
practical limit to the skill that may be attained.

A very important feature of hockey is that it may be
played at night.  Since the introduction of the electric
light our rinks are made as bright as day, and then the
many hard-working young men who are too busy all day
to take part in any sport have the opportunity of an
hour's splendid exercise after their work is over.

Take it all in all, there is perhaps no winter sport
exclusively for men that is destined to become more popular,
or have more enduring favour.  In Canada new associations
are rapidly springing up, and local leagues that
arrange a schedule of matches for the season.  The boys
are taking hold of the game with great zest, closely
imitating the tricks and artifices of their big brothers, and it
is safe to say that hockey has definitely taken its place
among the national sports of Canada.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ON THE EDGE OF THE RAPIDS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   ON THE EDGE OF THE RAPIDS.

.. vspace:: 2

"Hurrah, Lon! we've got the sort of day we've
been looking for at last," cried Alec Pearson, as
he met his chum one lovely still summer morning.  "No
trouble about getting over to Deschenes to-day."

"Right you are, Alec!  This is just the correct thing.
We'll start straight after breakfast—hey?"

"As soon as you like, provided mother's got the grub
ready.  Can't think of going without that, you know."

"No, sir.  A basket of grub's half the fun.  And
mother's promised me a big one."

"Ditto mine," responded Alec.  "So there's no fear of
our starving for a while, even if we get cast away on one
of the islands."

"Cast away on one of the islands!" echoed Lon.  "That's
a great idea!  Wouldn't it make a great sensation?"

"Perhaps it would," replied Alec, who was of a more
cautious and unimaginative cast of character.  "But I'm
not hankering to try it all the same.  To get over to
Deschenes will be enough fun for me."

The speakers were two boys of about sixteen years of
age, sitting upon the front steps of a summer cottage, and
looking out across the splendid stretch of water that
flashed like a flawless mirror beneath the fiery morning
sunshine.

They had come out to Britannia for the summer, and
were enjoying its fine facilities for boating, bathing, and
canoeing as only city boys, pent up in close quarters for
three-fourths of the year, can enjoy such exhilarating
sports.

The great Lake Deschenes filled them with profound
admiration.  They exulted in its magnificent breadth, its
mighty length, its cool, limpid depths, and most of all the
glorious rapids which marked the place where it gathered
itself together to become the River Ottawa again, and
resume its steady course seaward.

Nearly all their time they spent upon the water or in
it, and in the course of a month had become tolerably
expert canoeists, so that they did not hesitate to take long
trips up the lake or across to the farther side.

The visit to Deschenes village, whose cottages were
scattered along the lake shore almost opposite to Britannia,
had been put off until they felt themselves to be thoroughly
masters of their cranky craft; for in order to get there
it was necessary to cross the head of the rapids, and to do
this successfully would require both strength and skill.

For a week past Alec and Lon had felt themselves to
be equal to the task, but had been delayed by unfavourable
weather.  Great, then, was their delight when this
particular Saturday morning dawned clear and calm,
promising to be the very kind of a day they desired.

They started at nine o'clock, taking with them for
company, besides their well-filled baskets, Wad, Alec's
handsome hunting spaniel, who had learned to behave perfectly
on board the canoe.

Their craft was of the most approved make, of which
they were joint-owners, completely equipped with paddles,
cushions, sails, and steering-gear.

There being not a breath of wind, they had no use for
the sail, so the mast was not put up nor the rudder
shipped.  In his enthusiastic eagerness to realize their
long-cherished plan, Lon set to paddling with all his
might; but Alec, who had the stern, laughingly checked
his ardour, saying,—

"Take it easy, Lon; take it easy, my boy!  There's lots
of work ahead of you.  Better not waste your muscle now!"

Alec had taken care to make inquiries of some of the
Britannia folk as to the course he should steer, and they
had all impressed upon him to go a good way straight up
the lake, and away from the rapids, before turning toward
Deschenes, as the current was tremendously strong, and
made itself felt far higher up than one would imagine,
looking at it from the Britannia side.

