THE TOLEDI AND TEMISCOUATA.
None of us awoke next morning till the sun was high and the dew all gone
in the open places about the camp. The air was sweet with wild perfumes,
and alive with birds and butterflies. It was near noon by the time we
found ourselves afloat on the Toledi River. This is a larger stream than
the Squatook, and much more violent. The “Toledi Falls” are less than
half a mile from the lake, and most travellers “portage” around them
rather than risk the difficult passage. Indeed, the mighty, plunging
swells, the succession of leaps, the roar and tumult between those rocky
walls, render the passage by no means enticing when looked at in cold
blood. But we knew the channels, and were resolved to “run it.” It is no
use attempting to tell just how we did it. I only know we all yelled
with fierce delight as we darted into the gorge, and I imagine our eyes
stuck out. Our muscles were like steel, and we tingled to the
finger-tips. Then came a few wild moments when every man did his level
best without knowing exactly how; for the white surges clashed
deafeningly about us, and with cheers we swept into the big eddy below
the falls—drenched, but safe. What cared we for a wetting in that clear
sunshine? The passion of travel was on us, and we could not stay to
fish. All the rest of the run down to Temiscouata is like a dream to me.
Few rocks, few shoals, a straight channel, and always that tearing
current. At four in the afternoon a last mad rapid hurled us out into
the wide expanse of Temiscouata. There was a sharp wind on the lake,
which is thirty miles long, and at this point about three miles wide. In
the heavy seas, with our deep-laden canoes, we had a rough and really
perilous passage; and it was not far from six o’clock when we reached
the other shore. There, near the outskirts of the little village of
Détour du Lac, we pitched tent for the night.
After supper we took a run through the village, and had a chat with some
of the habitans. We procured, moreover, some native Madawaska
tobacco—which we smoked once, and never smoked again.
Around the fire that night we felt a sense of depression because our
trip was drawing to an end. At last Magnus cried,—
“Shake off this gloom, boys. A story, Stranion!”
“All right; here’s something light and bright,” answered Stranion
promptly. “Let us call it—
‘CHOPPING HIM DOWN.’
“There is nothing that so cheers the heart of the lumberman as to play a
practical joke on one whom he calls a ‘greenhorn,’ or, in other words,
any one unused to the strange ways and flavor of the lumber-camps. As
may be imagined, the practical jokes in vogue in such rough company are
not remarkable for gentleness. One of the harshest and most dangerous,
as well as most admired, is that known as ‘chopping him down.’
“This means, in a word, that the unsophisticated stranger in the camp is
invited to climb a tall tree to take observations or enjoy a remarkable
view. No sooner has he reached the top, than a couple of vigorous axemen
attack the tree at its base, while the terrified stranger makes fierce
haste to descend from his too lofty situation. Long before he can reach
the ground the tree begins to topple. The men shout to him to get on the
upper side, which he does with appalled alacrity; and with a mighty
swish and crash down comes the tree. As a general rule, the heavy
branches so break the shock that the victim, to his intense
astonishment, finds himself uninjured; though frequently he is
frightened out of a year’s growth. There are cases on record, however,
where men have been crippled for life in this outrageous play; and in
some cases the ‘boss’ of the camp forbids it.
“But it is not only the greenhorn who is subject to this discipline of
chopping down. Even veterans sometimes like to climb a tree and take a
view beyond the forest; and sometimes, on a holiday or a Sunday, some
contemplative woodsman will take refuge in a tree-top to think of his
sweetheart, or else to eat a sheet of stolen gingerbread. If his retreat
be discovered by his comrades, he is promptly chopped down with
inextinguishable jeers.
“I have mentioned stolen gingerbread. This bread is a favorite delicacy
in the camps; and the cook who can make really good gingerbread is
prized indeed. It is made in wide, thin, tough sheets; and while it is
being served to the hands, some fellow occasionally succeeds in
‘hooking’ a whole sheet while the cook’s back is toward him. But in that
same instant every man’s hand is turned against him. He darts into the
woods, devouring huge mouthfuls as he runs. If he is very swift of foot
he may escape, eat his spoils in retirement, and stroll back, an hour
later, with a conscious air of triumph. More often he has to take to a
tree. Instantly all hands rush to chop him down. He climbs no higher
than is necessary, perches himself on a stout limb, and eats at his
gingerbread for dear life. He knows just what position to take for
safety; and often, ere the tree comes down, there is little gingerbread
left to reward its captors. The meagre remnant is usually handed over
with an admirable submissiveness, if it is not dropped in the fall, and
annihilated in the snow and _débris_.
