Dr. O. W. Holmes must have had such a place as this in mind when he
said: -
"And silence like a poultice came
To heal the blows of sound,"
and surely tympanums most bruised by the world's clangor and jar could
not fail here be soothed and healed; and the writer of "Oh, where shall
rest be found?" would have received answer to his query here also. The
quiet is astonishing: there are no farm sounds even; and, though the
hours pass so pleasantly that we "take no note of time", we can tell
when Saturday comes, for then numbers of log-laden ox-carts plod slowly
into the village from the back country.
The bells on the animals' necks tinkle precisely like the sound of ice
when carried in a pitcher of water; and consequently do not jar upon
one's ear in this quietude as the clanking herd-bells which we hear in
some farming regions of the States.
At night the only break in the profound stillness is when the tide is
ebbing, and the Equille can be heard rushing under the bridge a quarter
of a mile away. We cannot discover the meaning of that word, and so
consult a foreign relative, who fells us that at Dinard, in France, they
catch the équille, - a small fish, also called a lançon, because it
darts in and out of the sand, and in its movements is something like an
eel.
That certainly describes this peculiar stream, for surely it would be
difficult to find one with a more circuitous course. It forms two
horseshoes and an ox-bow connected, as we see it from our windows; and
when the tide is out diminishes to a rivulet about two feet in width. At
flood it is more than twice the width of the Wissahickon, and when the
high tides of August come its magnitude is surprising.
Then we understand why the hay-ricks (which we wickedly tell our friends
from the "Hub" resemble gigantic loaves of Boston brown bread) are on
stilts, for, regardless of dikes or boundaries, this tortuous creek
spreads over its whole valley, as if in emulation of the greater river
of which it is a tributary. Haliburton says that for a time this was
called Allan's River, and the greater one was named the Dauphin; but we
are glad that the old French name was restored to the serpentine creek,
as it is so much better suited to its peculiar character.
The great event of the week is the arrival of the Boston steamer, when
all the town turns out and wends its way to the wharves.
The peculiar rise of the tide (thirty feet) is here plainly shown, as
one week the passengers step off from the very roof of the saloon, and
next time she comes in they disembark from the lowest gangway possible
and climb the long ascent of slippery planks to the level above.
The river shows curious currents and counter-currents, as bits of
débris are hurrying upward in the middle of the stream, while similar
flotsam and jetsam rush away as rapidly down stream along both shores.
The queer old tub of a ferry boat, with its triangular wings spreading
at the sides, - used as guards and "gang planks", - is a curiosity, as it
zigzags across the powerful current to the village on the opposite
shore.
But "the ferryman's slim, the ferryman's young, and he's just a soft
twang in the turn of his tongue"; and in our frequent trips across he
probably makes a mental note when he hears us lamenting that we cannot
get lobsters, for one day he sends to our abiding place four fine large
ones, and will not receive a cent in remuneration.
Another time, when waiting for the farmer's you to guide us to the "ice
mine", - a ravine in the mountains where ice remains through the summer,
- a delicious lunch, consisting of fresh bread, sweet milk, and cake,
is unexpectedly set before us, and the generous farmer's wife will not
listen to recompense.
A modern writer says: "A great part of the enjoyment of life is in the
knowledge that there are people living in a worse place than that you
inhabit;" but it does not add to our happiness to think of those who
could not come to this lovely spot; and we commiserate the Can't-get-
away Club of the cities.
We would not change places with any of the dwellers at the fashionable
resorts at springs, sea, or mountains, - no, indeed! though they no doubt
would elevate their noses, and set this place down at once as "deadly
dull", or "two awfully slow for anything"!
Doubtless those also of our friends to whom we tell the plain,
unvarnished truth, if they come here will be disappointed, as they will
not see with our eyes. One cannot expect the luxuries of palatial
hotels at five dollars per day; such would be out of place here.
At our abiding place, which looks like a gentleman's residence, and is,
as one of the Halifax guests says, "not a bit like an 'otel", there is
an extensive garden, from which we are regaled with choice fresh
vegetables daily; and we have such home-made butter (The bill of fare
"to be issued in our next"). A Frenchman might think that "we return to
our muttons" frequently; still, as that viand suggests at least the
famous English Southdown in excellence, we are resigned.
A noted wit has said: "Doubtless God might have made a better berry than
the strawberry, but doubtless God never did;" and if one is so fortunate
as to come to this country in proper season he can feast on that
delectable fruit in its perfection, - that is, the wild fruit, so much
more delicious and delicate in flavor than after its boasted
"improvement" by cultivation.
