breadth, a few miles above the city of Montreal spreads out into a wide
sheet of water which is known as Lake St. Louis. Lake St. Louis is
about twelve miles long by eight in width at its widest part, and being
famous for its cool breezes, the people from the city go out there in
throngs every summer, so that its shores are well populated as long as
the thermometer keeps well above the seventy point.
In winter, however, it is very different. Then Jack Frost has a
confirmed habit of sending the mercury away down, down, down, not only
below freezing-point, but below zero even; and the blue waters of the
lake turn into a floor as hard as steel, over which the snows drift and
pile up and scatter again in fantastic windrows, until the warm spring
sunshine melts them into soggy slush, and a little later rends the solid
floor itself asunder and sends it careering down the current in great
jagged ice-floes.
There is nothing undecided about a Canadian winter. The frost-king means
business from the start, and for three long months keeps a tight grip
upon the land. Some winters, of course, he is more tyrannical than
others. The Ross boys, for instance, thought that he had never before
in their experience been so unmerciful as during the season that the
event happened about which I am now going to tell. Day after day for
weeks at a time the thermometer would not get up to the zero mark at
all, while it would at night drop as much as thirty points below it.
"'Pon my word, this sort of weather isn't fair at all," said Bob Ross,
in an impatient tone, at the breakfast-table one morning. "A fellow can
hardly stir out of doors without getting his nose or ears nipped. My
nose was frost-bitten for the third time last night, and that's a little
too much of a good thing for me."
"Right your are, Bob," chimed in Phil, his elder brother, from across
the table. "My poor ears have been nipped nobody knows how often. I
expect one of them will drop off some fine day."
"It's a keen winter, boys, no doubt," assented Mr. Ross. "I don't
remember many as sharp. But the longest winter has an end, and you'll
forget all about the cold the first warm day that comes."
"That may be, father," answered Bob, "but I'd like a little mild weather
right now if the weather-clerk has no objections. You know we're going
over to the church festival at Beauharnois to-morrow night; and an
eight-mile tramp in this cold weather is not just what I'm hankering
for--though I mean to go all the same."
"Tut! my lad, when I was your age I would have thought nothing of double
the distance, if only a certain person were at the end of it," replied
Mr. Ross, with a meaning smile at his wife as he added, "But perhaps you
have no such attraction."
"Not I," laughed Bob. "I'm going for the sake of the supper; but I
won't answer for Phil," looking quizzically at his brother, who blushed
violently and made a timely diversion by springing up and saying,--
"Come along, Bob; let us get at our work, cold or no cold."
Whereupon the two lads went off together.
Mr. Eoss owned one of the largest and finest among the many farms that
bordered upon Lake St. Louis. Although he was what might be called a
gentleman farmer, he was a thoroughly practical farmer too. He made his
farm pay him handsomely, and thought so well of his occupation that he
had brought up his two boys to follow it also. When they were grown men
he would divide the greater part of his property between them, reserving
only sufficient to keep himself and his wife in independent comfort
during the remainder of their days.
The two sons, Phil and Bob, at the time of my story about sixteen and
fourteen years of age respectively, were as satisfactory a pair of boys
as parents could wish. One, the elder, tall and dark, the other short
and fair, both were strong, healthy, hearty lads, full of spirit, and
fond enough of having their own way, but thoroughly sound at heart and
passionately fond of father and mother. Although trained to all kinds
of farm work, their education had not been by any means neglected. They
had had a good share of schooling, and Mr. Ross never went into the city
without bringing back a new book or the latest magazine, so that they
might keep up with the spirit of the times.
The church festival Bob spoke of was to take place the following evening
at Beauharnois, a village that stood straight across the lake "as the
crow flies" a distance of about eight miles. The snow was in capital
condition for snow-shoeing, and the two sturdy boys thought nothing of
the tramp there and back. They would start from home at four in the
afternoon, make Beauharnois about six, enjoy themselves there to the
best of their ability until ten, and then set off for home, where they
ought to turn up soon after midnight.