“At one time I knew a lumberman who succeeded in hiding his stolen
gingerbread in his long boot-legs, and slept with the boots under his
head for security. The camp was on the banks of a lake. The time of the
capture of the gingerbread was a Saturday night in spring. Next morning
the spoiler took possession of the one ‘bateau’ belonging to the camp,
rowed out into the lake beyond the reach of stones and snowballs, and
then calmly fished the gingerbread out of his boots. Sitting at ease in
the bateau, he devoured his dainty with the utmost deliberation, while
his chagrined comrades could only guy him from the shore.
“For myself, I was chopped down once, and once only. It happened in this
way. In the midwinter of 1879 I had occasion to visit the chief camp on
the Little Madawaska. Coming from the city, and to a camp where I was a
stranger to all the men, I was not unnaturally regarded as a pronounced
specimen of the greenhorn. I took no pains to tell any one what the boss
already well knew; that is, that I had been a frequenter of the camps
from my boyhood. Many and many a neat trap was laid for my apparently
‘tender’ feet, but I avoided them all as if by accident. As for climbing
a tree, I always laughed at the idea when it was proposed to me. I
always suggested that it might spoil my clothes. Before long the men, by
putting little things together, came to the conclusion that I was an old
stager; and, rather sheepishly, they gave over their attempts to entrap
me. Then I graciously waved my hand, as it were, and was frankly
received as a veteran, cleared from every suspicion of being green.
“At last the day came when I _did_ wish to climb a tree. The camp was on
a high plateau, and not far off towered a magnificent pine-tree, growing
out of the summit of a knoll in such a way as to command all the
surrounding country. Its branches were phenomenally thick; its girth of
trunk was magnificent. And this tree I resolved one day to climb, in
order to get a clear idea of the lay of the land. Of course I strolled
off surreptitiously, and, as I thought, unwatched. But there I was much
mistaken. No sooner was I two-thirds of the way up the tree than, with
shouts of laughter, the lumbermen rushed out of the surrounding cover,
and proceeded to chop me down. The chance was too good for them to lose.
“I concealed my annoyance, and made no attempt to descend. On the
contrary, I thanked them for the little attention, and climbed a few
feet farther up, to secure a position which I saw would be a safe one
for me when the tree should fall. As I did so, I perceived, with a gasp
and a tremor, that I was not alone in the tree.
“There, not ten feet above me, stretched at full length along a large
branch, was a huge panther, glaring with rage and terror. From the men
below his form was quite concealed. Glancing restlessly from me to my
pursuers, the brute seemed uncertain just what to do. As I carefully
refrained from climbing any farther up, and tried to assume an air of
not having observed him, he apparently concluded that I was not his
worst enemy. In fact, I dare say he understood what was going on, and
realized that he and I were fellow-sufferers.
“I laughed softly to myself as I thought how my tormentors would be
taken aback when that panther should come down among them. I decided
that, considering their numbers, there would be at least no more danger
for them than that to which they were exposing me in their reckless
fooling. And, already influenced by that touch of nature which makes us
so wondrous kind, I began to hope that the panther would succeed in
escaping.
“The trunk of the pine was so thick that I might almost have reached the
ground before the choppers could cut it through. At last it gave a
mighty shudder and sagged to one side. I balanced myself nimbly on the
upper side, steadying myself by a convenient branch. The great mass of
foliage, presenting a wide surface to the air, made the fall a
comparatively slow one; but the tremendous sweep of the draught upward,
as the tree-top described its gigantic arc, gave me a sickening
sensation. Then came the final dull and thunderous crash, and in an
instant I found myself standing in my place, jarred but unhurt, with the
snow threshed up all about me.
