that there is practically no limit to its possibilities in the way of
invention and combination. It would be extremely difficult to prepare
for any skating tournament a hard-and-fast programme which would meet
every requirement. Hence in competitions of this kind the custom is to
lay down some twenty or thirty of the best-known feats which every
competitor is supposed to do, and then leave each contestant to superadd
thereto such marvels of skill as he may have picked up or invented. At
the same time, of course, there may be almost as many degrees of skill
represented in the execution of the set programme as there are
competitors, and the judges must take this fully into consideration when
making their award, and not allow their judgment to be dazzled by some
particularly striking "extra." Skating tournaments, however, are not as
frequent as they ought to be. While every other recognized sport has its
regularly recurring trials of proficiency, skating has hitherto been
inexplicably neglected. Surely nothing could be more interesting or
attractive than a gathering of accomplished skaters of both sexes vying
with one another in the ease and grace with which they can illustrate
the intricacies of the "grape-vine," the difficulty of the "giant
swing," or the rapidity of the "locomotive." Trials of speed are common
enough at all rinks, and are undoubtedly more popular and exciting than
trials of skill, but the more refined and less demoralizing competition
should not be entirely neglected.
The speed attained by those who race in rinks, it need hardly be
explained, affords no criterion whatever whereby to judge of what fast
skaters are competent to accomplish. The incessant turns, the sharp
corners, the confined area, all tend to materially reduce the rate of
progression; and only out on some broad lake or long-extending reach of
river can the skater do his best. I have no records at hand as I write,
but my own experience justifies me in venturing the assertion that a
champion skater in perfect form, and properly equipped with long-bladed
racing skates, would prove no mean antagonist for Maud S---- herself
over a measured mile, while at longer distances he would have the field
to himself.
Like all other amusements, skating in Canada waxes and wanes in popular
estimation, according to the mysterious laws of human impulse. One
winter skating will be voted "not the thing," and the rinks will be
deserted; the next, they will be crowded, and even the heads of families
will be fishing out their rusty "acmes" from the lumber-closet, and
renewing their youth in the icy arena. As a means of exercise during
the long, weary months of winter, when the deep snow renders walking a
toil devoid of pleasure, and the muscles are aching for employment, the
skating-rink is an unspeakable boon, especially to him whose lot it is
to endure much "dry drudgery at the desk's dead wood." An hour's brisk
spinning around will clear the befogged brain, brace up the lax frame,
and give a keenness to the appetite that nothing else could do. Then
the rink has its social as well as its sanitary advantages. During the
winter months it affords both sexes a pleasant and convenient
rendezvous, where, unhampered by the conventionalities of the ball-room,
and aided by the cheerful inspiration of the exercise, they can enjoy
one another's society with a frequency otherwise unattainable. On
band-days, indeed, the rink becomes converted into a spacious _salle
d'assemblee_, where the numbered programme of musical selections enables
Corydon to make engagements in advance with Phyllis, and thus insure the
prosperous prosecution of his suit.
A carnival on ice--and every rink has one or more during the
season--affords a rarely interesting and brilliant spectacle. For these
occasions the building dons its gala dress, the gaunt rafters are hung
with banners, the walls are hidden beneath variegated bunting and
festooned with spruce embroidery, lights gleam brightly from every nook
and corner, and the ice is prepared with special care. Then, as the
motley crowd glides swiftly by, one may behold representatives of every
clime and nation mingling together in perfect amity. It is true the
tawny Spaniard, the dark-eyed Italian, the impassive Turk, the appalling
Zulu, the soft and silent Hindu, and others whose home lies beneath the
southern skies, betray a familiarity with the ice which seems to cast
some doubt upon its genuineness.
But when his Satanic Majesty himself, with barbed tail and cloven hoof,
confesses to an intimacy with the mazy evolutions of the "Philadelphia
grape-vine," the incongruity attaching to visitors from cooler climes
appears less striking, and they may go on their way unchallenged.
Sometimes masks are _de rigueur_ at these carnivals, and then the
inevitable clown and harlequin have unlimited license, till even Quakers
and friars, infected by their bad example, vie with them in mad pranks,
and the fun soon waxes furious. Masked or unmasked, the carnival
skaters have a joyous time, and the hours steal away with cruel haste.
