A TRIP TO STONY LAKE
Oh Nature! in thy ever-varying face,
By rocky shore, or 'neath the forest tree,
What love divine, what matchless skill, I trace!
My full warm heart responsive thrills to thee.
Yea, in my throbbing bosom's inmost core,
Thou reign'st supreme; and, in thy sternest mood,
Thy votary bends in rapture to adore
The Mighty Maker, who pronounced thee good.
Thy broad, majestic brow still bears His seal;
And when I cease to love, oh, may I cease to feel.
My husband had long promised me a trip to Stony Lake, and in the
summer of 1835, before the harvest commenced, he gave Mr. Y----,
who kept the mill at the rapids below Clear Lake, notice of our
intention, and the worthy old man and his family made due
preparation for our reception. The little girls were to accompany
us.
We were to start at sunrise, to avoid the heat of the day, to go up
as far as Mr. Y----'s in our canoe, re-embark with his sons above
the rapids in birch-bark canoes, go as far up the lake as we could
accomplish by daylight, and return at night; the weather being very
warm, and the moon at full. Before six o'clock we were all seated
in the little craft, which spread her white sail to a foaming
breeze, and sped merrily over the blue waters. The lake on which
our clearing stood was about a mile and a half in length, and about
three quarters of a mile in breadth; a mere pond, when compared with
the Bay of Quinte, Ontario, and the inland seas of Canada. But it
was _our_ lake, and, consequently, it had ten thousand beauties in
our eyes, which would scarcely have attracted the observation of a
stranger.
At the head of the Katchawanook, the lake is divided by a long neck
of land, that forms a small bay on the right-hand side, and a very
brisk rapid on the left. The banks are formed of large masses of
limestone; and the cardinal-flower and the tiger-lily seem to have
taken an especial fancy to this spot, and to vie with each other
in the display of their gorgeous colours.
It is an excellent place for fishing; the water is very deep close
to the rocky pavement that forms the bank, and it has a pebbly
bottom. Many a magic hour, at rosy dawn, or evening grey, have I
spent with my husband on this romantic spot; our canoe fastened to
a bush, and ourselves intent upon ensnaring the black bass, a fish
of excellent flavour that abounds in this place.
Our paddles soon carried us past the narrows, and through the rapid
water, the children sitting quietly at the bottom of the boat,
enchanted with all they heard and saw, begging papa to stop and
gather water-lilies, or to catch one of the splendid butterflies
that hovered over us; and often the little Addie darted her white
hand into the water to grasp at the shadow of the gorgeous insects
as they skimmed along the waves.
After passing the rapids, the river widened into another small lake,
perfectly round in form, and having in its centre a tiny green
island, in the midst of which stood, like a shattered monument of
bygone storms, one blasted, black ash-tree.
The Indians call this lake Bessikakoon, but I do not know the exact
meaning of the word. Some say that it means “the Indian's grave,”
others “the lake of the one island.” It is certain that an Indian
girl is buried beneath that blighted tree; but I never could
learn the particulars of her story, and perhaps there was no tale
connected with it. She might have fallen a victim to disease during
the wanderings of her tribe, and been buried on that spot; or she
might have been drowned, which would account for her having been
buried away from the rest of her people.
This little lake lies in the heart of the wilderness. There is but
one clearing upon its shores, and that had been made by lumberers
many years before; the place abounded with red cedar. A second
growth of young timber had grown up in this spot, which was covered
also with raspberry-bushes--several hundred acres being entirely
overgrown with this delicious berry.
It was here annually that we used to come in large picnic parties,
to collect this valuable fruit for our winter preserves, in defiance
of black-flies, mosquitoes, snakes, and even bears, all which have
been encountered by berry-pickers upon this spot, as busy and as
active as themselves, gathering an ample repast from Nature's
bounteous lap.
