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-  5T.  LAWRENCE  SKETCHES 

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By  Florence  Mary  ■««■■ 


DDDDDDDDDDDDDDE33  I  I  UUDOD 


'Though  I  do  my  best.  I  shall  scarce  succeed - 
But  what  if  I  fail  of  my  purpose  here  ? 
It  is  but  to  keep  the  nerves  at  strain. 
To  dry  one's  eyes  and  laugh  at  a  fall. 
And  baffled  get  up  to  begin  again." 

Browning. 


The  Musson  Book  Co.,  Limited 
Toronto  London 


Jl  eCo/,  Cherie 


CHAPTER  I 

"  (^  HICADEE-DEE-DEE  !   Chica-dee  !  " 

^^  My  first  note  of  welcome  to  Cap  a  l'Aigle 
came  from  a  jaunty  little  chicadee  perched  at 
a  ridiculous  angle  on  a  shimmering  birch-tree, 
and  then  I  noticed  how  all  Nature  echoed  his 
joyousness.  The  daisies  nodded,  the  dande- 
lions threw  fairy  kisses,  the  radiant  butter- 
cups, swaying  over  much  in  the  breeze,  tumbled 
great  drops  of  dew  out  of  their  golden  chalices, 
spilling  them  recklessly  on  their  lowlier  sisters, 
the  clover-buds. 

More  insistently  than  ever  came  to  me  the 
beauty  of  the  Persian  poet's  thought : 

"  As  then  the  tulip  for  its  morning  sup 
Of  heavenly  vintage  from  the  soil  looks  up, 
Do  you  devoutly  do  the  like,  till  Heav'n 
To  Earth  invert  you — like  an  empty  cup." 

I  did  look  up — and  felt  a  great  wave  of 
thankfulness  that  I  was  out  of  the  stifling  heat 
of  a  great  city  and  privileged  to  come  for  a 
season  into  u  Nature's  great  workshop." 

The  sky,  a  clear  translucent  blue,  streaked 
with  billowy  clouds,  which  threw  exquisite 
7 


8  Etoffe  du  Pays 

shadows  on  the  hills,  had  not  yet  reached  its 
intensity  of  colour,  but  presaged  a  day  of 
brilliant  warmth.  Curls  of  blue  smoke  rose 
from  many  chimneys,  and  faint  farmyard 
sounds  broke  the  stillness  as  we  drove  in 
the  early  morning  up  the  dew-spangled  road, 
past  white  and  brown  cottages,  with  wide 
verandahs,  green  shutters,  and  sloping  roofs. 

To  the  delicate  nerves  of  an  Amelia  Sed- 
ley  or  a  Dora  Copperfield  the  driving  seems 
fraught  with  many  perils,  for  these  native 
horses  swing  along  at  a  tremendous  pace, 
evidently  reasoning  that  a  flying  descent  of 
one  hill  gives  impetus  for  the  ascent  of  the 
next,  which  seems  to  be  nearly  always  just  on 
the  other  side.  The  juvenile  Jehus  enjoy  it 
all  hugely  and  let  the  reins  go  slack.  It  is 
really  very  invigorating,  though  a  trifle  nerve- 
racking,  to  see  the  stones  flying  helter-skelter 
across  the  road,  and  the  luggage  bumping 
about  in  imminent  danger  of  being  deposited 
in  the  road. 

We  drove  up  with  a  grand  flourish  to  a  large 
white  house  with  a  green  roof,  where  flags 
were  flying,  and  Madame  stood  at  the  door 
to  bid  us  "Bienvenu."  Such  a  specklessly 
clean  house  ;  typically  French  Canadian,  with 
its  fresh  white  paint,  green  shuttered  windows, 
and    its    gallery    with   groups    of  homely   red 


Etoffe  du  Pays  9 

rocking-chairs  and  rustic  benches — the  few- 
steps  painted  a  vivid  green  with  a  red  stripe 
down  the  centre  to  simulate  carpet. 

The  geraniums  and  begonias  in  pots  and  tins, 
looking  a  little  sickly  after  their  long  winter 
indoors,  the  nasturtiums  and  sweet  peas  just 
poking  their  noses  out  of  the  earth,  show  how  late 
the  summer  is  here  and  of  what  short  duration. 

Indoors  the  home  made  " catelan"  on  the 
floor  strikes  the  eye  agreeably,  its  blurred 
blues  and  pinks  contrasting  well  with  the 
braided  mats  which  represent  many  long  even- 
ings of  work  during  the  winter.  One  can 
easily  picture  the  scene.  Tiny  fingers  sorting 
the  strands,  stitching  them  together  and  roll- 
ing them  into  balls  to  be  braided  later  by  the 
big  sister  or  mamma,  who  will  decide  how  the 
colours  are  to  be  blended  and  what  the  shape 
shall  be.  A  long  one  by  the  buffet,  an  oval  in 
front  of  the  sofa,  a  round,  for  the  entrance- 
hall,  or  by  the  fireplace  which  is  the  most 
fascinating  bit  of  the  dining-room — its  stones 
roughly  plastered  together,  fumed  and  mel- 
lowed by  the  smoke  from  many  burning  logs. 
On  the  mantelshelf  stand  the  lamps  with  their 
glass  reservoirs  and  shining  chimneys,  a  couple 
of  odd  copper  candlesticks  and  a  quaint  pair 
of  brass  "  balances." 

The  floor   is   a   miniature   "  pool "   of  bright 


io  Etofle  du   Pays 

yellow  paint,  with  here  and  there  "  islands  "  of 
braided  mats.  In  the  corner  an  open  staircase 
leads  to  the  floor  above  and  repeats  the  same 
gorgeous  colour,  giving  a  very  sunshiny  effect 
to  a  room  a  little  dark  by  reason  of  the  care- 
fully shuttered  windows  and  the  stiffly  starched 
curtains,  which,  in  their  immaculate  purity, 
remind  one  of  the  veils  of  the  Children  of 
Mary  when  making  their  First  Communion. 

In  a  very  small  bedroom  under  the  eaves 
my  boxes  are  deposited.  The  bed  tucked 
snugly  under  the  slant  of  the  roof  and  spread 
with  a  white  homespun  counterpane,  the  fat 
frilled  bolster  and  pillows  hidden  by  a  lace- 
edged  pillow-sham  on  which  is  embroidered  a 
dove — emblematic  of  the  peace  to  be  found  in 
this  quiet  room.  It  seems  a  little  like  the  cabin 
of  a  ship,  especially  as  outside  the  window  is 
the  whole  sweep  of  the  St.  Lawrence  from 
Tadousac  to  Les  Eboulements,  from  Cacouna 
to  St.  Denis.  Ocean  liners  pass,  cutting  the 
blue  in  half  with  trails  of  creamy  "  wash,"  and 
the  Government  steamer  plies  back  and  forth, 
lending  a  necessary  note  of  colour  and  activity 
to  an  otherwise  placid  scene.  At  night  the  , 
wind  sings  in  the  telegraph-wires  as  it  might 
whistle  through  the  rigging  of  a  ship,  and  the 
twinkling  of  island  and  shoal  lights  completes 
the  illusion. 


Etoffe  du  Pays  1 1 

The  air  of  Cap  a  l'Aigle  is  a  wonderful  com- 
bination of  mountain  and  sea.  A  salt  sweet- 
ness— a  mingling  of  clover  and  honey  scents 
with  the  brine  of  the  Atlantic,  which  seems  so 
near  and  yet,  in  reality,  is  several  hundred 
miles  away.  From  the  East  comes  a  faint 
dampness — a  "  tang  "  in  the  air  which  carries 
one  back  to  Loch  Lomond  or  the  Brig  o'  Ayr. 

Far  as  the  eye  can  see,  the  road  stretches  like 
a  brown  ribbon  over  the  hills,  dipping  into  the 
valleys,  now  close  to  the  sea,  then  losing  itself 
in  the  woods,  making  it  easy  to  understand 
that  originally  it  was  the  trail  of  homecoming 
cattle,  browsing  idly  by  the  way,  stepping  aside 
to  avoid  some  great  boulder  or  fallen  tree,  or  to 
crop  some  tempting  morsel  of  bush  grass  or 
sweet  blossom,  marking  out,  all  unconsciously, 
the  straggling  road  we  love  to-day.  With  the 
gradual  increase  in  the  family  it  was  only 
natural  that  fresh  farms  should  be  started  and 
new  homes  made.  And  so  the  road  grew.  Not 
violently  with  pick  and  shovel  and  blasts  of 
dynamite  shattering  the  peaceful  air  and  scarring 
for  ever  the  brown  face  of  Nature,  but  gently 
seaming  it  with  lines  of  care  for  the  conservation 
of  the  family  tie.  The  meek-eyed  cattle  winding 
through  the  woods  at  milking  time,  swaying 
from  side  to  side  with  the  weight  of  their 
dripping  udders,  widened  the   road    and  made 


12  EtofTe  du  Pays 

it  easy  for  little  feet  to  patter  nu-pieds  back  to 
la  grand'mere  to  be  beguiled  with  black  bread 
and  maple  syrup,  or  galette  and  sucre  la  creme 
on  &jonr  de  naissance  ox  fete  day. 

The  spell  of  the  Church,  which  has  always 
kept  such  a  watchful  eye  on  her  scattered  flock, 
has  broadened  the  road  which  stretches  from 
Chicoutimi  to  the  Shrine  of  la  Bonne  Ste.  Anne, 
forging  strong  links  in  the  chain  that  binds 
these  little  villages  to  the  Parish  Church. 

Over  all  is  the  pungent  fragrance  of  wood- 
burning,  that  subtle  sweetness  fresh  from  Nature's 
spice-box.  The  flaming  heart  of  the  forest,  the 
sap  of  the  year's  youth,  the  fiery  summer  sun, 
the  song  of  birds,  the  frost  of  winter,  the  resin- 
ous balsam  oozing  from  knots  and  boles — all 
compounded  in  Nature's  laboratory  and  epito- 
mised in — a  puff  of  smoke  ! 

"  All  the  breath  and  the  bloom  of  the  year  in  the  bag 
of  one  bee  ! 
All  the  wonder  and  wealth  of  the  mine  in  the  heart  of 

one  gem  : 
In  the  core  of  one  pearl  all  the  shade  and  the  shine 
of  the  sea." 

Browning. 


CHAPTER   II 

"""THERE  was  an  all-pervading  air  of  mystery 
this  morning.  Sea  and  sky  were  merged, 
blotting  out  the  horizon  line,  and  a  soft  blanket 
of  fog  enveloped  each  distant  peak  and  nestled 
closely  in  the  valley.  Snake  fences  between  the 
fields  looked  like  long  black  threads  stitching 
together  green  patches,  the  farmyard  sounds 
seemed  muffled  and  far  away,  yet  high  in  the 
east  old  Sol  was  struggling  for  the  mastery, 
which  was  his  at  ten  o'clock,  when  in  retaliation 
he  threw  out  his  hottest  beams. 

While  watching  the  folding  away  of  the 
fleecy  white  blankets  from  the  bed  of  the  valley 
and  the  gradual  shaping  of  each  tiny  peak 
into  a  ridge  of  pure  violet  in  the  sunshine,  a 
thin  curl  of  blue  smoke  caught  my  eye  coming 
from  a  small  pent-house  roof  opposite,  which 
I  judged  to  be  an  old-fashioned  bake-oven. 
True  enough !  Sight  and  smell  were  not 
deceived.  Presently  from  the  house  across  the 
road  came  a  young  English  girl  with  sun-kissed 
braids  of  brown  hair  wound  round  her  shapely 
head  like  a  young  Norsemaiden.  Her  arms 
13 


14  Etoffe  du  Pays 

were  bare  to  the  elbow,  and  she  was  carrying 
a  tray  filled  with  pans  of  freshly  risen  bread. 
Behind  her  followed  a  French  girl  similarly 
laden,  while  a  string  of  humble  admirers  brought 
up  the  rear,  or  rather  scampered  about  around 
her.  I  joined  them,  eager  to  see  the  little 
ceremony. 

First  the  ashes  were  scraped  out  by  the  old 
grand-pere,  a  picturesque  figure  in  grey  home- 
spun and  a  habitant  hat,  standing  there  in  the 
sunshine,  testing  the  heat  of  the  oven  with  his 
bare  arm  and  carefully  placing  each  tin  on  a 
flat  stick  with  a  long  handle  and  running  it 
into  the  oven,  till  all  were  placed.  Then,  quietly 
closing  the  little  iron  doors,  he  admonished  us  on 
no  account  to  open  them  till  he  returned. 

For  those  who  have  never  seen  these  earth- 
ovens,  which  seem  peculiarly  M  indigenous "  to 
the  soil  of  the  Province  of  Quebec,  I  ought 
perhaps  to  explain  that  they  are  made  of  earth 
and  sand  plastered  together  into  an  oval  shape, 
mounted  on  a  foundation  of  rough  stones.  The 
centre,  being  hollowed  out,  is  sometimes  lined 
with  bricks,  leaving  an  aperture  large  enough 
to  accommodate  eighteen  or  twenty  loaves. 
They  are  always  protected  from  rain  and  winter 
storms  by  a  slanting  roof  of  wood  or  an  outer 
wall  of  stone  roughly  plastered  together,  giving 
the  effect  of  a  miniature  Stonehenge. 


Etoffe  du  Pays  15 

A  very  hot  fire  of  wood  is  built  on  the  floor 
of  the  oven  and  the  doors  tightly  shut,  the 
smoke  escaping  through  the  small  iron  venti- 
lators. When  it  is  all  burnt  away,  the  ashes 
are  raked  out  and  another  fire  made  in  the 
same  way.  After  the  second  raking  out  the 
oven  is  ready  for  the  loaves  to  be  put  in. 
Reversing  the  order  of  city  bread-making,  the 
crust  browns  during  the  first  quarter  of  an 
hour  as  there  is  no  increase  of  heat — no  more 
fuel  being  added.  It  is  the  original  idea  of  the 
"  fireless  cooker  "  which  city  dwellers  have  only 
lately  been  introduced  to  as  le  dernier  cri  of 
economy  and  satisfaction.  How  much  we  can 
learn  from  these  interesting  French  Canadians 
who  brought  their  ideas  originally  from  old 
France  when  they  came  over  with  Jacques 
Cartier  or  Champlain,  or  adapted  them  from 
the  Indians,  who,  to  this  day,  broil  fish  deliciously 
on  hot  stones. 

Punctually  to  the  minute  the  old  grandpere 
returned  and  we  eagerly  awaited  the  result  of 
the  baking.  Out  they  came,  each  loaf  brown 
and  crusty  and  smelling  delicious.  The  de- 
servedly proud  young  bread-maker,  standing 
with  arms  outstretched  to  receive  each  as  it 
came  from  the  oven,  made  a  picture  that  would 
have  delighted  the  heart  of  a  Franchere  or 
Suzor-Cote  or  Cullen.     The  old-fashioned  oven, 


1 6  Etoffe  du  Pays 

and  the  weather-beaten,  yet  hale  old  man,  with 
his  bronzed  arm  extended  taking  out  the  bread 
all  nut-brown  and  crusty.  The  girl,  in  her 
dahlia-red  dress,  standing  in  an  attitude  of 
unconscious  grace,  a  smile  of  pleased  satisfac- 
tion wreathing  her  face,  two  rose-flushed  little 
French  girls  with  jet-black  hair  and  limpid  eyes, 
big  with  curiosity,  and  a  small  boy  with  tattered 
jacket  and  bare  legs,  a  fishing-rod  over  his 
shoulder,  from  which  hung  a  couple  of  small 
fish,  stood  out  prominently  against  a  background 
of  daisy  and  buttercup  strewn  grass,  white 
palings,  brown  road,  amethystine  hills,  and  a 
sky  veiled  in  filmy  vapour. 

