SNOW-SHOEING is one of the national sports of Canada, in which most
Canadians, big and little, are proficient. Marjorie and her cousin were
no exception to the rule, and Jackie proved a very apt pupil. He soon
learned to avoid striking one snow-shoe against the other, and fell
quickly into that long, easy swing, which makes the snowy miles go by so
quickly. Sometimes the three children tramped on the broad, frozen
river, but that was a cold place when there was any wind, so they
generally chose the hill-roads or the woods. Nothing, Dora thought,
could be more beautiful than those woods in winter, with the white
drifts around the grayish tree-trunks, the firs and hemlocks rising like
green islands out of a snowy sea, and the wonderful tracery of brown
boughs against the pale blue of the sky. Once, Mr. and Mrs. Merrithew
went with them for a moonlight tramp, and that was something never to be
forgotten.
It was just after a heavy snowfall, and the evergreens were weighed down
with a white covering that sparkled and glittered as with innumerable
jewels. Another favourite amusement was coasting,--not tobogganing, but
good, old-fashioned coasting, generally on College Hill, but sometimes
down the steep bank of the river. Coasting parties were frequent, and it
was a pretty sight to see the hill dotted with blanket-coated and toqued
or tam-o'-shantered figures, and pleasant to hear the merry voices and
laughter as the sleds skimmed swiftly down the road.
The winters in Eastern Canada, though cold, are wonderfully bright and
clear, and the air is so free from dampness that one does not realize
how cold it sometimes becomes, unless one consults the thermometer.
Canadians, as a rule, spend a great deal of time in the open air in
winter as well as summer, and are as hardy a race as can be found
anywhere, but when they _are_ indoors they like their houses good and
warm,--no half-measures, no chilly passages and draughty bedrooms for
them!
Mr. Merrithew did not keep horses, but occasionally he would hire a big
three-seated sleigh and take the family for a delightful spin. They
would all be warmly wrapped in woollens and furs, and snuggled in
buffalo-robes; the bells would jingle merrily, the snow would "skreak"
under the horses' feet, and the white world slip by them like a dream.
One day, about the middle of February, Mrs. Merrithew announced, at
breakfast, that it was high time for the drive to Hemlock Point, which
Mr. Merrithew had been promising them all winter. As the latter quite
agreed with this idea, they decided to go on the following morning,
spend a long day with the friends they always visited there, and return
by moonlight. Hemlock Point was somewhere between ten and twenty miles
up-river,--it does not always do to be too exact,--and their friends
lived in a quaint old farmhouse, on high ground, well back from the
river-bank.
That evening, when they sat in the Den after lessons were done, Marjorie
told Dora about the good folk who lived there,--an old bachelor farmer,
the most kind-hearted and generous of men, but as bashful as a boy; his
two unmarried sisters, who managed his house and thought they managed
him, but really spoilt him to his heart's content; and an orphan niece,
who had lived with them for several years, and who was the only modern
element in their lives. She graphically described the old loom, the big
and little spinning-wheels, and the egg-shell china, till Dora was as
anxious as Jackie for to-morrow to come.
The three-seated sleigh and the prancing horses were at the door of the
Big Brick House by eight the next morning, for the drive would be long
and the load heavy, and it was well to be early on the way. The girls
and Jackie wore their blanket-suits,--Dora's and Jackie's crimson and
Marjorie's bright blue,--and Mrs. Merrithew herself, snugly wrapped in
furs, brought a grand supply of extra cloaks and shawls. She was always
prepared for any emergency. Mr. Merrithew said that he never knew her
fail to produce pins, rope, a knife, and hammer and nails, if they were
needed. But the hammer and nails she repudiated, and said it was twine,
not rope, she carried! The sky was a little overcast when they started,
but the prospect of a snow-storm did not daunt them in the least.
The bells, of which there were a great many on the harness, kept up a
musical, silvery accompaniment to the conversation, as the horses swung
at a good speed along the level. When the hills began to rise, the pace
slackened, and the passengers had a better chance to enjoy the beauties
spread on both sides of the road.
"But oh, you ought to see it in summer!" Marjorie said, when Dora
praised the varied and lovely landscapes. "There are so many things yet
for you to see all around here. You will have to stay two or three years
more at least!"
But Dora laughed at this.
"What about all the things there are for you to see in Montreal?" she
said. "What about the Ice Palace, and--"
"Please tell about the Ice Palace, Dora," Jack interrupted. "That must
be a gorlious sight!"