“The next instant there was another roar, or rather a sort of screaming
yell, overwhelming the riotous laughter of the woodsmen; and out of the
confusion of pine-boughs shot the tawny form of the panther in a
whirlwind of fury. One of the choppers was in his path, and was bowled
over like a clumsy ninepin. The next bound brought the beast onto the
backs of a yoke of oxen, and his cruel claws severely scratched their
necks. As the poor animals bellowed and fell on their knees, the panther
paused, with some idea, apparently, of fighting the whole assembled
party. But as the men, recovered from their first amazement, rushed with
their axes to the rescue of the oxen, the panther saw that the odds were
all against him. He turned half round, and greeted his enemies with one
terrific and strident snarl, then bounded off into the forest at a pace
which made it idle to pursue him. The owner of the oxen hurled an axe
after him, but the missile flew wide of its mark.
As the excitement subsided, and I saw that the chopper who had been
knocked over was none the worse for his tumble, I chaffed my tormentors
unmercifully. For their part they had no answer ready. They seemed
almost to think that I had conjured up the panther for the occasion. I
thanked them most fervently for coming to my rescue with such
whole-hearted good-will, and promised them that if ever again I got into
a tree with a panther I would send for them at once. Then I set myself
to doctoring the unfortunate oxen, whose lacerated necks and shoulders
we soon mended up with impromptu plasters. And the owner of the oxen
gratefully vowed to me, ‘If ever I see any of the chaps a-laying for ye
agin, an’ any of my critters is around, I’ll tip ye the wink, shore!’”
“Here goes for another lumberman’s yarn,” began Sam, when Stranion
ceased. “It’s brief, so bear with it.
‘A RUDE AWAKENING.’
“In the fir-woods of the Upper Bartibogue the snow was softening
rapidly. The spring thaws had come on several weeks earlier than they
were expected, consequently a great quantity of logs lay in the woods
waiting to be hauled to the landing. The hands at Bober’s Camp were
working with feverish energy, in the effort to get all their logs out
before the snow roads should go utterly to pieces. Old Paul Bober, the
boss of the camp, had sent out to all the surrounding settlements for
extra teams.
“The first result of his efforts was a team of wild young steers, which
seemed hardly more than half-broken to the yoke. They were as long and
gaunt as their driver, long Jim Baizley; but they looked equal to any
amount of hard work.
“‘Them critters of yourn ain’t much to look at, Jim,’ remarked the boss,
as Baizley came ‘geeing’ and ‘hawing’ them into camp toward sundown.
“The steers swung their hindquarters far apart, and sagged restively on
the yoke, as they came to a halt. The teamster rolled a loving eye upon
them, and replied,—
“‘Jest wait till they git yankin’ onto the logs, an’ then see what you
think of ’em!’
“Jim Baizley was a smart teamster; and on the following morning, with
his heart set on showing off his team to the best advantage, he was the
first to get to work hauling. The snow was getting softer and softer, a
warm wind having blown all night so that there had been no chance for it
to stiffen up. This heightened the general anxiety; and there was no
time lost in following Baizley to ‘the Ridge,’ a patch of sloping forest
where a lot of fine timber lay waiting to be hauled out.
“From the Ridge to the Landing it was necessary to take a new road,
which had been already roughly chopped out. As Baizley with his lean
cattle started out for the Landing with a couple of huge timbers chained
together behind them, one of the hands shouted to remind him that he was
the first to go over the new road.
“‘Look out for slumps, Jim!’ cried the chopper. ‘This here snow hain’t
got no kind of a bottom to it now!’
“Baizley rolled his eyes over the stretch of track before him, which his
load was soon to plough into picturesque disorder. With a thoughtful
gesture, and very deliberately, he spit a huge quantity of tobacco-juice
over the dull-white, soggy surface just in front of the oxen, and then
said,—
“‘I’ll look out. Gimme a peevy!’
“Grasping the long white pole, shod with a steel spike at the larger
end, he started his team toward the Landing. Instead of walking beside
his cattle, in the teamster’s customary place, he travelled a few feet
in front of their noses; and from time to time he thrust the pike-pole
sharply into the snow.
“It must be borne in mind that the snow in these north shore woods lies
anywhere from two to five feet deep. Under such a covering may lie
concealed, not only the firm forest floor, but dangerous bog-holes, or
steep little dry gullies. Hence the wise precaution which Baizley took
of feeling the way for his oxen. The lack of such precaution has cost
many a careless lumberman his team.
“In the present case, however,—so perverse a witch is chance,—Baizley’s
very prudence was the well-spring of disaster. His experience was such
as might almost have led him to forswear precautions for the rest of his
natural life—as a teamster.