Accordingly he pointed the canoe almost due north, as
though he had Aylmer in mind rather than Deschenes, and
kept her on that course until Lon began to grow impatient.

"What's the use of going up so far?" he protested;
"you can't feel the current here."

"Because old Lark told me to make that point before
striking across, and he knows all about it," replied Alec.

"Ugh: Lark's an old fuss.  He goes away up there
only because he's too lazy to pull straight across where
the current's strong," grumbled Lon, who had a passion
for short cuts, and who kept urging his companion to head
the canoe more directly toward their destination, until at
last Alec, for very peace's sake, and against his better
judgment, altered their course in compliance with his
wishes.

For a hundred yards or so the paddling was no harder
than before, and they made no leeway, so that Lon could
exclaim triumphantly,—

"There now, didn't I tell you?  It's only a waste of
time going so far up."

But when another hundred yards' advance had brought
the canoe fairly into the middle of the mighty stream,
moving with majestic flow toward the angry rapids, the
paddlers soon awoke to the fact that while they were still
making good headway, they were making considerable
leeway also, and that the task of getting across was going
to be made much harder thereby.

Although both noticed this, neither made any remark
about it at first: Alec, because he did not wish to alarm
Lon; and Lon, because he shrank from admitting that it
would have been wiser to follow shrewd old Lark's advice.
So they paddled away in silence, putting plenty of
muscle into their strokes, and anxiously measuring their
progress by landmarks on the farther shore.

Presently their exertions began to toll upon their young
frames.  The perspiration beaded their faces, their breath
came short, their backs began aching, and their arms grew
weary.

Lon's heart was already sinking within him, and Alec
deeply regretted having yielded to his companion's
ill-advised solicitations to disregard old Lark.

But there was no time for reconsideration or exchanging
of regrets.  They were beyond a doubt in the grasp of the
current, and must strain every nerve to extricate themselves.

Then, to add to their anxiety, the weather showed signs
of betraying the fair promise of the morning.  Clouds
began to obscure the deep blue of the sky, and a breeze
to ruffle the calm surface of the lake.  Unable to control
his feelings any longer, Lon broke out with more than a
hint of a sob in his voice,—

"O Alec, I wish we hadn't started!  I'm getting awfully
tired, and we don't seem to be making any headway
at all."

"Oh, yes we are, Lon," responded Alec, doing his best
to be cheerful.  "Paddle away; we'll get across all right."

Thus encouraged, Lon put a little more life into his
strokes for the next few minutes, and the canoe did seem
to be gaining ground.  But the gain was only temporary.
The further they advanced the more they felt the force of
the current.

Yet it was too late to turn back.  Their only course
was to keep on until they had shaken themselves free
from the power that was dragging them downward to
destruction.

Whether they would have been equal to this feat can
only be guessed; for in trying to change his position to
relieve his cramped legs, Lon lost his balance for a moment,
and on attempting to recover himself did what was even
worse—let slip his paddle, which was instantly whirled out
of his reach.

"O Alec! what shall we do now?" he cried in dismay.

Alec's face was white and set.

"Nothing—we are powerless," he said quietly.

It was, of course, futile for him to try to contend alone
with the pitiless current.  The little canoe, as if glad at
having no longer to fight its way foot by foot, glided gaily
down towards the rapids, and all that Alec could do was
to keep it straight in its course, and not allow it to swing
around broadside.

Poor Lon, utterly overcome with terror, crouched down
in the bow, sobbing so that he shook the frail canoe.
But Alec was not one to yield to despair so long as
anything could be done.

His brain was busy seeking some scheme for escape
from their exceeding peril, and as he glanced anxiously
ahead, a thought flashed into his mind that caused his eye
to brighten and his pale face to light up with hope and
determination.

Right on the edge of the rapids, just before the smooth
swift stream broke up into tumultuous billows, stood a
little island—a mere patch of rocks, crowned with
half-a-dozen straggling trees.

If he could only beach the canoe on this island they
might yet be saved.  It was all that remained between
them and certain death.