And, oh! what beautiful wild shrubs and flowers grew up in that
neglected spot! Some of the happiest hours I spent in the bush
are connected with reminiscences of “Irving's shanty,” for so the
raspberry-grounds were called. The clearing could not be seen from
the shore. You had to scramble through a cedar-swamp to reach the
sloping ground which produced the berries.
The mill at the Clear Lake rapids was about three miles distant
from our own clearing; and after stemming another rapid, and passing
between two beautiful wooded islands, the canoe rounded a point, and
the rude structure was before us.
A wilder and more romantic spot than that which the old hunter
had chosen for his homestead in the wilderness could scarcely be
imagined. The waters of Clear Lake here empty themselves through a
narrow, deep, rocky channel, not exceeding a quarter of a mile in
length, and tumble over a limestone ridge of ten or twelve feet in
height, which extends from one bank of the river to the other. The
shores on either side are very steep, and the large oak-trees which
have anchored their roots in every crevice of the rock, throw their
fantastic arms far over the foaming waterfall, the deep green of
their massy foliage forming a beautiful contrast with the white,
flashing waters that foam over the shoot at least fifty feet below
the brow of the limestone rock. By a flight of steps cut in the
banks we ascended to the platform above the river on which Mr.
Y----'s house stood.
It was a large, rough-looking, log building, surrounded by barns and
sheds of the same primitive material. The porch before the door was
covered with hops, and the room of general resort, into which it
immediately opened, was of large dimensions, the huge fire-place
forming the most striking feature. On the hearth-stone, hot as was
the weather, blazed a great fire, encumbered with all sorts of
culinary apparatus, which, I am inclined to think, had been called
into requisition for our sole benefit and accommodation.
The good folks had breakfasted long before we started from home,
but they would not hear of our proceeding to Stony Lake until after
we had dined. It was only eight o'clock a.m., and we had still four
hours to dinner, which gave us ample leisure to listen to the old
man's stories, ramble round the premises, and observe all the
striking features of the place.
Mr. Y---- was a Catholic, and the son of a respectable farmer from
the south of Ireland. Some few years before, he had emigrated with
a large family of seven sons and two daughters, and being fond of
field sports, and greatly taken with the beauty of the locality in
which he had pitched his tent in the wilderness, he determined to
raise a mill upon the dam which Nature had provided to his hands,
and wait patiently until the increasing immigration should settle
the townships of Smith and Douro, render the property valuable,
and bring plenty of grist to the mill.
He was not far wrong in his calculations; and though, for the first
few years, he subsisted entirely by hunting, fishing, and raising
what potatoes and wheat he required for his own family, on the most
fertile spots he could find on his barren lot, very little corn
passed through the mill.
At the time we visited his place, he was driving a thriving trade,
and all the wheat that was grown in the neighbourhood was brought
by water to be ground at Y----'s mill.
He had lost his wife a few years after coming to the country; but
his two daughters, Betty and Norah, were excellent housewives, and
amply supplied her loss. From these amiable women we received a most
kind and hearty welcome, and every comfort and luxury within their
reach.
They appeared a most happy and contented family. The sons--a fine,
hardy, independent set of fellows--were regarded by the old man with
pride and affection. Many were his anecdotes of their prowess in
hunting and fishing.
His method of giving them an aversion to strong drink while very
young amused me greatly, but it is not every child that could have
stood the test of his experiment.
“When they were little chaps, from five to six years of age, I made
them very drunk,” he said; “so drunk that it brought on severe
headache and sickness, and this so disgusted them with liquor,
that they never could abide the sight of it again. I have only one
drunkard among the seven; and he was such a weak, puling crathur,
that I dared not try the same game with him, lest it should kill
him. 'Tis his nature, I suppose, and he can't help it; but the truth
is, that to make up for the sobriety of all the rest, he is killing
himself with drink.”
Norah gave us an account of her catching a deer that had got into
the enclosure the day before.
“I went out,” she said, “early in the morning, to milk the cows,
and I saw a fine young buck struggling to get through a pale of the
fence, in which having entangled his head and horns, I knew, by the
desperate efforts he was making to push aside the rails, that if I
was not quick in getting hold of him, he would soon be gone.”