“Close behind Baizley’s team came another, driven by Tamin Landry, a
little Frenchman from down the river. _Tamang_, as the Frenchman was
called by his comrades, had great confidence in Baizley’s skill as a
guide. He felt it safe to take his team wherever Baizley should take
his.
“Presently Baizley’s pike-pole sank deeply into the snow with sudden and
suspicious ease.
“‘Whoa-oa-o!’ he yelled, rolling his eyes back upon the steers.
“The team surged forward till they were almost upon him, and he rapped
them sharply across the muzzles. Then they stopped, with their heads far
down.
“‘W’at ze matter?’ inquired Tamang, skipping forward.
“‘Big hole here!’ responded Baizley. He was prodding the snow near the
trunk of a mighty tree.
“‘Solid ground furder this way, likely!’ he continued; and he gave a
vicious prod some two feet farther out from the tree.
“The result was something to startle even a backwoodsman. The snowy
surface rose up suddenly, with a spluttering, grunting noise, as if an
infant volcano were about breaking into eruption.
“Almost thrown off his feet, Baizley sprang to one side, while the
excitable Tamang jumped into the air with a yell of astonishment. The
yoke of steers swerved wildly to one side, and would have run away but
for their heavy load. Then there emerged from the snow the hugest and
hollowest of black bears, his long fur thickly blotched with lumps of
his white covering.
“Thus painfully and unceremoniously aroused from his winter sleep, the
bear was in a thoroughly justifiable rage. Perhaps also the pangs of
unrealized hunger added to his fury. He glanced with small red eyes from
side to side, then flung himself clumsily but swiftly upon the nearest
ox.
“With mad bellowing the team plunged in among the trees; and in their
terror so great was their strength, that the great timbers they were
hauling danced after them like jackstraws. But this was not for long.
Ere they had gone ten yards from the road, the ox which the bear had
struck, blind with panic, caught his long horns in a sapling, and fell
forward on his knees. For a moment his yoke-fellow held him up, then he
collapsed in a limp red-and-white heap, with his neck broken. And the
bear began tearing at him savagely.
“Paralyzed and helpless, the other steer sank in the snow. By this time,
however, Baizley and the Frenchman had recovered their scattered wits
and seized their axes. Baizley’s eyes rolled wildly, with pity for his
team and wrath against the bear. With the full sweep of his long, wiry
arms, he swung his heavy axe and brought it down upon the animal’s head.
“At least, that was Baizley’s amiable intention; but any one who has
tried to hit a bear over the head with an axe knows how difficult a feat
it is to accomplish, unless the bear is asleep. This bear was very
wide-awake indeed; Baizley’s pike-pole had seen to that!
“Though apparently engrossed with the dead steer, he had been watching
his assailants out of the corner of his eye. Just as the great axe began
its deadly descent, the beast half rose, and like a flash threw up his
mighty forearm. On this the axe-handle struck and glanced, and the
weapon flew violently off among the trees.
“With a desperate exclamation Baizley attempted to jump away; and at the
same moment the bear brought down his other paw with a stroke that all
Baizley’s tried skill as a boxer would not have availed to parry. But
fortunately for the tall lumberman, his footing gave way. He fell
headlong in the snow, and the stroke of that armed paw passed harmlessly
over him.
“The bear dropped forward upon him, but was at once distracted by a
fierce blow on the shoulder from Landry’s axe. With a snort he turned
about, and gave chase to the nimble little Frenchman.
[Illustration: “Tamang came leaping Past with the Bear at His
Heels.”—Page 303.]
“Now, this was in all respects a most fortunate diversion. Tamang was so
light of foot that the snow easily upbore him. He found himself able,
without difficulty, to elude his floundering pursuer. He took a short
circuit among the trees, and headed back toward the team.
“Baizley was now on his feet, and himself again. He was running to pick
up his axe, when Tamang yelled, ‘No! No! Spear him, spear him wid ze
peevy, Jeem! Spear him wid ze peevy!’
“It was a good idea, and Baizley realized the force of it. The
steel-shod pike-pole was indeed a formidable weapon. Grasping it short
in both hands, Baizley sprang upon the logs of his ill-fated load, and a
second later Tamang came leaping past with the bear at his heels.
“In an instant the plucky Frenchman turned and faced his pursuer. The
bear rose on his hind legs to seize him, and Baizley’s opportunity had
arrived. With all his force he drove the point of the pike-pole into the
brute’s body, right under the foreshoulder.