Why  did  I  think  then  of  a  scene  in  far-off 
Judea  centuries  ago  when  again  "  there  were 
five  loaves  and  two  small  fishes"  in  a  setting 
so  different  ?  The  crowded  multitude  seated  on 
the  grass  could  only  be  typified  by  the  myriad 
blooms  of  mustard-seed  and  clover,  but  above 
us  shone  the  same  sun !  Oh !  mystery  of 
mysteries !  and  the  same  Lord  is  still  ready 
to  feed  us — not  with  the  husks  of  pleasure 
and  the  off-scouring  of  gutters  which  our  piti- 
ful souls  so  often  crave,  but  with  the  Divine 
Fire,  the  Bread  of  Life,  and  the  Cup  of  Sal- 
vation. 

Many  children  go  strolling  past,  happy  and 
care  free,  and  brown  as  nuts,  never  passing  a 


Etoffe  du  Pays  17 

visitor  without  a  bow  and  a  doffing  of  cap  or 
hat  and  a  shy  "  B'jour." 

The  wild  strawberries  are  just  coming  in, 
and  little  offerings  are  brought  for  sale  wrapped 
in  cool  leaves  or  birch  bark  cones,  the  sun- 
stained  little  gatherers  going  away  happy  with 
a  few  sous  pressed  into  their  moist  little  hands. 
What  self-denial  it  must  mean  to  these  poor 
children  to  pick  for  trade  these  rosy  little  berries 
that  are  so  sweet,  lying  so  close  to  the  breast  of 
Mother  Earth,  when  their  inclination  must  surely 
be  to  fill  their  own,  often  too  scantily  filled,  little 
■  tummies  "  ! 

Buckboards  are  still  the  prevailing  mode  of 
conveyance,  springless  and  well  adapted  to  these 
rocky  and  sandy  roads.  There  are  a  few  old- 
fashioned  caliches,  but  they  are  getting  very  rare, 
not  being  a  convenient  vehicle  for  the  family, 
which,  in  these  parts,  numbers  generally  a  round 
dozen. 

While  sitting  in  the  woods  yesterday  two  dear 
little  English  children  ran  past  me,  hand  in  hand, 
on  their  way  to  the  beach,  the  elder,  with  fat 
bobbing  curls  taking  quite  a  motherly  care  of 
her  little  sister,  who  could  not  have  been  more 
than  four  years  old.  Very  soon  they  trudged 
up  the  winding  path  again  and  I  said  : 

"  You  did  not  stay  very  long  ! " 

"  Oh !  no !  "  the  elder  replied,  "  we  couldn't. 
3 


1 8  Etoffe  du  Pays 

You  see  it's  getting  late  ;  it  will  soon  be  dinner 
time  !  " 

Looking  at  my  watch  and  finding  that  it  was 
not  quite  ten  o'clock,  I  told  her,  thinking  she 
would  not  hurry  on  so  fast.  But  she  shook  her 
wise  little  head  and  repeated : 

"  We  must  hurry  ;  it  will  soon  be  dinner-time!" 
and  up  through  the  cedars  and  bushes  of  elder- 
berry and  scarlet  "  sealing  wax"  they  went,  the 
little  one  piping  all  the  way,  "  It'll  soon  be 
dinner-time  ! "  while  the  sun  glinted  on  a  heavy 
gold  bracelet  the  child  wore  on  her  slender 
wrist.  It  seemed  a  little  sad  to  see  the  wee  arm 
shackled  with  gold  at  such  an  early  age  and  it 
brought  back  to  me  the  sight  of  another  little 
arm  that  I  saw  through  a  ragged  blue  jersey  one 
hot  day  last  week.  It  was  at  the  butcher's.  The 
little  fellow's  eyes  hardly  came  up  to  the  top  of 
the  chopping-block,  but  they  were  full  of  life 
and  eagerness  and  illumined  the  whole  of  his 
little  peaked  face.  I  had  seen  him  there  before, 
and  we  had  exchanged  smiles — that  golden 
coin  of  the  realm  that  is  so  cheap,  so  rarely 
spurious,  and  negotiable  all  over  the  world. 
That  day  I  said  to  him,  "  You  ought  to  get 
mother  to  mend  this  hole  in  your  jersey,"  where 
I  was  able  to  put  my  fingers  in  and  feel  the 
soft  flesh  and  the  bones  that  were  all  too  promi- 
nent.    "  Oh  !  yes,"  he  said  brightly,  w  but  ma's 


Etoffe  du  Pays  19 

awful  busy.  I  buys  the  meat ;  ma  thinks  I'm 
awful  thin,  but  I  ain't,  you  know.  It's  just 
because  I  ain't  fat." 

Such  a  pathetic  reasoning  'and  justification  of 
his  mother.  I  was  getting  the  man  to  cut  me 
off  a  thick  slice  of  round  steak,  and  the  little 
fellow's  eyes  twinkled  and  he  said  : 

"  That's  the  kind  I  likes.  There  ain't  no  bone, 
and  pa  says  if  ye  cuts  it  like  porter-house  it 
tastes  better.  I  gets  ten  cents  a  week  from  pa 
fer  buying  the  meat.  Last  night  I  had  ice 
cream  "...  he  volunteered,  then  looked  shyly 
away  as  though  perhaps  he  had  been  too  con- 
fidential, and  hurried  out  with  his  "  round  steak 
that  tastes  like  porter-house  when  ye  cuts  it 
that  way." 

How  many  pounds  of  meat  and  how  many 
cool  shirts  and  new  jerseys  could  be  bought 
with  the  gold  of  that  child's  bracelet  ? 
Surely  daisy  chains  and  buttercup  wreaths  are 
more  fitting  ornaments  for  such  sweet-eyed 
innocence  than  the  gold  that  perisheth. 


CHAPTER   III 

'"THE  first  roses  on  Dominion  Day  !  To  pick 
the  frail  wild  rose  on  its  birthday  and  to 
watch  the  tight  red  buds  of  yesterday  unfolded 
in  perfect  beauty  at  a  time  when  roses  in 
England  are  getting  a  little  "  passed,"  the  great 
Rose  Shows  are  over,  and  the  Season  drawing 
to  a  close. 

Here  it  is  just  beginning.  And  how  short  it 
is  at  these  Canadian  seaside  resorts — a  bare 
twelve  weeks  and  the  visitors  have  come  and 
vanished  like  a  dream,  leaving  the  farmers  to 
settle  down  to  their  long  icebound  winter,  when 
they  are  practically  cut  off  from  the  South  Shore 
and  the  railway  by  fifteen  miles  of  turbulent 
water.  A  frozen,  hummocky  mass  except 
where  the  Government  ice-breaker  crushes  a 
way  through. 

There  are,  however,  the  beautiful  months  of 
September  and  October,  after  the  harvest  is 
gathered  in,  and  great  festivities  go  on  in  the 
village.  The  farmers  return  to  their  houses 
which  have  been  rented  to  visitors  while  they 
have  been  crowded  together  in  a  "lean-to"  or 


Etoffe  du  Pays  21 

outhouse.  Now  they  have  the  run  of  the 
parlour,  the  piano  jingles  merrily  to  the  latest 
popular  music,  and  dancing  and  merrymaking, 
boiling  taffy  and  pulling  "  latiere,"  continue  till 
the  cold  days  come  and  it  is  necessary  to  close 
up  part  of  the  big  house  and  concentrate  in  the 
kitchen  and  salle  a  manger.  This  is  the  time  of 
rolling  the  tobacco,  weaving  the  catelan,  or  rag 
carpets,  braiding  and  "  hooking "  the  mats, 
drawing  the  threads  of  the  ivory  coloured  linen, 
and  replenishing  the  stock  of  crochet  mats  that 
discreetly  veil  the  water-jugs  and  trays  in 
summer-time. 

There  is  a  little  straw  mat  on  the  dining- 
table  to-day,  to  stand  hot  platters  on,  that  owes 
its  origin,  I  am  sure,  to  these  winter  evenings, 
when  the  wide-brimmed  straw  hat  of  Pierre  or 
Lucienne,  wet  with  the  rains  and  tanned  by 
the  sun  to  a  mellow  gold,  is  carefully  un- 
stitched, steamed,  and  bound  with  brown 
ribbon  and  flattened  into  a  still  useful  non- 
conductor of  heat ! 

"  Imperious  Csesar,  dead  and  turned  to  clay, 
Might  stop  a  hole  to  keep  the  wind  away." 

They  are  a  light-hearted  people,  these  sturdy 
French  Canadians.  As  they  go  about  their 
work,  the  girls  sing  snatches  of  old  French 
songs — "  A  la  claire  fontaine,"  "  En  roulant  ma 


22  Etoffe  du  Pays 

Boule,  roulant,"  and  M  Alhouette,"  and  the  men 
whistle  blithely  to  the  buzz  of  wood  saw  and 
the  ring  of  hammer  on  anvil. 

There  is  a  forge  near  here  which  I  never  can 
pass  without  looking  in.  This  morning  a  big 
roan,  sixteen  hands  if  she  was  an  inch,  stood  to 
be  shod.  A  nervous  creature,  who  champed 
uneasily  at  the  bit  and  fidgeted  till  the  rope 
halter  nearly  snapped.  The  forge  itself  is  a  sort 
of  barn  and  workshop  combined — a  confusion  of 
vices  and  bradawls  and  bits  ;  ugly-looking 
knives  with  buckthorn  handles  ;  bunches  of 
nails  and  scrap  iron  ;  pincers  of  varying  size 
and  the  great  ringing  anvil.  A  grindstone 
stands  in  one  corner,  and  a  carpenter's  bench 
littered  with  a  heterogeneous  collection  of 
shavings  and  waggon  spokes.  Stores  of  rusty 
iron  rods  are  stacked  away  between  the  rafters, 
from  which  hang  harness  and  reins,  blinkers 
and  hames.  In  the  other  corner  is  the  fire,  built 
on  a  square  of  roughly  plastered  stones  about 
three  feet  high  by  four  square,  with  a  curious 
brick  chimney,  or  hood,  the  down  draught  of 
which  is  regulated  by  a  primitive  bellows, 
worked  by  hand  with  a  long  wooden  lever. 
This  fans  the  flame  and  makes  the  tremendously 
hot  fire  which  is  built  on  top,  close  to  the  chimney 
support. 

The  roan  had  come  to  be  shod.     One  shoe 


Etoffe  du  Pays  23 

was  gone,  another  loose  so  it  had  to  be  knocked 
off  and  used  as  a  pattern  for  the  new  one. 

The  blacksmith  caught  the  cold  iron  with  his 
pincers  and  held  it  for  a  few  minutes  in  the  red- 
hot  flame  till  it  came  out  molten  red,  placed  it 
on  the  anvil,  and  with  a  few  ringing  blows  which 
made  the  sparks  fly,  beat  it  into  shape,  lighting 
up  the  dim  interior  and  his  own  seamed  and 
rugged  face.  While  still  hot  he  threw  the 
horseshoe  into  a  tub  of  clear  spring  water,  where 
it  sizzled  and  spat  and  fell  to  the  bottom. 

It  was  no  joke  holding  the  big  mare's  hoof 
steady  on  the  three-legged  stand  made  for  the 
purpose  while  the  old  horn  was  pared  off  and 
the  new  shoe  fitted  and  nailed  on.  The  owner 
of  the  horse,  a  big,  muscular  Frenchman  in  a 
blue  shirt,  short  trousers  tucked  into  his  "  bottes 
sauvage"  and  a  quid  of  tobacco  in  his  mouth, 
squirted  the  juice  in  every  direction  while  the 
sweat  poured  off  his  face,  and  vociferously 
shouted  to  the  nervous  animal,  "  Woa  done  ! 
Arriere,  Arrete  !  "  much  to  the  amusement  of  an 
impudent  little  rascal,  with  a  torn  straw  hat  and 
dirty  face,  who  straddled  a  big  brown  horse, 
patiently  awaiting  his  turn  to  be  shod. 

Two  white  chickens  strutted  inquisitively 
about,  pecking  at  the  "  droppings  "  on  the  floor, 
shook  their  feathers  delicately  and  walked  out 
again  into  the  sunshine. 


24  Etoffe  du  Pays 

Maurice  and  Pierre  ran  by  with  little  Char- 
lotte down  by  the  edge  of  the  stream  which 
forms  here  a  miniature  Montmorenci.  A  Min- 
nehaha! a  laughing  water,  dashing  and  tumbling, 
leaping  and  gurgling  over  rocks  and  ledges  worn 
smooth  by  her  feet  till  she  loses  herself  in  a 
tangle  of  undergrowth,  fallen  trees,  and  bracken. 
Fairy  ferns,  delicate  tendrils  of  purple  vetch, 
blue  harebells,  daisies,  and  buttercups  follow  her 
progress  all  the  way  till  shut  out  from  the  sun 
by  giant  spruce  and  cedar. 

Here,  in  order  to  complete  Nature's  great 
economic  scheme  and  to  supply  "  life "  to  the 
scene,  are  myriads  of  perfect  entomological 
specimens — mosquitoes  and  ants,  flies  of  infinite 
degrees  of  minuteness  and  tenacity  of  purpose, 
beetles  of  prismatic  colouring,  rivalling  the  far- 
famed  scarabei  of  Egypt,  gossamer  -  winged 
midges  and  creeping  things  innumerable — most 
of  which  we  poor  mortals  in  our  ignorance  would 
willingly  dispense  with ! 

To-day  the  mosquitoes  seem  more  than  ever 
tormenting,  and  Francesca  has  been  writhing 
about  trying  to  protect  her  slim  silk-stockinged 
ankles.  Finally  she  gave  in,  and  said  in  her 
whimsical  way  : 

"  Here  comes  one  with  a  lean  and  hungry 
look  !  I  am  going  to  give  him  the  time  of  his 
life — a  regular  Delmonico  banquet ! "  and  she 


Etoffe  du  Pays  25 

bared  her  beautiful  white  arm,  upon  which  the 
mosquito  fastened  with  avidity. 

"  See  !  how  greedy  he  is  :  gobbling  so  fast, 
rushing  through  the  soup,  fish,  game,  and  entree 
to  get  to  the  savoury  and  the  sweets  !  See,  he 
has  tossed  off  a  drop  of  claret  and  it  has  gone 
to  his  head !  "  as  the  gorged  creature  flew  un- 
steadily away,  leaving  a  rose-red  stain  on  the  fair 
white  skin. 

Francesca  is  a  queer  girl — she  is  the  one 
who  steps  out  into  the  muddy  road  to  avoid 
disturbing  a  couple  of  ragged  little  sparrows 
having  a  bath  in  a  puddle  on  the  pavement. 
She  picks  up  stray  scraps  of  bread  and  throws 
them  into  empty  front  gardens  that  the  birds 
may  enjoy  them  in  peace.  Another  day  I  saw 
her  go  out  into  the  middle  of  one  of  the  most 
congested  of  our  city  streets  and  pick  up  an 
empty  gin  bottle  which  she  was  afraid  would 
get  broken  and  cut  some  dog  or  horse,  or  punc- 
ture a  tire. 

Francesca  has  a  horror  of  cats,  but  would 
never  be  unkind  to  them.  When  she  was  quite 
a  little  girl  her  sister's  cat,  called  Minnie,  died 
a  violent  death.  Francesca's  heart  was  sad,  for 
she  thought  she  had  perhaps  not  been  as  kind 
to  the  animal  as  she  might  have  been,  so  she 
resolved  to  do  justice  to  her  in  an  obituary 
ode.  The  heroic  strain  petered  out  sadly  after 
4 


26  Etoffe  du  Pays 

the  first  four  lines  which  ran — or  rather  limped 
thus  : 

"  Minerva !  sole  sovereign  of  the  feline  state  ! 
'Tis  darkest  midnight  when  you  meet  your  fate. 
The  stars  look  down  in  pity,  but  not  one 
Can  rescue  you  from  bold  fox  terrier's  son  I" 


CHAPTER   IV 

""THOSE  of  you  who  have  been  kind  enough 
to  read  so  far  will  be  wondering  (a  little 
impatiently  perhaps)  when  the  "  story  "  is  going 
to  begin  and  the  "  plot "  develop.  Dear  friends  ! 
— I  must  call  you  so,  since  you  have  been  so 
tolerant — like  the  old,  old  story  of  the  little  girl 
watching  her  friend  rapidly  devouring  an  apple  : 
"  Please,  Mary  Ann,  can  I  have  the  core  ? " 
To  which  the  reply  was  made  as  the  last  morsel 
disappeared — "  Cynthia  May  !  there  ain't  going 
to  be  no  core." 

