Island. Near to it is the Kildare River, and the pretty district of
Montrose. The harbor of Alberton is probably the most available place
for shipping along the whole north shore. American vessels often take
refuge here from heavy storms. A peculiarity of the St. Lawrence Gulf
side of the Island is the absence of good harbors, and the presence of
long and narrow sand bars, or dunes, that lie about a mile or less from
the land towards the western end of the Island, and continue in an
almost unbroken line for a distance of 25 miles or more to the east. The
Indian name Cascumpec, or “Floating through Sand,” sufficiently
describes the outer waters of many of the rivers that empty on the
northern side. These sand bars have narrow inlets in places through
which small vessels may pass into the protected inner waters known as
lagoons or narrows. The harbor at Alberton has a convenient entrance,
with a lighthouse; and vessels of average size may enter at any tide.
The sand bars towards the eastern end of the Island are different in
character. Instead of being in one long line with narrow breaks, they
are found in completely detached sections, generally across the mouth of
bay or river, and sometimes making out from the side of a headland to
the opposite shore, and thus nearly closing the entrance.
[Illustration]
On the outer sides of these sand bars the waves break with magnificent
surf—inside all is calm and peaceful. High cliffs are not found on the
northern shore, but bold land of romantic appearance is found in places.
The neighborhood of Alberton, Montrose and the Kildare River is an
attractive one, and many pleasant walks and drives may here be enjoyed.
A feature of this part of the Island is the numerous “fox farms” that,
are springing up, where these animals are raised for the value of their
pelts. Large sums have been paid for a pair with which to start a ranch
or farm—as much as two and three thousand dollars, it is said.
The climate of Prince Edward Island is well suited for operations of
this kind, and much money has already been made by those engaged in the
business. Several new fox farms have recently been started in various
parts of the island, and as fox breeding appears to be both interesting
and profitable, the number of these farms is sure to increase.
But we have left Alberton and are making north. That little hamlet,
where we stopped for a few minutes, has houses that may easily be
counted upon two hands; and the young girl with pleasant face and
engaging brown eyes who has just waved a free and ingenuous ‘good-bye,’
was the same who waited at our hotel table in Summerside, a few days
since. A week of town life has satisfied her; and she has gone “back to
the farm.” Sensible girl!...... and happy father and mother, whose life
in the comfortable and snug little cottage over there is still to be
cheered by a bright, youthful face and sunny smile.
[Illustration]
And now, Tignish, the French-Scotch fishing village, and quietest of
quiet little summer resorts; modest, unpretending, and just what it
appears to be on first arrival, a country retreat. A place of unbroken
sleep and absolute calm, and where the commotion and tumult of the world
frets none. A natural sanitarium to which a man may flee to escape for a
season the daily avalanche of letters; the battery of visitors; the
quick-fire of telegrams.
[Illustration]
A tale of French-Indian life by Jessie Hogg may here be told to show the
relations that existed on the Island between the two races long ago.
“Belle Marie” was a pretty Indian maiden who had received that name from
the French people living near the native village. She was much loved by
her father, the chief of the tribe. She had been trained by him in
Indian arts and was a surer shot with the arrow than even he. One of the
French officers took great interest in her as a child, and told her of
the Old World and its wonders. Without knowing it she taught him the
lesson of love. Being much older than she, he was able to keep his
feelings a secret. For some reason she gradually changed, and her former
girlish manner became more demure and maidenly, her eyes became softer
and acquired a new light, and she came less frequently to hear the tales
she loved so well.
A jealous lover of her tribe had told her the officer was only amusing
himself for want of companionship with his own people.
One day the now lonely Frenchman found her in a little rocky nook on the
shore. The sky was clear, and the incoming tide was gently drawing near
unheeded by the maiden, whose thoughts were far away as she gazed over
the water intently, unconscious of the earnest gaze bent on her.
“Belle Marie!” he said softly.
She started, and a wave of color told a tale that surely anyone could
have read. Until then her sole lessons had been learned from the songs
of the birds, the winds sighing through the trees, the perfume of the
flowers, and the murmuring of the waters as they beat upon the shore.
“Mon Maitre!” she replied, as she rose suddenly, pale and startled.