Such are some of the phases of ice-skating in Canada. If this article
has seemed to be devoted principally to indoor skating, it is because
that can be pursued through so much greater a portion of the winter than
the outdoor kind. Skating in its perfection is of course only to be had
in the open air, and my most delightful recollections are associated
with the Dartmouth lakes, of happy memory. Connected with the same
lakes, however, there is a recollection too thrilling to be delightful,
and which, in view of what might have been, brings a shudder even now
while I rehearse it.
It happened in my college days. I had been skating all the afternoon,
and, as the dusk grew on apace, found myself away down at the head of
the second lake, full six miles from the point where I had got on the
ice; so, girding up my loins, I set my face towards home, and struck out
lustily. After going about one hundred yards, I thought I heard the
sound of my name come faintly to me over the ice.
Wheeling sharply about I saw nothing, except a dark form some distance
away, which through the gathering gloom resembled a log or tree-branch;
and I was just about to start off again, when once more my name was
called, this time so clearly as to leave no chance for doubt, the sound
evidently coming from the seeming log. Hastening over to it with all
speed, I was startled to find the professor of classics at my
college--who did not allow the loss of an arm to debar him from the
pleasure of skating--lying on the ice, with his left leg broken sharp
and clear a few inches above the ankle, the result of a sudden and heavy
fall. Here, indeed, was a trying situation for a mere lad to cope with.
We were alone in a wilderness of ice, and six miles away from the
nearest house. The shadows of night were fast closing around us. Those
six miles had to be gotten over in some way, and there was not a moment
to be lost. Hurrying to the shore I cut down a small spruce tree. Upon
this the helpless sufferer was laid as gently as possible, and bound to
it with straps. Then upon this rude ambulance I slowly dragged him down
the lake, while he, with splendid self-control, instead of murmuring at
his terrible agony, charmed away my weariness by his unconquerable
heroism. It was a toilsome task, but help came when we reached the
first lake, and once the shore was gained, a long express waggon filled
with mattresses made the homeward journey comparatively painless. "All
is well that ends well." The broken leg soon mended, and the following
winter found the professor skating as briskly as ever.
Yet I cannot help wondering sometimes with a shudder how it would have
fared with the interpreter of Greece and Rome had not that first faint
call reached my ears. A bitter cold night, a wide expanse of polished
ice, a solitary man lying prone upon it with one arm missing at the
shoulder, and one leg broken at the ankle--it were little less than a
miracle if ice-skating in Canada had not been clouded by one more
catastrophe that winter night.
*THE WILD DOGS OF ATHABASCA.*
Old Donald M'Tavish was a wonderfully interesting character. In the
service of the Hudson Bay Company, which for nearly two hundred years
held regal sway over the vast unknown north-west of Canada, he had spent
half a century of arduous and exciting service, living far away from
civilization, one of a mere handful of white men in the midst of a
wilderness sparsely inhabited by the Indian and the half-breed, but
abounding in deer, buffaloes, bears, wolves, and the smaller wild
animals.
He had risen rapidly in the service, for he was a fearless, stanch,
trustworthy man, and for the latter half of two terms had filled the
important post of chief factor at different forts; for it was his
somewhat undesirable if honourable lot to be sent to those stations that
gave the most trouble and the least returns to the company. Such was
his reputation for shrewdness, courage, and fidelity, that it was felt
by the authorities that no other man could so soon set matters straight
as Donald M'Tavish.
Having filled out his fifty years with entire satisfaction to his
employers and no small credit to himself, he had retired on his laurels
to spend a hale and hearty old age, in the enjoyment of the comfortable
pension awarded him by the company which he had served so well.
It was the delight of his declining days to recount for the benefit of
younger ears the many thrilling incidents of his adventurous career, and
one of his favourite stories was that which I shall now attempt to tell,
as nearly as possible in his own words.
"It was early in the Fifties, when I had charge of old Fort Assiniboine,
away out on the Athabasca River, not far from the Rockies. Sir George
Simpson, the governor of the colony at Red River, like the thoughtful
man he was, had sent out to me by the spring brigade a splendid Scotch
stag-hound, one of half-a-dozen he had just brought with him from the
dear old land.
"O man, but he was a dog! His back was on a level with my belt, and
when he raised himself on his hind legs he could put his fore paws on my
shoulders and rub noses with me; yet I stood a good six feet in my
stockings in those days.
