4 
FOREST AND STREAM, 
[Jan. 4, 1902. 
"He'll speak with a horrible Scotch accent that you 
could crack nuts with," Arizona says; "but at least it 
will be English, of a sort." 
It is a well-to-do place, apparently, with a good wharf 
and a string of houses fringing the base of the cliffs, 
The village proper, we are told, is on the other side of 
the^ cliffs, perhaps a mile away. There is actually a 
caleche in waiting when we step off the ship; and this 
we engage at once. Mustering my best imitation of 
French, I desire to be driven to the house ot Mr. Donald 
Mclvor; and five minutes later, Arizona and I are clutch- 
ing each other as the caleche climbs the hill, fearing that 
at any moment both driver and horse may roll backward 
upon us. But it is nothing to that which is to come. 
The descent on the other side sems like a sheer fall 
through space, punctuated by bumps that send us clear 
of the seat. 
"Ball-and-cup!" I gasp. 
"Battledore and what's-his-name!" she answers. 
"Is it dangerous?" I cry to the driver. 
"Je m'en reponds!" he replies serenely. 
The night is dark as pitch, there is never a lamp to 
light the road, and the beast of a French pony goes down 
the hill at breakneck speed. But we get to the bottom 
at last, celebrating that fact by a bump which knocks the 
breath out of us and leaves us quite speechless for a 
moment. 
"Put up the umbrella," Arizona says. "It's raining." 
"No," I reply, "I think that is mud. Thunder of 
heaven (to the driver), look out for the mud!" 
"It is nothing, monsieur," he says, and lays the whip 
over his pony. 
Another five minutes of bumping, swaying, and mud- 
pyrotechnics, and we are at our destination. I jump 
out and open a gate leading to a little cottage lying close 
to the water of a bay. In answer to my knock, a sub- 
stantial matron opens the door. 
"Does Mr. Mclvor live here?" I ask. 
She says something in French, and calls to someone 
in the kitchen. -A short, and burly man of middle age, 
in his shirt-sleeves, thereupon appears. 
"I want to see Mr. Donald Mclvor," I say. 
"I am Donald Mclvor," he replies in French. 
"Don't you speak English?" 
"Unhappily, not a word. What would monsieur wish?" 
I tell him I want board and lodging, and ask him if he 
will be good enough to direct me where to go. He turns 
to the stout matron, his wife, who at once informs me 
that she can provide for us. In five minutes Arizona and 
1 are installed, having speedily come to terms with 
madame. The house is a wonder of cleanness and order 
— floors covered with strips of rag-carpet and walls 
adorned with pictures of saints. 
In the morning we are awakened by the trumpet-blast 
of a cow in the roadway. We get a vista of old trees and 
greensward through the open window, and the air is fresh 
and sweet. After breakfast our caleche driver of the 
night before appears. Monsieur and madame might like 
a drive: he knows places of ravishment — ah, heaven, yes! 
"How long a drive?" 
"All day long, if monsieur wishes. Madame Mclvor 
could put up a nice lunch in a basket." 
"What is your name?" 
"Dugald McPherson." 
"Do you speak English?" 
"Ah, unhappily, no!" But then monsieur speaks the 
French so perfectly!" 
I retire to the kitchen and consult the mistress. In ten 
minutes Arizona and I are in the caleche with provisions 
enough under the seat for a party of six. It is a wonder- 
ful drive. Great hills, mighty mountains, stretches of 
valley dotted by quiet homesteads. Every farmhouse has 
its garden of old-fashioned flowers — peony, dahlia, lark- 
spur, hollyhock, poppy, sunflower, sweetpea, nasturtium, 
geranium, mignonette — and the roadway is lined with 
color; pigeonberry, bluebell, columbine, blueberry, mus- 
tard, wild sweetpea, marguerite, buttercup, everlasting. 
Canada thistle, blooms of purple, of yellow, of red, of 
blue. Quaint farmhouses, some Of them thatched, 
everyone with its out-of-doors oven of stone and clay, 
and everyone with a dog on the doorstep, little and fat 
and of no possible breed, either too lazy or too polite 
to bark. We catch a glimpse of an interior here and there, 
one big room taking up the whole of the ground plan, 
with two huge four-poster bedsteads, a stove almost as 
huge, "spinning-wheels and cloth-looms. 
The road we follow is something to make one's hair 
rise — straight up a mountain and straight down again, 
with scarce a point of vantage to hold by and take breath. 