“And did you dare to touch him?”
“If I had had Mat's gun I would have shot him, but he would have
made his escape long before I could run to the house for that, so I
went boldly up to him and got him by the hind legs; and though he
kicked and struggled dreadfully, I held on till Mat heard me call,
and ran to my help, and cut his throat with his hunting-knife. So
you see,” she continued, with a good-natured laugh, “I can beat our
hunters hollow--they hunt the deer, but I can catch a buck with my
hands.”
While we were chatting away, great were the preparations making by
Miss Betty and a very handsome American woman, who had recently come
thither as a help. One little barefooted garsoon was shelling peas
in an Indian basket, another was stringing currants into a yellow
pie-dish, and a third was sent to the rapids with his rod and line,
to procure a dish of fresh fish to add to the long list of bush
dainties that were preparing for our dinner.
It was in vain that I begged our kind entertainers not to put
themselves to the least trouble on our account, telling them that
we were now used to the woods, and contented with anything; they
were determined to exhaust all their stores to furnish forth the
entertainment. Nor can it be wondered at, that, with so many
dishes to cook, and pies and custards to bake, instead of dining
at twelve, it was past two o'clock before we were conducted to
the dinner-table. I was vexed and disappointed at the delay, as
I wanted to see all I could of the spot we were about to visit
before night and darkness compelled us to return.
The feast was spread in a large outhouse, the table being formed
of two broad deal boards laid together, and supported by rude
carpenter's stools. A white linen cloth, a relic of better days,
concealed these arrangements. The board was covered with an
indescribable variety of roast and boiled, of fish, flesh, and
fowl. My readers should see a table laid out in a wealthy Canadian
farmer's house before they can have any idea of the profusion
displayed in the entertainment of two visitors and their young
children.
Besides venison, pork, chickens, ducks, and fish of several kinds,
cooked in a variety of ways, there was a number of pumpkin,
raspberry, cherry, and currant pies, with fresh butter and green
cheese (as the new cream-cheese is called), molasses, preserves, and
pickled cucumbers, besides tea and coffee--the latter, be it known,
I had watched the American woman boiling in the frying-pan. It was a
black-looking compound, and I did not attempt to discuss its merits.
The vessel in which it had been prepared had prejudiced me, and
rendered me very sceptical on that score.
We were all very hungry, having tasted nothing since five o'clock in
the morning, and contrived, out of the variety of good things before
us, to make an excellent dinner.
I was glad, however, when we rose to prosecute our intended trip up
the lake. The old man, whose heart was now thoroughly warmed with
whiskey, declared that he meant to make one of the party, and Betty,
too, was to accompany us; her sister Norah kindly staying behind to
take care of the children.
We followed a path along the top of the high ridge of limestone
rock, until we had passed the falls and the rapids above, when we
found Pat and Mat Y---- waiting for us on the shore below, in two
beautiful new birch-bark canoes, which they had purchased the day
before from the Indians.
Miss Betty, Mat, and myself, were safely stowed into one, while the
old miller, and his son Pat, and my husband, embarked in the other,
and our steersmen pushed off into the middle of the deep and silent
stream; the shadow of the tall woods, towering so many feet above
us, casting an inky hue upon the waters.
The scene was very imposing, and after paddling for a few minutes in
shade and silence, we suddenly emerged into light and sunshine, and
Clear Lake, which gets its name from the unrivalled brightness of
its waters, spread out its azure mirror before us. The Indians
regard this sheet of water with peculiar reverence. It abounds in
the finest sorts of fish, the salmon-trout, the delicious white
fish, maskinonge, and black and white bass. There is no island in
this lake, no rice beds, nor stick nor stone to break its tranquil
beauty, and, at the time we visited it, there was but one clearing
upon its shores.
The log hut of the squatter P----, commanding a beautiful prospect
up and down the lake, stood upon a bold slope fronting the water;
all the rest was unbroken forest.