"His hair was as grizzled as old Ephraim's, and coarse, and curled like
what they stuff beds with. His body was long and lean, and so was his
head, but he had a noble eye; and then the way he could run, and leap
over everything that came in his path, it was a sight to see, I warrant
you.
"We soon got very much attached to each other, and wherever I went Bruce
went too. He did not seem to take to any one else, and I was just as
well pleased that he did not, for I never wanted him out of my sight.
"That same summer a new hand was sent to the fort. He was an Englishman,
who gave his name as Heathcote, and he brought with him a pure white
female bull-dog that was one of the most dangerous-looking brutes I ever
laid eyes on. She minded nobody but her master, of whom, to do her
credit, she seemed fond enough.
"I never much cared for that breed of dog, but I must say Vixen was
about perfect in her way. As to good-breeding, there certainly wasn't
much to choose between her and Bruce.
"I was a little uneasy as to how the two dogs would get on, and at first
it did look as if there might be trouble, for Bruce, who utterly
despised the rabble of curs hanging about the fort, evidently felt
disposed to resent the coming of this possible rival; but almost before
I knew it, the two were the best of friends, and would eat their dinner
side by side like two well-behaved children.
"After a while they took to going out a-hunting together, and grand
times they had. They would work along in company until a herd of deer
was started, and then Bruce would make for the fattest doe, his
tremendous speed soon bringing him to her throat; while Vixen, following
at her best rate, would come up just in time to help him to finish her,
and then they would have a fine feast.
"Once the dogs got into these ways neither Heathcote nor I had much more
satisfaction out of them. They were never on hand when wanted. They
kept growing wilder and wilder, and finally, toward autumn, they
disappeared one day, and were never seen at the fort again.
"We hunted for them high and low, sending out the half-breeds as far as
Lake La Crosse on the east, and to the foot-hills of the Rockies on the
west, but not a sign or trace could we find of them. When winter came
and they did not return, we gave them up as lost, thinking that
something must have happened to them on one of their hunting forays, or
that perchance they had been killed by the Indians.
"Two years went by, and Bruce and Vixen were almost forgotten, when
stories began to reach the fort of a strange and fierce kind of wild dog
that was being seen now and then by hunters and trappers in the
out-of-the-way valleys and ravines of the foot-hills.
"It was not an easy job to get at the bottom of these stories, for they
passed from mouth to mouth before reaching us; but at last a trapper
turned up who had seen a pack of the dogs himself, and after hearing his
description I had no longer any doubt but that these wild dogs which
were making such a stir were the offspring of our two former pets which
had gone away in company.
"By all accounts they were evidently dangerous brutes to meet. From
Bruce they had got wonderful speed and endurance; from Vixen, ferocity
and fearlessness. Swift, savage, stubborn, and always going in large
packs, there was not an animal on the plains or up among the mountains
for which they were not more than a match.
"I felt eager to get a sight of the creatures, even though it should
mean some risk; for while, like all wild dogs, willing enough to give
men a wide berth, there was no telling what they might do if pressed by
hunger. It was therefore good news when, a year later, orders came from
Red River for me to make a trip to Fort George on the other side of the
Rockies, where there were some matters that needed straightening up, as
either going or coming back I would run a good chance of seeing
something of the famous dogs.
"I left Fort Assiniboine in the autumn, and although a sharp look-out
was kept by all the party as we went over to Fort George, not a sight
nor sign of the dogs did we stumble upon.
"But on my way back in the spring I had better luck, and I certainly
shall never forget my first and last sight of those terrible brutes.
"We had crossed the Rockies, and were descending the eastern slopes,
getting down among the foot-hills. One day Heathcote and I pushed on
together in advance of the rest, both of us having the dogs on our mind.
"Early in the afternoon we came to a bluff that overlooked a lovely
little valley, which we at once decided would be our camping-place for
that night. A bright stream ran along the centre of the valley. Having
a thought that perhaps a herd of deer might put in an appearance if we
kept out of sight, wo stretched ourselves out comfortably on the bluff
and awaited developments. They proved to be interesting beyond all our
expectations.
"We had been there about an hour, perhaps, when Heathcote, who had been
looking over at the opposite bluff, suddenly grasped my arm, saying
under his breath.--
"'Look there, M'Tavish! What do you think of that?'"
