Tee-am's hand: and, proud as they were of their good looks and of their
finery, both had failed utterly to see the mysterious chief. Their
despised little sister knew of their going only too well, for her
persecutor gave her a wicked beating when she came home disappointed, by
way of working off her ill-humour. One day, when Oo-chig-e-asque was
sitting alone in the wigwam weeping over her hard fate, the thought
suddenly flashed into her mind--why should _she_ not try her fortune at
Moose-hunting? It seemed absurd, of course, but it could hardly make
things any worse; and even though Tee-am would not think her worth
marrying, he might in some way not very clear to the poor girl's
troubled mind shield her from her sister's cruelty.
Oo-chig-e-asque had no fine clothes to put on. A few beads given her by
a compassionate squaw were her only ornaments. But this did not deter
her. Gathering a quantity of birch-bark, she fashioned for herself an
odd, misshapen gown, that was ill-fitting enough to give even an Indian
_modiste_ "a turn;" an old pair of her father's moccasins were soaked to
soften them, and drawn over her bruised feet; and then, with a queer
head-dress to hide her singed poll, and her scanty beads arranged to the
best advantage, she set off quietly one afternoon toward the camp on the
Point. Her big sister, seeing the direction she was taking, screamed
after her to come back; but she only hastened her steps forward. The
people of the village stared rudely at her as she passed, and, divining
her purpose, hooted derisively after her; but she kept steadily on, and
paid no heed to them. Her whole heart was in her enterprise, and she
felt as though she would die rather than turn back. At length she
reaches Tee-am's lodge. Tee-am's sister comes to the door, and receives
her pleasantly. At the proper time she conducts her to the
landing-place, where they await the hunter's return, the sister soothing
her visitor's throbbing pulse by gentle inquiries as to her life and
kindly sympathy for her woes. Just at dusk a canoe comes toward them,
shooting swiftly over the water, and the sister says,--
"That's my brother's canoe. Can you see him?"
"Yes," murmurs Oo-chig-e-asque, her heart beating high with hope.
"Of what, then, is his carrying-strap made?"
"Muncwan," is the quick reply. "It is a piece of rainbow."
"Very good," responds the sister, with a brilliant smile. "You have
indeed seen my brother. Let us go home and prepare for him."
So they hasten back to the wigwam, Oo-chig-e-asque's heart palpitating
betwixt delight at her success and anxiety lest Tee-am, when he found
what an insignificant little creature she really was, might refuse to
keep his promise to marry the girl who should first be able to see him.
As soon as they reach the tent the sister proceeds to prepare her
visitor for the nuptial ceremony, and the young girl gives herself
unhesitatingly into her hands. The uncouth birch-bark dress is stripped
off and flung into the fire, and a handsome robe, richly adorned with
beads, takes its place. Pure spring water is brought, and as the kind
sister dashes it over the girl's face, and rubs the scarred features
softly with her hands, lo! every scar and spot and blemish vanishes, and
the face comes out fair and beautiful as it never was before. Realizing
the wondrous change, the young girl utters an exclamation of delight;
then checks herself, and puts her hand to her head.
"Ah!" she says sadly, "I have no hair. Tee-am will despise me when he
sees I have no hair."
"Never fear, little one," the sister answers reassuringly, and, passing
her hands over the singed and frizzled hair, behold another marvel! for
it springs out in richer profusion than ever before, and falls in long
thick tresses down the back of Oo-chig-e-asque, now too happy to speak.
Catching it up, the sister coils it deftly round the young girl's head;
and then, just as the toilet is complete, and radiant with joy, hope,
and beauty Oo-chig-e-asque stands in the centre of the lodge. Tee-am
comes bounding in with his load of game. At sight of the charming girl
before him he stops short, and looks inquiringly at his sister. Then the
situation dawns upon him.
"Way-jool-koos" (We are discovered at last), he says, with a bright
smile, taking the young girl's hand.
"Yes, brother, your wife has come at last," replies the sister, "and is
she not a beauty?"
So Tee-am and Oo-chig-e-asque were married, and, like the heroes and
heroines of all true fairy tales, lived happily ever after.
[Illustration: COD-FISHING ON THE BANKS OF NEWFOUNDLAND.]
