We Three in Canada* 
With the cool breezes of an early summer twilight 
sweeping before it the heat of the day, three of our 
party gathered on the veranda of the boat club to 
enjoy that fleeting period ’twixt day and dark so well 
known to tourists on the Sound. Our trip had taken 
us across the now tranquil water to a famous watering 
place, and somewhat weary, we sat dreaming. Memory, 
that omnipresent companion of man, pressed us all 
into her service, and retrospection, lazily defined in 
the curling smoke from our cigars, presented to each 
a different panorama of experiences. 
Ted Barmore, his feet dangling over the railing in 
the corner, related how he had wooed and won the fair 
young woman whom we were all to meet the next night 
at the regatta promenade. Ted told how he had gone 
down to the Indies a bachelor in his yacht Crest, 
alone, save for a chum. Under the most romantic 
circumstances he met a girl acquaintance, and with less 
form than the telling had run off and got married. 
Reg, our stroke in the races, was full of his spicy 
yarns of former regattas, and talked till he got tired. 
One incident recalls another in a peculiar way that 
stories have, and that, with the dreamy atmosphere, 
set me thinking. My thoughts wandered back to the 
summer before, and I noiselessly reviewed my first 
married vacation. Ted noticed my silence,, and told 
me to bring it out. 
“I hardly know where to start,” I answered slowly, 
for through the gathering haze the all too short so- 
journ stretched itself out before me as if painted by 
unseen hands. “Please don’t mind my dreaming a 
little as I proceed, for you know, boys, I was rather 
sentimental about then. We were on our honeymoon, 
and it really was quite romantic. In the long winter 
evenings of the preceding courtship we all got our 
head^ together and mapped the thing out. We talked 
it over and over just as though we didn’t know that, 
after all, the angel would settle upon the ways and 
means in that calm and positive manner used by a 
woman of ninety-five pounds in arranging affairs for 
a man twice her size. 
It was quite a novelty in the line of vacations, and 
more of an experiment until -proven to be a huge suc- 
cess. You see, it was much more fun than going off 
to a hotel, moping around with a crowd of people, all 
dressed up, and then returning home with hardly 
enough coin to pay fares from Grand Central to 
Brooklyn. 
Our family is not a large one, but it is interesting. 
You have not yet had the pleasure, boys, so I’ll tell 
you who they are. The Scribe is just an_ every-day, 
hard-working sort of newspaper man, and if I do say 
so, with a pretty good knowledge of _ the country, 
picked up during several years of hoeing corn and 
potatoes, driving cows and swinging a scythe on a big 
hill farm in Vermont. 
The Angel is that petite little wife whom you are to 
meet to-morrow night at the dance — small, lively, wide- 
awake, usually ready for anything that prornises fun, 
and very anxious to learn as much as possible from 
nature’s school. 
The Baby is sister to the other, and has been away 
from her teething ring and rattle some eighteen years 
or more, but still young in spirit and only too glad to 
gratify a longing of years to become a scout or trap- 
per and handle a gun. 
So, one cool morning in June, at Quebec Junction, 
N. H., you can imagine us climbing on a train that will 
land over the border and some miles into the interior 
of Canada around 6 o’clock in the evening, if nothing 
shrould happen. We made ourselves comfortable in 
the one passenger car that the train boasted, shook 
hands with each other, very solemnly wishing good 
luck on our journey. Until then it had been a business 
trip for the Scribe, and even the beauties of Crawford 
Notch and the nice treatment at Fabyans the night 
before had been gazed at with a commercial eye. Even 
the concert in the sitting room at Fabyans Cottage 
the previous evening by the Bates College Glee Club 
failed entirely to drive dull care away. But the last 
line of copy had been dispatched with no return ad- 
dress on it, and a look of joy overshadowed our faces 
as a pocketful of lead pencils were solemnly buried m 
a- little grave beside the railroad just before we started 
on the real vacation. 
Our actions were so suspicious that two Frenchmen 
who were in the car, the only occupants besides our- 
selves, decided that discretion was the better part of 
valor, and went ahead into the baggage car, no doubt 
feeling they had left three escaped lunatics behind them. 
We didn’t care what they thought, so long as they left 
us. As soon as the train got fairly away from the 
station, with its gaping crowd, we indulged hi a war 
dance, closing with a yell that would do credit to a 
Sioux’ and brought the conductor, or seemed to, for 
just then he appeared for our tickets and promised to 
drop us at our station, which we will call Camp 6. 
This train on which we were fast leaving civilization, 
deserves mention as being the slowest, the most accom- 
modating and having the most gentlemanly crew of any 
train on which yours truly ever rode. It makes the 
io8 miles between Quebec Junction and Lime Ridge, 
Canada, in just six hours and thirteen minutes — that is, 
when it is on time— and its return trip over the same 
road in eight hoiirs and thirtj-five minutes. It carries 
everything in the line of freight or passengers that 
comes its way, has a crew of six men, every one of 
whom seems to think it devolves upon him in particu- 
lar to be as hospitable and entertaining as though he 
owned the train and the passengers were guests. 
We were introduced to them all by the conductor, 
and there was hardly a minute of the journey when 
one of them was not on hand to point out the interest- 
ing things along the road. The Angel and the Baby 
rode part of the way in the engine cab, and got their 
eyes so full of cinders that they could hardly see. We 
got out to pick wild strawberries at the siding as the 
engine backed off to some sawmill. Lunch was eaten 
at Beecher Falls- — Vermont, New Hampshire, or Can- 
ada, whichever you choose — for we left the train at the 
depot in Vermont, went over to the hotel in New 
Hampshire and admired the hills of Canada as we ate. 
and it was with difficulty that I persuaded the Baby 
not to wade across the Connecticut River on our way 
back to the train. 