Much to their gratification, the cold next morning showed signs of
moderating.
"Looks as if the weather-clerk was interested in the festival," remarked
Phil in the course of the morning, his beaming face revealing clearly
enough that others than the weather-clerk were interested in the same
event.
"I'm glad it isn't quite so keen as yesterday," answered Bob. "A fellow
will enjoy the spread all the better for not going to it with his nose
frozen."
"I shouldn't wonder if we had a regular change," said Mr. Ross, casting
a searching glance at the sky, which was evidently losing its sharp blue
tinge and becoming ashen gray in colour. "We often do have a soft spell
about this time of the year. There'll most likely be snow soon. I hope
it won't begin before you get home, boys."
"Oh, I think not," replied Phil confidently. "It can't come much sooner
than the morning."
The hours of the day slipped quickly by, and sharp at four o'clock the
two boys set forth on their long tramp. They certainly were a
prepossessing pair in their white blanket-coats, that became them so
well, tied with broad scarlet sashes, and blue caps with scarlet tassels
on their heads. Bidding good-bye to their parents, who stood at the
door watching them with fond pride, Phil and Bob strode swiftly down the
slope to the lake, and soon were tramping over its broad bosom, upon
which the snow lay deep in undulating waves. Barring the leaden hue of
the sky, the afternoon could hardly have been finer. The stinging cold
was gone, yet the air was keen enough to be bracing. There was little
or no wind. The snow was well packed; and, full of joyful expectations,
the brothers walked on side by side, their broad snow-shoes bearing them
easily upon the very surface of the drifts. Eight miles in two hours
was no remarkable performance for two such expert snow-shoers as they,
and they accomplished it without difficulty, reaching their destination
just as the bell in the tower of the church boomed out six solemn
strokes. Leaving their coats and snow-shoes at a friend's house, they
hastened to the place where the festival was in full swing, and entered
heartily into the enjoyments, each following his own bent. The
expectations of both were fully satisfied. The supper presented more
dainties on its generous bill of fare than even the capacious appetite
of Bob could comfortably sample, and Phil was not disappointed in the
light that shone from a certain pair of brown eyes that for some
mysterious reason had more attraction for him than anything else the
entertainment offered.
Ten o'clock came all too soon for him, especially as the festival was
not entirely over, although some of those who lived at a distance had
already left; but Bob was rather glad, as the last hour had been
somewhat slow, from his point of view. So siding up to Phil, he
whispered discreetly in his ear,--
"Time to go, Phil; it's 'most ten o'clock."
Phil pulled out his watch with an incredulous look; but, alas! it told
the same story as Bob, and dearly as he would have liked to linger, he
knew well enough that the sooner they started now the better. So, with
a very regretful adieu to the one whose presence had "made the assembly
shine," he joined his brother at the door.
When they got outside, the look of the night and the feel of the air
told them that the snow was nearer at hand than they had expected. In
fact, a few soft, sly flakes were already dropping noiselessly. The
friend at whose house they had left their coats and snow-shoes suggested
their staying all night; but although Bob was nothing loath, Phil would
not be persuaded.
"Father said he'd wait up for us," he objected, "and he'll get anxious
if we're not home by twelve o'clock.--Come along, Bob."
Accordingly, off they went into the darkness of the night. When they
reached the shore of the lake, they could just see the glimmer of the
village lights by which they were to be guided--their home lying about
half-a-mile to the left. Although their pace was far from a loitering
one, they did not get over the snow by any means so fast as in the
afternoon.
Bob was not only tired and sleepy, but provoked with Phil for refusing
to stay all night at their friend's house. Indeed, he hoped his brother
would yet repent and return, and so his feet dragged not a little.
Noticing this, Phil said briskly,--
"Step out, Bob; we'll have all we can do to get across before the snow
comes."
"All well enough to say 'step out,'" answered Bob gruffly. "Why
couldn't you stay overnight? I'm too tired to walk fast anyhow, snow or
no snow."
"Oh, you're not tired, Bob. You've eaten a little too much supper,
that's all," rejoined Phil pleasantly.
