THE day before they left for camp, Dora received a letter from her
mother, telling something of their surroundings and of the beauties of
the Western land. As the others were keenly interested, she read them
many extracts, which even Jackie enjoyed.
"We are now," her mother wrote, after describing the journey by the
great Canadian Pacific Railway, and speaking encouragingly of the
invalid's condition, "comfortably settled in Victoria--which, as of
course you know, dear, is the capital city of British Columbia. It is a
truly beautiful spot, and the climate is delightful. There are great
varieties of climate, we hear, in this maritime province of the West;
Victoria is supposed to enjoy a very mild and even one, with roses and
geraniums blooming outdoors in December, and the cold weather confined
almost entirely to parts of January and February. There is another
delightful part of the country which we may visit later; it is in one of
the valleys which cut across the Coast Range of mountains. These deep
valleys are entirely shut off from the north winds, and freely admit the
warm breezes from the coast, while the rays of the sun are concentrated
on their steep sides, helping to make, at times, almost tropical
weather. We may spend part of next winter there, as it is even drier
than Victoria, and that is very important for your father. Some of our
new acquaintances have recommended the southern part of Alberta, where
the winter is shortened and made almost balmy by the wonderful chinook
winds--so named from the Chinook Indians, who used to occupy that part
of the country from which they blow. These west winds, coming from the
mountains across the plains, are warm and particularly drying. When they
melt the light and infrequent snowfalls of the winter, they also dry the
ground almost immediately, so that even the hollows and ravines are free
from dampness. Your father is greatly interested in these 'warm
chinooks,' and we are almost sure to try their effect later. Another
pleasure to which we look forward, when he grows a little stronger, is a
trip by boat along the coast. The fiords of British Columbia are said to
resemble those of Norway, and the whole coast, with its wooded shores,
snowy mountain-peaks, and flashing cataracts, is marvellously
beautiful."
Dora went to sleep that night with her mother's letter under her pillow,
and dreamt that they were camping out on the shore of a British
Columbian fiord, when a warm wind came and blew all the tents into
little boats, in which they went sailing away to some wonderful country,
where no one would ever be sick, and where no winds blew but balmy west
ones. She had nearly reached the land, when a soft touch woke her, and
she found Marjorie's happy face bending over her.
"Hurry up, dear! Hurrah for camp! We want to start by ten at the latest,
and it is seven now, and such a perfect day. Mother says we can take
Kitty with us; won't that be fun?"
And Marjorie was off without waiting for an answer. Dora heard her
singing, laughing, chatting, as she flashed here and there, helping and
hindering in about equal proportions.
The whole house was filled with the pleasant bustle of preparation. Mr.
Merrithew was as much of a boy, in the matter of high spirits, as the
youngest of the party. Mrs. Merrithew, blithe and serene, had
everything perfectly planned, and engineered the carrying out of the
plans with quiet skill. It was she who remembered where everything was,
thought of everything that ought to be taken, and saw that every one of
the party was properly clad. The party, by the way, was quite a large
one, consisting of another whole family (the Greys) besides the
Merrithews, Will Graham, a young collegian who was a friend of Mr.
Merrithew's, and Miss Covert, a rather delicate and very quiet little
school-teacher whom Mrs. Merrithew had taken under her wing from sheer
kindness, but who proved a charming addition to the party. The Greys
were six in number: Doctor Grey, a grave professor; Mrs. Grey, a tiny,
vivacious brunette, who had been Mrs. Merrithew's "chum" since their
schoolgirl days; Carl and Hugh, twin boys of fourteen; and two girls,
Edith, just Jackie's age, and Alice, so much older than the rest that
she was "almost grown-up," and Marjorie and Dora looked upon her with
admiring awe.
Doctor Grey, both mammas, Susan (who was to do the cooking, as Debby did
not dare venture on anything so wild as sleeping out-of-doors), Jackie,
little Edith Grey, and all the provisions, tents, and bedding, were to
go by stage, while Mr. Merrithew, Will Graham, and the twins were to
divide the charge of three canoes and the four girls.
At ten o'clock the big lumbering stage rattled up to the door, and the
canoeists saw the others properly packed and waved them a cheerful
adieu. Then they gathered up paddles, wraps, and lunch-baskets, and
hastened gaily off to the boat-house on the river-bank. Here the work of
embarking was quickly accomplished, and the four slender birches shot
out into the stream, turned, and swept upward, propelled against the
current by vigorous arms.
"Please sing, Daddy," Marjorie begged, and Mr. Merrithew promptly began
an old favourite, but could get no further than the first verse.
"In the days when we went gypsying,
A long time ago,
The lads and lasses in their best
Were dressed from top to toe--"
So far he sang, and then declared that both memory and breath had given
out, and that the ladies, who had no work to do, must forthwith provide
the music. After a little hesitation and some coaxing from Marjorie,
Dora sang, in a clear, sweet treble, the well-known and much-loved "En
Roulant ma Boule" ("Rolling My Ball"). Then some one started "Tenting on
the Old Camp Ground," and all, even the paddlers, joined in, the little
school-teacher providing a rich alto that took them all by surprise.