“Where have you been, ma belle?” he asked.
“In the woods; on the shore; with my people,” was the disjointed reply,
as she looked down at the sand beneath her feet.
“You have not been to see me for so long—I have missed you very much.
Why did you stay away?” He came near.
She turned with the fury of a young tigress, as she told him he only
talked to her to pass the time away. But suddenly she broke down, and
burst into tears as she covered her face with her hands.
“I love you, Belle Marie!” said the officer, in earnest tones.
“Love me?” she cried—“An Indian maid? A forest girl? Why, your people
would scorn you for it.”
“My people are nothing to me now,” he sadly replied—then drawing near,
he asked, “Will you marry me, Belle Marie?”
But she bounded off, and disappeared without reply.
One morning, some days after this, she stood at the opening of his tent.
“Yes, I will be your wife,” she exclaimed, “if you love me, and me
only!”
Another chapter now opens, for the old chief demurred. “Belle Marie must
marry a brave of her own race,” he declared.
But finally the love of the Frenchman prevailed, and the old chief
consented to the marriage.
In the meantime Belle Marie’s former suitor, the jealous one who had
interfered in the early days, seemed to take it all in good part.
One day as the happy girl was walking in the distant woods she came
across her affianced, struck down and dying in the snow. With bursting
heart she staggered homewards, bearing him in her arms. Senseless and
almost gone, she nursed him back to life, assisted by her kind-hearted
father. With loving devotion, and with just enough of sleep and food to
maintain life, she nursed the wounded man to complete recovery.
The wedding was now decided upon without further delay, and one bright
spring morning the ceremony took place in the little church that had
been decorated with ferns and wild-flowers.
Under a bower of leafy branches and fragrant bloom the happy pair stood.
Dozens of canoes lined the shore, and the wedding festivities were well
underway. The low sobbing heard from the assembled tribe as Belle Marie
stood at the altar by the side of the man of her choice told how much
the darling of her tribe would be missed.
Scarce was the ceremony ended, and the two turned away from the altar,
when with a cry that resounded far and near—a cry that pierced the
hearts of all who heard it—and one that sent a thrill of terror to all,
Marie threw herself before her husband, shielding him from view, but not
before an arrow, sped with the sure aim that hatred and revenge could
prompt, had found its resting place in her heart instead of his.
[Illustration]
He caught her as she fell, clasped her close to him with a moan of
agony, and in all a strong man’s anguish, called her every endearing
name that love could bring to mind.
But she looked up at him with those eyes that had always contained such
an unutterable love in their depths, and said slowly as the life-blood
ebbed over altar steps and floor:—“I ...... saved ...... you. I .....
saw ..... it ...... coming. My ...... own ...... love.”
Returning east to Summerside, and passing Kensington, with its pretty,
stone station-building, the quiet village of Bradalbane is reached. This
makes a good centre from which to visit the districts of New London,
Mill River, Stanley Bridge, Trout River, New Glasgow, Hunter River
outlet and Rustico. This whole district is about as pleasant and
picturesque as could well be imagined, and days spent in driving and
walking will bring much enjoyment.
From New London harbor in the bay to the north the fishing boats may be
seen putting out to sea:
“The wind is blowing freshly up from far-off ocean caves,
And sending sparkling kisses o’er the brows of virgin waves,
While routed dawn-mists shiver as fast and far they flee,
Pierced by the shafts of sunrise and the glitter of the sea.”
[Illustration]
The pretty scenery of Mill Vale, the Trout River and Stanley Bridge is
sure to enchant. A noticeable feature of this and other districts is the
number of lovely streams of diminutive character, and the nearby, always
picturesque, mill ponds. A story illustrating the method of the bear
when he “trees” a man, and showing, also, the intelligence of a little
dog is related of the Stanley Bridge district.
[Illustration: Provincial Building, Charlottetown, P.E.I.]
[Illustration]
“Before bridges were built throughout the Island the rivers were crossed
by ferries, and the ferry was generally named after the individual who
ran it. Where Stanley Bridge now is, Fyfe’s ferry formerly plied. Mr.
Fyfe was the owner of a little white dog, of which he was very proud,
and with reason, for it once saved his life.