Bob vouchsafed no answer, and for some time the brothers tramped along
in silence. As they neared the centre of the lake, the snow-flakes,
which had at first been few and far between, thickened rapidly, and the
wind at the same time rose into gusts that blew them sharply into the
boys' faces.
A thrill of alarm shot threw Phil, and grasping Bob's arm he called
out,--
"It looks nasty, Bob; let's put on a spurt."
At this appeal Bob roused himself; and quickening their pace to a trot,
they hastened onward, their snow-shoes rising and falling in steady,
unbroken step. Every minute the snow and wind increased, until at
length the storm in full force burst upon the boys and almost blew them
off their feet. All around them the air was filled with flakes of white
whirling about in bewildering myriads, splashing like fine spray into
their faces and stinging like small shot, for the wind was bitterly
cold. Presently Phil halted, and, peering hard into the blinding storm,
cried anxiously,--
"What's become of the lights, Bob? I can't see them a bit; can you?"
"N-n-no," panted Bob. "Let's turn back."
[Illustration: "THE FORMS OF THE TWO BOYS WERE EXPOSED TO VIEW."]
"No use in that," replied Phil, turning round. "I can't see those
behind us either. There's nothing for it but to push ahead."
"O Phil! are we lost?" asked Bob, with quivering lips.
Phil was more than half afraid they were; but to reassure Bob he
answered cheerfully,--
"It's all right. I know how to steer. Come along." And grasping Bob's
hand he started off again.
On and on they plodded through storm and snow, Phil half dragging Bob,
who, between fright and real weariness, found difficulty in making
progress at all. For half-an-hour more they struggled thus, until at
last Bob dropped his brother's hand and flung himself down in the snow,
sobbing out despairingly,--
"It's no use, Phil, I'm dead beat; you'll have to go on without me."
"Nonsense, Bob," said Phil, taking him by the shoulder. "Jump up and go
at it again."
Thus helped to his feet, Bob made another attempt, but had not gone more
than a quarter of a mile in a way that was staggering rather than
walking before down he slipped again; and this time all that Phil could
do failed to rouse him from his stupor. The cold and exhaustion had
completely overcome him. He had but one thought, and that was--to be
allowed to sleep. Phil fully realized the danger, and, tired as he was
himself, put forth every exertion to keep his brother awake. He even
tried to drag him along by his sash in what he thought was the right
direction, but of course soon found this impossible.
Desert his brother he would not, though they died together; so, in order
to keep himself from falling into the same state, he made a circle
around him, walking slowly. While doing this he encountered a high drift
whose lee afforded some shelter from the blast. An idea flashed into
his mind which he instantly proceeded to execute.
Returning to Bob he dragged him with infinite difficulty to this spot.
Then slipping off one of his snow-shoes, he proceeded to cover his body
with snow, leaving nothing but his head exposed; the poor boy, now fast
asleep, offering no objection to such strange bedclothes. Then sitting
down beside him, with the big drift protecting his back, he let the snow
gather over himself, hoping he hardly knew for what, and praying for the
Lord who sent the snow-storm to have mercy on them both.
In a vague way--for the stupor was fast creeping upon him too--he
wondered if his father had begun to miss them yet, and whether he would
come out in search of them. He even dimly pictured his father sitting in
the parlour at home reading his book, and pausing every now and then to
listen for his boys' voices. His mother, he knew, would have gone to
bed long ago. He felt relieved that the snow no longer stung his face,
and that the wind had gone down completely, and so his thoughts wandered
on until he knew no more.
One hour, two hours passed, and the drifting snow had hidden the forms
of the two boys from sight, when a long line of men might have been seen
coming from the village and scanning carefully every mound and swell of
the snow as they hastened onward. In advance of the rest strode Mr.
Ross, his face full of grave anxiety, his eyes intent upon the white
plain before him that seemed to have so little to tell. Now bounding on
ahead and now returning to look up in his face with inquiring eyes was
his wise old collie, Oscar, without whom he never went abroad.