*BLUE-NOSE FISHER FOLK.*
Scattered up and down the rocky, foam-fringed shore of Nova Scotia,
sometimes standing out bravely upon a promontory that projects into the
very midst of the breakers, sometimes nestling away cosily in the curve
of a quiet bay, the white cottages of the hardy fisher folk give touches
of warmth and life to a scene that would otherwise be one of unredeemed
desolation.
They are not very imposing edifices, and viewed from the respectful
distance which the dangers of that inhospitable coast compel the passing
ship to keep, they seem still smaller than is really the case; but they
are all homes, and in their two or three cramped rooms boys and girls
have been born and bred, the young people made love and mated, and the
old people closed their eyes in the last long sleep, as generation has
succeeded generation.
So it is no wonder that the lads who thence go forth into distant parts
of the world, as many of them do, find their hearts turning longingly
back to the little cottage by the sea, and that they often return to
spend their last years in the old place.
Voyaging along the coast some lovely summer afternoon, and from your
comfortable chair on the steamer's deck watching these pretty cottages
with their black roofs and white sides coming into view as point after
point is opened out, and noting how trim and secure they seem, and the
glorious prospect they command from the windows which look out from
either side the central door, like sleepless eyes, it is easy to imagine
that the fishermen's sons must have a fine, free, healthy life of it,
and be far better off than the boys in the dusty, noisy, over-crowded
cities.
Well, no doubt they are better off in some respects. They have plenty of
fresh air and sunshine, and room to grow in, while nothing could be more
wholesome than their food of fish and potatoes. But their life is a
hard one, nevertheless, and I doubt if many city-bred lads would be
eager to exchange with them, could they first have a year's experience
of it.
If the mackerel, herring, cod, and haddock upon which the fisher folk
depend for their living, were more regular in their habits, ami turned
up at the same place at the same time every year, so that the men with
the nets and hooks could count upon their harvests as the men with the
scythes and hoes can upon theirs, the fisherman's lot would be a fairly
comfortable one.
But there is nothing in this world more uncertain than fish. Not the
slightest reliance can be placed upon them. They are here to-day, and
off somewhere else to-morrow. One season, school after school of
mackerel will pour into the little bay where Norman Hays and John
Mackesey and George Brown have their fishing "berths," as the area
assigned to each man is called, and fill the seines of these lucky
fellows to repletion again and again as fast as they can spread them.
Then perhaps one, two, three seasons will pass without enough fish
putting in an appearance to make one good haul.
The mackerel catching is the most interesting as it is the most
profitable phase of the fisherman's toil, and for both reasons the boys
like it the best, although from its being at the same time the most
uncertain in its results, they know very well it cannot be depended upon
for a living.
The season for these beautiful and delicious fish begins about the end
of June, and so soon as it is time for them to appear, the highest
points along the coast are taken possession of by men and boys, who stay
there all day long watching intently the surface of the sea below them
for the first sign of the silver scales which, when caught, can be
turned into silver coins.
It is often long and weary work this watching. Day succeeds day without
bringing anything: but through scorching sun or soaking rain, fine
weather or foggy weather, the look-outs patiently persevere. At last
some bright morning, when the sea seems still asleep, Jack Hays' keen
young eyes descry a curious ripple on the water far beneath his eyrie.
His heart gives a throb, and his pulses beat like trip-hammers, but he
is afraid at first to shout, for fear it is only a morning zephyr.
Shading his eyes with his hand, and fairly quivering with excitement, he
gazes intently for one moment more, and then shouting, "A school! a
school!" at the top of his strong young voice, he goes bounding down the
hill-side like a loosened boulder, till he reaches the cluster of
cottages far below.
In an instant all is activity and bustle. The men spring into the boats
lying ready at the little wharves, the boys tumble in pell-mell after
them, the wives and daughters fling their aprons over their heads to
keep off the sun, and run out to the end of the wharves, or climb up on
the flakes, so that they may see as much as possible.
In a minute more the boats are heading for the mackerel as fast as
brawny arms can drive them. Half a mile away the calm blue water is
dark and disturbed for a space about the size of an ordinary
tennis-court; it looks, in fact, as if it were boiling and bubbling just
there, though all around is still and smooth.
Toward this spot the boats are hurried. Presently they reach it. Then
they stop. One of the smaller boats goes up to the long flat-bottomed,
high-stemmed craft that carries the seine, and takes one end of the net
on board. Everything is done quietly, for the fish are easily
frightened, and if alarmed will sink right down into the deep water,
where they cannot be got at.