The little Canadian pony, sure-footed as a goat, picks his* 
way down slowly and surely, looking a little bunch of 
chestnut beneath us. When he is well down, with only 
a hundred yards or so of hill left, he lifts his pretty little 
head, straightens his strong little back, and is off like a 
stone from a catapault. It is a veritable flight, exhilarat- 
ing, alarming, something to be boasted about and avoided 
in time to come. Two minutes later we are at the foot 
of another huge hill; the driver and I jump out, Arizona 
crouches at the bottom of the caleche, the pony humps 
his back and puts his head down, and the climb begins. 
It is almost sickening to look back and think what might 
happen if the pony balked under his task. But he never 
flinches for a moment. He is all courage and strength 
and kindness. Half way up, the driver halts him and 
we stand on the forward spokes of the wheels to hold 
the caleche. When at last we reach the top. horse and 
men are sorely blown, and Arizona is laughing. Then 
I pick a great handful of blueberries and hold them under 
the little animal's pendulous lips, and stand talking to 
him while he gratefully slobbers them. Occasionally he 
makes a lower sweep with his under lip and embraces 
a finger of two — but he never bites. At the next summit 
he looks round for his English friend who speaks such 
droll French and provides such delectable iruit — and I 
am there, ready for him. 
Everytliing is made on a grand scale. Nature is in a 
heroic mood here — nothing in little, everything huge. 
Beetling crags, mountains running away into dim blue 
lines, ridge above ridge; great wide valleys, so wide that 
at last the eye will no longer focus anything before the 
lift of the next mountain begins. And oh, the wonderful 
stillness of the forest! No birds, nothing but the low, 
intense hum of insect life and the occasional chatter of 
an indignant squirrel. Spruce, juniper, birch; rocks and 
moss and fern — and a big, palpitating stillness! 
Home again to the sweet-smelling, quiet house! How 
these French Canadians love flowers! Flowers every- 
where, within and without, making a glory of color and 
smell And the manners of the people! Nothing in our 
experience is quite so soothing and caressing as their way 
with us. They are amiable over faulty articles, muddled 
genders and moods and tenses grown worse confounded. 
It is always, "Monsieur speaks marvelously" — which 
might be construed into a biting sarcasm if the dear, 
primitive, simple souls were not too kind and innocent 
for sarcasm. The household library consists of La 
Sainte-Catherine, Saint-Antoine de Padoue, and two or 
three Government books on agriculture and unclaimed 
bank balances — not an extensive list nor a wildly ex- 
hilarating one. 
"You pay compliments like a Frenchwoman," I say to 
Mrs. Mclvor. 
"I am not a Frenchwoman," she responds quickly; "I 
am a Canadian." 
Donald Mclvor's notions of materia medica are novel 
and interesting. For asthma, cut a lengthwise slit in 
the skin of the upper arm and slip in a green pea. After 
the wound is healed and the pea safely embedded in the 
tissues, exemption from asthma for the rest of one's days 
follows. For rheumatism, a mixture of good whisky 
and soap — but whether to be taken internally or other- 
wise, I fail to clearly understand. Ice to the head in 
sickness produces a rush of blood, and always results 
fatally. Donald has buried three wives by that misad- 
venture, and \s in a position to speak with authority. 
Mustard to the feet, on the other hand, equalizes the 
flow of blood, and generally saves the patient. 
It is delicious to wake and listen to the quiet. At the 
foot of the garden is a stretch of twenty miles of salt 
water, sending up a gentle murmur like the distant rustle 
of silk. A cow trumpets in the faraway, and the crows 
over in the cottonwoods hold early mass. Faint odors 
float in from the garden. There is just enough of chill 
in the air to make one appreciate good, thick blankets. 
Clear, bright sunshine announces the advent of another 
perfect day. 
After breakfast we are off for a walk down the road. 
How courteous the people are! Not servile at all, bin 
just innately polite. The men, slouching along, pipe in 
mouth, step aside to let us pass. We cry bon jour to 
a boy and he plucks off his cap and makes us a handsome 
bow. They are, for the most part, swarthy-skinned and 
good-looking people, notably clean. A literal people, 
as we have discovered — so matter-of-fact that it is danger- 
ous to venture a joke with them. One of them was tell- 
ing me of a wonderful catch of cod, and I smiled and said 
if any other than he had told me, I might have been skep- 
tical, for fishermen were proverbial liars. The poor man 
was quite overborne by the imputation. He protested, 
he smote his breast, he called the saints to witness. His 
earnest gravity made me grave, as his urgency made me 
ashamed. I felt my levity to have been misplaced. It 
was like being rebuked by a child. 
