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CHAPTER XVII

BACK TO CEDAR CREEK

'Ideclar, if you hain't 'most skeered me!' was Peter's exclamation. 'For sartin I never seed a ghost, but it looked like enough this time. Now, do tell what brought you so far from hum? Thirteen mile, if it's a rod. You ain't lookin' partic'ler spry, anyhow. Now, Arthur, doen't, poor lad, doen't.'

For he could not speak during a minute or two; his arm pressed heavily on the backwoodsman's sturdy shoulder, in the effort to steady the strong trembling that shook him from head to foot like a spasm of ague.

'Lost in the bush, you war? Well, that ain't agreeable nohow exactly;' and Peter betook himself to a fumbling in his capacious pocket for a tin flask, containing some reviving fluid. 'Here, take a pull—this'll fix you all right. Warn't it wonderful that I went my road of traps when I did, instead of early this mornin'. There's a providence in that, for sartin.'

Deep in Arthur's heart he acknowledged the same truth gratefully.

'You've got a plaguy touch of ague, likely,' added Peter considerately, willing to shift the responsibility of that trembling from the mind to the body. 'Campin' out is chill enough these nights. I han't much furder to go to the end of my blaze, and then I'll be back with you. So will you wait or come along?'

Arthur had too lately found human company to be willing to relinquish it, even with certainty of its return; he dreaded nothing so much as the same solitude whence he had just emerged; therefore he followed Peter, who over his shoulder carried a bag containing various bodies of minks, fishers, and other furry animals, snared in his traps, and subsequently knocked on the head by his tough service-rod.

That night Arthur found comfortable shelter in Peter's hut, and was initiated into many mysteries of a trapper's life by him and his half-Indian assistant. Next morning they guided him as far as a surveyor's post, on which was legibly written the names of four townships, which was the signal for the separation of the party. Arthur turned his face towards civilisation, along a blazed boundary line. The others plunged deeper into the woods, walking in the unsociable Indian file.

The blazed line went on fairly enough for some miles, over hillocks of hardwood, and across marshes of dank evergreens, where logs had been laid lengthwise for dry footing. At last Arthur thought he must be drawing near to a clearing, for light appeared through the dense veil of trees before him, as if some extensive break to the vast continuity of forest occurred beyond. Soon he stood on its verge. Ay, surely a clearing; but no human hands had been at work.

Hundreds of huge trees lay strewn about, as if they had been wrenched off their stumps by some irresistible power seizing the branched heads and hurling them to the earth. Torn up by the massy roots, or twisted round as you would try to break an obstinately tough withe, for many score of acres the wildest confusion of prostrate maples and elms and pines, heaped upon one another, locked in death-embraces, quite obliterated any track, and blocked across the country. Arthur had come upon what French Canadians call a 'renversé' effected by some partial whirlwind during the preceding summer.

Such tornadoes often crash a road of destruction through the bush for miles; a path narrow in comparison with its length, and reminding the traveller of the explosive fury of some vast projectile. The track of one has been observable for more than forty miles right through the heart of uninhabited forest.

To cross the stupendous barrier seemed impossible to Arthur. There was a tangled chaos of interlaced and withering boughs and trunks; such a chevaux de frise might stop a regiment until some slow sap cut a path through, and he was without axe, or even a large knife. He must work his way round; and yet he was most unwilling to part company with the blaze.

While hesitating, and rather ruefully contemplating the obstacle, a sound at a considerable distance struck his ear. It was—oh, joy!—the blows of an axe. Instantly he went in the direction. When near enough to be heard, he shouted. An answering hail came from the other side of the windfall; but presently he saw that an attempt had been made to log up the fallen timber in heaps, and, making his way through the blackened stumps of extinct fires, he reached the spot where two rough-looking men were at work with handspikes and axes.

They had built a little hut, whence a faint smoke curled, the back wall of piled logs still wearing dead branches and foliage at the ends. A reddish cur, as lawless-looking as his masters, rushed from the doorway to snap at Arthur's heels. The suspicious glances of the foresters bore hardly more welcome, till they heard that the stranger belonged to the settlers on Cedar Pond, and had simply lost his way. They informed him in return, with exceeding frankness, that they were squatters, taking possession of this strip of bush without anybody's leave, and determined to hold their own against all comers. An apparently well-used rifle lying against a log close by gave this speech considerable emphasis.