As quickly as sinewy arms can send her along, the small boat describes a
circle round the fish, that continue to frisk about, all unconscious of
their peril.
At length a shout of joy announces that connection has been made. The
two ends of the seine are joined, and, if it be a purse-seine, the
bottom is drawn together also, and then the tired, excited fishermen can
take a little rest, and they try to guess how many barrels this "stop"
of mackerel will make. Jack Hays and the rest of the boys can hardly
contain themselves with delight, for won't they all have a trip up to
the city so soon as the fish are ready to be sold, and these trips are
the great events of their life.
Having got the fish nicely caught inside the seine, the next thing is to
get them out again. The big net with its precious load is drawn as near
the shore as possible, the boats crowd round it, and a busy scene
ensues, as the blue-backed, silver-bellied beauties are taken from the
meshes, and piled up in the boats until these little craft can hold no
more.
In a little while all the fish are safely on shore, and then comes the
splitting and salting, in which not only the boys, but the girls and
their mothers too, take a hand, for the more quickly it is done the
better.
The dexterity shown by the workers is astonishing. Holding a sharp knife
in their right hand, they stand before a pile of glistening mackerel.
With one motion they seize a fine fat fellow, with another they split
him open from head to tail, with a third they despoil him of his entire
digestive apparatus, with a fourth they put in its place a handful of
salt, with a fifth fling him upon a pile beside them, and the whole
operation is done in the twinkling of an eye.
To see the girls at this--and none are more expert than they--takes a
good deal of the romance out of one's ideas of fisher-maidens; but it
cannot be helped. They cannot afford to be romantic, or look
picturesque. Their life is too hard for that kind of amusement.
In the catching of mackerel and herring there is not much danger, and
the fishermen need not go far from home. But it is different with the
cod and haddock and hake. To get these big fellows you must go out upon
the Banks, as those strange, shallow areas in the Atlantic Ocean are
called; and going out upon the Banks means being away for long weeks at
a time, and exposed to many dangers.
Storms are frequent there, and the waves run mountain high, so that
stanch and trim as the fishing craft are, and thoroughly expert their
masters, hardly a season passes without the loss of a _Nancy Bell_ or
_Cod-Seeker_ with all on board. Often, alas! do
"The women go weeping and wringing their hands,
For those who will never come back to the town."
Another danger ever present, ever indeed growing greater, is that of
being run down some foggy night by the great ocean steamers that are
thronging past in increasing numbers.
Picture to yourself a dense, dark night, when you can hardly see your
hand before your face; a little schooner tossing at anchor on the Banks,
all but one of her crew asleep in their bunks. Suddenly there falls
upon the solitary watcher's ear a sound that thrills him with terror: it
is the throbbing of mighty engines and the onward rush of an ocean
greyhound as she spurns the foaming water from her bows.
Springing upon the poop he shouts with all his might, the crew below
leap from their berths, and though only half awake join him in the cry.
But it is of no avail. The mast-head light is seen by the steamer's
look-out too late to change her course. There is a splintering crash,
the iron monster feels a slight shock, hardly enough to waken the
lightest sleeper in her staterooms, and the sharp prow cuts through the
little schooner as though it were but another wave.
Then the frenzied shrieks of strong men in their agony ring out upon the
midnight air; then all is silent again, and the steamer speeds on to her
destination, while to another home in Herring Cove comes the dreadful
experience of which the poet says,--
"How much of manhood's wasted strength,
Of woman's misery,--
What breaking hearts might swell the cry,
They're dear fish to me."
Yet it is the ambition of every boy at Herring Cove or Shad Bay to have
a share in a Banker, or, better still, to own one all by himself; and to
this he looks forward, just as city boys do to being bank presidents or
judges or editors of newspapers.
Hard work, much danger, a little schooling, and still less playing is
the summary of a fisher-boy's life. It makes him very healthy, brown,
and strong, but it never makes him rich. The most he can do is to earn
enough to build and furnish a cottage when he marries, and provide plain
food and coarse clothing for the family that soon springs up around him.