So  with  this  little  sketch — "  there  ain't  going 
to  be  no  core  " — no  "  story  " — no  "  plot "  that 
will  commend  itself  to  your  interest.  Therefore 
those  who  are  expecting  a  cleverly  worked  out 
plot  and  thrilling  denouement  had  best  drop 
this  scrap  of  Etojfe  du  Pays  and  seek  the 
embroidered  tapestries  of  a  Stevenson  or  a 
Hewlett.  I  would  so  gladly  give  you  what  you 
crave,  but  while  the  glamour  of  romance  hangs 
heavily  in  these  bosky  woods  and  rocky  glens, 
and  there  are  many  little  courtships,  side  glances 
and  coquettish  ways  to  be  noted,  they  are  so 
27 


28  Etoffe  du  Pays 

elusive  that  my  clumsy  pen  would  destroy 
their  charm  and  bungle  when  most  desirous 
to  please. 

A  gentle  rain  is  falling  this  morning,  so 
lightly  that  you  can  see  each  drop  as  it  sinks 
into  the  sand,  just  sprinkled  down  as  from  the 
rose  of  a  watering-pot,  which  reminds  me  of 
a  story  told  me  by  a  friend  about  his  brother 
Frank,  who  evidently  has  a  keen  sense  of 
humour.  "  Frank "  lives  in  a  boarding-house 
where  the  houses  have  flat  faces  and  any  one 
standing  on  the  doorstep  can  easily  be  seen 
from  the  windows  above.  An  old  Scotchman 
— McTaggart  by  name — lived  there  also  and 
indulged  occasionally  in  a  "drop  of  the  craytur" 
hot  and  strong.  One  brilliant  moonlight  night 
he  came  home  late  with  a  friend.  They  stood 
a  long  time  on  the  doorstep,  hat  in  hand, 
making  many  farewells,  till  Frank  could  stand 
it  no  longer.  Going  over  to  the  water-jug  he 
dipped  his  hair-brush  in  and  shook  it  several 
times  out  of  the  window.  Presently  McTaggart 
looked  up  and  said  : 

"  Sandy,  there's  a  bit  of  a  shower,  I'd  best 
lend  you  ma  umbrella  !  "  and  the  braw  Scotch- 
man walked  up  the  street  in  the  moonlight 
under  its  friendly  protection ! 

The  same  man  took  a  "  rise  "  out  of  a  bold 
fellow  who   was   annoying   his   mother's   maid 


Etoffe  du  Pays  29 

with  his  blandishments.  One  night  when 
Catherine  was  out,  Frank  put  on  his  nightshirt 
over  his  coat  and  sat  in  the  kitchen  window, 
his  huge  bulk  discreetly  hidden  by  the  curtain 
— just  one  white-sleeved  arm  visible.  About 
ten  o'clock  a  face  appeared  at  the  window 
opposite,  and  a  tentative  "  Ahem  ! "  broke  the 
stillness.  The  curtain  trembled  and  a  shy 
"  Ahem  ! "  came  from  the  fairy  form  in  white. 
This  went  on  for  half  an  hour,  till  the  creature 
opposite  leaned  far  out  of  the  window  to  get 
a  glimpse  of  the  adored  one,  who  just  then 
threw  up  the  sash,  and  waving  his  great  arms, 
ejaculated  :  "  Gee  !  it's  a  hot  night !  "    Tableau. 

It  was  a  hot  night  last  night,  too,  and  as  I 
lay  in  bed  listening  to  the  "  lap "  of  the  in- 
coming tide  and  the  whirr  of  the  night's  wings, 
I  was  conscious  of  a  faint  droning  sound  com- 
ing from  the  kitchen  below.  It  sounded  like 
counting  dozens  and  dozens  in  monotonous 
French.  I  was  sure  I  heard  "  trente,  trente  un, 
trente  deux,  trente  trois,"  repeated  a  hundred 
times,  and  I  concluded  that  the  family  was 
sorting  innumerable  threads  for  the  catelan  or 
braid  mats,  but  when  I  heard  several  voices 
in  unison  I  knew  that  they  were  at  prayer. 
The  deep  bass  voice  of  monsieur  and  the  boys 
mingling  with  the  dull  monotone  of  madame 
and  the  childish  trebles  of  Charlotte  and  Lucienne 


30  Etoffe  du  Pays 

in  one  grand  "  Ave  Maria,  ora  pro  nobis."  No 
Mass  in  ancient  monastery  or  vaulted  cathedral 
was  ever  more  solemn,  or  prayer  more  fervent 
than  that  which  went  up  this  summer  evening, 
on  the  wings  of  an  all-trusting  love,  from  this 
humble  kitchen,  to  the  Throne  of  God,  and  to 
the  Heart  of  our  Lady  of  Sorrows. 

There  is  a  little  Scotch  laddie  here  who  much 
amuses  his  mother  at  bedtime.  He  objected 
to  the  bare  floor  in  his  pretty  little  room,  so  she 
got  some  blue  and  white  catelan  and  just  for  a 
joke  put  a  tiny  woodchuck  skin  beside  his  bed. 
Every  night  Douglas  refuses  to  say  his  prayers 
till  the  wee  pelt  is  arranged  in  the  exact  spot  to 
accommodate  his  bare  toes. 


CHAPTER    V 

HTHIS  lovely  mountain  country  is  cut  into 
ravines  and  deep  crevasses.  Crystal-clear 
streams  gush  out  from  the  cuts  till  they  lose 
themselves  in  the  sea.  This  necessitates  fre- 
quent bridges  at  the  roadside,  mere  logs  loosely 
thrown  together,  over  which  the  springless  car- 
riages and  hay-carts  bump  gaily.  A  rustic 
hand-rail  of  trellised  branches  protects  the  un- 
wary pedestrian  from  pitching  in  headlong  on  a 
dark  night.  The  road  is  mended  in  hollows 
and  weak  places  in  a  very  primitive  way  by 
throwing  down  great  clods  of  earth  with  the 
grass  still  adhering,  and  scattering  a  few  beach 
stones  on  top,  leaving  many  and  dangerous 
interstices  at  the  bridges.  Which  reminds  me 
of  a  rather  strange  coincidence  that  happened 
years  ago  on  Westminster  Bridge.  A  cele- 
brated surgeon  was  crossing  that  uniformly 
congested  thoroughfare  one  very  cold  day. 
Taking  off  his  gloves  to  chafe  his  half-frozen 
fingers,  his  signet-ring  slipped  off.  It  was  im- 
possible to  stop  the  traffic  and  search  in  that 
hurrying  crowd,  hundreds  of  automobiles,  car- 
31 


9 

32  Etoffe  du  Pays 

riages,  carts,  vans,  and  drays  surging  around 
him,  so  he  passed  on  to  his  operation  at  St. 
Thomas'  Hospital.  The  following  day  he  again 
crossed  the  bridge,  thinking  regretfully  of  his 
ring,  when,  looking  down,  he  saw  it  glittering  at 
his  feet  Safe  and  untrodden  in  the  midst  of 
the  thousands  of  hoofs  and  wheels  that  must 
have  passed  around,  but  not  over  it. 

The  drive  to  Murray  Bay  is  one  of  exceed- 
ing beauty.  Skirting  the  majestic  St.  Lawrence 
all  the  way — now  through  the  woods  and  down 
the  long  valley  slopes,  up  hill  and  down  dale 
with  scarcely  a  level  mile.  Past  the  old  Mount 
Murray  Manor,  which  dates  from  1761  and  was 
the  scene  of  the  early  pioneer  struggles  of  the 
famous  Malcolm  Fraser,  of  the  78th  High- 
landers, to  whom  General  Murray  granted 
2,000  acres  adjoining  the  3,000  given  as  freehold 
to  Colonel  John  Nairne,  in  recognition  of  their 
gallant  services  in  the  defence  of  Quebec 
against  the  French  under  Levis.  In  this  de- 
fence unhappily  the  British  were  defeated, 
owing  to  their  ranks  being  filled  with  sick  and 
starving  men.  But  reinforcements  came  and 
the  French  were  driven  back  to  Montreal, 
which  was  finally  handed  over  to  General  Am- 
herst in  1760.  This  ancient  Manor  House  is 
well  built  and  of  quite  extensive  proportions, 
with   thick    stone  walls    and   a    mansard   roof. 


EtofFe  du  Pays  33 

On  the  other  side  of  the  Murray  River,  which 
empties  here,  is  the  Murray  Bay  Manor — also 
of  stone  but  covered  with  wood ;  a  long,  low, 
whitewashed  building  set  in  a  garden  full  of  old- 
fashioned  flowers,  monk's-hood,  sweet-william, 
dahlia,  and  columbine,  and  evidently  built  sub- 
stantially to  withstand  the  rigours  of  a  Canadian 
winter,  imposing  in  its  simplicity  and  typical  of 
the  solidity  and  depth  of  purpose  of  the  man 
who,  having  left  home  and  country  to  fight  for 
his  King,  was  rewarded  by  the  gift  of  this  land, 
rich  in  the  beauty  of  hill  and  valley,  rivers  full  of 
trout  and  salmon,  and  forests  of  spruce  and  cedar. 
While  crossing  the  bridge  built  by  the  late 
Hon.  H.  Mercier,  one  gets  a  beautiful  view  up 
the  Murray  River,  fringed  luxuriantly  with 
trees,  till  lost  in  the  bend  of  the  upper  reaches. 
Quantities  of  lumber  are  stacked  on  the  beach, 
where  at  high  tide  schooners  are  hauled  up  and 
laden  for  Quebec  or  more  distant  ports. 

The  village  of  Malbaie  transports  one  at  once 
to  some  quaint  seaside  port  in  old  France,  with 
crooked  streets  and  sharp  corners,  overhanging 
verandahs  and  sloping  roofs.  The  houses  are 
painted  or  "  washed  "  in  pale  shades  of  lemon 
or  green,  pink,  blue,  or  mauve  ;  square  "  boxes  " 
with  brilliant  doors  and  overhanging  eaves, 
from  which  a  spout  shoots  the  rain  into  the 
soft- water  barrel  at  the  corner  of  the  gallery. 
5 


34  Etoffe  du  Pays 

A  few  chickens  and  hens  straggle  across  the 
street  and  take  dust  baths  in  the  sun.  The 
ubiquitous  yellow  dog  sleeps  lazily  on  the  steps, 
waking  occasionally  to  snap  at  a  too  persistent 
fly.  Most  of  the  names  over  the  shop  doors  are 
French,  but  sometimes  one  is  pulled  up  sharply 
by  such  familiar  Scotch  patronymics  as 
■  MacNichol  "  and  "  MacLean,"  slender  links 
with  the  past  and  the  Fraser  Highlanders, 
a  century  and  a  half  ago. 

Murray  Bay  is  a  very  busy  place  in  the  season. 
Hundreds  of  rich  Americans  and  Canadians  come 
here  to  rest  and  recuperate  after  the  excessive 
demands  of  the  winter's  society  whirl.  The 
Manoir  Richelieu  offers  them  the  attraction  of 
city  luxuries  combined  with  strong  air,  a  mag- 
nificent view,  and  perfect  freedom  of  thought 
and  action.  Warm  swimming-pools  lure  the 
swimmer  who  is  daunted  by  the  frigidity  of 
the  water  in  the  Bay.  Huge  verandahs  over- 
look the  sea  and  the  well-kept  lawns  and  flower- 
beds. Roomy  arm-chairs  and  rockers  invite  one 
to  rest  awhile  over  a  cup  of  tea  or  a  game  of 
bridge,  while  indoors,  at  five  o'clock,  bright  fires 
blaze  in  the  huge  Colonial  fireplaces,  and  the 
orchestra  plays  soft  and  dreamy  music.  Golf 
played  over  links  of  entrancing  beauty,  com- 
manding a  sweep  of  the  St.  Lawrence  from 
Les    Eboulements   to   Cacouna   appeals  to  the 


Etoffe  du  Pays  35 

strenuous,  while  strolls  through  woodland  paths 
to  the  village  to  buy  catelan  or  homespun,  bull's- 
eyes  or  sugar-sticks  fill  up  the  day  for  the  less 
energetic. 

The  great  event  of  the  day  is  the  arrival  of 
the  up-coming  and  down-going  boats  of  the 
Richelieu  and  Ontario  Navigation  Company. 
Then  the  wharf  is  crowded  with  gaily  dressed 
girls,  sunburnt  and  jolly  young  men  in  "  flannels  " 
and  "  ducks  "  and  wonderful  "  blazers,"  chattering 
French  girls  and  bare-legged  boys,  with  a  con- 
fused background  of  caliches  and  buckboards, 
buggies,  and  the  hotel  'bus.  All  is  bustle  and 
noise  when  the  *  Saguenay  "  or  "  Murray  Bay  " 
is  pulled  in  to  her  moorings.  Hawsers  strain- 
ing, squeaking,  and  dripping  while  the  gangway 
is  run  into  place  and  there  is  a  rush  on  board 
of  the  eager  throng  to  greet  friends,  or  to  get 
parcels,  or  to  strum  on  the  long-suffering  piano 
and  set  feet  dancing  to  gay  gavotte  or  romping 
two-step.  Prize-packets  and  chocolates  fill  the 
pockets  and  hands  of  the  raiders,  who  are  soon 
hustled  off  by  the  stentorious  voice  of  the  captain 
from  the  bridge  shouting,  "  All  aboard  !  "  "  All 
aboard  !  "  "  All  ashore  !  "  The  last  barrel  is 
rolled  down,  a  heavy  case  marked  "  Glass "  is 
carried  carefully  off,  a  saddle  horse  is  handed 
over  to  his  expectant  mistress,  who  is  waiting 
for  her  favourite  with  some  lumps  of  sugar  in 


36  Etoffe  du  Pays 

her  hand,  the  gang  plank  is  hauled  in,  and  the 
hawsers  squeak  and  strain  and  fall  with  a  thun- 
dering splash  into  the  water,  scattering  spray 
on  every  one  in  the  vicinity.  Handkerchiefs  are 
waved,  farewells  shouted,  and  the  great  white 
vessel  churns  up  quantities  of  foam  and  slips 
away  up  to  Montreal  or  down  to  Tadousac. 
The  laughing  crowds  disperse,  sauntering  along 
the  shore,  or  whirled  out  of  sight  in  buggies  and 
buckboards. 

The  drive  back  to  Cap  a  l'Aigle  is  lovelier 
even  than  when  going  to  Murray  Bay.  Now 
the  sun  is  behind  us,  dipping  below  the  hills 
and  throwing  a  pink  flush  over  Kamouraska 
and  making  the  white  houses  stand  out  con- 
spicuously. The  tide  is  very  high,  flecked  with 
"  white  caps,"  which  dance  about  in  the  maddest 
way,  rippling  up  the  sands  and  racing  back 
again.  On  a  bit  of  rising  ground  close  to  the 
snake  fence  a  Frenchman  sits  on  a  three-legged 
stool  milking  a  sleek  black  cow.  The  milk, 
flowing  in  a  thin  white  stream,  makes  a  hissing 
sound  in  the  tin  bucket  and  the  man's  blue  shirt 
and  battered  straw  hat  are  bright  spots  on  the 
hillside. 

The  shadows  are  bronzing  the  hay-fields  and 
far  away  I  can  see  the  field  of  mustard — the 
Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold. 