The island was not more than two hundred yards distant,
and to reach it he must make the canoe cut obliquely
through the current.  Summoning all his energies for a
supreme effort, he bent to his task, in the meantime saying
to Lon,—

"Be ready to jump the moment the canoe strikes."

For a boy of his age, Alec put a wonderful degree of
strength into his strokes, and he had the joy of seeing his
frail craft obey, in spite of the opposing waters, until it
was pointing fair for the island.  Then with a glad hurrah
he ceased fighting the current, and joined forces with
it, so successfully as to drive the canoe straight towards
the rocks.

He did not miss his aim.  With a leap, as though it
were alive, the canoe rushed at the island and ran half
its length out of the water, a sound of splintering wood
telling that its bottom had suffered in so doing.

With feelings of indescribable relief the boys sprang
out upon the solid ground, and instantly embracing one
another, danced about in sheer exuberance of joy.

The rapids were cheated of their prey, and the worst of
the peril was passed.

Having thus given vent to their feelings, they proceeded
to examine the canoe, and were glad to find that its
bottom was not very badly injured, and could be easily
repaired.

Their next thought was, how could they get off the
island?  They were safe enough there for the present,
of course, and they had sufficient provisions, if carefully
husbanded, to keep them from starving for three or four
days.

But they had no idea of playing the part of Robinson
Crusoe and his man Friday, even for that short space of
time, if it could possibly be helped.  So they got on the
edge of the island nearest Britannia, and Alec held up his
paddle with his coat on it as a signal of distress, while
both shouted at the top of their voices.

Their shouts were drowned in the ceaseless roar of the
rapids; but after a while their signal of distress was
observed, and soon a crowd had gathered on the shore
opposite them, and there was great excitement.

Everybody was eager to help, but nobody knew just
what to do.  All sorts of schemes were suggested for the
rescue of the boys, the most feasible of which was to have
a large boat go out above the rapids and anchor there, and
then send down a smaller one secured by a rope, with
which it could be hauled back again, for no boat could by
any possibility be rowed back against that mighty current.

But there were two difficulties in the way of this plan.
There was no boat at the village big enough and no rope
long enough for the purpose, so some other way must
needs be devised.

The morning wore away and the afternoon shadows
lengthened without anything being done, and it looked as
though the boys would have to stay on the island all
night, when the cry was raised that there was a raft
coming down; and sure enough the great towing steamer,
followed by a huge raft of square timber, hove into sight
far up the lake.

The problem of the boys' deliverance need no longer
he worried over.  The raftsmen would solve it in short
measure.

The big raft reached Britannia just long enough before
dark to allow of the rescue being accomplished.  The
moment the foreman heard of the boys' situation he detailed
six of his best men, three being Indians and three French
Canadians, to bring them off.

Landing their largest bonne, a kind of boat peculiar to
lumbering being flat on the bottom and very high at both
bow and stern, they rowed off briskly towards the rapids,
laughing and chaffing one another, and evidently deeming
it quite a bit of fun, while the crowd gathered on the
shore watched their every movement with breathless
attention.

Managing their clumsy-looking but most seaworthy
craft with perfect skill, they made an easy landing on the
island, took the boys on board, and then waving their hats
to the admiring onlookers, continued gaily on into the very
midst of the boiling rapids, the big bonne bobbing about
like a cork, seemingly at the entire mercy of the waters,
yet all the time being cleverly steered by her crew, and
after an exciting passage, during which the boys hardly
breathed, shooting out into the smooth stretch below the
rapids without having taken so much as a single drop of
water on board.

A hearty cheer broke from the delighted spectators at
this happy conclusion to the affair, and a few moments
later the boys were in their midst, receiving the embraces
of their overjoyed parents and the vigorous congratulations
of the others.

The rescuing raftsmen were well rewarded for their
timely service, and Master Lon learned a lesson in caution
that he is not likely soon to forget.

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.. _`THEO'S TRIUMPH.  *Page* 368.`:

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   THEO'S TRIUMPH.  *Page* `368`_.





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.. _`THEO'S TOBOGGANING TRIUMPH`:

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   THEO'S TOBOGGANING TRIUMPH.