So Dora tried to give her cousins some idea of the great palace of
glittering ice, and the hundreds of snow-shoers, in bright costumes and
carrying torches, gathered together to storm this fairylike fortress.
"It must be fine," said Marjorie, when the story was done, "but I'd
rather storm Hemlock Point, and get fried chicken and buttermilk as the
spoils of war."
Marjorie, being a tremendous home-girl, generally tried to change the
subject if Dora made any allusions to a possible visit of Marjorie alone
to Montreal. She could not bear the thought of parting with Dora, but to
part with mother and Daddy and Jack would be three times worse!
The last part of the road was decidedly hilly, and the horses took such
advantage of Mr. Merrithew's consideration for their feelings, that
Jackie, lulled by the slow motion and the sound of the bells, fell
asleep against his mother's shoulder, and knew no more till he woke on
a couch in Miss Grier's sitting-room. The oldest Miss Grier--whom every
one called Miss Prudence--was bustling about, helping Marjorie and Dora
off with their things, and giving advice to Miss Alma, who was hastening
to start a fire in the great old-fashioned Franklin. Miss Dean, the
niece, was taking off Mrs. Merrithew's overboots, in spite of her polite
protests. Jackie's eyes were open for some moments before any one
noticed him; then he startled them by saying, in perfectly wide-awake
tones:
"I think, Miss Lois Dean, you are the very littlest lady in the world!"
Miss Dean, who certainly could not well be smaller and be called
grown-up at all, and whose small head was almost weighted down by its
mass of light hair, looked at her favourite with twinkling eyes.
"Never mind, Jackie, the best goods are often done up in small parcels;
and I'm big enough to hold you on my lap while I tell you stories, which
is the main thing, isn't it?"
"Yes, indeed," Jack cried, jumping up to hug her, which resulted in the
pretty hair getting loosened from its fastenings and tumbling in wild
confusion around the "littlest lady," where she sat on the floor.
"Now you are a fairy godmother! Now you are a fairy godmother!"
exclaimed Jackie, dancing around her.
"Then I will put a charm upon you at once," Lois said. "No more dancing,
no more noise, no more _anything_, until we get the wraps all off and
put away; then you and I will go and--fry chicken--and sausages--for
dinner!"
The last part of the sentence was whispered in Jack's ear, and caused
him to smile contentedly, and to submit without a murmur to the process
of unwrapping.
After dinner,--which did great credit to Lois and her assistant,--they
gathered around the Franklin in the sitting-room, with plates of
"sops-of-wine" and golden pippins within easy reach, and Mr. Grier and
Mr. Merrithew talked farming and politics, while Miss Prudence recounted
any episodes of interest that had taken place at or near Hemlock Point
during the past year.
Mrs. Merrithew, who had spent her summers here as a girl, knew every one
for miles around, and loved to hear the annals of the neighbourhood,
told in Miss Prudence's picturesque way, with an occasional pithy
comment from Miss Alma.
Dora sat, taking in with eager eyes the view of hill and intervale,
island and ice-bound river; then turning back to the cosey interior,
with its home-made carpet, bright curtains, and large bookcase with
glass doors.
After a little while Lois, who saw that the children were growing weary
of sitting still, proposed a stroll through the house, to which they
gladly consented. Katherine asked if she might go with them, and they
left "the enchanted circle around the fire," and crossed the hall to the
"best parlour,"--which Miss Prudence always wished to throw open in Mrs.
Merrithew's honour, and which the latter always refused to sit in,
because, as she frankly said, it gave her the shivers. This was not on
account of any ill-taste in the furnishing, but because it was always
kept dark and shut up, and Mrs. Merrithew said it could not be made
cheery all of a sudden. The children, however, loved the long room, and
the mysterious feeling it gave them when they first went in, and had to
grope their way to the windows, draw back the curtains, and put up the
yellow Venetian blinds, letting the clear, wintry light into this
shadowy domain. This light brought out the rich, dark colours of the
carpet, and showed the treasures of chairs and tables that would have
made a collector's mouth water. There was a round table of polished
mahogany in the centre of the room, a tiny butternut sewing-table in one
corner, and against the wall, on opposite sides of the room, two
rosewood tables, with quaint carved legs, and feet of shining brass. On
the tables lay many curious shells, big lumps of coral, and rare,
many-coloured seaweeds,--for there had been a sailor-uncle in the
family,--annuals and beauty-books in gorgeous bindings, albums through
which the children looked with never-failing delight, work-boxes and
portfolios inlaid with mother-of-pearl; almost all the treasures of the
family, in fact, laid away here in state, like Jean Ingelow's dead year,
"shut in a sacred gloom."