[Illustration: "AGAIN AND AGAIN WOULD THE BEAR, RISING ON HIS HIND
QUARTERS, HURL THE DOGS FROM HIM."]
"A break in the bluff had made a sort of easy descent into the valley,
and down this were coming, in single file, one, two, three, four--no
less than a dozen bears of the large and dreaded silver-tip kind;
splendid fellows most of them, bent on having a good time on the sunny
slopes beside the stream.
"We hardly dared to stir or breathe. To have attacked them would have
been utter madness. Thankful might we be if we could crawl away without
their attacking us.
"While lying there motionless, and wishing to the bottom of our hearts
that the rest of the party were on hand to make matters even, a fierce
bark came from the bluff a little above where the bears first showed
themselves. It was followed by a whole chorus of deep-mouthed baying,
and an instant later there rushed into view, fairly tumbling over one
another in their impetuous haste, a great pack of dogs that we at once
recognized as those we wished to see.
"They were certainly a fearsome lot of creatures. Some were long, lean,
and shaggy, like Bruce; others were thick-bodied and smooth of hair,
like Vixen,--and all were powerful, ravenous-looking brutes, a dozen of
whom might eat a good-sized buffalo for dinner without feeling
uncomfortably overloaded after their meal.
"They sighted the bears the moment they reached the edge of the bluff,
and at once rushed down to the attack, barking as though they would
split their throats. The bears made ready to receive them by massing
together at the top of a little knoll near the water, and before we
could fully realize what was taking place the fight had begun.
"So far as we could make out the dogs numbered fifty at least, so that,
considering their size and strength, the odds were a good deal in their
favour; but the bears fought like heroes.
"At first they crowded together in a sort of circle, with heads facing
out; while the dogs ran round them, snarling and barking, and watching
their chance to spring. A few moments later the circle was broken up
into a dozen roaring, writhing, yelping groups, composed of a bear with
four or five of the dogs clinging tenaciously to different parts of its
body.
"It was the Vixen strain that told now. Again and again would the bear,
rising on his hind quarters, hurl the dogs from him with mighty sweeps
of his huge fore paws, only to be penned at once, and brought to the
ground by a fresh attack.
"At frequent intervals an agonizing death-howl would pierce its way
through the horrible clamour, as some unfortunate dog, caught in the
grasp of its maddened enemy, would be crushed to death in his resistless
embrace.
"The minutes slipped by, and the fight still raged, but there could be
no doubt how it would result. The dogs had the best of it as to
numbers, and they were the equals of the bears in courage, ferocity, and
endurance, if not in sheer strength.
"One by one the big brown bodies rolled over in the stillness of death.
At the end of about half-an-hour the fight was over. Not a bear
breathed, and around their torn carcasses lay between twenty and thirty
of the dogs, as dead as themselves--the best possible proof of how
fiercely and obstinately they had fought.
"Not a word had passed between Heathcote and myself while all this went
on. We were too much taken up with the extraordinary conflict going on
before our eyes even to look at each other: but when it was all over,
and the surviving dogs, having satisfied themselves that the bears were
really all dead, lay down to lick their many wounds before they began
upon the feast their brave victims had provided for them, I touched
Heathcote on the shoulder, and whispered,--
"'We've seen the dogs; let's take good care they don't see us.'
"After such a proof of their powers as we had had, we were in no mind to
claim a nearer acquaintance with them on the score of having once owned
their ancestors. Accordingly we crawled noiselessly away, and making a
long circuit, rejoined our party in time to prevent their turning down
into the valley, which we no longer considered a good place to camp in
for the night.
"That was my first and last sight of the wild dogs of Athabasca. The
following autumn I went east, and never returned to Fort Assiniboine.
Whether the dogs have since been all killed off or are still running
wild among the far recesses of the Rockies, I don't know; but that
wonderful battle in the valley was one of the greatest sights of my
life, the like of which no one perhaps will ever again see on this
continent."