“One day walking in the woods near his home he was suddenly set upon by
a huge bear that was evidently very hungry and was out foraging.
“The ferryman managed to elude his pursuer for a short time, but the
bear was not to be cheated of his prey without making a good fight. Hard
pressed, the now desperate man brought all his wits to bear on the
situation, and he decided to climb a tree which was the only refuge
anywhere near. He lost no time in putting his plan into execution, but
he had forgotten that bears can climb and Bruin must have thought that
he had his victim in the right place, also. Immediately the animal
started up the tree after the disappearing ferryman, and quickly came
within reach. He had only taken hold of the man’s boot-heel when he felt
a stinging sensation at his own pedal extremities. He immediately
dropped to the ground where he recognized in his antagonist the little
white dog. The dog suddenly disappeared, but not out of sight of its
master, whom it was bent on saving from a horrible death. Accordingly,
every time the bear attempted to climb the tree, the dog took hold of
his heel, and finding the pain so severe from the bites, Bruin had to
come down again and again; until, finally, tired out he sat down to
watch his victim whom he had treed. The bear was not to enjoy this
situation long, for the barking of the dog had aroused the fears of
Fyfe’s neighbors, who thought something must be wrong, and started for
the scene armed with rifles.
“Taking in the situation at a glance they quickly dispatched Mr. Bruin,
and, the danger past, the ferryman came down. Almost needless to state
no kindness was ever too much for the little dog after that.”
A change has now come over the scene, for the forests have fallen before
the woodman’s axe, and Bruin has also disappeared.
[Illustration]
The Hunter River, Rustico Bay and Wheatly River districts are all well
worthy of exploration in drives and walks. The principal north shore
resorts are Rustico, Tracadie, Stanhope, and Brackley Point. From nearly
all of these places summer visitors may put out with the fishermen and
join in the cod and mackerel fishing.
The city of Charlottetown has a fine and most unusual situation. It is
on the East or Hillsborough River, the York or North River is on its
south side, the West or Elliott River joins the York just a little to
the south of the city, and thus all three streams mingle their waters
and pass out into Hillsborough Bay, the Bay being also near, and almost
in front of the Island Capital.
Charlottetown has wide, leafy and pleasant streets, covers considerable
ground, has a delightful atmosphere, and is altogether one of the most
homelike and attractive little cities to be found anywhere. It suggests
the capital of some neat European principality, with its substantial
Queen Square and public buildings grouped or arranged with such good
taste in the park-like heart of the city. In the square is a monument to
the memory of the Prince Edward Island Volunteers who fell in the South
African War. The flower beds in the open space are neatly laid out and
refreshing to the eye. Here are shady seats where on summer nights one
may sit and hear the music of the band. The principal stores of the city
are grouped along the sides of the square.
[Illustration]
The Provincial Building with its Legislative Halls and excellent library
is a delightful place to visit. The obliging librarian is ever willing
to extend courtesies to the visitor. There is an air of solidity and
quiet dignity as well as an individuality about the building that is
very agreeable. It makes a strong appeal to those who would cherish all
that is good in the old order of things, and seems a standing rebuke to
the present day of big things—to hurry, crush, noise, confusion, modern
“rush,” and overcrowded and congested cities—and while every loyal
inhabitant of Charlottetown devoutly hopes for and believes in the great
future growth of the city, let an admiring stranger, who has tasted its
hospitality, express the fervent wish that it may not grow too large;
that for many years to come it may remain just about as it is—perfect.
In olden days French sailors who first entered the harbor of
Charlottetown were so pleased with what they saw that they named it Port
la Joie. The surrounding scenery is pleasing, but not impressive. A
general characterization of the Island scenery would be that of pastoral
tranquility, well-tilled fields, verdant pastures and quiet rivers; with
a medium temperature, cool night air and an ever-present sense of peace,
rest and repose over all.
Drives and walks for pleasant air may be taken in many directions, and
there are steamer trips to the Indian encampment at Rocky Point, where
relics of the old French occupation may be seen; to Southport, to
Orwell, to Mount Stewart and Hampton and other more distant places, as
well as to Victoria on the South Shore. Longer steamboat journeys are
those to Quebec and Montreal, and to Boston by way of Hawkesbury and
Halifax. Keppoch, a summer resort outside of the city, is within easy
reach by carriage.