"Find them, Oscar, find them, good dog," would Mr. Ross say
encouragingly, and the sagacious animal would dart on again. Presently
he stopped beside a drift now grown to huge proportions, sniffed sharply
at the snow, and then proceeded to dig into it with eager, vigorous
paws. Observing his action, Mr. Ross uttered a cry of joy and sprang
forward to the dog's side. Going down on his knees he tore at the
snow-bank in a frenzy of haste. In another moment a red tassel
appeared, then a blue cap, then a white, still face, and, others coming
to his aid, the forms of the two boys were exposed to view, Phil still
sitting up with his head bent over his knees, and Bob lying comfortably
beside him. That they were both alive was clear enough, for they were
breathing--very faintly, to be sure, but undoubtedly breathing.
Mr. Ross caught up one after another in a passionate embrace. Then
litters were quickly improvised out of blanket-coats stripped from
willing backs, and soon the unconscious boys were speeding homeward as
fast as stalwart arms could bear them.
The rest of the story is quickly told. Thanks to the sturdy frames and
perfect constitutions, the brothers were only temporarily the worse for
their experience. They both were frost-bitten, of course, Bob's poor
nose and Phil's feet coming in for the worst of it; but a few weeks'
good nursing cured everything, and no scars remained to remind them, had
they ever been likely to forget it, of the night they were lost.
*ICE-SKATING IN CANADA.*
It is a glorious winter afternoon, and having left the smoke and din and
dust of the city far behind, we are standing together at the foot of the
first of the Dartmouth lakes. Straight before us, and spreading far out
on either hand, lies a glistening expanse, whose polished surface
flashes back the cheerful sunshine. Three unbroken miles in length, and
more than one in width, this icy plain awaits us in its virgin purity.
It were strange, then, did not our fingers tremble with impatience and
our acmes snap with feverish haste. They are on at last, and now for
the supremest luxury of motion. The crisp, cool air is charged with
electricity; every answering nerve tingles delightfully, and the blood
leaps responsively through the throbbing pulses. Once out upon the
ringing ice, and we seem to have passed from the realm of solid flesh
and blood to that of "tricksy, dainty Ariel." We have broken loose from
the bonds of gravitation, and as with favouring wind we speed away to
the farther shore, every stroke of our steel-shod feet counting good for
a quartette of yards, the toiling and moiling of the work-a-day world
seem to have found at the margin of the lake a magic barrier beyond
which they may not follow us, and with spirits light and free we glide
off into a new sphere where care and labour are unknown. Mile after
mile flashes past, yet our muscles weary not, nor does the breath grow
short. But what is this? Is our flight already ended; and must we turn
back so soon? The fir-clad shores, which were a little while ago so far
apart, have drawn together, until they seem to meet not far ahead, and
put a bar to further progress. A cunning turn, a short, quick dash over
the dangerous spot, where the current runs swiftly and the ice bends
ominously, and, behold! we are out again upon a second lake, still
larger than the first, and dotted here and there with tiny ever-green
islets that look like emeralds in a silver setting. For three miles more
our way lies before us smooth and clear; and then at last, as having
reached the limit of our enterprise we throw ourselves upon a fallen
tree, to rest our now tired limbs and catch our diminished breath, I ask
which, of wheelman, horseman, yachtsman, sculler, or skater, enjoys the
finest exercise?
No country in the world presents better facilities for indulgence in the
luxury of skating than Canada. Holland may with propriety boast of her
smooth canals, Norway of her romantic fiords, Scotland of her poetic
lochs; but for variety of lake, river, canal, pond, and frozen sea, from
the majestic St. Lawrence to the humblest stream that affords delight to
the village red-cheeked lads and lasses, Canada is unsurpassed. It is
no wonder, then, that the Canadians are a nation of skaters, and that
the skating-rinks should be as indispensable an adjunct to every city,
town, and village as the church and the concert-hall. With a season
extending over four and often five months, the managers of rinks can
count upon receiving profitable returns upon their capital; and so those
institutions multiply.