Now, here is the history, in little, of Sous-le-cap. A 
Highland regiment was disbanded here a hundred and 
fifty years ago. and the colonel was given all the land 
from a certain river to the sea — a huge tract — and was 
known thereafter as the Seigneur. His followers married 
French Canadian women and settled down as his tenants, 
paying him twenty cents an arpent per annum as rent. 
■ Under the old English principle of primogeniture and 
entail, this great tract descended through many genera- 
tions without being parcelled; and most of it is still so 
held by the present day Seigneur. And the old rental 
of twenty cents the arpent — certainly not an exorbitant 
price for such fat land — survives as well. Yet, human 
nature being what it is, there are not wanting those who 
cry the Seigneur a greedy rackrent. One woman whis- 
pers to me that he is known as Mange-le-monde, having 
fully earned that title by a lifetime of rapacity. He will 
have his twenty cents! Think of it! 
The tide is out, and Arizona and I are standing on 
the beach looking up at the crags. While we are still 
looking, we discover that the tide has turned and 
hemmed us in on both sides — so swift and stealthy is the 
sea. It is coming in like a millrace now, eating up the 
beach in huge mouthfuls, as a hungry boy eats a cooky. 
For twenty feet above us, the rocks are covered with 
slime, marking the height of the tide. 
"We'll have to climb the rocks," Arizona says, quite 
calmly, "and they look slippery." 
We hurry along the beach to where a jagged point of 
rock comes down into the sea. It is covered with 
bushy, slimy seaweed and a peculiar submarine plant 
which looks like the claws of a hen's foot, each claw full 
of water — certainly the maximum of- "slitheriness." 
"It's sheer cliff beyond this," I say, "a hundred feet 
high, and a cat couldn't climb it." 
"Well," she responds, "we've just got to climb it." 
She puts her foot into the slither and goes through it 
without a slip; but I, being of clumsier build and any- 
thing but sure-footed, come presently down on all-fours, 
and perform the rest of the transit much as a seal or a 
lodn might — utterly without dignity. Then we come to 
a perpendicular wall of rock. Arizona finds a crevice 
to put a toe into and a shrub to hold by, and the next 
thing I know she is ten feet above me, lying on a ledge 
of rock and laughing. I scramble after as best I can, 
using what strength I have in lieu of the agility I lack. 
In a'few minutes we have got beyond the slither, but arc 
still in a position much better fitted for a goat than man. 
The tide has completely covered our spur of rock and is 
mounting rapidly — but we are beyond its reach. We 
cling to jagged rocks and bits of bush, moving an inch 
or two at a time, and going higher and higher. At last 
we come to a foot-wide ledge slanting gradually upward, 
and upon this move in easier posture; but it is terrifying 
to look down and realize what one false step might mean. 
After a time we come to a little level space 'Upon which 
Arizona throws herself. 
"I feel seasick," she says. 
"You are a wonder of courage," I answer. "I was 
half afraid the whole time.'" 
'And I was wholly afraid. I fancied you slipping over 
every minute and being dashed to death on the rocks." 
We reach the summit at last, and lie there in the quiet 
which comes after danger. From out a clump of scrub, 
two keen eyes regard us — the eyes of a hawk. 
One day Arizona says, "I want to get good and lost. 
Let's strike into the forest anywhere and see what hap- 
pens to us." 
We follow a deep-rutted wagon trail leading upward to 
the woodland, and when we reach the outskirts, sit in the 
shade to rest. A charrette, drawn by an ancient horse 
and directed by a small boy, presently coming up with 
us, Arizona climbs in and I take up the march by the 
roadside. The boy is going to where some woodcutters 
are at work, perhaps a mile up the mountain. When he 
reaches his destination, we leave him and, following a 
path, continue up the mountain. When we are far from 
the woodcutters, the path dwindles into nothingness; and 
we have to prospect for another. That found, we follow 
it blindly, sometimes having to creep on hands and 
knees to get through. It is a dark and inexpressibly silent 
forest — a forest without end, seemingly. Where the trail 
ends, we grope for another. After a time, we have com- 
pletely lost our bearings, with nothing but the slope of 
the mountain to guide us. Once, when Arizona is far 
ahead of me, I having stopped to fill and light my pipe, 
I catch the faint sound of another footfall, and shout to 
her to stand where she is and wait. Just as I catch up 
with her, a big man with an axe in his hands comes 
through the bush to where she is standing. "Gracious!" 
