Stibbs the Grocer zigzagged like a dragon-fly about his crowded store.
Within the hour the supplies for our woodland cruise were packed in
boxes and tagged, and ready for transportation. It was a brisk
transaction; for Stibbs it was only one incident in a busy day. Outside
the trolley clanged, and a Saturday crowd footed the main street of the
Canadian city by the falls of the Saint Mary. It was hard to realize
that solitude and a primal hush were only a few hours away.
I contrasted the activity in the store of Stibbs with the drowse that
hung over another shop in the North Country where, in earlier years, I
used to buy my supplies. Doctor Mayhew kept the shop, which flourished
until a pushing Scandinavian set up a more pretentious establishment;
after which the Doctor's shop faded away like the grin of Puss of
Cheshire. One could not buy groceries of the Doctor in a hurry; one had
no wish to. I always allowed the forenoon, as there was much foreign
gossip to exchange between items, and the world's doings to be
discussed. The Doctor was interested in the remotest subjects. The
pestilences of the Orient and the possibility of their spreading to our
shores, and eventually to the North Country, gave him much concern; the
court life at St. James's and the politics of Persia absorbed
him;--local matters interested him not at all.
"Ten pounds of flour?"... The Doctor would pause, scoop in hand; then,
abruptly reminded of a bit of unfinished business at the warehouse, he
would leave the flour trembling in the balance and shuffle off, while I
perched on the counter and swung my heels, and discussed packs with Ted
Wakeland, another pioneer, who, spitting vigorously, averred that
packing grub through the brush was all right for an Indian, but no fit
task for a white man. Through the open door I could see the gentle
swells of the Big Water washing along the crescent of the beach and
heaping the sand in curious little crescent ridges. The sun beat hotly
on the board walk. There were faint sounds in the distance, from the
Indian village up the shore and the fishing community across the bay.
Life in this parish of the Northland drifted by like the fleece of
summer's sky.
"And three pounds of rice?"
The Doctor was back at the scales, and the weighing proceeded in
leisurely and dignified fashion. Haste, truly, were unseemly. But at
last the supplies were stowed in the brown pack, there were handshakings
all round, and a word of advice from old heads, and I marched away with
a singing heart.
Outfitting in the Doctor's shop was an event, a ceremonial, a thing to
be housed in memory along with camps and trails.