Arthur wanted nothing more from them than to be put on the surveyor's line again; and, when directed to the blaze, speedily left the sound of their axes far behind. In half an hour he reached other traces of mankind—a regularly chopped road, where the trees had been felled for the proper width, and only here and there an obstinate trunk had come down wrongly, and lay right across, to be climbed over or crept under according to the wayfarer's taste. In marshy spots he was treated to strips of corduroy; for the settled parts of the country were near.

'Holloa! Uncle Zack, is that you?'

The person addressed stood in a snake-fenced field, superintending a couple of labourers. He turned round at the hail, and stared as if he did not believe his senses.

'Wal, I guess I warn't never skeered in my life before. They're all out lookin' for you—Nim, an' the whole "Corner" bodily. Your brother's distracted ravin' mad this two days huntin' the bush; but I told him you'd be sartin sure to turn up somehow. Now, whar are you runnin' so fast? There ain't nobody to hum, an' we 'greed to fire the rifles as a signal whoever fust got tidins of you. Three shots arter another,' as young Wynn fired in the air. 'Come, quick as wink, they'll be listenin'.'

'Robert will know the report,' observed Arthur, with a smile, to think of his pleasure in the recognition, 'if he's near enough.'

'We'll make tracks for the "Corner," I guess,' said Uncle Zack with alacrity; 'that war the meetin'-place, an' you must be powerful hungry. I'd ha' been to sarch for you to-day, only them Irish fellers at the clearin' wanted lookin' arter precious bad.' ('Lucky I got in them kegs o' whisky; he'll have to stand treat for the neighbours,' thought 'cute Uncle Zack in a sort of mental parenthesis.) 'But now do tell! you must ha' gone a terrible big round, I guess. They took the Indjin out to foller your trail; them savages has noses an' eyes like hounds. We'll fire my rifle from the store; it's bigger than yourn.'

His abstraction of mind during Arthur's narrative was owing to a judicious maturing of certain plans for exacting the greatest amount of profit from the occurrence; but he contrived to interlard his listening with such appropriate interjections as, 'Now do tell! How you talk! Wal, I kinder like to know!' mentally watering his whisky the while.

Mrs. Zack, also scenting the prey afar off, was polite as that lady could be to good customers only. Arthur's impatience for the arrival of the parties from the bush hardly permitted him to do more than taste the meal she provided. Within doors he could not stay, though weary enough to want rest. The few log-cabins of the 'Corner' looked more drowsily quiet than usual; the sawmill was silent. Zack was turning over some soiled and scribbled ledgers on his counter. Suddenly a shot in the woods quite near: a detachment of the searchers had arrived.

That the rejoicing would take its usual form, an emptying of his spirit-kegs, Zack Bunting had never doubted. But the second word to the bargain, Mr. Wynn's promise to stand treat, had not been given, though it was a mere matter of form, Zack thought. Robert spoke to the neighbours, and thanked them collectively for their exertions in a most cordial manner on behalf of himself and his brother, and was turning to go home, when the Yankee storekeeper touched his elbow.

''Tain't the usual doins to let 'em away dry,' suggested he, with a meaning smile. ''Spose you stand treat now; 'twill fix the business handsome.'

That keen snaky eye of his could easily read the momentary struggle in Robert's mind between the desire not to appear singular and unfriendly, and the dislike to encouraging that whisky drinking which is the bane of working men everywhere, but most especially in the colonies. Sam Holt watched for his decision. Perhaps the knowledge of what that calm strong nature by his side would do helped to confirm Robert's wavering into bold action.

'Certainly not,' he said loudly, that all might hear. 'I'll not give any whisky on any account. It ruins nine-tenths of the people. I'm quite willing to reward those who have kindly given time and trouble to help me, but it shall not be in that way.'

Zack's smoke-dried complexion became whitewashed with disappointment.

A day or two afterwards, Zack's son, Nimrod, made his appearance at the Wynns' shanty.

'I say, but you're a prime chap arter the rise you took out of the ole coon,' was his first remark. 'Uncle Zack was as sartin as I stand of five gallons gone, anyhow; and 'twar a rael balk to put him an' them off with an apology. I guess you won't mind their sayin' it's the truth of a shabby dodge, though.'

'Not a bit,' replied Robert; 'I expected something of the kind. I didn't imagine I'd please anybody but my own conscience.'