We had proceeded about a mile on our pleasant voyage, when our
attention was attracted by a singular natural phenomenon, which
Mat Y---- called the battery.
On the right-hand side of the shore rose a steep, perpendicular wall
of limestone, that had the appearance of having been laid by the
hand of man, so smooth and even was its surface. After attaining a
height of about fifty feet, a natural platform of eight or ten yards
broke the perpendicular line of the rock, when another wall, like
the first, rose to a considerable height, terminating in a second
and third platform of the same description.
Fire, at some distant period, had run over these singularly
beautiful terraces, and a second growth of poplars and
balm-of-gileads, relieved, by their tender green and light, airy
foilage, the sombre indigo tint of the heavy pines that nodded like
the plumes of a funeral-hearse over the fair young dwellers on the
rock.
The water is forty feet deep at the base of this precipice, which
is washed by the waves. After we had passed the battery, Mat Y----
turned to me and said, “That is a famous place for bears; many a
bear have I shot among those rocks.”
This led to a long discussion on the wild beasts of the country.
“I do not think that there is much danger to be apprehended from
them,” said he; “but I once had an ugly adventure with a wolf two
winters ago, on this lake.”
I was all curiosity to hear the story, which sounded doubly
interesting told on the very spot, and while gliding over those
lovely waters.
“We were lumbering at the head of Stony Lake, about eight miles from
here, my four brothers, myself, and several other hands. The winter
was long and severe; although it was the first week in March, there
was not the least appearance of a thaw, and the ice on these lakes
was as firm as ever. I had been sent home to fetch a yoke of oxen
to draw the saw-logs down to the water, our chopping being all
completed, and the logs ready for rafting.
“I did not think it necessary to encumber myself with my rifle, and
was, therefore, provided with no weapon of defence but the long
gad I used to urge on the cattle. It was about four o'clock in the
afternoon when I rounded Sandy Point, that long point which is
about a mile a-head of us on the left shore, when I first discovered
that I was followed, but at a great distance, by a large wolf. At
first, I thought little of the circumstance, beyond a passing wish
that I had brought my gun. I knew that he would not attack me before
dark, and it was still two long hours to sundown; so I whistled, and
urged on my oxen, and soon forgot the wolf--when, on stopping to
repair a little damage to the peg of the yoke, I was surprised to
find him close at my heels. I turned, and ran towards him, shouting
as loud as I could, when he slunk back, but showed no inclination
to make off. Knowing that he must have companions near, by his
boldness, I shouted as loud as I could, hoping that my cries might
be heard by my brothers, who would imagine that the oxen had got
into the ice, and would come to my assistance. I was now winding
my way through the islands in Stony Lake; the sun was setting red
before me, and I had still three miles of my journey to accomplish.
The wolf had become so impudent that I kept him off by pelting him
with snowballs; and once he came so near that I struck him with the
gad. I now began to be seriously alarmed, and from time to time,
shouted with all my strength; and you may imagine my joy when these
cries were answered by the report of a gun. My brothers had heard
me, and the discharge of a gun, for a moment, seemed to daunt the
wolf. He uttered a long howl, which was answered by the cries of a
large pack of the dirty brutes from the wood. It was only just light
enough to distinguish objects, and I had to stop and face my enemy,
to keep him at bay.
“I saw the skeleton forms of half-a-dozen more of them slinking
among the bushes that skirted a low island; and tired and cold, I
gave myself and the oxen up for lost, when I felt the ice tremble
on which I stood, and heard men running at a little distance. 'Fire
your guns!' I cried out, as loud as I could. My order was obeyed,
and such a yelling and howling immediately filled the whole forest
as would have chilled your very heart. The thievish varmints
instantly fled away into the bush.
“I never felt the least fear of wolves until that night; but when
they meet in large bands, like cowardly dogs, they trust to their
numbers, and grow fierce. If you meet with one wolf, you may be
certain that the whole pack are at no great distance.”