“Down came the huge arm, snapping the tough pole like a splinter; but
the steel point had gone home. The bear fell dead, close beside the dead
ox.
“Whilst Tamang, with voluble excitement, examined the two victims of
Baizley’s wise precautions, the latter with taciturn deliberation
proceeded to unyoke the trembling steer from its ill-starred mate. But
from the way his eyes rolled in their lean sockets, it was easy to see
that the gaunt lumberman was doing some swift and energetic thinking.”
“Now, then, Magnus,” cried Queerman, “we look to you. Will it be more
about the lumber-camps?”
“No,” replied Magnus; “I shall introduce a beast of whom none of you
have yet said a word. Yet he is an important beast, and played no small
part in preparing the land of Canaan for the advent of the children of
Israel. My story is—
‘SAVED BY A HORNET’S NEST.’
“I got the story just a few weeks ago, when I was out fishing on the
Rushagornish with Dick Henderson. Near the shore we came upon a huge
hornets’ nest suspended beneath a bush. Swayed by the common impulse of
destructiveness, I suggested that we should set fire to the nest.
“‘No, indeed,’ said Dick. ‘If we attack the nest we deserve to get
stung. Mr. Yellow Jacket is a self-respecting citizen, and will not
trouble you unless you wantonly interfere with him. If he resents
aggression fiercely, we cannot blame him for that, can we? Besides, a
hornets’ nest is held sacred among us Hendersons.’
“‘You don’t mean to confess,’ I exclaimed, ‘that it symbolizes the
spirit and temper of your family?’
“‘Not exactly,’ replied Dick. ‘But it certainly preserved the connection
between flesh and spirit for our family at a very critical moment. My
Grandfather Henderson owed his life to a nest of hornets at a time when
he, a young man of twenty-two, was the sole representative of his line.’
“The trout were not rising, and the rapidly heating air persuaded to
indolence. I stood my rod up in a bush, threw myself down in a shady
spot, and remarked to Dick that he might as well tell me about his
grandfather. This invitation elicited the following curious story:—
“It was during the war of 1812. The battles of Chrysler’s Farm and
Chateauguay had not yet been fought, and the Canadians were in doubt as
to the movements of the two American armies which were preparing to
attack Montreal. They knew that General Wilkinson was at Sackett’s
Harbor, making ready to descend the St. Lawrence; but in regard to
General Hampton, who was advancing by way of Lake Champlain, information
was much in demand.
“My grandfather, James Henderson, who knew the country between the St.
Lawrence and Lake Champlain, volunteered to get the information. He had
many friends on the American side of the line, most of whom, as he knew,
heartily disapproved of this unnecessary struggle between the United
States and England. On these he depended for help if he should get
caught; and he really gave far too little heed to the nature of the risk
he was running. Yet he took wise precautions, and played his part with
discretion.
“With a ragged-looking horse and a shabby pedler’s wagon, and himself
skilfully made up for the _rôle_ of a country hawker, he was
comparatively secure from recognition. Indeed, I have heard him boast
that he made sales to some of his most intimate acquaintances, who never
for an instant dreamed that it was Jim Henderson whom they were haggling
with.
“All went prosperously until the very end of the adventure drew near. My
grandfather was returning with the important information that Hampton’s
objective point was the mouth of the Chateauguay River, whence he would
cross the St. Lawrence, and descend upon Montreal from Lachine.
“At Smith’s Corners, a little rudimentary village about ten miles from
the Canadian border, my grandfather stopped for a bite of dinner.
“Jake Smith, the landlord of the little inn, was a trusted friend; and
to him my grandfather revealed himself in obedience to a sudden impulse.
It was the first time on the whole journey that he had given the
slightest clew to his true personality. Well for him that he yielded to
this impulse, else even the friendly hornets’ nest, to which we are
coming presently, would not have availed to save him.
“Jake Smith was a stirring fellow, who under ordinary circumstances
would have liked nothing better than running a spy to earth; but when
that spy was Jim Henderson, the case was different.
“My grandfather had stood his horse and wagon in on the spacious barn
floor, and was having a wash in a little bedroom opening off the
kitchen. The bedroom door was partly closed.