CHAPTER   VI 

"  HTO-MORROW  will  be  Friday,  so  we  must 
fish  to  day !  "  seems  to  be  the  battle-call 
to  arms  to-day.  Three  or  four  boys  are  out, 
balanced  precariously  on  rocks  with  fishing  rods 
and  tin  cans,  and  one  is  punting  about  on  a 
crazy  old  raft  made  of  two  or  three  trunks  of 
trees  lashed  together.  He  poles  along  and 
perhaps  stirs  up  the  lazy  fish  for  his  friends 
on  the  rocks.  They  are  all  bare-legged  with 
trousers  rolled  up  to  their  thighs,  and  wide- 
brimmed  habitant  straw  hats,  and  one  has  a 
bright  red  jersey.  They  scramble  over  these 
rough  jagged  rocks  as  nimbly  and  lightly  as 
any  debutante  skims  over  the  waxed  floor  of 
the  Ritz-Carlton  ballroom.  One  of  them  has 
just  caught  a  fish — a  sardine  judging  by  its 
lack  of  "  play."  Another  has  skipped  by  like  a 
young  gazelle,  three  or  four  squirming  flounders 
at  the  bottom  of  his  pail.  The  ubiquitous  non- 
descript mongrel,  black  and  shiny,  saunters 
along  the  shore ;  now  paddling  in  the  water, 
now  rushing  up  the  rocks,  leaving  a  dripping 
trail  wherever  he  goes. 
37 


38  Etoffe  du  Pays 

The  tide  is  higher  than  I  have  seen  it  before. 
It  splashes  up  in  white  curds  and  leaves  pools 
in  the  cosy  corners  where  newts  and  tiny  water 
beetles  dart  to  and  fro.  The  seaweed  that  it 
is  bringing  in  is  not  particularly  pretty  or  inter- 
esting— leathery  yellow  bladders  that  go  pop 
under  your  feet  and  emit  a  rather  sticky  liquid, 
and  long  trailing  black  "boot-laces"  seem  to 
be  the  only  varieties.  The  long  rubbery  leaves, 
the  green  mermaid's  hair,  and  the  feathery 
fronds  of  the  real  Atlantic  seaweed  are 
missing. 

Under  the  lee  of  a  huge  boulder  some  ladies 
have  built  a  fire  of  driftwood  and  are  'going 
to  have  tea  on  the  beach  close  to  the  little 
cataract  where  they  will  get  the  water  to  fill 
the  kettle.  The  cloth  is  spread,  heavy  stones 
placed  at  each  corner  to  anchor  it  on  the  shift- 
ing sand  and  a  thin  wisp  of  blue  smoke  curls 
up  between  the  stones. 

The  beach  is  shady  all  afternoon — shaded 
by  the  richly  wooded  cliffs  from  the  westering 
sun.  It  is  in  the  morning  when  the  tide  is 
high  that  bathing  is  indulged  in— rather  a 
fearful  joy  with  the  temperature  of  the  water 
only  about  480  Fahr.  !  It  would  take  a  very 
courageous  Leander  to  swim  this  icy  Helles- 
pont to  woo  any  Hero,  however  fair  and 
fascinating ! 


Etoffe  du  Pays  39 

A  flock  of  sandpipers  skims  by — a  brown 
blur  for  an  instant  on  the  blue — and  I  dread  to 
hear  the  sharp  crack  !  crack  !  of  a  gun  which 
will  tell  me  that  some  of  these  graceful  crea- 
tures are  winged,  and  will  fly  no  more.  Strange 
that  man,  so  self-sufficient  and  independent, 
should  be  obliged  to  come  to  the  study  of  birds 
in  their  flight,  for  aeroplanes  ;  floating  trees 
on  the  bosom  of  the  water,  for  boats  ;  and  the 
arching  of  forest  trees,  for  Gothic  architecture. 
With  all  the  superior  inventions  of  man  and 
his  imitation  of  Nature  by  mechanical  means, 
let  us  hope  that  the  phonograph  will  never  be 
invented  that  shall  imprison  the  note  of  the 
wood-bird  or  the  "break"  of  waves  on  the 
shore,  or  the  soft  -  sighing "  of  wind  in  the 
pine-trees  and  the  song  of  the  sea  in  the  shells. 
Little  pink-tipped  shells  like  babies'  thumb- 
nails peep  out  of  the  sand  and  clutch  the  fringe 
of  the  waves  where  they  slip  with  a  silken 
swish  along  the  shore. 

The  tide  is  just  turning.  It  has  reached  its 
limit.  Each  wave  struggles  to  reach  the  last 
fringe  of  seaweed  ;  falling  back,  baffled  by  a 
few  inches  it  stretches  out  long  white  fingers 
to  grasp  the  sand  which  slips  away  and  leaves 
a  thin  line  of  pebbles.  What  is  this  wonder- 
ful force  which  gathers  up  the  waters  accord- 
ing  to   some   inexorable   law?      We   calculate 


t 

40  Etoffe  du  Pays 

approximately  what  it  is,  but  we  may  be  as 
far  wrong,  as  the  Ancients  were,  who  thought 
the  sun  moved  round  the  earth. 

With  the  outgoing  tide  the  breeze  has 
freshened,  bringing  up  masses  of  pearly  clouds 
tipped  at  the  edge  with  opal  tints  of  palest 
mauve,  blue,  rose-pink,  and  grape-green.  Two 
ocean  greyhounds  have  slipped  their  leash  and 
are  racing  to  Quebec,  straining  every  nerve 
and  sinew  to  come  to  cover  before  night  falls. 
The  group  at  the  tea  party  are  packing  away 
their  cups  and  saucers,  rinsing  out  the  tea-pot, 
smothering  the  embers  of  the  fire,  and  gather- 
ing up  books  and  rugs.  The  disciples  of 
Izaak  Walton  have  gone  home.  The  shadows 
are  deepening.  The  birds  are  fighting  for 
sheltered  places  in  the  great  dormitory  of  the 
woods,  and  I  am  left  alone,  feeling  a  little 
like  Casabianca  ! 


CHAPTER   VII 

TT  is  Sunday.  A  holy  calm  pervades  the 
countryside.  A  peace  that  penetrates  every 
fibre  and  every  nerve  of  the  body  and  enters 
into  the  very  chamber  of  the  soul.  The  still- 
ness is  only  broken  by  the  far-off  song  of  a 
bird,  the  gentle  "  peep,"  *'  peep  "  of  chickens  in 
the  grass,  and  the  "  lap  "  of  the  waves.  Later 
the  road  will  be  gay  with  the  faithful  returning 
from  Mass.  Everything  on  four  legs  is  pressed 
into  the  service  to  carry  them  to  church. 
Black  horses  and  brown,  roans  and  dappled 
greys,  flea-bitten  mares  and  young  colts  draw- 
ing hooded  buggies  and  two-seated  buck- 
boards,  and  caliches  with  black  bodies,  scarlet 
wheels,  and  enormous  springs.  Decent  black 
seems  to  be  the  prevailing  colour  for  this 
solemn  day,  but  in  the  afternoon  the  charming 
young  French  girls  will  blossom  out  in  delicate 
pinks  or  mauves,  pale  blues  and  clear  yellows, 
and  go  driving  with  their  beaux,  after  the  dishes 
are  washed  and  put  away  in  the  old-fashioned 
bureaux  and  buffets. 

The   little   Presbyterian   Church  on   the  hill 
6  41 


42  EtofFe  du  Pays 

looks  like  a  child's  Noah's  Ark  with  its  grey- 
blue  sides,  slit  windows,  and  red  roof,  and  one 
almost  expects  to  see  a  wooden  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Noah  in  the  doorway.  The  Ark  of  the  Cove- 
nant !  buffeted  about  on  the  waves  of  con- 
troversy and  discord  for  so  many  centuries 
and  set  down  here,  after  the  storm,  in  the 
peace  and  quiet  of  this  little  village,  testifying 
for  ever  to  the  immutability  of  the  Scriptures 
and  their  power  to-day  to  fill  all  our  needs. 

Some  years  ago  I  made  a  great  mistake  in 
the  arrangement  of  the  hymns  when  I  was 
called  upon  at  short  notice  to  play  the  har- 
monium. They  were  "  Rock  of  Ages,"  "  Jesus 
Lover  of  my  Soul,"  and  "  Art  thou  Weary  ?  " 
As  soon  as  the  service  was  over,  the  clergy- 
man came  up  to  me  and  said,  "  I  don't  often 
find  fault,  but  I  must  say  I  very  much  object 
to  singing  '  Art  thou  weary,  art  thou  languid, 
art  thou  sore  distrest  ? '  directly  after  the  sermon, 
especially  when  I  have  tried  to  be  as  brief 
and  as  bright  as  possible." 

A  bright  smile  wreathed  his  chubby  face,  so 
I  retaliated  by  asking  if  he  had  heard  of  the 
newly  fledged  and  highly  nervous  young  curate 
who  was  officiating  for  the  first  time  at  a  funeral. 
He  was  desirous  of  inviting  those  present  to 
view  the  remains  after  the  service,  so  he  said : 
*  Dear  friends,  we  will   now  pass   round    the 


Etoffe  du  Pays  43 

bier."  A  remark  which  occasioned  great  sur- 
prise, as  the  deceased  was  known  to  have  been 
a  strict  teetotaler  ! 

More  than  a  mile  down  the  road  towards 
Point  a  Pic  and  Murray  Bay  is  the  little  English 
Church,  St.  Peter's-on-the-Rock.  Well  named 
it  is,  for  sturdy  boulders  show  up  through  the 
grass,  and  daisies  and  buttercups  jostle  one 
another  and  overflow  almost  into  the  porch. 
Two  huge  willow-trees  with  outstretched  arms 
mingle  the  rustle  of  their  leaves  with  the  twitter 
of  birds,  the  faint  tinkle  of  the  stream,  and  the 
glorious  strains  of  "  Ein  fest  'Burg  ist  unser 
Gott,"  a  relic  of  Luther — a  link  with  the  great 
blood-stained  past — which  has  outlived  the 
flimsy  versification  of  so  many  more  modern 
hymn  writers.  The  interior  of  the  church  is 
very  plain,  just  unvarnished  pine  boards  with 
slatted  benches  and  straight  book-rests.  The 
chancel,  a  small  Gothic  alcove,  faces  east  and 
is  always  bright  with  the  flowers  of  the  field. 
Two  coloured  windows  add  a  mellow  light  to 
the  sunshine  which  pours  through  the  six  plain 
windows,  laden  with  the  perfume  of  salt  sea, 
wild  bean,  and  meadow-sweet.  Daisies  and 
buttercups  nod  in,  and  the  drowsy  hum  of 
insects  mingles  with  chant  and  psalm.  At 
evensong,  pale  electric  lights  take  the  place 
of  the   old-fashioned   oil-lamps,   which,  to   my 


44  Etoffe  du  Pays 

thinking,  gave  a  softer  light  and  were  more 
in  harmony  with  the  spirit  of  the  place  and 
its  architecture.  They  jar  on  me  in  the  same 
way  as  the  ridiculous  Chinese  pagoda  porch 
that  some  benighted  individual  has  perched 
on  an  obviously  French-Canadian  cottage, 
like  Victorian  chairs  round  an  Elizabethan 
dining-table. 

We  walked  home  in  the  fading  twilight,  pink 
melting  into  mauve,  into  grey,  into  black,  till 
the  velvet  curtain  of  night  fell,  embroidered 
with  a  thousand  stars.  The  outgoing  tide  bore 
on  its  bosom  the  ferry,  aglow  with  lights — a 
golden  torch  in  the  distance  with  a  smoky  trail. 
The  twitter  of  birds  was  no  longer  heard,  the 
laughter  of  the  French  girls  was  hushed.  The 
petition  that  we  had  just  sent  up  in  that  quiet 
sanctuary  seemed  suddenly  fulfilled,  and  "that 
peace  which  the  world  cannot  give  "  enwrapped 
us  like  a  garment. 

"  O  holy  Night  !  from  thee  I  learn  to  bear 
What  man  has  borne  before 
Thou  lay'st  thy  finger  on  the  lips  of  Care, 
And  they  complain  no  more." 

"  Peace  !   Peace  !   Orestes  like  I  breathe  this  prayer  ! 
Descend  with  broad-winged  flight 
The  welcome,  the  thrice-prayed  for,  the  most  fair, 
The  best-beloved  Night ! " 

Longfellow. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

'""THE  calm  of  yesterday  has  given  place  to 
a  fitful  morning.  The  sky  is  grey  and 
shifting,  then  breaking  into  light  and  giving 
false  promise  of  settled  weather.  A  high  wind 
and  a  break  in  the  clouds  tempted  me  to  my 
favourite  seat  in  the  woods,  within  sight  and 
sound  of  the  sea  and  the  mountain  stream. 
Suddenly  the  wind  dropped  and  big  splotches 
of  rain  stained  the  pine-needles,  and  as  I 
hurried  up  the  steep,  uneven  path,  great  rolls 
of  thunder  came  nearer,  with  blinding  sheets 
of  rain. 

I  took  shelter  in  the  forge,  and  was  lucky 
enough  to  find  the  blacksmith  beating  out 
great  iron  nails,  six  inches  long  and  as  thick 
as  a  man's  thumb.  The  swinging  blows  of 
the  hammer  on  the  red-hot  metal  made  the 
anvil  ring  and  fierce  sparks  fly  in  every 
direction — a  pyrotechnic  display  which  was 
heightened  by  the  darkness,  the  vivid  flashes 
of  lightning,  and  the  peals  of  thunder  rever- 
berating among  the  hills  and  echoing  from 
shore  to  shore.  Two  horses  stood  waiting  to 
45 


4.6  Etoffe  du  Pays 

be  shod,  or  to  have  their  harness  repaired — 
their  sides  gleaming  wet  and  shining  in  the 
blazing  fire  of  shavings.  Curly  strippings  of 
pine  littered  the  floor  from  the  spokes  of  the 
waggon  wheels,  which  are  made  here,  as  well 
as  the  rims  and  bolts. 

The  darkness  increased,  the  flames  glowed 
brighter,  the  sparks  flew  faster,  the  horses  fret- 
ted uneasily  at  their  halters  and  scraped  their 
hoofs  on  the  rough  flooring,  when,  suddenly, 
the  clouds  broke,  a  shaft  of  pure  gold  pierced 
the  blackness,  and  the  shower  was  over.  Up 
past  the  dripping  branches  and  tear-stained 
daisies  I  went,  past  the  hen-house  where  all 
the  brood  were  huddled,  till  finally  I  reached 
the  road  which  I  had  left  the  colour  of  sucre 
la  creme  and  now  found  transformed  to  a  glossy 
chocolate. 

Opposite  this  house  is  a  patch  of  twenty 
square  yards  thickly  sown  with — empty  tin 
cans  !  I  thought  they  sheltered  some  rare  or 
tender  plant,  such  as  tomato  or  artichoke,  but 
found  on  investigation  that  each  was  a  root 
of  Canadian  tobacco  which  is  dried  and  rolled 
in  every  habitant  kitchen  for  the  delectation 
of  Monsieur  et  ses  fits.  The  season  being  so 
short,  few  flowers  are  cultivated  here,  but  the 
patch  of  tobacco  is  always  carefully  tended. 
Monsieur's  narcotic  must  be   supplied,  though 


Etoffe  du  Pays  47 

there  seem  to  be  few  of  life's  luxuries  for 
madame.  Like  the  proud  Mother  of  the 
Gracchi,  she  can  but  point  to  her  ten  children, 
and  say,  "  These  are  my  jewels,"  and  rejoice  in 
the  luxury  of  so  much  love. 

Little  Charlotte  is  my  favourite,  her  bright- 
eyed  little  brown  face,  her  hair  bleached  to 
almost  the  same  tint  and  strained  back  from 
her  forehead  into  two  tight  little  plaits  that 
meet  two  equally  diminutive  ones  lower  down, 
the  four  tied  together  with  a  once  pink  ribbon. 
These  pig-tails  fly  out  like  knitting-pins  when 
she  runs,  and  she  is  always  running.  Her  neat 
black  legs  under  her  faded  blue  frock  fly  helter- 
skelter  down  the  road.  She  has  such  a  sweet 
impish  face — such  a  look  of  espieglerie  com- 
bined with  innocence.  She  is  shy  too,  when 
u  les  Anglaises "  address  her,  and  hangs  over 
the  gallery  with  her  heels  dangling  and  her 
head  bent,  every  now  and  then  opening  her 
rosy  mouth  and  dropping  a  little  "spit"  softly 
on  the  grass.  Not  coarsely  or  impudently, 
but  just  from  childish  nervousness  and  in- 
ability to  understand  Mamzelle's  extraordinary 
French. 