We were fast approaching Sandy Point, a long white ridge of sand,
running half across the lake, and though only covered with scattered
groups of scrubby trees and brush, it effectually screened Stony
Lake from our view. There were so many beautiful flowers peeping
through the dwarf, green bushes, that, wishing to inspect them
nearer, Mat kindly ran the canoe ashore, and told me that he would
show me a pretty spot, where an Indian, who had been drowned during
a storm off that point, was buried. I immediately recalled the story
of Susan Moore's father, but Mat thought that he was interred upon
one of the islands farther up.
“It is strange,” he said, “that they are such bad swimmers. The
Indian, though unrivalled by us whites in the use of the paddle, is
an animal that does not take readily to the water, and those among
them who can swim seldom use it as a recreation.”
Pushing our way through the bushes, we came to a small opening in
the underwood, so thickly grown over with wild Canadian roses in
full blossom, that the air was impregnated with a delightful odour.
In the centre of this bed of sweets rose the humble mound that
protected the bones of the red man from the ravenous jaws of the
wolf and the wild cat. It was completely covered with stones, and
from among the crevices had sprung a tuft of blue harebells, waving
as wild and free as if they grew among the bonny red heather on the
glorious hills of the North, or shook their tiny bells to the breeze
on the broom-encircled commons of England.
The harebell had always from a child been with me a favourite
flower; and the first sight of it in Canada, growing upon that
lonely grave, so flooded my soul with remembrances of the past,
that, in spite of myself, the tears poured freely from my eyes.
There are moments when it is impossible to repress those outgushings
of the heart--
“Those flood-gates of the soul that sever,
In passion's tide to part for ever.”
If Mat and his sister wondered at my tears, they must have suspected
the cause, for they walked to a little distance, and left me to the
indulgence of my feelings. I gathered those flowers, and placed them
in my bosom, and kept them for many a day; they had become holy,
when connected with sacred home recollections, and the never-dying
affections of the heart which the sight of them recalled.
A shout from our companions in the other canoe made us retrace our
steps to the shore. They had already rounded the point, and were
wondering at our absence.
Oh, what a magnificent scene of wild and lonely grandeur burst upon
us as we swept round the little peninsula, and the whole majesty of
Stony Lake broke upon us at once; another Lake of the Thousand
Isles, in miniature, and in the heart of the wilderness! Imagine a
large sheet of water, some fifteen miles in breadth and twenty-five
in length, taken up by islands of every size and shape, from the
lofty naked rock of red granite to the rounded hill, covered with
oak-trees to its summit; while others were level with the waters,
and of a rich emerald green, only fringed with a growth of aquatic
shrubs and flowers. Never did my eyes rest on a more lovely or
beautiful scene. Not a vestige of man, or of his works, was there.
The setting sun that cast such a gorgeous flood of light upon this
exquisite panorama, bringing out some of these lofty islands in
strong relief, and casting others into intense shade, shed no cheery
beam upon church spire or cottage pane. We beheld the landscape,
savage and grand in its primeval beauty.
As we floated among the channels between these rocky picturesque
isles, I asked Mat how many of them there were.
“I never could succeed,” he said, “in counting them all. One Sunday
Pat and I spent a whole day in going from one to the other, to try
and make out how many there were, but we could only count up to one
hundred and forty before we gave up the task in despair. There are
a great many of them; more than any one would think--and, what is
very singular, the channel between them is very deep, sometimes
above forty feet, which accounts for the few rapids to be found in
this lake. It is a glorious place for hunting; and the waters,
undisturbed by steam-boats, abound in all sorts of fish.
“Most of these islands are covered with huckleberries; while
grapes, high and low-bush cranberries, blackberries, wild cherries,
gooseberries, and several sorts of wild currants grow here in
profusion. There is one island among these groups (but I never could
light upon the identical one) where the Indians yearly gather their
wampum-grass. They come here to collect the best birch-bark for
their canoes, and to gather wild onions. In short, from the game,
fish, and fruit which they collect among the islands of this lake,
they chiefly depend for their subsistence. They are very jealous of
the settlers in the country coming to hunt and fish here, and tell
many stories of wild beasts and rattlesnakes that abound along its
shores, but I, who have frequented the lake for years, was never
disturbed by anything, beyond the adventure with the wolf, which
I have already told you. The banks of this lake are all steep and
rocky, and the land along the shore is barren, and totally unfit
for cultivation.