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The boys of Bridgetown were all agreed that there
had not been such a winter for tobogganing since
they could remember; and if they ever thought of the
weather-clerk at all, it was with feelings of the deepest
gratitude.

In the first place, it began with a frost that made the
ground as hard as iron, and the waters were, in Bible
language, "hid as with a stone."  Then upon this came one
fall of snow after the other, until there was nothing left to
wish for in that direction, and the hoys were thoroughly
content.

Not only was the weather-clerk thus considerate, but
nature had already been kind enough to provide them with
the finest site for a toboggan slide imaginable.  The placid
stream which bore the name of Bass River spread out into
a broad reach just before it came to their town, and on one
side the bank rose up into a steep bluff whose grass-grown
face, slanting right down to the water's edge without a
break or gully, seemed intended for no other purpose than
to afford the boys a splendid coasting-ground when well
sheeted with snow.  And the boys knew right well how
to appreciate their privileges, I can assure you.  To go out
to Bass River Bluff on a Saturday afternoon was to witness
a scene well worth seeing.  The hill would fairly swarm
with boys and girls enjoying themselves to the top of their
bent.  From Patsey Kehoe, the washer-woman's ragged
urchin, with his curious apology for a sled constructed out
of old barrel staves, on which he dared to take only short
slides from a little way up the hill, and which he sorely
regretted was not big enough to carry him and Katey at
the same time, to Ralph Masterton, the eldest son of the
rich and haughty judge, with his big toboggan, so finely
varnished and comfortably cushioned, that could take four
persons down every trip, the young people of the town
would turn out and make the valley ring with their
laughter and shouting.

One of the most regular attendants at Bass River Bluff
was Theo Ross, who, with his widowed mother, lived in a
cozy cottage on the opposite side of the river from the
town, and consequently was looked upon as one of the
country boys, although he came in every day to the high
school.  There was a good deal of rivalry between the boys
of Bridgetown and those who lived in the scattered
settlement across the river, which was known as Riverside—a
rivalry that led to all sorts of matches, and now and then
to fights.  No one took more hearty interest in this rivalry
than Theo.  He was a strong, stout, hardy lad of sixteen,
up to anything, as the saying is, and was generally looked
upon by the Riverside boys as their leader.  One Saturday
evening he came home in high spirits.

"Hoop-de-dooden-do!" he shouted, as he burst into the house.

"Why, Theo, what are you so excited about?" inquired
his mother, looking up with a glad smile of welcome for
the boy that was the joy and pride of her life.

"Excited?  Perhaps I am; and no wonder, for aren't
we going to have the biggest tobogganing match next
Saturday afternoon that you ever heard of!" replied Theo,
at the same time giving his mother a hug and a kiss that
were a credit to both, for it showed how thoroughly they
understood one another.

Mrs. Ross was a wise not less than a loving mother, and
one of the proofs of her wisdom was the hearty interest
she took in her son's sports as well as in his studies.  He
had lost his father when but a baby, and she had determined
to fill the vacant place to the best of her ability.  So from
the very first she entered heartily into his amusements,
and made herself his companion as far as she could.  Theo
never played cricket or lacrosse so well as when his mother
was looking on, and no applause was sweeter to him than
the clapping of her hands.  He therefore felt sure of an
attentive listener as he proceeded to unfold the cause of his
excitement.

"Well, you know, mother, the Bridgetown boys have
been boasting all winter about their toboggans, and saying
that they can run away from anything in Riverside, and
our fellows have been talking back at them, until both
sides have begun to feel pretty hot over it.  We've had a
lot of races, but they didn't settle anything, because
sometimes the Bridgetown boys would win and sometimes the
Riverside; so this afternoon I proposed to Ralph Masterton
that next Saturday afternoon he should bring a team of
four tobogganers from the town, and I would bring four
from the country, and we'd settle the question without any
more talk."

"Well, but, Theo dear, won't it be dangerous for so many
as eight to coast down together?  You might run into each
other," asked Mrs. Ross, rather anxiously.