Seeing  that  the  shower  is  over,  a  motherly 
brown  hen  has  brought  out  her  chickens  for 
an  airing — eighteen  of  the  tiniest  balls  of  fluff ! 
Imagine   being   so   small   that  you  cannot  see 


48  Etoffe  du  Pays 

over  a  clover-bush,  and  the  early  summer  grass 
looming  up  like  the  forest  primeval !  There 
they  go  "  peep,"  "  peeping,"  after  their  mother. 
Vox  et praeterea  nihil  might  well  be  their  blazon, 
on  a  field  vert,  powdered  argent. 

The  butcher's  cart  scatters  the  little  group, 
and  they  scuttle  under  the  fence,  among  the 
rose-bushes.  Madame  comes  out  to  choose  the 
meat,  which  hangs  from  strong  hooks  inside 
the  roof,  which  is  waterproof,  black  outside, 
white  in.  Strange  looking  "  cuts  "  hang  there. 
Odd  joints  that  it  would  puzzle  an  amateur  to 
say  from  what  part,  or  what  animal  they  came. 
The  butcher  has  his  scales  also — primitive 
"  balances "  that  might  not  come  quite  up  to 
the  requirements  of  the  Government  Inspector 
of  Weights  and  Measures  but  which  serve  the 
purpose  very  well  down  here.  Madame  picks 
out  her  joint  and  he  severs  it  dexterously  with 
a  dangerous  looking  knife,  tells  her  its  weight 
(approximately)  and  the  price  (very  emphatic- 
ally), gives  her  the  change,  and  with  a  bow 
and  a  flourish  and  a  cheery  "  B'jour,"  drives  off 
to  the  next  house  where  the  same  process  is 
gone  through. 

There  are  many  pretty  cottages  at  Cap  a 
l'Aigle  and  some  that  are  historically  interest- 
ing, particularly  one  called  the  "  Alert,"  whose 
interior  is   finished   with   panelling  and   doors 


Photo  \V.  Not  man  6^  Son,  Montreal. 

FRASER    FALLS,    MURRAY    BAY. 

48] 


Etoffe  du  Pays  49 

taken  from  that  gallant  old  vessel,  which  was 
one  of  the  boats  that  went  on  the  Expedition 
organised  by  Sir  George  Nares  and  the  Royal 
Geographical  Society  in  1875  to  search  for  the 
North  Pole.  She  was  commanded  by  Admiral 
Markham  and  accompanied  by  the  "  Discovery," 
and  together  they  penetrated  farther  north  than 
any  previous  explorers.  An  interesting  relic 
(which  is  still  preserved  by  relatives  of  the  late 
Admiral)  is  a  thermometer  which  records  that 
it  was  carried  to  Lat.  83,  20  min.  26  sees.  North, 
where  the  temperature  was  1090  below  freezing  ! 
The  frame  of  this  instrument  is  made  of  the 
batten  of  the  sledge  "  Marco  Polo "  which 
carried  these  intrepid-voyagers  over  the  ice  when 
they  were  obliged  to  abandon  their  boat.  The 
"  Alert "  was  a  seventeen-gun  sloop,  and  before 
leaving  England  she  was  overlaid  with  a  seven- 
inch  covering  of  teak  and  lined  throughout  with 
felt.  She  had  a  crew  of  sixty  men  with  nine 
boats,  and  it  is  interesting  to  read,  in  a  detailed 
account  in  a  "Strand  Magazine"  of  nearly 
twenty  years  ago,  that  "the  Commander's  pet 
dog,  Nellie,  accompanied  the  expedition  and 
had  her  own  embroidered  blanket." 

"Punch"   had   a  joke   when  the  expedition 
returned :    "  Why     didn't     Admiral     Markham 
find  the  North  Pole?     Because  the  Discovery 
was  not  on  the  Alert." 
7 


50  Etoffe  du  Pays 

Queen  Victoria  sent  this  famous  boat  later 
to  assist  the  American  Government  in  its  search 
for  the  ill-fated  Greeley  Expedition,  when  they 
found  that  heroic  explorer  and  the  remnant 
of  his  tattered  companions  well-nigh  exhausted 
and  hopeless,  and  brought  them  back  to  civilisa- 
tion. Shortly  after  this,  the  "  Alert "  made  a 
trip  from  Halifax  to  Hudson's  Bay  and  York 
Harbour,  and  it  was  intended  that  she  should 
be  sent  back  to  England  to  swell  the  list  of  her 
naval  curiosities,  but  she  was  found  to  be  not 
seaworthy  enough  to  stand  the  ocean  voyage, 
so  was  sold  to  a  junk  dealer  in  Quebec,  where 
soon  after  she  was  burnt  at  Beauport  Flats. 
Before  this  tragic  ending  took  place,  two  enter- 
prising ladies  who  have  resided  at  their  beautiful 
home  in  Cap  a  l'Aigle  for  many  summers,  hear- 
ing of  the  sale  of  the  "  Alert,"  thought  it  would 
be  a  good  opportunity  to  obtain  some  of  the 
fittings,  so  went  to  Quebec  to  interview  the 
purchaser. 

They  tell  the  story  very  quaintly. 

"You  know,"  they  say,  "  we  said  to  the  man, 
'  We  want  to  buy  some  of  the  fittings  of  this  old 
boat,  but  we  don't  know  in  the  least  what  they 
are  worth — we  are  completely  at  your  mercy! 
so  you  can  cheat  us  if  you  like  !  but  we  hope  you 
won't !  * " 

Four  mahogany  chests   of  drawers,  such   as 


Etoffe  du  Pays  51 

the  officers  have  below  their  bunks  ;  the  writing- 
table  used  by  Greeley ;  several  large  panelled 
mahogany  doors  with  brass  plates  and  locks 
stamped  with  the  broad  arrow  of  the  Admiralty  ; 
the  officers'  sideboard  and  a  great  many  of  the 
port  shutters  completed  the  purchase,  and  the 
ladies  departed,  well  pleased  with  their  morning's 
work. 

Not  long  after,  a  friend  of  theirs  was  travelling 
on  the  train,  and  overheard  a  conversation  be- 
tween the  junk  dealer  and  a  friend.     He  said  : 

"  Yes!  I  sold  them  'Alert'  fixin's  to  two  women 
who  came  along  and  pretended  they  didn't  know 
nothin' !  Bless  me  !  two  harder-headed  custo- 
mers I  niver  come  across !  They  knew  the 
vally  of  every  inch  of  brass  in  the  place,  and 
every  stick  of  wood  !  Innercent  as  babes,  they'd 
have  me  think  they  wuz  ! — 'twas  the  wisdom  of 
sarpints,  sez  I !  " 

Ex-President  Taft  has  a  beautiful  cottage  at 
Murray  Bay,  also  his  brother,  and  a  great  many 
wealthy  Americans,  who  prefer  the  bracing 
breezes  of  the  St.  Lawrence  to  the  more  languid 
air  of  the  Maine  coast. 

Another  interesting  house  is  a  diminutive 
bungalow — literally  a  "pied  a  terre"  and  no 
more,  built  like  a  woodman's  cottage  on  the  edge 
of  the  bush,  by  a  sister  of  that  delightful  writer 
of  short  stories,  Frank  Houghton,  whose  pictures 


52  Etoffe  du  Pays 

of  Western  life  are  so  vivid  and  so  humorous. 
From  living  with  the  rough  pioneers  of  the 
West  and  the  lumber  camps  he  has  acquired 
much  of  their  directness  of  speech  and  crispness 
of  expression,  and  the  stories  he  tells  of  his  own 
ups  and  downs  are  rich  in  colour,  with  a  touch 
of  pathos.  He  says,  in  his  quiet  English  voice, 
that  makes  you  think  he  has  never  been  in  a  less 
civilised  place  than  a  London  drawing-room  : 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  been  •  broke,'  as 
it  is  called,  in  half  the  towns  in  the  West.  But 
I  think  my  Vancouver  experience  was  perhaps 
the  funniest 

"  I  remember  I  had  a  room,  payable  weekly  in 
advance,  on — I  forget  the  name  of  the  street — a 
meal  ticket  with  thirty  cents  still  remaining  on 
it,  and  ninety-five  cents  in  money. 

"  In  order  to  make  the  meal  ticket  last  as  long 
as  possible,  I  was  eating  just  one  meal  a  day, 
and  had  been  doing  so  for  ten  days.  And  meals, 
in  a  cheap  Vancouver  restaurant,  one  cannot 
conscientiously  describe  as  luxurious. 

"  By  the  afternoon  of  the  eleventh  day  (I 
always  took  my  one  meal  in  the  afternoon), 
besides  feeling  hungry  enough  to  eat  my  boots, 
I  felt  reckless.  I  decided  to  '  blow  in  '  the  last 
of  the  meal  ticket  on  one  meal,  and  did  so.  It 
wasn't  much  of  a  meal !  When  I  left  the  res- 
taurant, my  worldly  wealth  consisted  of  exactly 


Etoffe  du  Pays  53 

ninety-five  cents.  It  was  raining  that  afternoon 
— as  usual. 

"  I  had  a  friend  to  whom  I  wished  to  telephone. 
On  Hastings  Street,  near  Granville,  a  kindly, 
philanthropic  druggist  plied  his  trade,  and  upon 
more  than  one  occasion  had  allowed  me  to  use 
his  telephone,  free  of  the  customary  nickel.  A 
nickel  loomed  big  to  me  at  that  time.  With  a 
nickel  one  may  buy  an  egg,  sometimes — even  in 
Vancouver  !  I  hastened  to  the  kindly  druggist 
and  begged  the  use  of  his  telephone. 

"  '  Sure,'  said  he. 

"  The  telephone  stood  upon  a  counter,  upon 
which  also  stood  divers  bottles.  In  order  to  use 
the  'phone  I  laid  my  umbrella  upon  the  counter, 
and  in  doing  so  had  the  misfortune  to  knock  a 
bottle  from  it  to  the  floor.  It  was  a  big  bottle, 
and  the  neck  only  was  cracked,  so  that  hardly  a 
spoonful  was  lost. 

" '  By  Jove ! '  I  exclaimed,  *  I'm  awfully  sorry.' 
'  Don't  worry,'  said  the  sympathetic  druggist,  '  it 
will  only  cost  you  a  dollar.' 

" '  Is  that  all  ?  '  said  I,  drawing  out  my  ninety- 
five  cents,  which  I  counted  carefully,  though, 
God  knows,  I  was  exactly  and  painfully  aware 
of  the  amount.  Then  I  said,  with  what  I  hoped 
resembled  the  fine  manner  of  a  millionaire, 
shocked  at  discovering  so  little  change  in  his 
pocket : 


54  Etoffe  du  Pays 

" '  I  am  very  sorry,  but  I  find  I  have  only 
ninety-five  cents  with  me ;  I  shall  have  to  owe 
you  five.'  '  Oh !  that's  all  right,'  says  Mr. 
Druggist,  with  a  genial  smile,  '  we'll  call  it 
square.' 

"  I  thanked  him  then,  and  asked  him  what  it 
was,  saying  that  if  I  could  use  it  I  might  as  well 
have  it.  And  with  all  the  fervour  of  the  ac- 
complished salesman  he  informed  me  that  it 
was  •  the  finest  tonic  in  the  world  to  give  you  an 
appetite  ! ' 

"'Exactly  what  I've  been  looking  for!'  I 
assured  him.  And  I  departed  from  the  shop, 
the  bottle  under  my  arm,  reeling  with  laughter 
like  a  drunken  man. 

"  That  evening,  before  I  went  to  bed,  I  had  a 
tonic  cocktail !  It  was  not  at  all  bad.  When 
I  got  up  next  morning,  I  had  another.  In  the 
drawer  of  my  washing-stand  I  found  a  very 
small  withered  apple,  and  so  I  ate  my  breakfast 
while  I  dressed  ! 

"  That  day  the  gods  were  kind  to  me.  I  re- 
ceived ten  dollars  from  a  magazine  for  some 
sketches,  and  hastened  to  a  restaurant  on  Gran- 
ville Street." 


CHAPTER   IX 

C^AN  you  imagine  the  joy  of  being  a  whole 
fortnight  without  seeing  an  automobile  or 
hearing  a  telephone  or  a  bell,  except  the  wel- 
come tinkle  that  summons  us  to  the  most  de- 
licious meals  of  strawberries  and  cream,  golden 
omelettes,  juicy  salmon  trout,  doughnuts,  and  a 
heaped-up  dish  of  sucre  la  creme.  A  veritable 
feast  of  Lucullus,  served  in  the  cool,  raftered 
room  at  the  long,  spotless  table  from  which  has 
been  removed  the  bright  yellow  mosquito  net- 
ting, which,  between  meals,  keeps  off  the  flies. 
The  quiet  and  peacefulness  restore  nerves  jangled 
and  out  of  tune  by  the  noises  of  the  city  and 
the  incessant  and  insistent  demands  of  the  tele- 
phone— that  greatest  combination  of  blessing 
and  curse  ever  invented — and  we  experience, 
perhaps  for  the  first  time,  "that  peace  that 
passeth  all  understanding." 

From  where  I  sit  in  the  notch  between  a 
silver  birch  and  mountain  ash,  the  leaves  flicker- 
ing over  my  paper  like  butterflies,  I  look  up 
to  a  field  which  seems  swept  by  a  snowstorm. 
Thousands  of  daisies  of  dazzling  whiteness  are 
55 


56  Etoffe  du  Pays 

massed  against  a  background  of  larch  and  cedar. 
On  the  right  is  the  cascade  racing  down  to  the  sea ; 
beyond  it,  on  the  opposite  bank,  a  whole  field  of 
wild  mustard — sulphur-coloured  in  the  sunshine. 

Oh !  for  the  brush  of  some  Canadian  artist 
to  paint  the  glory  of  these  fields  of  burnished 
gold,  where  violet  hills,  snow-tipped  with  clouds, 
pierce  the  blue,  and  the  sapphire  sea  melts  into 
the  horizon  ;  to  do  for  this  beautiful  country 
what  MacWhirter  has  done  for  the  famous  blue 
gentians  of  the  Alps  and  limn  for  ever  the 
transient  glories  of  a  summer  day.  Purple 
heather  and  golden  gorse  were  never  more 
entrancing  in  their  loveliness  than  these  meadow 
blooms.  The  woods  are  full  of  choicer  blossoms 
than  any  millionaire's  table  can  display — slender 
lady's  slippers,  swinging  orchids,  and  fragile 
Indian  pipe  or  ghost  flower,  crimson  berries  like 
vivid  drops  of  sealing-wax,  delicate  harebells, 
and  love-in-a-mist. 