'"Conscience!"' reiterated Nim, with a sneer. 'That stock hain't a long life in the bush, I guess. A storekeeper hain't no business on it, nohow—'twould starve him out; so Uncle Zack don't keep it.' And his unpleasant little eyes twinkled again at the idea of such unwonted connection as his father and a conscience.

'That Indjin war hoppin' mad, I can tell you; for they be the greatest brutes at gettin' drunk in the univarsal world. They'll do 'most anythin' for whisky.'

'The greater the cruelty of giving it to them,' said Robert.

'What are you doin'?' asked Nimrod, after a moment's survey of the other's work.

'Shingling,' was the reply. 'Learning to make shingles.'

'An' you call them shingles?' kicking aside, with a gesture of contempt, the uneven slices of pinewood which had fallen from Robert's tool. 'You hain't dressed the sapwood off them blocks, and the grain eats into one another besides. True for Uncle Zack that gentry from the old country warn't never born to be handlin' axes an' frows. It don't come kinder nateral. They shouldn't be no thicker than four to an inch to be rael handsome shingles,' added he, 'such as sell for seven-an'-sixpence a thousand.'

Nimrod's pertinacious supervision could not be got rid of until dinner; not even though Mr. Wynn asked him his errand in no conciliatory tone.

'Thought I'd kinder like to see how ye were gettin' on,' was the answer. 'New settlers is so precious awk'ard. Thought I'd loaf about awhile, an' see. It's sorter amusin'.'

He was so ignorantly unconscious of doing anything offensive by such gratification of his curiosity, that Robert hardly knew whether to laugh or be angry. Nimrod's thick-skinned sensibilities would have cared little for either. He lounged about, whittling sticks, chewing tobacco, and asking questions, until Andy's stentorian call resounded through the woods near.

'I guessed I'd dine with you to-day,' said Nim, marching on before his host. With equal coolness, as soon as the dish of trout appeared, he transfixed the largest with his case-knife.

'Not so fast, my friend,' interrupted Mr. Holt, bringing back the captive. 'We divide fair here, though it's not Yankee law, I'm aware.'

'Ah, you warn't born yesterday,' rejoined Nim, showing his yellow teeth, which seemed individually made and set after the pattern of his father's. 'You're a smart man, I guess—raised in Amerikay, an' no mistake.'

'But come, Andy,' said Arthur, 'tell us where you caught these fine trout? You've altogether made a brilliant effort to-day in the purveying line: the cakes are particularly good.'

'They're what them French fellers call "galettes,"' observed Nimrod, biting one. 'Flour an' water, baked in the ashes. Turnpike bread is better—what the ole gall makes to hum.'

Be it remarked that this periphrasis indicated his mother; and that the bread he alluded to is made with a species of leaven.

'So ye ate turnpikes too,' remarked Andy, obliquely glancing at the speaker. 'The English language isn't much help to a man in this counthry, where everythin' manes somethin' else. Well, Misther Arthur, about the trout; you remimber I went down to the "Corner" this mornin'. Now it's been on my mind some days back, that ye'd want a few shirts washed.'

'But what has that to do with the trout'—interrupted Arthur, laughing.

'Whisht awhile, an' you'll hear. I didn't know how to set about it, no more than the child of a month old; for there's an art in it, of coorse, like in everythin' else; an' one time I thried to whiten a shirt of my own—beggin' yer honours' pardon for mintionin' the article—it kem out of the pot blacker than it wint in. So sez I to meself, "I'll look out for the clanest house, an' I'll ax the good woman to tache me how to wash a thing;" an' I walks along from the store to a nate little cabin back from the river, that had flowers growin' in the front; an' sure enough, the floor was as clane as a dhrawin' room, an' a dacent tidy little woman kneadin' a cake on the table. "Ma'am," sez I, "I'm obliged to turn washerwoman, an' I don't know how;" but she only curtseyed, and said somethin' in a furrin tongue.'

'A French Canadian, I suppose,' said Mr. Wynn.

'Jackey Dubois lives in the log-hut with the flowers,' observed Nim, who was whittling again by way of desert.

'May be so; but at all events she was as like as two peas to the girl whose weddin' I was at since I came ashore. "Ma'am," sez I, "I want to larn to be a washerwoman:" and wid that I took off my neckerchief an' rubbed it, to show what I meant, by the rule of thumb. "Ah, to vash," sez she, smilin' like a leathercoat potato. So, afther that, she took my handkercher and washed it fornent me out; an' I'd watched before how she med the cakes, an' cleared a little space by the fire to bake 'em, an' covered them up wid hot ashes.'