Now and then--that is, whenever he has fish to sell--he goes up to the
city; and this is his only holiday. While still a boy he generally
behaves himself well enough on these visits, but, growing older, he does
not always grow wiser, I am sorry to say, and I have often seen
sad-faced wives rowing the heavy boat wearily home, while their husbands
lay in the stern-sheets in a drunken stupor.
*LOST ON THE LIMITS.*
*(A CHRISTMAS STORY.)*
"I wish you had taken my advice and stayed at the shanty, Harry."
The speaker was a stalwart young man, so closely wrapped in a blue
blanket capote that only a portion of his face showed itself, and the
one addressed was a boy of sixteen, similarly accoutred.
"I felt more than half-afraid of this storm overtaking us," the young
man continued; "and now we're in a pretty fix. I can't imagine how
we'll ever reach the depot."
There was something so despondent in his tone that one might have
expected his words to exercise a dispiriting effect upon his companion;
but, instead of that, Harry answered brightly,--
"Reach the depot! Of course we will; and in good time for our Christmas
dinner, too! You mustn't worry on my account, Mr. Maynard. If anything
should happen, it would be all my own fault, you know. You wouldn't be
the least bit to blame."
Mr. Maynard shook his head negatively.
"It's very good of you to say so, Harry, but I can't help feeling
responsible all the same. Oh!" he cried, with a gesture of irritated
protest against the situation, "what a plague this snow is! Surely we
had enough of it already, and didn't need this storm."
John Maynard was the bush superintendent on one of the great timber
limits of Booth and Bronson, the millionaire lumbermen of Canada.
The duty devolved upon him of driving about from one "shanty" (as the
permanent camps of the log-cutters are called) to another, taking
account of the work done, and giving directions as to the bunches of
timber next to be attacked.
This was a very arduous occupation, entailing as it did long and lonely
drives through forest roads, passable only in winter, across the broad
bosoms of frozen lakes, and along the winding courses of ice-bound
rivers. For this purpose he had a pair of powerful horses and a low,
strong sleigh, made altogether of wood, that had accommodation for just
two persons and some baggage.
As a rule he made these journeys alone, but this winter he had been
favoured with a companion in Harry Bronson, the eldest son of a member
of the firm, who had asked permission to spend the winter at the
"shanties."
His request had been readily granted, for he would have to take his
father's place in the business in due time, and the more thoroughly he
knew its details the better. Consequently Mr. Bronson was very glad to
let him go, while Harry rejoiced at getting away from the confinement of
the office, and at the prospect of having some exciting experiences
before he returned.
So far he had been having a very good time. John Maynard was as
pleasant a companion as he was a competent bush superintendent, and,
while going the round of the shanties, there were many chances for shots
at partridges or rabbits, and always the exciting possibility of
encountering a bear.
Then at the shanties their welcome was always so warm, and the
French-Canadian shantymen were so amusing with their exhaustless fund of
song and dance and story, that Harry never knew what it was to feel dull
for a moment.
Christmas week found him at the shanty on the Opeongo--the one that
stood farthest away of all from the depot at which Maynard made his
headquarters, and to which it was his intention to return in time to
celebrate Christmas there.
The superintendent was particularly anxious to get back by that time,
because, having completed a round of the shanties, he could leave them
unvisited for a fortnight or so, and he proposed to spend Christmas week
in Montreal, where he had many friends.
Harry on his part was hardly less anxious to get to the depot; for,
although he did not intend going any further, he had been promised lots
of fun there by the clerk in charge, and a first-class Christmas dinner
into the bargain.
Accordingly, when certain infallible signs of a change for the worse in
the weather, which had hitherto been almost perfect, made their
appearance, and Maynard, willing to take any risk himself, but reluctant
to expose Harry to danger, suggested that the boy should remain at the
Opeongo shanty until the threatened storm passed, and then get back to
the depot by one of the ordinary teams, Harry would not hear of it.
"No, no, Mr. Maynard," said he stoutly. "If you can stand the storm, I
can too. I'm going with you."
Clearly enough the superintendent would have to either allow Harry to
accompany him or stay at the shanty himself. He could not accept the
latter alternative, so he replied,--
"Very well then, my boy, we'll start; and if bad weather catches us,
we'll have to do the best we can."