Would  that  we  could  educate  the  poor  in 
great  cities  to  find  delight  in  the  wonders  of 
Nature — the  immense  kaleidoscope  of  shifting 
clouds  and  swaying  branches  that  can  be  en- 
joyed in  most  of  our  large  parks,  instead  of 
spending  their  hardly  earned  money  at  common 
picture  shows  in  bad  air  and  worse  company. 
Which  reminds  me  of  a  few  remarks  I  over- 
heard last  winter  at  the  theatre.     Between  the 


Etoffe  du  Pays  57 

acts,  as  usual,  the  fire-proof  curtain  was  lowered 
to  show  that  it  was  in  perfect  working  order. 
Across  it  was  painted  in  large  letters  "  Asbestos." 
A  girl  behind  me  said  to  her  companion  : 

"  Say,  'Melia  !  what  does  '  Asbestos  '  mean, 
anyhow  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  don't  you  know  ? "  replied  'Melia  loftily. 
"  It  means  Tragedy  and  Comedy  and  all  that — 
the  Dramer,  in  fact !  " 

Last  night  we  had  an  electric  storm  of  mar- 
vellous beauty.     At   sunset   the  clouds  looked 
angry  and  lurid,  lying  low  on  the  horizon  and 
flushed   at  the   edges   with   an   ominous   light. 
The  birds   went   early   to   bed   and   the  cattle 
huddled   together   in    the   shelters.     When   the 
black  curtain  of  night  fell,  it  was  ripped  asunder 
with  spears  of  lightning  that  pierced  the  sides 
of  the  mountains  and  zigzagged  sharply  across 
the  sea.     Thunder  rumbled  like  an  angry  god, 
but  no  rain  fell.     About  ten  o'clock  hundreds 
of  stars  popped  out — peace  after  the  battle  of 
the  elements.     Up  the  road  jogged  a  party  of 
merrymakers,  celebrating  the  glorious   "fourth 
of  July,"  smiting  the  stillness  with  weird  "cat- 
calls "  and  songs,  sleigh-bells,  and  the  beating  of 
tin  pans.     Their  fun  and  laughter  echoed  down 
the  valley  and  were  lost  in  the  distance,  and 
soon  this  happy  village  was  fast  in  the  arms  of 
Morpheus. 
8 


CHAPTER    X 

CT.  SWITHIN'S  DAY!  and  it  is  raining! 
Never  were  the  heavens  more  eagerly 
scanned  than  this  morning  for  the  dreaded 
rain  clouds  that  would  menace  us  with  wet 
weather  for  forty  days.  Some  said  the  wind 
was  in  a  good  quarter,  others,  looking  very 
wise,  said  it  was  in  a  bad.  Monsieur,  clad  in 
heavy  jersey  and  bottes  sauvages,  laughed  when 
I  said  : 

"  Beau  temps  pour  les  canards  ! "  and  taking 
his  stumpy  pipe  from  between  his  lips  mut- 
tered, "  Peut-etre ! " 

On  the  strength  of  this  tentative  "  Perhaps  " 
I  came  down  to  the  beach  and  am  rewarded — 
after  a  sprinkling  of  St.  Swithin's  tears — with 
a  burst  of  sunshine  which  makes  the  sand 
sparkle  with  thousands  of  diamonds  and  the 
sea  shimmer  in  points  of  light.  A  pale  pris- 
matic rainbow  kisses  either  shore,  its  arch  lost 
in  the  vapoury  zenith.  Pink  granite  throws  out 
silver  sparks  and  green-veined  marble  brings  to 
mind  the  possibilities  of  these  beautiful  rocks  in 
the  hands  of  a  skilled  lapidary. 

A  few  boys  are  braving  the  icy  water  and 
58 


Etoffe  du  Pays  59 

bathing  from  the  point.  Their  lithe  bodies, 
poised  for  the  dive,  gleam  white  as  alabaster 
in  the  sunlight.  A  few  minutes  suffice  to  cool 
their  ardour.  They  come  up  spluttering  and 
gasping  and  run  along  the  beach,  the  red  blood 
flushing  them  with  pink.  Back  over  the  rocks 
they  skip,  balance  for  an  instance  on  the  edge, 
arms  thrust  out,  palms  folded,  legs  stiffened, 
then  lost  in  the  waves  till  a  wet  head  comes 
to  the  surface  and  they  run  dripping  along 
the  sand. 

Yesterday  was  a  day  of  relentless  rain.  A 
boon  perhaps  to  the  housekeeper  whose  barrel 
of  soft  water  is  empty,  but  not  otherwise  to  be 
considered  a  blessing  at  the  seaside.  In 
desperation  I  went  out  in  the  afternoon  and 
was  amused  by  the  wild  gyrations  of  some 
young  girls  walking,  or  rather  trying  to  balance 
themselves  on  stilts.  The  back  view  was  ex- 
tremely funny,  especially  when  in  the  muddiest 
part  of  the  road — which  drew  them  like  a  mag- 
net— equilibrium  failed,  and  precipitated  the 
would-be  stalkers  into  the  thick  of  it,  eliciting 
jeers  and  shrieks  of  laughter  from  the  admiring 
family. 

Torrents  of  rain  fell ;  every  tree  was  a  water- 
spout, every  ditch  was  full,  daisies  and  butter- 
cups were  beaten  down  and  water-logged.  The 
Chicadee,  whose  song  is  generally  so  cheery, 


60  Etoffe  du  Pays 

piped  a  mournful  note  that  sounded  like 
"  Misery  !  "  "  Misery  !  "  "  Misery  ! " 

The  little  stream  in  the  hollow  by  the  wharf 
road  was  angry  and  swollen,  brown  and  turgid 
from  the  pelting  drops. 

The  washerwoman's  children  pattered  along, 
lugging  great  sodden  bundles  home  to  their 
mother.  Poor  little  drowned  rats !  the  rain 
beating  on  their  unprotected  heads  and  thinly 
clad  shoulders,  their  faces  shining  with  moisture, 
and  the  mud  squeezing  up  between  their  bare 
toes.  Happy,  smiling,  satisfied — unconscious 
of  better  things  in  the  great  world  beyond 
their  own  poor  home. 

**  My  crown  is  in  my  heart,  not  on  my  head, 
Not  decked  with  diamonds  and  Indian  stones 
Nor  to  be  seen — my  crown  is  called  Content." 

The  sea  was  breaking  rough  and  turbulent 
over  the  rocks  and  dashing  against  the  green- 
slimed  sides  of  the  wharf  to  which  a  schooner 
was  tied,  straining  and  struggling  at  her  moor- 
ings. Sea  and  sky  met  in  a  grey  blurred 
outline,  and  there  was  an  ominous  belt  of  rain- 
filled  clouds  towards  the  West,  where,  we  are 
told  by  the  natives,  the  fine  weather  is  stored  in 
the  golden  coffers  of  the  sunset. 

As  I  passed  the  shop  of  the  shoemaker — a 
mere   box    by  the    roadside,  the  window  filled 


Etoffe  du  Pays  61 

with  boxes  and  bottles  of  polish — he  was  putting 
up  his  shutters  preparatory  to  going  home  for 
the  night.  He  looked  at  his  modest  sign  and 
evidently  decided  that  it  needed  re-lettering, 
as  it  was  only  done  in  pencil  and  the  rain  had 
nearly  washed  it  out.  So  to-morrow  we  will 
again  see  his  quaint  notice 

"  Reparation  de  Shossures  " 

an  orthographical  error — we  will  forgive  him  for 
the  sake  of  his  excellent  cobbling. 


CHAPTER   XI 

"CAR  away  I  hear  the  slow  "  pl-u-n-ck," 
"  plunck  ! "  of  guns  over  the  water,  which 
means  that  there  will  be  one  seal  less  slipping 
over  the  wet  rocks  of  Green  Island  and  crying 
its  queer  weird  note. 

The  sea  is  like  glass.  A  yacht  with  weather- 
stained  sails  is  almost  becalmed,  its  sails  sagging 
loose  and  waving  limply  with  the  ghost  of  a 
breeze.  The  fussy  little  ferry  has  cracked  the 
glass  in  several  places  and  gone  on  its  way  to 
Ste.  Iren6e,  leaving  a  streak  like  the  smudge 
of  a  dirty  finger  upon  the  mirror. 

A  hot,  lazy  day  has  succeeded  the  rain  of 
yesterday.  A  bright  brown  butterfly  is  floating 
idly  by,  its  velvet  body  powdered  with  dust 
from  the  golden  treasury  of  the  buttercups. 
The  air  is  whirring  with  the  beat  of  insects' 
wings.  The  sun  is  drawing  out  all  the  perfume 
from  balsam  and  from  cedar,  and  the  woods 
exhale  the  stored-up  sweetness  of  the  spring. 
What  does  it  matter  that  we  know  not  the 
scientific  name  of  half  the  wonderful  living 
things  about  us — the  birds,  the  bees,  the  beetles, 
62 


Etoffe  du  Pays  63 

the    ants,   the    speedwell,    the    stonecrop,    the 
mallow,  and  the  pigeon  berry. 

"The  pedigree  of  honey  does  not  concern  the  bee, 
A  clover  any  time  to  him  is  Aristocracy  ! " 

This  morning  I  gathered  a  charming  spray 
with  grey  green  leaves  and  delicate  flowers  of 
a  clear  beautiful  vermilion  and  was  rather 
embarrassed  when  Ursule  laughed  and  said  it 
was  "  barbane — une  herbe  sauvage."  I  did  not 
understand,  but  now  1  see  the  same  leaves 
grown  coarse  and  tough,  rough  and  ugly,  and 
I  find  that  my  fragile  treasure  (that  drooped 
in  water)  is  going  to  be  a  common  "  burr,"  in 
truth  a  "  savage  herb  !  " 

How  closely  does  human  nature  imitate  the 
vegetable !  How  often  we  see  frail  little 
children,  fragrant  as  flowers,  grow  up  into 
coarse,  rough  men  and  women  without  a 
single  charm  to  remind  us  that  they  ever  were 
different.  The  human  "  burrs "  that  cling  to 
the  skirts  of  decency,  a  blot  on  the  scheme  of 
things  and  a  burden  to  the  community.  Some 
day,  perhaps,  a  use  will  be  found  even  for 
them — something  that  comes  out  of  an  ability 
to  "hold  on."  Science  will  invent  something 
to  prove  their  utility,  and  heaven  will  supply 
some  place  for  those  who  have  proved  their 
right  to  "hang  on  "  till  the  end. 


64  EtofFe  du  Pays 

This  sounds  a  little  like  strap-hanging  and 
reminds  me  of  the  meek  little  man  seated  in 
the  London  "  Tube  "  during  the  "  rush  "  hours, 
with  three  rampant  women  standing  up  in 
front  of  him  and  evidently  "talking  at"  him. 
He  caught  mumbled  sounds  of  "  The  age  of 
chivalry  is  dead,"  "  No  politeness  among  men 
nowadays,"  etc.  He  was  tired,  but  he  could 
stand  it  no  longer.  He  struggled  to  his  feet 
and  said  blandly : 

"  Will  the  oldest  of  you  three  ladies  please 
take  my  seat  ?  " 

They  glared  at  him  (and  at  each  other)  and 
pushed  away  farther  up  the  aisle,  and  he  re- 
sumed his  seat  with  an  air  of  virtuous  resignation. 

This  recalls  another  episode  I  witnessed 
lately.  Coming  home  one  afternoon  about  six 
o'clock,  the  car  filled  up  quickly,  but  I  was  for- 
tunate in  getting  a  seat,  when  I  heard  a  man 
behind  me  say :  "  Isn't  it  outrageous !  a  smart 
looking  girl  like  that,  coming  into  the  street 
car  at  the  'rush'  hour  with  a  hat-box  as  big 
as  a  trunk  !  Look  at  the  room  it  takes  up !  Ten 
to  one  she  could  easily  have  taken  a  cab — 
those  are  the  sort  that  are  too  darned  mean  ! " 
I  looked  back  and  saw  jammed  in  the  crowd  a 
tall  dark  girl  I  recognised  as  Edna  Ridgeway 
and  she  certainly  held  a  very  big  hat-box  by 
its  string.     A   mile    farther  down   the  line,   I 


Etoffe  du  Pays  6$ 

saw  her  jump  lightly  off  and  call  out  to  a  small 
boy  who  was  nearly  smothered  in  the  crowd  ; 
"  Here,  kiddy,  take  your  box  now — I  have  to 
get  off  here  !  " 

She  had  stood  several  miles  holding  the  hat- 
box  for  this  scrap  of  humanity  whose  "  transfer  " 
was  punched  for  a  distant  section  in  the  East 
End.  She  is  the  same  girl  I  was  with  in 
London  once.  If  you  know  London  at  all,  you 
will  know  that  mean  streets  adjoin  grand  ones, 
and  that  "  Mews "  are  just  round  the  corner 
from  palaces,  and  that  swell  greengrocers  send 
home  fruit  and  vegetables  by  hand.  We  were 
walking  near  Gloucester  Terrace,  Hyde  Park, 
when  we  saw  ahead  of  us  a  girl  about  ten  years' 
old,  struggling  along  with  a  big  bushel  basket 
of  potatoes — setting  it  down  every  few  paces  to 
ease  her  poor,  strained  shoulders.  Before  I 
realised  it  Edna  had  rushed  forward  and  seized 
one  of  the  handles,  and  together  they  carried 
it  down  the  length  of  the  Terrace  and  deposited 
it  at  the  area  steps  of  a  great  house.  The  child 
looked  up,  marvelling.  Too  dazed  for  thanks, 
too  awed  to  do  more  than  stare  at  the  heavenly 
creature  who  had  taken  pity  on  her  weakness. 
Poor  Edna !  she  too  has  her  weakness — the 
weakness  of  loving  not  wisely  but  too  well — for 
which  God  pities  her  and  puts  into  her  heart, 
to  fill  the  vacancy,  such  simple  deeds  as  these. 
9 


66  Etoffe  du  Pays 

A  gust  of  wind  has  just  come  racing  down 
the  glen,  bringing  with  it  a  shower  of  dandelion 
"clocks,"  beating  them  down  as  though  the 
famous  "  White  Queen  "  had  again  issued  her 
decree  "  Off  with  their  heads ! "  The  water  is 
all  ruffled  and  curled,  and  the  sails  on  the  far- 
off  yacht  are  filling  and  she  is  scudding  along 
buoyantly.  The  tide  is  turning.  A  fresh  salt- 
ness  mingles  with  the  woodsy  earth  smells,  and 
baby  clouds  are  hurrying  along  the  horizon  to 
get  home  to  the  bosom  of  the  hills  before  the 
sunset  bars  are  down,  and  day  shut  out. 


CHAPTER   XII 

"P\0  people   realise  how  their  voices  "  carry  " 
in  the   stillness  of  the  country,  and  how 
thin  the  partitions  are  between  the  rooms  in  these 
cottages  ? 

In  the  room  adjoining  this,  a  young  Quebec 
girl  is  chattering  to  her  dog — a  clever  little  fox- 
terrier,  her  inseparable  companion.  She  is  as 
pretty  as  a  picture,  a  regular  gypsy  with  blue- 
black  hair  and  a  rich  brunette  complexion, 
merry  brown  eyes  bubbling  over  with  laughter, 
and  a  high-pitched  voice. 

There  was  a  scratching  at  the  door  and  she 
let  «  Teddy  "  in. 

"  Now,  Teddy !  is  that  you,  darling  ?  Did 
he  want  to  come  in  ?  bless  his  little  heart !  He 
shall,  then.  Get  up  on  the  bed,  sweet  one! 
No  !  no  !  you  must  not  lick  my  face !  Don't 
you  see  I'm  trimming  a  hat  ?  Can't  trim  hats, 
you  know,  little  doggie,  while  you  lick  my  face ! 
How  do  you  like  the  feather  here,  Teddy  ? 
Shall  I  put  it  a  teeny-weeny  bit  farther  over  ? 
Does  that  look  better,  dear,  and  shall  I  put  this 
cute  little  bow  here  ?  My !  but  it's  sweet ! 
67 


68  Etoffe  du  Pays 

don't    you   think   it's   cute  ?     My  angel !     No ! 
No  !  dear,  I  don't  want  you  to  eat  the  feather — 
what  would  your  poor  little  Missis  do  if  she  had 
no  pretty  feather  to  wear  when  she  walks  on  the 
Terrace  with  her  beau  !     No,  Teddy  !  bad  boy ! 
didn't    I  tell   you  to  sit  on  the  bed,  and  now 
you've  knocked  down  my  best  beau's  picture ! 
Isn't   he  adorable,   Teddy?     I    could  just   eat 
him  !     Did  he  want  to   do   something  ?     Well, 
he  shall.     Bring  me  my  boots  now  like  a  perfect 
gentleman.      That's   a   darling — no !    not  there, 
Teddy,  those  are  my  best  slippers  I  wore  when 
I  danced  with  Prince  Albert  last  week.     My ! 
but  he's  a  cute  youngster.     He  asked  me  if  I 
liked  ice-cream !     Fancy  !  asking  me  if  I  liked 
ice-cream !  'Course  I  do,  eh,  Teddy?  you  wouldn't 
have  asked  me  a  silly  question  like  that,  would 
you,  my  angel  ?   but  he  isn't  half  so  clever  as 
you.     No,  dear,  don't  lick  me  again  !     No  !  no  ! 
you  mustn't  eat  that — that's  nasty  soap — makes 
little  doggie  very  sick  and  not  able  to  eat  nicey 
bones.     Never  mind,  dear  !  we'll  go  down  to  see 
the  boat  come  in  and  you  shall  carry  a  nice  little 
stone  all  the  way.     Shall  I  put  on  my  little  blue 
coat,  Teddy,  or  my  middy  waist  ?  for  you  know 
we're  going  to  the  boat,  and  perhaps  we'll  see 
Perley.  .  .  ." 