“Had we time to run up a few miles further, I could have showed you
some places well worth a journey to look at; but the sun is already
down, and it will be dark before we get back to the mill.”
The other canoe now floated alongside, and Pat agreed with his
brother that it was high time to return. With reluctance I turned
from this strangely fascinating scene. As we passed under one bold
rocky island, Mat said, laughingly, “That is Mount Rascal.”
“How did it obtain that name?”
“Oh, we were out here berrying, with our good priest, Mr. B----.
This island promised so fair, that we landed upon it, and, after
searching for an hour, we returned to the boat without a single
berry, upon which Mr. B---- named it 'Mount Rascal.'”
The island was so beautiful, it did not deserve the name, and I
christened it “Oak Hill,” from the abundance of oak-trees which
clothed its steep sides. The wood of this oak is so heavy and hard
that it will not float in the water, and it is in great request for
the runners of lumber-sleighs, which have to pass over very bad
roads.
The breeze, which had rendered our sail up the lakes so expeditious
and refreshing, had stiffened into a pretty high wind, which was
dead against us all the way down. Betty now knelt in the bow and
assisted her brother, squaw fashion, in paddling the canoe; but, in
spite of all their united exertions, it was past ten o'clock before
we reached the mill. The good Norah was waiting tea for us. She had
given the children their supper four hours ago, and the little
creatures, tired with using their feet all day, were sound asleep
upon her bed.
After supper, several Irish songs were sung, while Pat played upon
the fiddle, and Betty and Mat enlivened the company with an Irish
jig.
It was midnight when the children were placed on my cloak at the
bottom of the canoe, and we bade adieu to this hospitable family.
The wind being dead against us, we were obliged to dispense with the
sail, and take to our paddles. The moonlight was as bright as day,
the air warm and balmy; and the aromatic, resinous smell exuded by
the heat from the balm-of-gilead and the pine-trees in the forest,
added greatly to our sense of enjoyment as we floated past scenes so
wild and lonely--isles that assumed a mysterious look and character
in that witching hour. In moments like these, I ceased to regret my
separation from my native land; and, filled with the love of Nature,
my heart forgot for the time the love of home. The very spirit of
peace seemed to brood over the waters, which were broken into a
thousand ripples of light by every breeze that stirred the rice
blossoms, or whispered through the shivering aspen-trees. The
far-off roar of the rapids, softened by distance, and the long,
mournful cry of the night-owl, alone broke the silence of the night.
Amid these lonely wilds the soul draws nearer to God, and is filled
to overflowing by the overwhelming sense of His presence.
It was two o'clock in the morning when we fastened the canoe to the
landing, and Moodie carried up the children to the house. I found
the girl still up with my boy, who had been very restless during
our absence. My heart reproached me, as I caught him to my breast,
for leaving him so long; in a few minutes he was consoled for past
sorrows, and sleeping sweetly in my arms.
A CANADIAN SONG
Come, launch the light canoe;
The breeze is fresh and strong;
The summer skies are blue,
And 'tis joy to float along;
Away o'er the waters,
The bright-glancing waters,
The many-voiced waters,
As they dance in light and song.
When the great Creator spoke,
On the long unmeasured night
The living day-spring broke,
And the waters own'd His might;
The voice of many waters,
Of glad, rejoicing waters,
Of living, leaping waters,
First hailed the dawn of light.
Where foaming billows glide
To earth's remotest bound;
The rushing ocean tide
Rolls on the solemn sound;
God's voice is in the waters;
The deep, mysterious waters,
The sleepless, dashing waters,
Still breathe its tones around.