Victoria Park by the waterside is a favorite recreation spot, for it has
winding roadways that are well shaded, and fine views of the surrounding
waters. There are public cricket grounds here, and tennis courts as
well. The Golf Links at Belvidere are well laid out, and afford much
enjoyment for lovers of this fine exercise; and an excellent view of the
East River may be had from here.
A visit to the Farmer’s Market will prove especially interesting to city
people.
Boating of all kinds may be had in the rivers and harbor, and
motor-boats and yachts have a wide field for pleasant excursions on the
nearby waters. A fine motor-boat excursion is that to Bonshaw, up the
West River.
In one of the rivers near the city mackerel were once so abundant that
an ox-cart was driven through, and a full load was obtained with a
scoop-net in crossing.
[Illustration]
A division of the Prince Edward Island Railway runs from Charlottetown
to Souris and Georgetown, on the east coast, branching at the attractive
little village of Mount Stewart. Following the northern branch, Tracadie
is reached. It is on the north shore, where bathing is most enjoyed on
the numerous sandy beaches. Here are marshes and ponds where springs
rise out of the ground, and where wild fowl make their homes in the
reeds and long grass; often shut in by wooded banks, and only separated
from the sea by sand dunes with wreckage and projecting drift.
Everything is fresh, bright and clean; and such scenes, so difficult to
describe, must be seen to understand the impression they make on the
mind.
[Illustration: Scenes in the Montague District, P.E.I.]
[Illustration: On the Morell River]
The Morell River is a delightful spot for camping grounds. There are
cold springs of pure water everywhere, the banks are wooded and
pleasantly varied, it has numerous trout pools, and there is a clear run
up the winding river for a number of miles. Canoes may ascend six or
seven miles, at least. The river flows into St. Peter’s Bay. Along the
banks of the lakes and rivers of the neighborhood, and by the shore, the
remains of many cellars are found over which formerly stood the houses
of the Acadian fishermen.
St. Peter’s, as is fitting, stands on a hill—if not on a rock—and has a
good situation overlooking the head of the bay, with the
comfortable-looking little church crowning the top of the wooded slope.
The river from the east winds in and out, and the bay waters make larger
curves as they run to the sea. Cattle feed on the meadow land bordering
the stream. A very nice run for small boats is here, as the water is
land-locked for a mile or two. Larger boats may find plenty of water
nearer the sea. The train runs along the whole shore. Numerous winches
are seen in passing. They are used for digging oyster shells from the
deposits at the bottom of the channel, the shells being ground for
fertilizing purposes.
The little hamlet just passed is known as Five Houses. Only four can be
seen, but doubtless the other is there behind one of the trees. There is
a fine prospect of rolling country, and far in the distance the white
farmhouses may be seen dotting the slopes. At times we stop at a
pleasant little clearing in the wood. At such places a sort of glorified
summer house acts as station or shelter, with shady paths leading off
through the woodland. Following these a mile or two, little settlements
are found nestling against a bank, or reposing by a mill pond; or maybe
on the crest of a hill that overlooks a dainty and peaceful valley,
where a pellucid brook flows rippling by as it sings gaily on the way to
“its bourne below the hill.”
“Oh, for a romp through that blissful land,
The Isle of the summer sea,
Where nature appears in her fairest dress,
Where the days are cool, and no heats oppress,
And the heart must dance with glee.”
[Illustration]
The headwaters of numerous small streams are passed in further progress
east, until at Harmony a network of rivers is on every hand. North Lake,
at almost the extreme east of the Island, on the north shore, is reached
from here. It is decidedly picturesque, and would well reward the artist
in search of good subjects. For camping it offers ideal sites at its
western end, where it receives the clear little stream that flows
through and out into the sea. This is a choice spot for trout; in fact
one of the best.