And  off  she  goes  down  the  "  golden  stairs  "  to 
the  salle  d  manger,  singing  blithely  and  chatter- 


Etoffe  du  Pays  69 

ing  like  a  Poll  Parrot  all  the  way,  leaving  me 
to  watch  a  bevy  of  small  boys  and  girls  flying  a 
kite  on  the  other  side  of  the  potato  patch,  up 
by  the  barn  ;  the  great  unwieldy  paper  face 
lying  flat  on  the  ground  till  raised  by  the  biggest 
boy,  who  runs  with  it  up  the  hill,  trying  to  float 
it  on  the  breeze.  After  several  vain  attempts 
he  at  last  succeeds,  and  pays  out  yards  and 
yards  of  string  till  it  rises  high  in  the  sky,  its 
ragged  scraps  of  paper  "  tail "  flying  out  gaily 
behind,  while  the  children  shriek  with  delight 
and  turn  somersaults  in  their  ecstasy  and  beg  to 
be  allowed  to  hold  the  string. 

We  have  just  returned  from  an  all-day  picnic 
to  the  Fraser  Falls,  about  seven  miles  inland. 
Up  tremendous  hills,  which  these  country  horses 
take  with  wonderful  agility  and  sureness  of 
footing,  through  deep  woods,  where  the  day- 
light filters  dimly  through  the  interlaced  branches 
which  flick  against  the  carriage  top,  and  where 
the  wheels  sink  deep  in  the  soft  moist  earth. 
Tamarack  and  pine,  hoary  with  age — with  long 
grey  beards  of  lichen — rub  shoulders  with  straight 
young  saplings  of  beech  and  silver  birch,  knee- 
deep  in  bracken  and  pigeon  berries,  stunted  firs, 
and  blueberry  bushes.  In  the  meadows  beyond 
the  woods,  brown  and  dappled  cows  graze  con- 
tentedly, all  heading  in  the  same  direction  up 
the  valley.     Near  by  is  a  grey  mare  cropping 


jo  Etoffe  du   Pays 

the  grass  under  a  tree,  with  a  long-legged, 
gawky  foal  frisking  at  her  side.  Few  sheep 
are  to  be  seen,  which  seems  strange  when  one 
contrasts  these  emerald  hills  with  the  brown 
slopes  of  the  Sussex  Downs  at  this  time  of 
year,  where  so  many  browse  and  the  mutton  is 
so  famous. 

After  a  stretch  of  fairly  level  road  we  come 
to  another  wood  and  a  bridge  which  spans  the 
little  stream  which  feeds  the  wonderful  Fraser 
Falls.  Just  here  is  a  sawmill  with  the  yard 
piled  high  with  freshly  cut  lumber,  and  we 
walk  through  a  bed  of  sawdust  to  the  opening 
of  a  glorious  wood,  deep  in  pine-needles,  ferns, 
and  bracken  and  wonderful  moss.  The  stream 
rushes  clear  brown  into  a  pool  the  colour  of 
maple  syrup,  blocked  by  great  boulders,  against 
which  it  dashes  and  foams  and  forms  exquisite 
rapids  till  it  reaches  the  great  chasm  where  it 
drops  sheer  down  in  creamy  masses  into  a 
deep  cup,  all  verdure  lined  in  moss  and  lichen. 
Frail  white  birches  and  elderberry  bushes  bend 
to  drink  of  the  cup,  and  rainbow  drops  of 
spray  glisten  on  their  branches.  In  a  tremen- 
dous hurry  to  get  to  the  sea,  the  stream  rushes 
on  through  a  narrow  gorge,  then  tumbles  in  a 
final  burst  of  creamy  foam  into  a  pool — 
mysteriously  dark  and  wonderfully  quiet  after 
the  tumult — from  which  it  flows  sedately  between 


Etoffe  du  Pays  71 

shadowy  banks  till  it  reaches  the  Murray  River 
and  finally  the  sea. 

The  enchantment  of  these  woods  lies  in  their 
constantly  shifting  kaleidoscope  of  colour.  A 
passing  cloud  makes  them  solemn,  brooding, 
awesome.  A  shaft  of  sunlight  sets  the  leaves 
dancing  and  shimmering  and  the  water  bubbling 
merrily.  A  thunderstorm  lets  loose  the  evil 
spirits  that  hurry  through  the  woods,  wrecking 
birds'  nests  and  shrieking  demoniacally,  blasting 
giant  trees  with  lightning  bolts  and  making 
little  trees  tremble  and  shake  with  fear.  A 
touch  of  Jack  Frost's  icy  fingers  congeals  the 
sap  and  splashes  blood-red  stains  upon  the  trees. 
Time  wrinkles  the  leaves  and  paints  them  a 
mellow  gold  till  they  drop,  and  whirl,  and  twirl, 
and  swirl  in  an  abandoned  frenzy  on  the  fringe 
of  autumn's  skirts. 

Think  of  the  mystery  of  these  woods  under 
a  soft  blanket  of  snow  !  Each  baby  twig  wrap- 
ped in  white  swaddling  clothes,  each  branch 
loaded  with  its  fluffy  burden.  All  the  leaves 
gone,  all  the  berries  hidden — asleep,  under 
Nature's  great  white  counterpane  till  the  magic 
awakening  in  the  spring  ! 

Think  of  the  radiancy  of  the  moon  rising 
over  this  gorge  on  a  frosty  night  when  the  air 
is  crystal  clear  and  the  stars  bright  diamond 
points  in  the   blue,  and   the   everlasting   pines 


J  2  Etoffe  du  Pays 

stand  sentinel,  pointing  their  spears  heaven- 
wards— and  doubt,  if  you  will, "  that  the  heavens 
declare  the  Glory  of  God,  and  the  firmament 
showeth  His  handiwork." 

We  drove  home  past  the  "  Fromagerie " 
with  its  rows  of  bright  tin  cans  at  the  door, 
its  faint  cheesey  smell  of  sour  milk  and  its 
great  trough  of  pigswill  at  the  corner.  A 
couple  of  razor-backed  porkers  grunted  and 
nosed  about  in  the  sunshine,  greedily  hustling 
away  a  few  long-legged  chickens  that  came  to 
peck  at  the  trough. 

The  hedges  were  festooned  with  trails  of 
raspberry  bushes,  ruby  drops  depending  from 
their  slender  stems,  and  every  rocky  thicket 
was  carpeted  with  blue  berries.  Feathery 
golden  rod,  just  ready  to  burst  into  a  golden 
glow,  rioted  with  red  "  rocket "  and  white  im- 
mortelles. Acres  of  clover  spiced  the  air  and 
grasshoppers  "  click  "  "  clicked  "  in  the  grass  as 
though  Nature  were  winding  a  watch  with  a 
phenomenally  long  spring.  The  road  wound 
round  by  the  Murray  River  and  we  caught  a 
last  glimpse  of  the  beautiful  Fraser  Fall  where 
she  mingles  her  icy  freshness  with  the  salt  of 
the  sea,  at  the  quaint  little  village  of  Malbaie. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

"""THERE  was  tragedy  in  the  woods  to-day. 
High  up  in  the  pine-trees,  flying  excitedly 
to  and  fro,  crows  were  cawing  angrily  and 
beating  the  leaves  till  something  fell  with  a 
sickening  thud  at  my  feet.  It  was  a  beautiful 
bird — a  red-throated  throstle,  broken  winged 
and  bleeding — a  pitiful  sight.  Oh  !  the  agony 
in  that  bright  eye  so  quickly  glazing,  the  faintly 
pulsing  heart,  the  quivering  limbs !  I  could 
not  bear  its  prolonged  suffering.  There  was  a 
big  stone  close  by — I  hated  to  do  it — I  shut 
my  eyes — and  ended  its  agony.  God  forgive 
me ;  but  I  did  it  in  compassion,  not  in  wanton- 
ness. The  carrion  crows  fought  more  fiercely, 
enraged  at  being  despoiled  of  their  prey  ;  the 
little  birds  hid  away  in  the  thicket  and  quenched 
their  song,  fearful  of  becoming  victims  of  their 
enemies'  wrath.  A  rusty  brown  squirrel  with  a 
bushy  tail  scuttled  across  the  path  and  dis- 
appeared into  a  deep  hole,  leading,  no  doubt, 
to  some  elaborate  subterranean  passage  im- 
pregnable alike  to  human  or  winged  marauders. 
It  is  cold  to-day — so  cold  that  we  are  glad 
10  73 


74  Etoffe  du  Pays 

to  gather  round  a  glorious  fire  of  pine-logs  in 
the  old-fashioned  chaumtire.  The  ashes  are 
glowing  red,  and  the  flames  dancing  up  the 
chimney  throw  a  bright  glow  on  the  highly 
polished  chairs  and  tables  and  the  buffet  which 
is  nearly  five  feet  high,  and  draped  with  a 
drawn-work  cover  of  ivory  homespun  linen. 

Outside  all  is  grey  and  misty.  "  Beau  temps 
pour  le  pecher,"  Monsieur  says,  so,  no  doubt, 
to-night  for  supper  we  will  be  regaled  with  de- 
licious salmon  trout  and  freshly  caught  sardines, 
followed  by  flaky  pancakes  and  crushed  maple 
sugar,  which  it  is  worth  while  travelling  many 
miles  to  get ! 

The  parloir  is  divided  by  elaborate  latticed 
and  glazed  doors  into  two  rooms — the  inner 
one  sacred  to  the  piano  and  the  new  upholstered 
parlour  suite,  while  the  outer  is  the  living-room 
with  a  big  homely  wood  stove,  a  square  table, 
several  rocking-chairs  and  a  sofa  of  Procrustean 
hardness.  A  model  of  a  frigate  hangs  from 
the  rafters  and  behind  the  stove  is  a  wonderful 
picture  of  la  bonne  Ste.  Anne  with  a  brown 
halo  and  very  hectic  cheeks,  worked  by  some 
of  Madame's  ancestresses,  in  wool  on  the  finest 
cardboard.  Cheap  prints  and  oleographs  hang 
here  and  there  with  a  photograph  of  the  family 
burying-ground  and  that  quaint  morality  picture 
"  Cash  and  Credit."    Over  the  buffet  is  a  curious 


Etoffe  du  Pays  75 

crayon  sketch.  A  man  stretched  on  the  ground 
with  a  huge  tiger  (looking  as  tame  as  a  tabby 
cat)  on  top  of  him.  His  friend  stands  by  with 
a  levelled  gun,  evidently  intent  on  killing  the 
dreadful  beast,  but,  judging  by  the  angle  at 
which  the  gun  is  pointed,  the  man  runs  more 
risk  than  the  animal,  which  looks  strangely  like 
a  human  being  with  a  striped  woolly  rug  thrown 
over  him.  It  is  all  grotesquely  out  of  drawing 
and  is  evidently  the  work  of  some  very  juvenile 
artist. 

This  morning  Madame  let  me  into  the  mys- 
teries of  butter-making.  Quite  early  we  went 
into  the  laiterie — a  cool  dim  room  away  from 
the  kitchen,  exquisitely  clean,  and  lined  with 
shelves  on  which  stood  rows  and  rows  of  white 
bowls  filled  with  milk  on  which  the  cream  was 
rising  thickly.  Madame  filled  the  churn  half 
full  and  tightly  closed  the  top.  It  is  a  barrel- 
shaped  affair  with  a  spigot  from  which  the  butter- 
milk is  drawn  off.  It  is  hung  on  a  rotary  pivot 
which  is  worked  with  the  foot  in  a  sort  of  stirrup, 
and  in  an  incredibly  short  time  the  butter 
■  comes  " — a  fragrant  mass  of  delicious  creami- 
ness.  It  is  taken  out,  squeezed  in  coarse  linen 
and  washed  several  times  in  icy  spring  water. 
A  little  salt  is  worked  in  and  soon  it  is  ready 
to  be  pressed  into  fat  round  balls,  imprinted 
with  an  effigy  of  a  running  hare  with  a  pug 


j  6  Etoffe  du  Pays 

nose !  Everything  is  spotlessly  clean  ;  bright 
tins  hang  everywhere  and  an  enormous  armoire 
fills  up  one  side  of  the  kitchen.  Madame's 
sewing  machine  stands  in  the  window,  and 
several  habitant  rocking-chairs  add  a  touch  of 
comfort.  In  spite  of  so  many  things  in  this 
small  room,  there  seems  a  place  for  everything. 
There  is  no  suggestion  of  crowding  and  dis- 
order— on  the  contrary,  perfect  orderliness  pre- 
vails and  shows  what  an  excellent  manager 
Madame  is,  and  how  she  has  trained  her  large 
family  to  be  neat  as  well.  The  polished  wooden 
crucifix  hanging  in  the  corner  points  to  their 
higher  hopes  and  shows  how  large  a  part 
religion  plays  in  their  daily  life. 

Mr.  George  M.  Wrong  in  his  interesting  book 
"  A  Canadian  Manor  and  its  Seigneurs "  gives 
a  detailed  account  of  the  tithes  exacted  by  the 
Church  from  these  poor  people.  A  twenty-sixth 
part  of  the  produce  of  their  grain  fields.  This 
surely  cannot  be  much  in  a  district  where  one 
sees  so  few,  and  such  thin  harvests  of  barley 
and  oats,  buckwheat  and  timothy.  Potatoes 
seem  their  only  crop  with  acres  and  acres  of 
hay.  In  return  for  the  payment  of  this  tithe, 
proud  parents  have  the  right  to  present  their 
twenty-sixth  child  for  complete  adoption  by 
the  Church.  A  privilege  which,  I  hear,  has 
actually  been  taken  advantage  of!    Race  suicide 


Etoffe  du  Pays  77 

seems  in  no  danger  of  becoming  popular  in 
Cap  a  l'Aigle,  but  unfortunately  the  many 
daisy-strewn  graves  in  the  churchyard  testify 
only  too  accurately  to  the  early  cutting  off  of 
young  lives  by  that  insidious  "white  man's 
plague,"  consumption,  which  can  easily  be 
traced  to  the  huddling  together  of  many 
breathing  creatures  in  small  rooms,  almost 
hermetically  sealed  during  the  long  winter 
months. 

Here  and  there  on  the  road  to  Murray  Bay 
and  eastwards  towards  St.  Simeon  are  rude 
"  Calvarys."  Often  mere  rough  painted  crosses, 
sometimes  adorned  with  nails  and  spears  and 
a  crown  of  thorns.  It  is  no  uncommon  sight 
on  a  summer  evening  to  see  a  little  group 
devoutly  kneeling  at  the  foot  of  the  Cross  while 
the  distant  note  of  the  Angelus  comes  trembling 
up  the  valley.  For  what  are  they  pleading? 
What  is  the  desire  of  their  hearts  ?  Will  they 
be  answered  in  just  the  way  their  hearts  crave, 
or  in  some  more  mysterious  way  which  is  best 
for  their  soul's  health,  though  far  from  their 
earthly  desires  ?  Are  they  pleading  for  further 
blessings  or  sending  up  grateful  thanks  for 
mercies  vouchsafed  and  perils  past?  It  is  all 
a  great  mystery.  A  mystery  which  gives  savour 
and  sweetness  to  life.  A  perfume  as  of  spike- 
nard— that  *  box  of  very  precious  ointment." 


