FROM BLOMIDON TO SMOKY. 27 



usual cry. As the sun drew near the hills, we 

 stopped at a house and blacksmith shop and 

 presented the first of our letters. William 

 McDonald lived here, and our request was 

 that he should drive us on our way to Indian 

 Brook, where, at Angus McDonald's, we hoped 

 to spend the night. William had only a two- 

 wheeled sulky, which could scarcely carry three ; 

 so it was a relief to all of us when we saw, 

 coming from the bar, a youth in a wagon, driv- 

 ing a sprightly nag at a rattling pace. After a 

 brief conversation in Gaelic, William announced 

 that the youth would take us twelve or fourteen 

 miles up the coast to French River, where we 

 were sure of a good bed at Sandy McDonald's. 

 A moment later we were packed in, three on a 

 seat, and dashing northward as fast as the pony 

 could tear. The youth would have done credit 

 to a Spartan mother. I never met any one of 

 his age and intelligence who knew so well how 

 not to talk. He answered my questions with 

 the fewest possible words, but asked nothing in 

 return. He knew the names of capes, islands, 

 birds, animals, trees, and many flowers, but it 

 took a separate question to drag each item from 

 him. Meanwhile he kept the horse spinning. 

 We had no time to shiver over holes in bridges ; 

 the horse knew his business, and jumped the 

 holes, at least, if he could not jump the whole 