*BIRDS AND BEASTS ON SABLE ISLAND.*
If you will take your atlas and turn to the map of Canada, you may, by
looking very carefully, discover a small spot in the Atlantic Ocean
almost due east from Nova Scotia, and close beside the sixtieth parallel
of longitude. This little lonely spot is Sable Island, There it lies in
the midst of the waves, a long, low bank of gray sand without a single
tree upon it from end to end; nay, not so much as a bush behind which a
baby might play hide-and-seek. It seems, therefore, at first sight to
be one of the most unfavourable places in the world for the study of
either birds or beasts. Yet, strange as it may seem, this island, which
is now but twenty miles long, and at its greatest breadth but a mile and
a half wide--once it was quite double that size--has a wonderfully
interesting history of its own, of which not the least entertaining
chapter is that relating to its furry and feathered inhabitants.
Although when first viewed from the sea Sable Island appears to be
nothing better than a barren sand-bank, on closer acquaintance it
reveals inside its sloping beaches vales and meadows that in summer-time
seem like bits out of a Western prairie. There are green, grassy
knolls, and enchanting dells with placid ponds in their midst; and if
you only come at the right time and stay long enough, you may gather
pink roses, blue lilies, China asters, wild pea, gay golden-rod, and,
what is still better, strawberries, blueberries, and cranberries in
bountiful profusion.
Our concern at present, however, is not with the fruits and flowers, but
with the fur and feathers of this curious place.
Seeing that Sable Island has no trees on the branches of which nests may
be built, it follows naturally that its winged inhabitants are
altogether of the water-fowl and sea-bird variety. All over the sides
and tops of the sand-hills, which rise to the height of thirty, forty,
or fifty feet, the gulls, gannets, terns, and other aquatic birds scrape
together their miserable apologies for nests, and hatch out their ugly
little squab chicks, making such a to-do about the business that the
whole air is filled with their chattering, clanging, and screaming.
They are indeed very disagreeable neighbours; for besides the horrid din
they are ceaselessly making, they are the most untidy, not to say
filthy, of housekeepers. After they have occupied their bird-barracks,
as their nesting-places might appropriately be called, for a few weeks,
the odour the wind bears from that direction could never be mistaken for
one of those spicy breezes which are reputed to "blow soft o'er Ceylon's
isle."
Then they have not the redeeming quality of being fit to eat; for unless
one were on the very edge of starvation, one taste of their flesh, rank
with suggestions of fish and train-oil, would be sufficient to banish
all appetite.
They have one or two good qualities. They are brave; for at the peril
of their lives they will dauntlessly attack any rash intruder upon their
domains, swooping down upon him with sharp cries and still sharper
beaks.
Their movements illustrate the poetry of motion, as they come sailing
grandly in from the ocean spaces, and circle about their own particular
hillock in glorious dips and curves and mountings upward, that fill the
human observer with longing and envy.
Much more satisfactory, however, are the black duck, sheldrake, plover,
curlew, and snipe, which nest by uncounted thousands in the dense grass
that girts the fresh-water ponds, and afford dainty dishes for the
table. It is easy work to make a fine bag on a favourable day, and
grand sport may be had by any one who knows how to handle a
double-barrel.
Many are the interesting stories connected with bird life on Sable
Island, but a single one, and that the oddest of them all, must suffice.
I give it upon the unimpeachable authority of Dr. J. Bernard Gilpin.
About forty years or more ago a lot of rabbits were sent there as an
experiment. The idea was, if they prospered, to furnish the human
inhabitants of the island with a pleasant variety from the salt junk
which generally adorned their tables.
The experiment succeeded admirably. Bunny found the firm, dry sands
just the thing for his burrows, while the abundant wild pea and other
herbage furnished unstinted food for his prolific brood. But one
fateful day in spring--a dark day in the annals of rabbitdom--a big
snowy owl, that had somehow lost his bearings and been driven out to sea
by a westerly gale, dropped wearily upon the island to rest his tired
pinions.
While sitting on a sand-heap, thankful at his escape from a watery
grave, he looked about him, and to his amazed delight beheld--of all
sights the most welcome in the world to a hungry owl--_rabbits_!
Rabbits young and rabbits old, rabbits plump and rabbits lean, rabbits
in sixes and rabbits in sevens, were frisking about in the long grass
and over the sand, merrily innocent of their peril.
At first Sir Owl could scarcely believe his eyes, for it was a bright,
sunny day, and owls cannot see very well when the sun is shining; but
presently, as he still squatted on the sand, perfectly motionless except
his eyelids blinking solemnly, a thoughtless little rabbit, which had
grown too much excited over a game of chase with his brother to look
where he was going, ran up against the bewildered bird.