CHAPTER   XIV 

A  SCHOOL  of  porpoises  is  playing  in  the 
bay — long  pearly-white  monsters  diving 
in  and  out  and  throwing  up  jets  of  water  and 
emitting  from  time  to  time  that  curious  sighing 
sound  that  has  won  for  them  the  sobriquet 
of  "  Sea  Canary."  These  enormous  creatures 
(a  species  of  white  whale)  are  sometimes  twenty 
feet  long,  but  they  average  about  fourteen  feet, 
and  are  a  valuable  "  catch,"  as  each  yields  about 
a  hundred  dollars'  worth  of  oil.  The  blubber 
is  boiled  and  eaten  by  the  natives,  being  rich 
in  fat,  and  the  skin  is  tanned  into  a  very  dur- 
able and  waterproof  leather. 

The  principal  porpoise  fishery  of  the  St.  Law- 
rence is  at  Riviere  Ouelle,  just  opposite  Mur- 
ray Bay,  where,  according  to  report,  there  was 
a  tremendous  catch  of  one  hundred  and  one 
of  these  giant  beasts  by  four  men  armed  with 
spears  and  harpoons,  one  summer  night  in 
1870.  One  can  picture  that  awful  slaughter, 
when  the  moon  looked  down  and  saw  the 
fishery  running  red  with  blood,  and  the  huge 
78 


Etoffc  du  Pays  79 

carcases  drawn  up  on  the  beach,  and  the  great 
fires  lighted  to  boil  the  blubber. 

Now,  they  are  lolloping  about  in  the  sun- 
shine, consuming  quantities  of  small  fish  and 
coming  so  close  in  shore  that  one  can  see  the 
whole  shape  of  their  marble-like  bodies  swim- 
ming, not  ungracefully,  in  the  blue. 

In  striking  contrast  to  these  giants  of  the 
sea  are  two  saucy  little  kittens  frisking  about 
below  the  verandah,  biting  each  other  and 
boxing  with  their  tiny  velvet  paws,  so  sinuous 
and  so  graceful  in  every  movement  and  in  such 
singular  contrast  to  the  clumsy  gambollings  of 
puppies  of  the  same  tender  age.  These  little 
cats  are  striped  like  coons,  but  their  mother 
is  the  colour  of  a  ripe  apricot — with  a  very 
smug  expression  ! 

A  grey  goose  wanders  by  with  nine  lanky 
goslings  that  have  doubled  in  size  during  the 
past  fortnight. 

Cyrias  and  Telesphore  run  blithely  up  the 
hill  with  the  empty  water-butt  on  a  little  cart 
to  fill  it  at  the  creek.  Cyrias,  barelegged  and 
grinning,  balanced  on  the  shafts,  urges  Teles- 
phore to  run  faster,  and  they  race  along  at  a 
fearful  pace,  the  tin  bucket  jangling  all  the 
way.  Presently  they  come  into  sight  again. 
Panting  and  purring  and  pushing  the  barrel, 
now  full  to  overflowing;   up  the  hill  they  go, 


80  Etoffe  du  Pays 

the  water  dripping  and  splashing  into  the  road, 
while  they  both  hang  on  to  the  shafts  to 
"brake"  on  the  downward  grade. 

Little  Marie  Antoinette — Heaven  defend 
this  innocent  child  from  the  fate  of  that  tragic 
queen ! — in  her  shabby  scarlet  frock,  brings 
the  cows  home  at  milking  time ;  shying  a  stray 
stone  every  now  and  then  at  one  which  lingers 
overlong  at  some  tempting  blossom  or  lush 
grass. 

A   black-hooded  buckboard  has  just  driven 
up,  a  square  box  covered  with  oilcloth  strapped 
on    the    back.      An    old    woman    brown    and 
shrivelled  like  a  winter  apple  has  stepped  down 
and   is   anxious    for   us   to   buy   her   ttoffe   du 
pays    made   by   her  own   hands,  at   her    little 
cottage   far  away  in  some   remote   concession. 
The   wool   shorn   from    the    sheep   grazing   on 
these    mountain    slopes,   carded    and    combed, 
washed  and  woven  in  the  long  winter  evenings 
into  great  bolts  of  homespun,  a  natural  grey 
or  a  creamy  white.     Formerly  their  looms  were 
very  narrow  and   their   combination  of  colour 
very  limited — merely  black  threads  and  white 
in   varying   proximity   and   weaving,   but    now 
they  make   it   much  wider   and  dye  the  wool 
in   beautiful    shades   of   rose   and    blue,   violet 
and   green,  and  every  possible  combination  of 
black   and   white   and    tweed    mixtures.      The 


Etoffe  du  Pays  81 

warp  and  woof  are  pure  wool,  so  the  lower  St. 
Lawrence  "  etoffe  du  pays  "  bears  close  inspec- 
tion, and  vies  in  popularity  with  the  famous 
tweeds  of  Scotland  and  Halifax. 

Half-breed  Indians  with  a  strong  intermixture 
of  French  blood,  aquiline  features,  piercing 
eyes  and  straight  black  hair,  bring  panniers 
on  their  backs  filled  with  boxes  and  baskets, 
mats  and  trays  made  of  sweet  grass  from  the 
wayside  ditches,  and  bark  stripped  from  the 
slender  silver  birch.  Mocassins,  gaily  em- 
broidered in  beads  and  multi-coloured  silks 
and  porcupine  quills,  rivalling  in  brilliancy  the 
early  Tyrian  and  Phoenician  dyes,  strings  of 
beads  and  wampum,  toy  canoes,  beaded  cushions, 
slippers  and  bags  make  up  their  stock  in  trade, 
with  bows  and  arrows  and  miniature  toboggans 
cunningly  fashioned  from  the  white  pine.  All 
amazingly  clean  when  one  takes  into  considera- 
tion the  filthy,  dirty  conditions  in  which  most 
of  these  Indians  live. 

Far  away  I  see  the  waggon  of  the  Magasin 
G6n6ra\  of  Murray  Bay  winding  up  the  valley, 
its  cream-coloured  umbrella  looking  like  an 
animated  mushroom  in  the  distance.  Beside 
me  is  a  basket  heaped  with  treasures  gathered 
this  morning  while  walking  to  the  Ravine. 
There  are  daisies  and  buttercups,  single  and 
double  pink  roses,  purple  vetch,  saffron-tinted 
n 


82  Etoffe  du  Pays 

mustard,  white,  pink,  and  purple  clover,  golden 
mallow,  white  bean  flower  and  a  strange 
species  of  thistle,  blue  as  the  Virgin's  robe. 

Such  simple  sights  and  delights  make  up  the 
programme  of  the  day  in  this  Sleepy  Hollow 
and  remind  me  that  the  time  draws  near  when 
I  must  leave  them  all.  I  want  to  go  before  the 
flowers  fall  to  the  sickle,  and  the  birds  forget 
their  song,  and  the  hum  of  insects  is  hushed. 

The  summer  cottages  are  full  now.  Merry 
laughter  and  shrill  voices  echo  from  balconies 
and  beaches.  Tennis  courts  are  gay  with 
flannelled  men  and  rainbow-frocked  girls,  while 
matronly  women  rock  to  and  fro  in  habitant 
rockers,  their  knitting-pins  and  embroidery- 
needles  keeping  pace  with  their  tongues.  Angel- 
faced  children  abound  in  this  happy  playground, 
where  the  dirt  is  all  "  clean  dirt "  and  they  can 
play  to  their  heart's  content. 

Bonfires  on  the  beach  put  the  darkness  to 
flight  and  remind  us  of  the  days  when  there  was 
no  telegraphic  communication  with  the  South 
Shore,  and  once  a  year — St.  John's  Day — great 
bonfires  were  lighted  in  front  of  houses  where 
death  had  claimed  a  victim,  to  flash  the  news  to 
friends  and  relatives.  A  very  large  fire  denoted 
an  adult ;  a  small  one,  a  child.  The  same  fire 
extinguished  and  relighted,  signified  two  or  three 
deaths  in  the  same  family.     So  this,  that  is  a  joy 


Etoffe  du  Pays  83 

fire  to  us  of  the  twentieth  century,  was  the 
simple  way  of  announcing  the  Harvest  of  the 
Great  Reaper  in  the  early  pioneer  days  of 
Canada.  Great  masses  of  driftwood  are 
collected,  dry  branches  of  sapin  and  cedar 
crackle  and  flare,  throwing  out  fiery  sparks  and 
the  pent-up  sweetness  of  the  forest.  Girls  and 
boys  in  many  coloured  sweaters  toast  succulent 
marsh-mallows,  stuck  on  long  pronged  sticks, 
in  the  glowing  embers,  while  college  songs  and 
rag-time  snatches  rip  the  air. 

The  moon  comes  out — modestly  drawing  her 
cloudy  skirts  aside  till  she  is  revealed  in  perfect 
beauty  and  her  pathway  a  strip  of  silver  from 
shore  to  shore.  The  fire  burns  low,  the  last 
marsh-mallow  is  eaten,  the  last  song  sung.  The 
few  dark  figures  bending  over  the  dying  fire 
and  smothering  it  with  sand  are  silhouetted 
against  the  sky  and  gradually  fade  away  into 
the  blackness  of  the  woodland  path,  where 
ghostly  silver  birches  point  white  fingers  heaven- 
wards, and  where  it  would  not  be  strange  if 
slender  feet  slipped,  and  strong  arms  were  out- 
stretched, and  heart  leaped  out  to  heart  in  the 
great  mystery  of  love. 

"  God  made  the  night,  and  marv'lling  how 
That  she  might  be  most  ravishingly  fair, 
He  orb'd  the  moon  upon  her  beauteous  brow 
And  mesh'd  a  myriad  stars  within  her  hair." 


CHAPTER   XV 

""THE  last  day  has  come,  and  I  must  leave  this 
lovely  place.  But  first  I  must  say  "  good- 
bye "  to  all  my  favourite  haunts.  The  forge, 
with  its  ringing  anvil  and  bright  flame,  the 
chickens  hurrying  through  the  grass,  the  sofa 
on  the  rocks  where  the  salt  spray  kisses  my 
face,  and  the  rushing  stream,  ceaselessly  racing 
over  the  boulders  and  fallen  tree  trunks.  I 
must  sit  again  on  the  fairy  carpet  of  green 
velvet  moss  under  the  silver  birch  and  mountain 
ash  with  its  down-drooping  clusters  of  scarlet 
berries,  and  look  up  to  the  snow-white  drift  of 
daisies  ;  and  beyond  the  daisies  to  the  fringe 
of  spruce  and  cedar ;  and  beyond  the  cedars 
to  the  cerulean  blue  of  heaven,  where  "  cotton- 
wool "  clouds  float  idly  by  on  the  wings  of  the 
summer  wind. 

"  The  clear,  dear  breath  of  God  that  loveth  us, 
Where  small  birds  reel  and  winds  take  their  delight." 

Bright  patches  of  clover  empurple  the  meadow, 

dimming  the   brightness  of  the   daisies  which 

are  seeding  and  storing  up  their  sweetness  till 

the  harvest,  when  they  will  be  transmuted,  and 

84 


Etoffe  du  Pays  85 

their  fragrance  born  again  in  creamy  milk  and 
golden  butter. 

Green  knobs  are  forming  on  the  raspberries 
giving  earnest  of  a  plentiful  crop.  Monsieur 
has  uncovered  his  tobacco  plants,  which  show 
a  sturdy  growth.  The  fluffy  balls  of  feathers 
have  developed  into  very  independent  chickens 
that  hustle  their  foster-mother  about  to  such 
an  extent  that  she  has  been  driven  back  to  the 
nest,  where  she  laid  an  egg  this  morning,  with 
that  unconquerable  maternal  desire,  I  suppose, 
to  have  something  to  take  care  of ! 

-The  dim  recesses  of  the  woods  are  sweeter 
than  ever  to-day.  The  hot,  aromatic  perfume 
of  sapins  and  moist  earth  outclass  the  far- 
famed  spices  of  Araby,  and  no  Elgin  marbles 
were  ever  lovelier  than  these  silver  birches, 
with  their  tapering  stems,  their  milk-white 
bark  and  shimmering  leaves,  the  stately  pines, 
with  lichen-covered  branches,  and  the  spruce 
trees,  smeared  thick  with  resinous  gum. 

The  grasses  are  seeding  rapidly — fat  bulrush- 
headed  spikes  powdered  with  purple  pollen 
dance  with  feathery  sisters,  and  violet  vetch 
stretches  out  fairy  fingers  to  twine  them  round 
daisy  heads  and  mallow  stalks.  A  four-leaved 
clover  springs  up  to  greet  me  and  to  make  my 
last  day  a  happy  one,  and  perhaps  to  bring 
luck  to  my  little  book. 


86  Etoffe  du  Pays 

The  sea  alone  is  unchanged — yet  ever 
changing.  Every  shifting  cloud  throws  shadows 
— now  purple,  now  green.  A  puff  of  wind 
crimps  the  water  into  Marcel  waves ;  a  breeze 
tosses  up  "  white  caps,"  and  a  squall  buffets  it 
about  in  great  angry  rollers  that  dash  on  the 
shore  and  eat  into  the  very  heart  of  the  rocks. 

Ink-black  crows  fly  lazily  among  the  tree- 
tops,  their  great  wings  flapping  in  the  branches 
and  scattering  down  dry  twigs  and  soft  white 
cotton  pods.  Baby  birds  flit  by,  darting  after 
insects  in  the  underbush,  but  the  rossignol  and 
throstle  are  not  so  full-throated  as  in  June, 
and  their  note  is  a  little  plaintive. 

While  walking  through  a  field  yesterday  a 
bird  suddenly  flew  up,  almost  in  my  face,  and 
looking  down  I  saw  a  small  round  hole  among 
the  grasses — a  meadow-lark's  nest  with  two 
tiny  birds  in  it.  I  shuddered  to  think  of  the 
horrible  murder  I  might  have  committed  had 
I  taken  another  step.  I  walked  warily,  and 
soon  came  upon  another  with  five  nestlings 
tucked  in  tightly  and  fast  asleep.  God's  loving 
protecting  care  has  taught  these  wee  creatures 
to  build  in  hidden  places  and  clothed  them  with 
earth-brown  plumage.  The  same  Providence 
which  turns  the  ptarmigan  and  hare  white  in 
winter,  to  save  them  from  the  snare  of  the  fowler. 

The  time  has  come  to  say  good-bye — "  fare- 


Etoffe  du  Pays  87 

thee-well ! "  in  the  deepest  sense  of  the  words, 
all  my  feathered  friends,  green  slopes,  and 
shady  nooks !  May  the  ruthless  hand  of  the 
vandal  or  progressionist  never  be  raised  against 
you  to  divert  your  water-courses  into  hydraulic 
monsters,  to  break  that  granite  heart  of  yours 
and  to  murder  the  exquisite  stillness  with  buzz- 
saw  and  modern  machinery.  A  Dieu  I  confide 
you  Who  has  showered  blessings  so  lavishly 
upon  this  lovely  land,  trusting  that  He  will 
save  you  with  your  beauty  undimmed  for 
future  generations  of  happy  children  and  world- 
weary  men  and  women,  and  that  my  "  Adieu  " 
may  be  changed  to  "  Au  revoir  !  " 

The  bay  is  a  sheet  of  glass — the  hills  purple 
deepening  to  black.  The  moon  came  up  from 
her  bath  in  the  sea  with  a  rosy  flush  which 
changed  to  gold,  transmuted  by  the  great 
Alchemist  into  pure  quicksilver  which  trickles 
elusively  over  the  bosom  of  the  water,  defying 
imprisonment.  Lights  twinkle  in  cottage  win- 
dows, cattle  are  black  patches  in  the  fields,  men 
and  women  dwindle  into  mere  specks  by  the 
roadside.  The  shrill  thin  "  Chicadee-dee-dee  " 
grows  faint,  the  laughter  and  voices  die  in  the 
distance,  the  far-off  perfume  of  wood-smoke 
vanishes  in  the  cold,  fresh  saltness  of  the  sea, 
and  my  little  barque  is  out  in  the  open,  steeped 
in  Moonshine  and  Memory. 


PRINTED   BY 

HAZELL,    WATSON  AND   VINEY,   LD., 

LONDON  AND   AYLESBURY, 

ENGLAND. 


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