she says af.erward, "I was terrified when I saw that 
man!" He is a good-looking, gentle-faced fellow, who 
touches his cap to us and answers all my stumbling ques- 
tions obligingly. But he does not throw much light on 
the vital question of where we are. We leave him and go 
on, following a path which runs snakewise, to end after 
a furlong or so in nothingness, like all the others. These 
innumerable, criss-cross forest paths suggest just one 
thing — the runways of animals. A path made by the foot 
of man would inevitably lead somewhere: these lead no- 
where. The forest is netted with them. They are like 
the mesh of a Spider's web — bar the regularity. 
"Observe," I say to Arizona, "that we have seen no ani- 
mals; and yet these paths are not of man's making. Do 
you suppose for a moment that no animals have seen 
us?. W r e are watched by a dozen sharp eyes this very 
instant — eyes that hate us and fear us." 
"Don't be horrid!" Arizona says. "Think how we are 
to get out. We are completely lost." 
"Good and lost, you mean." 
"It doesn't seem so much of a joke, now. What are 
we to do? If we could see the sun, I believe we'd find 
it setting. It's only twilight in here and we can't see 
five yards in any direction. I'd hate to have to spend the 
night in this dreadful place. There isn't even a bird to 
be friendly with — nothing but nasty eyes looking at us 
that we can't see." 
"If we follow only paths leading downward, we are 
bound to get out," I say comfortingly. "Come along." 
Another prospecting search and we find a downward trail. 
Following that for perhaps half a mile, we discover that 
it is again taking us upward. We abandon it at once, 
and grope for another. Little by little we work down- 
ward, constantly at fault, but never abandoning the gen- 
eral plan. At last we strike upon a wagon trail which 
ultimately carries us clear of the forest and sets us upon 
our homeward way. I look at my watch. We have been 
good and lost for something over three hours. 
There is so much to interest and delight us in quaint 
Sous-le-cap that time slips by unnoticed, and the Petrel 
comes in sight on another homeward voyage all too soon. 
We know half the people of the village — the dear, simple 
French folk with the Scottish names — and it is like part- 
ing with lifelong friends to leave them. But, alas, our 
holiday is ended! The Petrel carries us. laboring sorely 
with the river current, to Montreal. From that we strike 
into Vermont, and so homeward to New York, the heat 
intensifying with every mile. We feel as though we were 
creeping into a furnace, and when the Grand Central 
Station is reached, that the furnace door has slammed shut 
upon us. William Edward Aitken, 
A "Winter Picnic. 
A friend from Princeton, this State, just called and 
described a picnic he and his wife enjoyed yesterday on 
the banks of a frozen lake. 
"We had the surrey hitched up, put in a small camping 
kit, took with us some provisions, put in a long, wide 
strip of canvas, a pair of heavy blankets for the horses, 
and stuffing a handliue and hooks into my pocket, we 
were off for Spectacle Lake. 
"It was a beautiful day, and we enjoyed the ride over 
the hard, smooth roads immensely. Arrived at the lake 
the horses were unhitched and snugly blanketed and led 
into a protecting growth of jack pine. 
"The canvas was tied around the three sides of the 
surrey, leaving the opening to face the fire I was to build 
from convenient logs on the edge of the lake. 
"The fire started slowly, but when the logs caught 
fairly the glow from same extended to the canvas covered 
surrey, making it as warm as one's sitting room at home. 
"I built a small cooking fire, cut through the ice and 
dipped out enough water to fill the coffee-pot. I turned 
the making of the coffee over to my wife, and baiting my 
hook with some salt pork I sallied out upon the ice, and 
in a few moments had a hole cut and my bait in.- Strike 
number one and strike number two resulted in sufficient 
bass for our dinner. I scaled and prepared them on the 
spot, and soon had them frying in the skillet with some 
salt pork. || \ 
"Adjourning to the surrey, we enjoyed pur fried bass 
and hot coffte, with further trimmings brought from 
home, and were as happy and comfortable as if the birds 
were singing and the water rippling upon the beach — 
with the thermometer 75 degrees in the shade. 
"And if next Sunday is bright and clear we will try it 
again." 
again." Charles Cristadoro. 