“Suddenly, through the crack of the door, he caught sight of a small
party of American militiamen, at whose heels followed two huge brindled
mastiffs, or part mastiffs, probably a cross between mastiff and
bloodhound. Henderson, confident in his disguise, was just slipping on
his coat with the idea of going out and speaking to the soldiers, when
the leader’s voice, addressing the landlord at the kitchen door,
arrested him.
“‘Where’s that pedler chap that drove in here a few minutes ago?’
inquired the officer, puzzled at seeing no sign of the wagon.
“‘What do you want of him?’ inquired the landlord with an air of
interest.
“‘We’ll show you presently!’ said the officer. ‘And we’ll want you, too,
if we catch you trying to shelter a spy! Where is he?’
“‘I don’t shelter no spies,’ growled Jake Smith ambiguously; ‘and I’d
advise you to keep your jaw for your own men!”
“The officer was about to make an angry reply, but changed his mind.
“‘That pedler,’ said he firmly, ‘is a spy; and it is your duty to assist
in his capture. Is he in this house?’
“Now, Smith knew better than to try to persuade the soldiers that
Henderson had driven away. He saw they had certain knowledge of the
spy’s presence. So he exclaimed:—
“‘A spy, is he? Well, I reckon you’ve about got him, then. He’s drove
his team in on the barn floor, out of the sun, and most likely’—but the
whole squad were off for the barn.
“‘To the woods! The cave!’ hissed Smith toward the little bedroom; and
at the same instant my grandfather darted from the window, down behind
the tall rows of pole-beans and a leafy bed of artichokes, and gained
the cover of the woods which touched on the rear edge of the garden.
“He ran with desperate speed, following at first a well-beaten
cattle-path that led straight into the woods. But he had small hope of
escape. It was the glimpse he had got of those two great dogs that
filled his soul with dismay.
“For the troops alone he would have cared little. He knew he could
outrun most men, and the forest afforded innumerable hiding-places. But
those dogs! With no weapon but his sheath-knife, he could hardly hope to
overcome them without being himself disabled; and if he were to take
refuge in a tree, they would just hold him there till their masters
arrived to lead him off to an ignominious death.
“My grandfather concluded, however, that his only chance for escape lay
in fighting the dogs. If he could kill them before the soldiers came up,
he might possibly get away.
“But to make the most of this poor chance he must get deep into the
woods, and lead the dogs a long distance ahead of the troops.
“He understood the sound tactics of dividing the enemy’s forces. He
tightened his belt and ran on, snatching up by the way a stout stick
which some one had intended for a cane.
“The cave of which Smith had spoken lay about three miles from the
village. After following the cattle-path for perhaps half a mile, my
grandfather turned a little to the right and plunged into the trackless
forest. His long, nimble legs carried him swiftly over the innumerable
obstructions of the forest floor.
“His ears were strained anxiously to catch the first deep baying that
would tell him the dogs were on his scent. Every minute that the
dreadful voices delayed was an addition to his little stock of hopes. If
only he could reach the cave, his chances of victory over the dogs would
be much increased; for the entrance to it was so small that only one of
his assailants would be able to get in at a time.
“At last, when he had run about two miles, his breath failed him. He
threw himself flat on his face on a bit of mossy ground beside a brook.
As he lay there gasping, his mouth open, his eyes shut, suddenly along
the resonant ground were borne to his ears the voices of the dogs.
“When he sprang to his feet he could no longer hear them; but he knew he
must gain more time. Jumping into the brook he ran several hundred yards
up-stream; then, seizing a long, overhanging branch, he swung himself
well ashore, some ten feet clear of the bank.
“As he once more headed for the cave, he flattered himself, not without
reason, that the dogs would lose some time before they picked up his
scent again.
“The baying of the pursuers soon came near enough to be distinctly
heard, and then grew in volume rapidly. At last it stopped; and he knew
the dogs had reached the brook, and were hunting for the scent. Before
that sinister music rose again on the stillness of the wilderness air,
Henderson came in sight of the hillside wherein the cave lay hidden.
“Just as he was congratulating himself that he had now a good chance of
escape, a thought occurred to him that dashed his hopes. ‘Why,’ said he
to himself, ‘the dogs would most likely refuse to enter the cave!’
Seeing the smallness of the entrance, they would no doubt stay baying
outside, keeping him like a rat in a hole until the soldiers should come
and smoke him out.