[Illustration]
Years ago, on one of the pretty wooded knolls overlooking the shore at a
point distant from any settlement, a summer camp was pitched. Three
girls of the party were one day taking a long ramble along the coast,
when they walked unexpectedly into a group of armed men so busily
engaged, or so confident of isolation, that they had forgotten to
station a look-out to warn them of anyone approaching. They were
smugglers, but otherwise respectable; and, fortunately for the girls,
the days of freebooters were past. The girls were immediately
surrounded, and an angry discussion ensued between the men who numbered
some eighteen or twenty. The smugglers had been caught in the midst of
their work, and they were not nearly ready to leave. Hence it was
proposed to hold the girls captive for the next day or two, to prevent
an alarm being given. The girls were, of course, greatly distressed, and
the incident threatened to cause grave trouble.
Finally one of the girls, who had assumed the leadership of her party in
the controversy, spoke out and frightened the leader by telling him they
were three of a large party, the remainder of which would soon come and
look for them. As a matter of fact the party only numbered seven, all
told, of whom five were women. In addition the girl volunteered, and so
did her companions, to preserve strict secrecy about the matter if they
should be allowed to leave. A consultation was again held, as a result
of which, after exacting the strictest secrecy under pain of future
penalty, the girls were allowed to depart, the name and address of the
spokeswoman being taken, however, in precaution.
The girls left, and returned to the camp. For two days their companions
could not understand the feverish anxiety with which they watched two
schooners that were hovering about some miles off shore. At last the
vessels departed. The girls kept their secret well, and the incident
gradually passed out of active memory.
One day, however, a package was mysteriously left at the door of that
one of the girls who had assumed leadership in the negotiations with the
smugglers. It was found by the young lady herself. It contained material
for a handsome silk dress, and, in addition a roll of finest French
lace. On an enclosed card was marked the single word, “Thanks.” The
package had been laid at the door, and there was no way of returning it;
so what was to be done?
It is said that women “wink” at smuggling, sometimes, in order to add to
their fascination by the addition of sundry little pieces of _lingerie_;
and so please the men. Be this as it may, it is recorded that a certain
young lady soon appeared in gorgeous raiment, in which real French lace
played no unimportant part; and it is also recorded, though hard to
believe, that one woman had been found who could keep a secret, for not
even the other two of the trio ever learned the origin of the handsome
gown.
An extract relating to camping life will be of interest to all who enjoy
that method of “living close to nature.”
“Here are ladies to spend the day! Let us meet them at the station. This
is the carriage—a hay wagon, with boards across for seats. In we pile.
Crack goes the whip, and we are off, a merry party enough as we hold on
to one another for dear life, to keep from being jolted out. ‘Oh! what a
bump!’ But what matters a bump when the heart is light; and we wake the
echoes with song and glee.
We are all starving when we reach camp, and culinary operations are soon
in full swing.
All shortcomings are overlooked or made light of. If anyone puts salt in
his tea, or drinks vinegar for lime-juice, the mistake increases the
fun; but when the coffee won’t pour, and an investigation discloses a
chicken inside, the climax is reached. After that all are sober—because
they cannot laugh any more—and lie around in picturesque confusion,
enjoying a shady rest in the heat of the day. Some swing in hammocks,
novel in hand, but perhaps not in thought, for the novelty of the
situation exceeds that of the story. Some have a quiet game of cards—a
log for table. The lazy man sleeps the sleep of peace, till wakened by
the cry of Kitty, the energetic member of the party, who exclaims ‘Oh,
dear! I did not come here to sleep! I’m off to explore. If only I were
on the opposite side,’ with a longing glance across the water. Cousin
Will gallantly comes to her assistance; and taking her up like a
feather, is soon in mid-stream. ‘Quick! snap them!’ cries Florence, ‘and
we will send the picture to Will’s best girl’; while plump Fanny, with
her 150 pounds avoirdupois, looks longingly on.
At evening we drink a cup of tea and look to our fishing gear. Flies,
rods, and baskets are put in order. All clothing of any value is
discarded. Top boots pulled on, pipes filled, and we wend our way up or
down stream, to some favorite pool. Everything is quiet but the swish of
the lines. The fish are lively but small; and just as we are tiring of
that kind of sport our hearts are gladdened to see, peering through a
cloud, the bright full moon. Her silver light replaces the fading
after-glow of the sunset. The small fish suddenly pause and disappear as
if they had gone to their bed; and silence reigns in the forest.
[Illustration: Trout Stream—Prince Edward Island]
[Illustration]