[Illustration: "THE TREE-CLAD SHORES WORE A FAIRY GLAMOUR"]
The river was deep-blue, reflecting the little clouds that floated in
the azure overhead. Near the town the river was very broad; as they
forged upward, it gradually narrowed, and was thickly studded with
islands. They passed Government House, left the ruined Hermitage behind,
and then began to feel that they were at last out of civilization, and
nearing the goal of summer quiet that they sought. It was slow work,
this paddling against the current, but the time went in a sort of
enchanted way; the tree-clad shores wore a fairy glamour, and the
islands, where masses of grape-vine and clematis were tangled over the
bushes, might have been each the home of an enchanted princess, a dryad,
or any of the many "fair forms of old romance." When about five miles
had been covered, they heard the rush of water hurrying over shallows
and nagging at the rocks. This was what the children delighted to call
"The Rapids," but old canoemen simply dubbed it "a stretch of swift
water." But by whichever name it went, it called for strong and skilful
paddling, and Mr. Merrithew proposed that, before they undertook it,
they should land and fortify themselves with lunch. This suggestion met
with great favour; the canoes were swiftly beached, and soon a merry
little picnic party sat under a clump of gray shore-willows, while
sandwiches, tarts, and cakes of many kinds, vanished as if by magic.
Success to the camp was drunk in lemonade--_not_ ice-cold--and speeches
were made that proved the good spirits, if not the oratorical gifts, of
the group.
They rested here for an hour, for one of the camp mottoes was, "Time was
made for slaves," and they knew that the ones who had gone on by stage
were resting comfortably in a farmhouse, just opposite their
destination, till the canoeing party should come to ferry them over. The
farmhouse was owned by old friends with whom Mrs. Merrithew and Mrs.
Grey would be glad to spend a little time, and for Jack and Edith the
whole place would be full of wonders.
When it came to actually facing the rapids, Dora's heart failed her; her
cheeks paled, and her eyes grew very large and dark; but she held on
tight to both sides of the canoe, fixed her eyes on Marjorie's back, and
said not a word. She tried hard not to see the swirling water and the
scowling rocks, but no effort could shut out the confused seething
noises that made her feel as if nothing in the world was stable or
solid. When at last the rush was over, the sounds grew softer, and the
triumphant canoemen drew their good craft in to shore, and paused to
rest their tired muscles, Dora gave a deep sigh of relief.
Marjorie turned a beaming face to see what ever was the matter.
"_Frightened_, dear?" she said. "I forgot that you have not had much
canoeing. It's too bad."
But Dora laughed, and the colour came back to her face.
"I ought not to mind," she said, "for I have shot the Lachine Rapids.
But I think being in a large boat gives one a feeling of safety. I know
I wasn't half so afraid then as I was to-day. It seemed to me there was
nothing between me and the dreadful confusion."
"Shooting the Lachine Rapids is a great experience," Mr. Merrithew said.
"I must confess I would not like to try those in a canoe, as Champlain
did! But now, boys, let us set off briskly, or we won't get things
comfortable before night."
And they did hurry, but for all their speed it was nearly dusk by the
time the five white tents were pitched on Saunder's Island. This was a
fairly large island, ringed by a sandy beach from which the ground rose
steeply to a green bank on which elms, white birches, and maples stood,
with a tangle of raspberry-bushes, and flowering shrubs among them.
Inside the belt of trees was a broad sweep of rich meadow-land, with
here and there a row of feathery elms or a cluster of choke-cherry-trees.
Toward the upper end of the island stood an old stone house, empty and
almost a ruin; not far from this house were two barns, kept in good
repair for the storing of the sweet island hay.
The tents were pitched about a hundred yards from the house, just inside
the tall bordering trees, so that part of the day they would be in the
shade. These trees, too, would make ideal places for slinging the
numerous hammocks which Mrs. Merrithew and Mrs. Grey had brought.
Dora and Marjorie greatly enjoyed watching the speed with which the
tent-poles--two stout uprights and a horizontal ridge-pole--were got
into position, and the skill with which the white canvas was spread
over them and stretched and pegged down and made into a cosy shelter.
There was a tiny "A tent" tucked away in the shadiest spot for the
provisions, and a large tent in a central position which Mr. Grey named
"Rainy-Day House," and which was to be used as dining-room and parlour
in case of severe rains; then the other three were called respectively,
"The Chaperons' Tent," "The Boys' Tent," and "The Girls' Tent."
The chaperons' abode was inhabited by Mrs. Merrithew, Mrs. Grey, Susan,
Jackie, Edith, and the kitten; "The Boys' Tent" was well filled by Mr.
Merrithew and Doctor Grey (who insisted on being boys for the occasion),
Will Graham, and the twins; and "The Girls' Tent" sheltered Miss
Katherine Covert, Alice Grey, Marjorie, and Dora. The beds were of hay,
liberally provided by the friendly farmer,--the owner, by the way, of
island, house, and barns. Under each bed was spread either a rubber
sheet or a piece of table oilcloth, then over the hay a thick gray
blanket was laid. There was another thick blanket to wrap around each
person, and still another to put over him, or her, as the case might be.
In the chaperons' tent only were they more luxurious; there, two large
mattresses took the place of the hay, and made a delightfully
comfortable couch for three grown-ups and two children.
While the tents and beds were being attended to, Susan, with a little
help from Mrs. Merrithew, had succeeded in getting tea without waiting
for any sort of a fireplace to be constructed.
She was rather anxious about the reception of this first meal, as it had
been cooked under difficulties. But when she saw the speed with which
her fried beans disappeared, and found Mrs. Grey taking a third cup of
tea, her spirits rose, and she decided that campers were thoroughly
satisfactory people for whom to cook!
After tea was over, and all the dishes were washed, one of the old
campers proposed the usual big bonfire, whereby to sit and sing, but
every one was too sleepy, and it was unanimously resolved that just this
once the delightful evening of song and story must be omitted. Hearty
"good-nights" were exchanged, and soon each tent for a brief while
shone, like that in the "Princess," "lamp-lit from the inner,"--to be
more absolutely accurate, lantern-lit; but what is a trifle of one word,
that it should be allowed to spoil a quotation?
Then gently, sweetly, silence settled down over the little encampment;
silence, save for the soft murmur of the river in its sleep, and
sometimes the drowsy chirping of a bird among the branches.