“However, he decided to risk it. He could, at least, block the entrance
with stones, and make some sort of fight at the last; or even there
might be some other exit,—some fissure in the hill which he had never
explored. At any rate, he was too much exhausted to run any farther.
“As he approached the low opening in the hillside a lot of hornets
darted past his ears. Having a dread of hornets he glanced about
nervously, and imagined at first they were denizens of his cave. But in
a moment he saw the nest.
“It was an immense gray globular structure, hanging from the branch of a
small fir-tree, at a height of about two feet from the ground. It was
not more than five or six feet from the cave, and almost directly in
front of it.
“Henderson was a man of resources; and he appreciated the fighting
prowess of a well-stirred colony of hornets. He decided to enlist the
colony in his defence.
“The hornets were taking no notice of him whatever, being intent on
business of their own. Henderson took a long piece of string from his
trousers pocket, and in the most delicate fashion possible made one end
fast to the branch which supported the nest. Then, lying down flat on
his face, he squirmed softly past without getting into collision with
the insects, and crawled into the cave, carrying with him the other end
of the string.
“Once safely inside, his first care was to grope around for a big stone
or two. These he soon procured, and with their aid the entrance was
blocked. Then he took off his coat.
“He laid his ear to the crevices in his barricade. The dogs were getting
so near that he could hear now the crashing of their heavy forms as they
bounded through the underbrush.
“Holding his coat ready to stop up, if necessary, the small openings he
had left for observation, he began jerking sharply on the string which
connected him with the hornets’ nest.
“He could hear the furious buzzing which instantly arose as the hornets
swarmed forth to resent the disturbance. He could see how the air grew
yellow all about the nest. But it did not occur to the angry insects to
seek for their disturber in the cave.
“Henderson jerked again and yet again, and the enraged swarm grew
thicker.
“At this moment the dogs came into view. Very deadly and inexorable they
looked as they bounded along, heads low down, their dark, muscular
bodies dashing the branches aside and bearing down the undergrowth.
“Now, realizing perhaps that they had run their prey to earth, they
raised their heads and barked, in a tone very different from that of
their baying. Unfalteringly they dashed straight upon the barricade; and
one of them, as he sprang past, struck the nest a ruder shock than any
that my grandfather’s string had been able to give it.
[Illustration: Saved by a Hornets’ Nest.—Page 313.]
“In that same instant the exasperated hornets were upon the dogs. A
sharp chorus arose of angry and frightened yelpings. Yet for a few
seconds the brave brutes persisted in their efforts to force an entrance
to my grandfather’s retreat. This gave the hornets a fair chance.
“They settled upon the animals’ eyes and ears and jaws, till flesh and
blood—even dog flesh and blood—could endure the fiery anguish no longer.
Both dogs rolled over and over, burrowing their noses in the moss, and
trying with their paws to scrape off their bitter assailants. But the
contest was too unequal.
“Presently both dogs stuck their tails between their legs, and darted
off in mad panic through the woods. Gradually their yelpings died away.
“My grandfather then and there registered a vow that he would never
again break up a hornets’ nest. He slackened the string till it lay
loose and inconspicuous amid the moss, but he did not exactly care to go
out and detach it from the branch.
“Then he lay down and rested, feeling pretty confident that the soldiers
would not find their way to his retreat now that they were deprived of
the assistance of the dogs. As for the dogs, he knew that their noses
were pretty well spoiled for a day or two.
“That night, when he felt quite sure the hornets had gone to bed, my
grandfather crept out of his refuge, stole softly past his little
protectors without disturbing them to say farewell, and struck across
the forest in the direction of the Canadian border. A little later the
moon got up, and by her light he made good progress.
“Soon after daybreak he reached the banks of the Chateauguay, and about
an hour later he fell in with a scouting-party of the Glengarry
Fencibles, who took him to the headquarters of De Salaberry, the
Canadian commander. As for the ragged old horse and the pedler’s wagon,
they remained at Smith’s Corners, a keepsake for Jake Smith.”
“I think,” said Ranolf, “that’s a good enough yarn to go to bed on. I’m
as sleepy as a June-bug.”
Upon this we all discovered that we were in the same condition as
Ranolf. The exhilaration of the run down the Toledi, and the hard strain
of the passage across Temiscouata, had tired us through and through. How
delicious were our blankets that night at Détour du Lac!