"O you dear innocent!" laughed Theo, "that's not the
way we'll do at all.  Only two will go down at a time.
You see there will be, first of all, four heats, and we'll
draw lots for our places in the heats; then the four
winners will run against each other, making two more
heats; and then there will be a final heat in which the two
winners will run together, and that will decide."

"That seems a very good arrangement," said Mrs. Ross
approvingly.  "Whose idea was it?"

"Mostly mine, mother.  It's the best way to get fair
play all round," answered Theo.

"Will you have any difficulty in choosing your team?"

"Oh, not much.  Walt Powell and Rob Sands will be
on for sure.  They have good toboggans, and they can steer
splendidly.  The fourth chap I'll pick out through the
week."

"Well, Theo, you must do your best to win, for I'll be
there to watch you."

"You may depend upon it I will, for your sake as much
as for the honour of Riverside," replied Theo, giving his
mother a loving kiss before he went off to his room for a
wash.

It seemed an awfully long week to the excited boys,
impatient for the coming contest.  Theo had many applicants
for a position on his team, and having, after careful
deliberation, decided in favour of Fred Fellows, the four
boys had many an earnest consultation as to the best way
of securing success.  On Friday evening the others brought
their toboggans over to Mrs. Ross's, and they spent an hour
or two in seeing that the bottoms were perfectly smooth,
the gut lashings all taut, and the cushions secured beyond
the possibility of slipping.  They were not a little disturbed
at some rumours that had reached them of Ralph Masterton
having sent off to the capital and got a new toboggan of
a kind just lately patented, which was made differently
from the others and reported to be much faster.  If this
was true, Ralph had done rather a mean thing; for although
not expressly stipulated, it was generally understood that
the toboggans to be used in the contest were such as they
already had, and not new ones imported for the purpose.
But, as Theo sensibly said, it was no use worrying until
they knew for certain; so, hoping for the best, they parted
for the night.

Saturday proved as fine as could be wished, and early in
the afternoon a crowd began to gather on Bass River Bluff.
Besides the honour of the championship, Judge Masterton
had offered a handsome prize to the winner in the shape of
a silver cup, and there was no end to the excitement.  The
judge himself and all his family were present.  So, too, were
Theo's mother and the parents of the other contestants.
So, too, was Patsey Kehoe, holding Katey with one hand
and dragging his forlorn little barrel-stave sled with the
other.  Everybody in Bridgetown and Riverside that could
come had come, and the flat top of the bluff was fairly
black with spectators.

By three o'clock all the competitors had arrived.  When
Ralph Masterton appeared, Theo gave one sharp glance at
his toboggan, then turned to his companions with his face
the picture of indignation.

"It's true, boys, after all; Ralph's got one of those
new-fangled affairs I read of in the papers.  They say they can
go like smoke.  He hasn't done the square thing.  But
we're not beaten yet, for all that!" and Theo looked
proudly down at his toboggan, which had won as high a
reputation for speed as the owner had for skill.

It took half-an-hour to draw lots for the heats, and then
at last all was ready, and Judge Masterton, acting as starter,
called out the first pair.  Besides the steerer each toboggan
was to carry another person for ballast.  Fred Fellows
was the first of Theo's team to try his fortune.  Amid
breathless silence and suspense he put his toboggan in
position beside his opponent's.

"Are you ready?" asked the judge.  They both nodded.
"Then—go!" and with half-a-dozen quick steps they
pushed their toboggans over the brow of the hill, and
flinging themselves on sideways with one leg extended for
a rudder, shot down the steep slope like arrows from a bow.
For some time they kept side by side.  Then Fred was
seen to swerve and slew, and the Bridgetown boy to slip
ahead.  The advantage was not much, but he kept it to
the end, and the first heat went against Riverside.  The
Bridgetown boys cheered lustily, and the Riversiders looked
rather glum, until the next heat was run and resulted in
a win for the latter, thus making things even.  The
Riverside entry took the third heat also, and their hopes ran
high, but cooled down again when the fourth heat went to
Bridgetown.

The result of the first round, accordingly, was that two
of each side had won their heats, Theo and Ralph being, of
course, among the winners.  The excitement grew more
and more intense as, after a little breathing-space, the
second round was called.