'Not a word about the trout,' said Arthur.

'How can I tell everything intirely all at wanst?' replied the Irishman, with an injured tone. 'Sure I was comin' to that. I observed her lookin' partikler admirin' at the handkercher, which was a handsome yellow spot, so I up an' axed her to take a present of it, an' I settled it like an apron in front, to show how iligant 'twould look; an' she was mighty plased, an' curtseyed ever so often, an' Jackey himself gev me the trout out of a big basket he brought in. The river's fairly alive wid 'em, I'm tould: an' they risin' to a brown-bodied fly, Misther Arthur.'

'We'll have a look at them some spare day, Andy.'

'But what tuk my fancy intirely, was the iligant plan of bilin' 'em she had. There war round stones warmin' in the fire, and she dropped 'em into a pot of water till it was scalding hot; then in wid the fish, addin' more stones to keep it singin'. It's an Indjin fashion, Jackey told me; for they haven't nothin' to cook in but wooden pails; but I thried it wid them trout yer atin', an' it answered beautiful.'

Andy bid fair to be no mean chef-de-cuisine, if his experiments always resulted so favourably as in the present instance.

'An' the whole of it is, Misther Robert, that this Canada is a counthry where the very best of atin' and dhrinkin' is to be had for the throuble of pickin' it up. Don't I see the poorest cabins wid plenty of bacon hangin' to the rafthers, an' the trees is full of birds that nobody can summons you for catchin', and the sthrames is walkin' wid fish; I'm tould there's sugar to be had by bilin' the juice of a bush; an' if you scratch the ground, it'll give you bushels of praties an' whate for the axin'. I wish I had all the neighbours out here, that's a fact; for it's a grand poor man's counthry, an' there's too many of us at home, Misther Robert; an' (as if this were the climax of wonders) I never see a beggar since I left the Cove o' Cork!'

'All true, Andy, quite true,' said his master, with a little sigh. 'Hard work will get a man anything here.'

'I must be goin',' said Nimrod, raising his lank figure on its big feet. 'But I guess that be for you;' and he tossed to Robert a soiled piece of newspaper, wrapped round some square slight packet.

'Letters from home! Why, you unconscionable'—burst forth Arthur; 'loafing about here for these three hours, and never to produce them!' But Nim had made off among the trees, grinning in every long tooth.

Ah! those letters from home! How sweet, yet how saddening! Mr. Holt went off to chop alone. But first he found time to intercept Nimrod on the road, and rather lower his triumphant flush at successfully 'riling the Britishers,' by the information that he (Mr. Holt) would write to the post-office authorities, to ask whether their agent at the 'Corner' was justified in detaining letters for some hours after they might have been delivered.

CHAPTER XVIII

GIANT TWO-SHOES

The calendar of the settler is apt to get rather confused, owing to the uniformity of his life and the absence of the landmarks of civilisation. Where 'the sound of the church-going bell' has never been heard, and there is nothing to distinguish one day from another, but the monotonous tide of time lapses on without a break, it will easily be imagined that the observance of a Sabbath is much neglected, either through forgetfulness or press of labour. The ministrations of religion by no means keep pace with the necessities of society in the Canadian wilds. Here is a wide field for the spiritual toil of earnest men, among a people speaking the English language and owning English allegiance; and unless the roots of this great growing nation be grounded in piety, we cannot hope for its orderly and healthful expansion in that 'righteousness which exalteth a people.'

Once a year or so, an itinerant Methodist preacher visited the 'Corner,' and held his meeting in Zack Bunting's large room. But regular means of grace the neighbourhood had none. A result was, that few of the settlers about Cedar Creek acknowledged the Sabbath rest in practice; and those who were busiest and most isolated sometimes lost the count of their week-days altogether. Robert Wynn thought it right to mark off Sunday very distinctly for himself and his household by a total cessation of labour, and the establishment of regular worship. Andy made no sort of objection, now that he was out of the priest's reach.

Other days were laborious enough. In the underbrushing was included the cutting up all fallen timber, and piling it in heaps for the spring burnings. Gradually the dense thickets of hemlock, hickory, and balsam were being laid in windrows, and the long darkened soil saw daylight. The fine old trees, hitherto swathed deeply in masses of summer foliage, stood with bared bases before the axe, awaiting their stroke likewise.

