It was my lot, a long time ago, to bring down a school mistress to one
of the Protestant missionary settlements of the far North.
Her luggage was going by steamer, but she chose the canoe route as it
was much the shorter way. Her passage had been booked before hand in one
of our canoes.
The lady, who was middle aged and very short sighted, had never before
left her home town in the south. She arrived at the end of the railroad
punctually on time, and dressed severely in black with white celluloid
collar and cuffs. She wore ordinary laced boots and cotton gloves and
was armed with an umbrella and a small hand bag which could not have
contained much more than a toothbrush. She refused the loan of any more
apparel, such as a raincoat or high boots, and took her place in the
canoe without a word.
The mosquitoes were terrible. Inside of two hours the poor woman was
bitten to such an extent that it hurt us to look at her.
At the first camp fire she took off her glasses, sat on them and smashed
them to bits. They were her only pair. After that she had to be led by
the hand through the portages and from her tent to the canoe.
We had no trouble in getting her out in time for breakfast at 4 A. M.
each morning. One yell from one of us and she was scrambling out of her
tent fully dressed and with her hat on. Long afterwards, we found out
that she did not even dare take her boots off at night. She was so stiff
and bruised that she was afraid she might not be able to put them on
again the next morning.
Nothing seemed to surprise nor frighten her. We had one very bad rapid
to run. Her canoe was the last one. We waited anxiously to see how she
would stand the ordeal. Down the rapid she came; her two Indian guides
yelling; her canoe shipping a lot of water by the bow. She was calmly
sitting on the little seat we had made for her. Her umbrella was opened
and she was gazing at the sky. To this day we believe that she never saw
the rapid which was about one mile long.
When we reached our destination, sunburn and mosquitoes had changed her
face to such an extent that the missionaries hardly recognized her. Her
clothes were in rags. She was covered with mud from head to foot. But
her celluloid collar and cuffs were white. She used to wash them by
trailing them in the water over the side of her canoe.
I don’t think she spoke ten words during the entire seven days of her
trip.
[Illustration: School mistress]
Tale III: “Spot”
Among several hundred “Husky” dogs, which I have had occasion to watch
during my trips north, I remember one particularly well.
His name was Spot. Grey like a timber wolf with funny pale circles round
his eyes, he was faster and stronger than any of the team.
Although too young yet to be promoted to be leader, he showed greater
intelligence than any of the other dogs. He made a point to be always on
the best terms with his driver and showed great friendliness in camp as
soon as he was out of harness. He never shirked his work and was
exceedingly jealous of any dog who managed to slack in harness without
being seen and punished by the driver.
One day, when hauling as number two behind the leader, he noticed that
the latter would slack his traces as soon as he reached the back of the
preceding sleigh, travelling in the same direction on the same trail.
Spot, raging at the idea that the rest of the team was still pulling
while the leader, resting his head on the preceding sleigh, was loafing,
would immediately seize the trace with his teeth and throw himself on
the snow, obliging the leader by the weight of his dragging body to fall
back. He would remain in that position until a gap of thirty feet at
least had opened between the two teams. Then, knowing that the leader
had to start pulling his own share again if he did not want to be
noticed and punished by the driver, Spot would jump to his feet and
proceed with his own work with great energy and triumphant howls of joy.
At all times he was a great fighter and would often get wounded, even if
he did succeed in thrashing his opponent. One day, I doctored his wounds
with iodine. Ever after, as soon as he was bitten or cut, he would come
up and beg for treatment.
I often tried to fool him by applying plain warm water to his wounds. I
never succeeded. He would remain whining until some kind of medicine,
which he could smell and taste, was rubbed on the sore spot. Anything
would do—listerine, alcohol, even tooth paste. As soon as his nose and
tongue satisfied him that he had been properly treated with something
that he couldn’t smell and lick without distaste, he would wag his bushy
tail and saunter away quite satisfied.
[Illustration: Spot, the Husky dog]