Owing to the great quantity of snow which every winter brings, the
season for outdoor skating in Canada is very short, consisting usually
of the middle weeks of December, when Jack Frost, by thoughtfully
anticipating the snow, allows of a fortnight's skating in the open air
before the mantle of winter hides his handiwork from sight and use. As
a natural consequence, Canadians are not remarkable for long-distance
skating; and two winters ago the swiftest fliers of our land had to
lower their banner before Mr. Axel Paulsen, the renowned Norwegian
skater, who made a triumphant tour through Canada and the United States.
On the other hand, the long season enjoyed by the rinks enables all who
will take the trouble, and do not shrink from a novitiate of bumps and
bruises, to become exceedingly expert at fancy skating; and it is hardly
debatable that the rinks of Toronto, Montreal, Halifax, and St. John can
send forth skaters who, for grace, precision, and intricacy of movement,
would find no superiors in the world. When Mr. Paulsen attempted to
teach the Canadians fancy skating, he was somewhat chagrined to find
himself soon reduced to the position of learner. As an ice-acrobat he
did indeed perform one or two feats that were novel, but they had only
to be seen to be immediately copied; while some of the Canadians were
able to open his eyes to possibilities of "didoes" which he thought it
not best to hurriedly attempt. His visit was of permanent value,
however, because it awakened a deeper interest in long-distance skating;
and one may safely venture to prophesy that, should Mr. Paulsen come
this way again, he will find the defeat of his whilom opponents at long
distances not quite such a holiday task as on the occasion of his last
visit.
What is known in England as "figure-skating," and there very ardently
indulged in by well-to-do members of the various clubs, who can afford
to acquire the art in Norway or Scotland, is but little practised in
Canada. It is not suitable for rinks, as it requires so much room, and
can only be done to advantage in large, open spaces, which the
"figurists" may have all to themselves.
Figure-skating is undoubtedly very effective and striking when executed
by a band of well-disciplined skaters who thoroughly understand one
another. But it is so elaborate, and takes so much time both in
preparation and performance, that it is not suited to the latitude of a
colony where the majority of those who skate have no surplus leisure,
and want to make the most of the time at their disposal for recreation.
There is one phase of figure-skating, however, which does flourish
throughout Canada--to wit, dancing; and it would delight the heart of
Terpsichore herself to watch a well-skilled quartette of couples gliding
through the mazes of the lancers or quadrille, or sweeping round in airy
circles to the music of the waltz. The evolutions differ somewhat, of
course, from the steps taken on the floor, but the identity of the dance
is far from being lost, and the pleasure of the dancer is greatly
enhanced through the surpassing ease of motion. This dancing on the ice
may be seen in its perfection at Halifax, the capital of Nova Scotia,
which, being a garrison city, enjoys the unique privilege of military
bands; and the officers as a rule becoming enthusiastic skaters, the
ladies who grace the fashionable rink by their presence have a grand
time of it gliding entrancingly about to the bewitching strains of
delightful music, and bringing all the artillery of their thrilling
eyes, tempting cheeks, and enslaving lips to bear upon the gallant sons
of Mars, who oftentimes find the slippery floor more fatal than the
tented field.
The finest rinks in Canada are those in Montreal, Halifax, and St. John.
The rink at Halifax is really the Crystal Palace of the exhibition
grounds, and for size, appearance, and convenience is surpassed by none.
One of the most cheerful sights imaginable is this vast building on
band-night, when the snow-white arena is almost hidden beneath a throng
of happy skaters, youths and maidens, circling round hand in hand--the
maiden glowing with pride at her admirer's dexterity, the youth
enraptured by his charmer's roseate winsomeness. Here doth Cupid bid
defiance to the chilling blasts of winter, and although the poets and
painters have conspired to confine him to a garb appropriate to the
dog-days, the sly wielder of the fatal bow must in winter enwrap himself
in furry garments, and like a tiny Santa Claus perch his chubby form
unseen among the rafters, and from that coigne of vantage let fly his
shafts thick and fast into the merry company beneath.