Then the latest days in November brought the snow. Steadily and silently the grey heavens covered the shivering earth with its smooth woolly coating of purest flakes. While wet Atlantic breezes moaned sorrowfully round Dunore, as if wailing over shattered fortunes, the little log-shanty in the Canadian bush was deep in snow. Not so large as the butler's pantry in that old house at home, nor so well furnished as the meanest servant's apartment had been during the prosperous times, with hardly one of the accessories considered indispensable to comfort in the most ordinary British sitting-room, yet the rough shanty had a pleasantness of its own, a brightness of indoor weather, such as is often wanting where the fittings of domestic life are superb. Hope was in the Pandora's box to qualify all evils.

By the firelight the settlers were this evening carrying on various occupations. Mr. Holt's seemed the most curious, and was the centre of attraction, though Robert was cutting shingles, and Arthur manufacturing a walnut-wood stool in primitive tripod style.

'I tell you what,' said he, leaning on the end of his plane, whence a shaving had just slowly curled away, 'I never shall be able to assist at or countenance a logging-bee, for I consider it the grossest waste of valuable merchandise. The idea of voluntarily turning into smoke and ashes the most exquisitely grained bird's-eye maple, black walnut, heart-of-oak, cherry, and birch—it's a shame for you, Holt, not to raise your voice against such wilful waste, which will be sure to make woful want some day. Why, the cabinetmakers at home would give you almost any money for a cargo of such walnut as this under my hand.'

'I regret it as much as you do; but till the country has more railroads it is unavoidable, and only vexatious to think of. We certainly do burn away hundreds of thousands of pounds' worth of the most expensive wood, while people in England pay enormous prices for furniture which our refuse timber could supply.'

'And don't you export any ornamental wood?' asked Robert. 'I saw plenty of deals swimming down the St. Lawrence.'

'Yes, pine timber meets with the readiest market, and is easiest procurable. But even in that there is the most unjustifiable wastefulness practised. I was among the lumberers once, and saw the way they square the white pine. You know that every tree is of course tapering in the trunk, narrower at the top than at the base; now, to square the log, the best timber of the lower part must be hewn away, to make it of equal dimensions with the upper part. I am not above the mark when I say that millions of excellent boards are left to rot in the forest by this piece of mismanagement, and the white-pine woods are disappearing rapidly.'

But Arthur's sympathies could not be roused for such ordinary stuff as deal, to the degree of resentment he felt for the wholesale destruction of cabinetmakers' woods.

'If I may make so bould, sir,' said Andy, edging forward, 'might I ax what yer honour is makin'? Only there aren't any giants in the counthry, I'd think it was a pair of shoes, may be.'

'You've guessed rightly,' replied Mr. Holt, holding up his two colossal frames, so that they rested on edge. 'Yes, Andy, a pair of shoes near six feet long! What do you think of that new Canadian wonder?'

'I dunno where you'll get feet to fit 'em,' said Andy dubiously. 'They're mostly as big as boats, an' much the same shape. May be they're for crossin' the wather in?'

'I intend to wear them myself, Andy,' said the manufacturer, 'but on dry land. You must be looking out for a pair too, if the snow continues, as is pretty certain, and you want to go down to the "Corner" before it is frozen over.'

'Why have you cut that hole in the middle of the board?' asked Robert, inspecting the gigantic wooden sole.

'To give the toes play,' was the answer. 'All parts of the foot must have the freest action in snow-shoes.'

'I remember a pair at Maple Grove,' said Arthur, 'made of leathern network, fastened to frames and crossbars, with the most complicated apparatus for the foot in the middle.'

'It is said by scientific men,' said Mr. Holt, 'that if the theory of walking over soft snow were propounded, not all the mechanical knowledge of the present day could contrive a more perfect means of meeting the difficulty, than that snow-shoe of the Ojibbeway Indians. It spreads the weight equally over the wide surface: see, I've been trying, with these cords and thongs, to imitate their mechanism in this hollow of my plank. Here's the walking thong, and the open mesh through which the toes pass, and which is pressed against by the ball of the foot, so as to draw the shoe after it. Then here's the heel-cord, a sort of sling passing round so as partially to imprison and yet leave free. The centre of the foot is held fast enough, you perceive.'

Robert shook his head. 'One thing is pretty clear,' said he, 'I shall never be able to walk in snow-shoes.'

'Did you think you would ever be expert at felling pines?' was Mr. Holt's unanswerable answer.