The distance between the Opeongo shanty and the depot, as the crow
flies, was fifty miles; but the circuitous route that was necessary in
order to avoid ranges of rocky hills and impassable gullies made it full
half as long again, and, in view of the state of the road, Maynard
calculated that two days might be required to make their destination.
Accordingly they set out in the morning of the second day before
Christmas.
It hardly needed the practised eye of a wood-ranger to foretell a coming
change in the weather.
The sun's bright face was hidden behind a dense veil of sullen clouds;
the air, that had been so crisp and clear, seemed dank and heavy like a
dungeon's; and both man and beast moved about in a listless way, as if
every movement was an effort.
More than once the superintendent's mind misgave him ere they had gone
many miles. He was naturally a cautious, far-seeing man, not disposed
to run unnecessary risks, although utterly regardless of personal peril
in any matter of duty.
Not that he felt any concern on his own account; but he would have felt
much easier in his mind had Harry been persuaded to stay at the shanty.
Yet how could he reasonably expect that, when he himself was pushing on
to the depot?
Harry's argument, that if the superintendent could stand the storm he
could also, was not easy to answer, and it prevailed.
"If this confounded road was only in better shape, we might get there
to-night," said Maynard impatiently that afternoon as the sleigh slowly
toiled up a steep ascent, the horses sinking above their fetlocks in the
fine dry snow at every step.
Had their way been as well broken as a city street they might indeed
have accomplished this feat, but under the circumstances the best they
could hope for was to reach the depot early on Christmas eve.
Harry, understanding that he was the chief object of the
superintendent's concern, felt it incumbent upon him to take as hopeful
a view of matters as possible, so he responded in his cheeriest tone,--
"Oh, we'll get there to-morrow afternoon right enough! We're more than
half way to Wolf Hollow now, aren't we?"
"Yes, a good bit more; but there's the snow beginning. We must drive
ahead as fast as we can. It'll soon be dark."
The horses accordingly were urged to the utmost speed possible, and, by
dint of some rather reckless driving, Wolf Hollow was safely reached in
the face of a blinding snowstorm ere the darkness fell.
At this place there stood a shanty which had been abandoned some years
before, all the timber being cut in the neighbourhood, and here Mr.
Maynard proposed to spend the night.
The building was found to be in good condition--quite storm-proof, in
fact--and it did not take long to gather an abundant supply of firewood
wherewith to expel the cold, damp air that filled it.
The horses could not be left out, of course, exposed to the pitiless
storm, so they were allotted the farthest corner of the long, low room.
The sleigh, too, was brought inside with all its contents.
A substantial supper was prepared and enjoyed, the horses were given a
good feed of oats, and then both the travellers being thoroughly tired,
they fitted up one of the bunks with the sleigh robes, and, so as to
waste no heat, lay down side by side, and were soon sound asleep.
At daybreak the superintendent got up and hastened to see how matters
looked outside. The prospect was anything but cheering.
Snow had been falling heavily all night, and there seemed no sign of its
ceasing. All marks of the road were completely obliterated, and it
would evidently test to the utmost his knowledge of woodcraft to keep in
the right track.
Such was the condition of affairs that called forth the exclamation
reported at the beginning of this story.
However, there was nothing to gain by delay, so hardly waiting to snatch
a bite of food and to allow their horses to finish their portion of
oats, they harnessed up and drove forth into the storm.
Even had the track been easily distinguishable, they could not have made
rapid progress, for the snow came in big, blinding flakes that were very
bewildering, and had already covered the ground to a depth of nearly a
foot.
By the aid of familiar landmarks, Mr. Maynard was able for a time to
direct their course accurately enough; but about mid-day they reached a
wide lake which they had to cross, and here their real difficulties
began.
The broad expanse of Loon Lake had presented a fine playground for the
wind, and upon it the snow was heaped in vast drifts, far surpassing
anything met with in the woods, where the trees afforded protection.
In these drifts the horses and sleigh soon stuck so fast that their
extrication was evidently quite beyond the power of the passengers.
There seemed no alternative but to abandon them to their fate, and to
continue the journey on snow-shoes, which, fortunately, were lashed to
the back of the sleigh.
Mr. Maynard felt sorely reluctant to desert his faithful horses, but no
time could be spared for unavailing regrets.
"There's no help for it, Harry," he said resolutely. "We'll have to
leave them where they are. We cannot get them out, and we've enough to
do to look after ourselves."