THE TRAIL TO PARADISE. 



171 



that take up the gage of battle — salmon — 

 ouananiche — trout. 



The battle wages and the melody is still 

 the same — the Voice of Steel lures Desire 

 to Paradise. 



It is a far, far reach to where Tom- 

 Kedgwick stretches an open hand to icy, 

 taintless, limpid waters seeking the Sea 

 of Heat. Far off is Gaspe's thumb reach- 

 ing into the Gulf. Long is the way to the 

 Restigouche, where in the summer heat of 

 Now, the drifting canoe wherein a grim 

 angler and taciturn voyageurs, battling 

 with a 40-pound salmon, come upon 

 moose and deer seeking refuge in the 

 ''Lie" before they can leap up and. crash- 

 ing, disappear in the forest. 



With the wind 'gainst me on Matapedia 

 river I have seen moose and calf stare at 

 us until the guides could have hit them 

 with thrown paddle. 



Farther on, where French and Gaelic 

 still linger, in Cape Breton and Prince 

 Edward island, it is but a few years ago 

 that it took well nigh a fortnight's faring 

 to reach rivers whose waters now hold 

 trout sufficient to satisfy the greediest ap- 

 petite, and where the salmon lie motion- 

 less in the pool, for the flies are ever taken 

 by trout before the salmon can rise! 



Up these rivers, even though reserved 

 and jealously guarded, the trout fisher 

 may go unmolested, as of right, by cour- 

 tesy never denied modest request of an- 

 gler. 



In some old outhouse beneath the dig- 

 nity of a barn, in Prince Edward or West 

 Cape Breton, you will find the old coach 

 that served as carrier a hundred years 

 ago, and some old man's form will 

 straighten and tower, and bleared eyes will 

 brighten and flash at memories of whip 

 on the box. or stories of a chase that still 

 can be realized as of old, on barrens that 

 hold moose and caribou. Down the slope 

 for use yet in the winter's snow, oh, they 

 fall deep and heavy and they lie long and 

 dreary, the old sled rests weather-stained, 

 beaten and worn! It, too, can tell stories 

 of hardship, distress, want and peril. 



For days of coach and sled and tobog- 

 gan are past! For then was faring long 

 and arduous; much time and effort were 

 required and the trails deterred the stout- 

 est-hearted and shook the resolution of 

 the most determined. 



Another trail has been made whereon 

 the moccasin foot does not tread, courrier 

 du bois does not travel, the hoof of horse 

 does not beat! No guttural "ugh" breaks 

 the stillness as of yore, when single file 

 braves flitted through the ways. No 

 "Quae, Quae," passes in greeting from lip 

 to lip of Montagnais or Mic-Mac, nor 

 campfires blaze through the forests. No 



canoe lies buried, no stores are cached; no 

 tepee hidden in out ways, for shelter awaits 

 the wayfarer on the trail ! 



No, this trail is a steel thread, and it 

 mocks the river and the barren and laughs 

 at the mountain. 



Out of Montreal, along the St. Law- 

 rence, passing through Levis, down to 

 Rimouski, whence it leaves the river and 

 strikes southward to Truro, where it forks, 

 and one trail goes Northeast to Sidney, 

 and thence to Newfoundland and Labra- 

 dor, and the other trail fares Southward 

 to Halifax. 



It is the Song of Steel in its highest 

 form that makes the traveler take this 

 trail! The Song of the Rail chanting the 

 flight of the vestibuled caravansary of the 

 Intercolonial — the Maritime Express. 

 Along the trail it leaves its track in 

 wreaths of white mist, blowing through 

 cloudless wintry skies or clouds of dark 

 smoke lying wreaths low on the tree tops 

 and lower down on the greenish white 

 "mishes" and barrens in summer time. 



Sleep comes to the traveler on beds that 

 rival balsam plume, rocked by the tireless 

 flight that kills distance in the night! 



Breakfast waits without hurry to the 

 most indolent, and dinner is served in- 

 dulgent to the sportsman, who suffers 

 soup to cool as he marks the far-famed 

 pools of the Metapedia, flowing through 

 the Lovely Valley of Music, or the tourist, 

 who, spell-bound over scenic splendor or 

 marvel of far-famed tidal fall of Fundy's 

 bay, looks up to see faultless attention re- 

 serve a dinner he had forgotten as the 

 "Maritime" speeds onward. 



As though it were flight of the En- 

 chanted Prayer Rug laughing back at the 

 moose and caribou and keeping flight- 

 pace with the wild fowl, the "Maritime" 

 passes down the thousand miles of the In- 

 tercolonial steel trail and leaving Montreal 

 Sunday evening bears the sportsman to 

 Newfoundland at daybreak of Wednesday. 

 At Sidney, to cross the straits, the Bruce 

 awaits, with Captain Du Lany at the 

 wheel, and never mind the ice in winter, or 

 fog in summer. Pilot and ship are but the 

 ending of the trail in watchful guarded 

 safety. 



Sea-bound, rock-ribbed, scarred and 

 seamed by ice in winter, and storming 

 waves throughout the balance of the year, 

 Newfoundland lies at the outer gate to 

 take the brunt of every Westward storm. 



Thither on drifting, measureless plains 

 and mountain ridges of polar ice come 

 bear and seal that but too oft tempt the 

 hardy inhabitants to their death. In win- 

 ter, perforce, the dwellers seek shelter in 

 wooded dell and valley, subsisting on cari- 

 bou and game as best they may, for the 