When this room had been inspected and admired, they lowered the blinds,
drew the curtains, and left it again to its solitude. The rest of the
house was much less awe-inspiring, but it was all delightful. The loom,
now seldom or never used, stood in one corner of the kitchen. Not far
away was the big spinning-wheel. Miss Dean tried to teach them to spin,
and when they found it was not so easy as it looked, gave them a
specimen of how it should be done that seemed almost magical. There is,
indeed, something that suggests magic about spinning,--the rhythmically
stepping figure, the whirling brown wheel, the rolls of wool, changed by
a perfectly measured twirl and pull into lengths of snow-white yarn, and
the soothing, drowsy hum, the most restful sound that labour can
produce.
Then there was the up-stairs to visit. The chief thing of interest there
was the tiny flax-wheel which stood in the upper hall, and which
certainly looked, as Jack said, as if _it_ ought to belong to a fairy
godmother. In the attic, great bunches of herbs hung drying from the
rafters, and the air was sweet with the scent of them. There were sage,
summer-savoury, sweet marjoram, sweet basil, mint, and many more, with
names as fragrant as their leaves. On the floor, near one of the
chimneys, was spread a good supply of butternuts, and strings of dried
apples stretched from wall to wall at the coolest end of the one big
room.
"If I lived in this house," Dora said, "I would come up here often and
write,--try to write, I mean!"
"I come up here often and read," Miss Dean said, with a quick glance of
comprehension at the little girl's eager face. "I love it! And
sometimes, when I feel another way and it's not too cold, I put up one
blind in the best parlour, and sit in there."
"I wish you were coming down to sit in mother's den, and read--and
talk--and everything!" said Marjorie, and the others echoed the wish.
"So I am, some time or other," Lois answered. "Mrs. Merrithew has asked
me, and now it's just a question of how soon Aunt Prudence can spare me.
That may be next week,--or it may be next winter!"
"It may be for years and it may be for ever," Dora quoted, laughing, and
Jackie added, "and then--when you do come--we will make you a Son and
Daughter of Canada right away!"
The search for the egg-shell china took them back to the sitting-room,
where Lois begged Miss Prudence to exhibit this most fragile of her
belongings. With natural pride, that lady unlocked a china-closet, and
brought out specimens of the beautiful delicate ware which their
grandmother had brought over with her from Ireland, and of which, in all
these years, only three articles had been broken. It certainly was
exquisite stuff, delicately thin, of a rich cream-colour, and with gilt
lines and tiny wreaths of pink and crimson roses.
"I thought we would have them out for tea," Miss Alma suggested, but
Mrs. Merrithew, with three children, all rather hasty in their
movements, to look after, begged her not to think of such a thing.
"Your white and gold china is pretty enough for any one;" she said,
"and, my dear Prudence, if you are determined to give us tea after that
big dinner, we will have to ask for it soon, or we will be spending most
of the night on the road."
"Dear, dear!" said Miss Prudence, putting back her treasures tenderly,
"it does seem as if you'd been here about half an hour, and I do hate to
have you go! But I know how you feel about being out late with the
children, and you won't stay all night. Come along, Alma, let's hustle
up some tea, and let Lois talk to Mrs. Merrithew awhile."
And "hustle" they certainly did, spreading a board that groaned with the
good old-fashioned dainties, for the cooking of which Miss Prudence was
noted throughout the country. Then the horses were brought to the door,
tossing their heads in haste to be off, wraps were snugly adjusted,
good-byes said many times, and they were off.
"I believe Grier has given these horses nothing but oats all day," Mr.
Merrithew muttered, as the pretty beasts strained and tugged in their
anxiety to run down-hill; but when it came to the up-hill stretches,
they soon sobered down, and were content with a reasonable pace. Warm
and cosey, nestled against his mother, Jackie soon slept as before; but
the others, with rather a reckless disregard of their throats, sang song
after song, in spite of the frosty air, and dashed up to the door of
the Big Brick House, at last, to the sound of:
"'Twas from Aunt Dinah's quilting party
I was seeing Nellie home."