The Explanation Is Invariably "Fires In The
Canada Woods"; And Here, In This "Cool, Sequestered Vale", We Have An
Opportunity Of Seeing Forest Fires Before We Take Our Departure For
Other Fields Of Observation.
After sunset we are apparently almost
surrounded by volcanoes, as the lurid flames leap up into the deepening
blackness of the night; and when we lovers of Nature, distressed
afterwards by seeing vast tracts all scarred and desolate, exclaim,
"Why didn't they stop it?
Why did they allow it?" echo answers, "Why?"
One day we learn that a mill on L'Équille is threatened, and expect that
there will be some excitement; but a very old-fashioned fire engine,
with clumsy hand power pumps, goes lumbering by, followed by men and
boys, who walk in a leisurely and composed manner. The mill is saved by
some means, however; and we rejoice, as it is, so to speak, historical,
standing in a place favored for such purposes since Lescarbot's time;
even Argall (in 1613), when demolishing other buildings of the village,
having spared the mill which occupied the site of the present one.
In our various wanderings we visit the Indian settlement at the head of
this crooked stream, but find its residents too civilized to be very
picturesque. We are interested in learning what the Canadian Government
does for their welfare, and wish a similar policy could be instituted
in the States. Here, as with us, liquor is their curse. The once famous
chief of the Micmacs lives at Bear River, and is addicted to the bottle.
One day a young girl, who was a summer guest at this place, sat down on
an overturned canoe which this chief (now known as James Meuse) had
just completed; and, as the bark bent with her weight, the wily Indian
pretended that the boat was irretrievably ruined. The girl's father,
asking what amount would compensate for the damage, received reply,
"Ten, twenty, dollar"; and receiving thirty dollars from the generous
stranger, Redskin remarked afterwards that he "wished more girl come sit
on boat", and probably turned the money into liquid fire, and poured it
down his throat in a short space of time. As there is a heavy fine for
selling liquor to Indians, one of that race will never divulge from
whom he has received it, however intoxicated he may be.
Another Indian sachem noted in history - Membertou - lived to the age of
one hundred and four, and was buried at Annapolis, then Port Royal,
with military honors, as befitted the companion of soldiers. At
Poutrincourt's table he was a daily and honored guest in that olden
time, and, when the "Order of Happy Times" was instituted there, of
course became a member too! Query: Did that ancient convivial society
offer suggestions to the famous old "State in Schuylkill Club" of
Philadelphia when they were organizing so many years after?
DIGBY.
In the drive to Digby, twenty-one miles, we pass along all the ins and
outs of the shore of Annapolis Basin, finding the succession of views on
that curiously land-locked harbor a perfect study and delight, and more
picturesque than on the trip to the same place by steamer, as we
discover later.
There we see a bright-eyed, pretty little maiden, who wears a gay red
handkerchief in place of a hat, and makes a picture as she drives her
cow over a bit of moorland. Driver says she is "one of the French
people", and that her name is Thibaudia, which, with its English
signification (a kind of heath), seems appropriate for one living in
the wilds, and deliciously foreign and suggestive. We wonder if old
Crumplehorn understands French, and conclude that she is a well educated
animal, as she seems to obey directions without needing a touch of
willow branch to punctuate them.
Sometimes it seems that the names conferred
On mortals at baptism in this queer world
Seem given for naught but to spite 'em.
Mr. Long is short, Mr. Short is tall,
And who so meek as Mr. Maul?
Mr. Lamb's fierce temper is very well known,
Mr. Hope plods about with sigh and groan, -
"And so proceed ad infinitum"
At one point on our route, when we are passing through a lonely and
apparently uninhabited region, our jolly driver, "Manyul", remarks,
"Here's where Nobody lives."; and one replies, "Yes, evidently; and I
shouldn't think any one would wish to." But a turn of the road brings a
house in sight; and driver says, "That's his house, and his name is
actually Nobody" (Charles, I believe). We quote, "What's in a name!"
and conclude that if he is at all like the kindly people of this region
whom we have met he may be well content to be nobody, rather than
resemble many whom the world considers "somebodies", but who are not
models in any respect.
Our driver is quite a character in his way, and in the winter he "goes
a loggin'". On learning this we ply him with questions in such manner as
would surprise a lawyer, eliciting in return graphic pictures of camp
life in New Brunswick wildernesses, and the amusements with which they
while away the long evenings in their rough barracks. He describes
their primitive modes of cooking, their beds of fragrant spruce boughs
overlaid with straw, - "Better 'n any o' your spring mattresses, I tell
you!" - the queer box-like bunks along the wall where they "stow
themselves away", and where the most active and useful man is, for the
time at least, literally laid on the shelf.
Octavius, thinking how much he would enjoy "roughing it" thus, asks
what they would charge to take a young man to board in camp; and driver
indignantly replies, "Nothin'! Do you suppose we'd charge board? No,
indeed! Just let him come; and if we didn't give him a good time, and
if he didn't get strong and hearty, then we'd be ashamed of ourselves
and sell out."
Here we approach a cove which driver calls the Joggin (as it makes a cut
or jog-in, we presume); and beyond, a wide arm of the Basin is spanned
by a rickety old bridge, at least a quarter of a mile long, named in
honor of her Majesty, - hardly a compliment to that sovereign, we think.
The boards are apparently laid down without nails, and rattle like a
fusillade as our vehicle rolls over them.
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