Curiously enough, Theo and Ralph did not come together
in this round either, having each another opponent, whom
they vanquished easily.  As they stood on the hill together
at the conclusion of the round, Ralph turned to Theo with
a smile which betokened perfect confidence in himself, and
pointing to his new toboggan, said,—

"She's a hummer; there's nothing on the bluff to touch her."

"Do you think it was just the square thing, Ralph, to
get that toboggan when it was understood we were to race
with what we had already?" asked Theo quietly.

"Pooh!" replied Ralph, tossing his head defiantly;
"everything's fair in love and war."

As he turned away and swung his toboggan round, it
came in contact with Patsey Kehoe's barrel-stave sled.
With a muttered oath Ralph sprang toward the obstruction,
and kicking it high into the air, the clumsy little thing
fell to the ground shattered into useless fragments.  Poor
Patsey gave a cry as he saw his plaything demolished, but
Ralph's angry face silenced him again, and with tears
running down their cheeks he and Katey proceeded to
gather up the pieces.

"Get ready for the final heat," called out Judge Masterton.

Mrs. Ross pressed forward to Theo's side and whispered
in his ear, "Good luck to you, my boy."

With every eye upon them, Ralph and Theo drew their
toboggans into position.  The difference between the two
toboggans was very marked.  Theo's was a particularly
fine one of the ordinary kind, but Ralph's was made of
narrow hard-wood strips secured by screws instead of
thongs, and had a sharp racing look that could not be
mistaken.  Just as the contestants were ready to receive
their ballast, Theo's glance fell upon Patsey Kehoe pressing
forward eagerly on the edge of the crowd, watching him
with his whole soul in his eyes.  He knew well how intensely
the little fellow hoped for his success, and suddenly
an idea flashed into his mind which caused him to call out
to Judge Masterton,—

"A minute's time, please, sir."

"All right, my lad," replied the judge.

Then, to the surprise of everybody, Theo, after whispering
to Walter Powell, whom he had first intended to be
his companion on the toboggan, and who now drew aside,
beckoned to Patsey Kehoe.  Patsy approached bashfully.

"Jump on in front, Patsey," said Theo briskly.  "You're
to be my ballast this time."

There was a murmur of astonishment from the crowd as
the ragged little chap awkwardly got into his place, and
Theo did not miss the contemptuous curl of his opponent's
lip, but neither did he fail to catch the pleased, approving
look his mother sent him.  A moment more and everything
was in readiness.  The spectators held their breath as the
judge, lifting his right hand, asked,—

"Are you ready!" and then bringing it down with a
crack into the other, shouted, "Then—go!"

As if shot from a bow the two toboggans leaped over
the bluff and went rattling down the smooth slope side by
side and head to head.  Down—down—they went; Theo
and Ralph with iron grip and hard-pressed toe keeping
them straight in their course, and Patsey and the other
ballast clinging fast to the hand-rail.  It was the proudest
moment of Patsey's life, and one that he would never
forget.  Just as the toboggans, still perfectly even,
approached the bottom of the declivity where the track ran
out on to the bosom of the river, Ralph's struck a slight
obstacle, which caused it to swerve and then to slew.  With
a vicious dig of his toe he tried to bring it round straight
again.  In his hot haste he overdid it, and the head swung
round until the toboggan went broadside to the track,
scratching, bumping, cracking, until like a flash it came
bang against the side of the slide, pitching its passengers
out upon their heads and splitting one of the thin strips
clean in two.  In the meanwhile Theo and Patsey, amid
the cheers of the crowd on the hill, were speeding smoothly
over the level ice, winners by nearly a hundred yards.

.. _`368`:

Great was the delight of the Riverside folk at their
champion's victory, and many of the Bridgetownians joined
in congratulations too, for Ralph Masterton was far from
popular among them.  When Theo reached the top of the
bluff his mother hastened to him, her face beaming with
pleasure as she said,—

"I am very proud of your victory, Theo, but I am
prouder still of the heart that prompted you to take Patsey
Kehoe."

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   THE END

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