A few rods from the station we stopped at the 
Custom House, where a pleasant old gentleman who 
represents the Canadian Government came aboard and 
passed our traps without any unnecessary fuss. Then 
we steamed ahead into Canada; that paradise of sports- 
men and lumbermen, and were in a new country alto- 
gether, where sawmills, lumber camps and logcabins were 
passed for miles. Then of a sudden we would stumble 
into a little village, brave in its newness and white 
paint, wdth its little Catholic church and listless hotel. 
The girls got down on the station platform to stretch 
out the cramps, and I presume the rurals who gath- 
ered about thought they were dressed pretty plainly for 
folks traveling. 
But even the slowest and most pleasant of journeys 
will come to an end at last. We had passed St. Malo 
and Camp 4, and some distance beyond the latter drew 
up at a lo-foot platform, standing solitary in the woods. . 
Our heavy trunk was rolled off, and we alighted, shook 
hands with the entire crew, and waved our handker- 
chiefs at them until the train had puffed away in the 
distance. We were all alone, and after staring at each 
other for a few minutes in silence, looked about. The 
old, tumble-down platform, built years before, when 
some one decided to cut lumber there and then changed 
his mind, was without accommodation of any kind. 
There was not even a roof; aside from the one train a 
day that passed by, there was no one within twenty 
miles of Camp 6, so for the next fourteen days we 
faced our own society. 
The trunk was our only baggage, and we were soon 
making preparations to hide it somewhere in the woods, 
for we had no intention of carrying it with us some 
ten miles into the forest. It was unlocked, and three 
queer-looking, rubber-covered bundles, fitted with 
shoulder straps, were lifted out, followed by three 
smaller bundles, each of us taking one. Then we hid 
behind as many trees, and the squeals _and_ exclama- 
tions and giggles that came from the direction of the 
Angel and the Baby startled the chipmunks for a mile. 
.The Scribe was silent, as became the head of the 
house, and emerged shortly wearing a look of peace, 
blue overalls, jumper, wide rimmed hat and tennis 
shoes. From the trunk he fished a double-barrel light 
shotgun belonging to the Angel; a pocket rifle, the 
property of the Baby, and a sturdy .38 Winchester that 
had been his companion in many mountain journeys and 
lonely camps. 
The guns had hardly been put together, when the 
girls, if girls they were any longer, appeared on the 
scene. There was little about their exterior appearance 
to indicate their feminity; dressed alike in blue overalls, 
white canvas jumper, hat of the same material, and red 
tennis shoes. While they might have created some 
sensation on Fifth avenue, they certainly did look very 
pretty, and, most important of all, thoroughly in keep- 
ing with the grand woods in which we stood. 
But it was half after five, and night would soon be 
upon us in a country strange to all but the one who 
would mind it the least. So we put our civilized clothes 
into the trunk, which was hidden behind a huge 
some distance from the platform, and struck off for^the 
first night’s camp before we should reach our deHina- 
tion on Trout Lake. We all had a pack on our back, 
and were soon traveling rapidly and silently, Indian 
file, dodging drooping boughs, skipping little nils, the 
girls now and then shying as some wild animal ran at 
our approach into the haunts of nature but seldom 
disturbed by maii. - -i. ■ u 
For a long time we were rnute, the Scribe with 
thoughts of the trail, the girls still awed with that 
ing so common to those who find themselves in the 
witderness for the first time, the vagary that makes it 
seem as though the great forest were some mighty 
cathedral, too sacred for noise and laughter. The 
birds and frogs, the treetoads and trees, were as old 
friends to the Scribe, but uncanny to the Angel and the 
Baby, who at first shunned them as queer. The packs 
soon grew pretty heavy, and I guess each one wond- 
ered if it would be generous to offer to divide with the 
rest, and the absent linament that had been forgotten 
grew precious by thinking of it. 
When a little more than half the distance had been 
traversed between Camp 6 and Trout Lake, the Scribe 
gave a sigh of relief, and announced that it was time 
to strike camp for the night, and you can wager there 
was no kick coming from the girls. Our simple pre- 
parations were soon under way, and a giant hemlock 
tree, uprooted by some terrific gale, formed a most con- 
venient ridge pole fOr our tent. While the Scribe cut 
the necessary wood, the girls busied themselves with 
the supper. A dozen or more hemlock branches laid 
against the side of the big trunk, made a good frame, 
on which were laid leafy branches, the whole acting as 
a wind shield and more or less waterproof roof. The 
place was quickly furnished by scraping out the old 
leaves and putting in a quantity of pine boughs, over 
which we laid our rubber and woolen blankets. 
The exercise soon brought color to the cheeks of 
the girls, who were ravenously hungry and quite ready 
to eat the simple meal prepared from the pack. The 
Scribe noticed this with a quiet smile, for it meant a 
lighter bundle for him on the morrow. The repast 
seemed to revive the lost voices, and praise and admira- 
tion of the splendid woods mingled with appreciation 
of the ingenuity of their guide, so melted his heart that 
he cheerfully consented to cut the firewood necessary 
for the night. Drowsiness that could not be shaken off 
compelled all of us to seek our blankets, and in a few 
moments we were sleeping that calm, dreamless slum- 
ber that comes nowhere else on earth but on a bed of 
boughs far out in God’s wilderness. 
Twice during the night did the Scribe get up to throw 
wood on the fire, but neither of his companions stirred, 
and just as the night gave way to a rose-tinted dawn, he 
stole forth for half a mile into the woods. A long, 
slender maple pole was soon trimmed, to which he 
fastened a short trout line. Then, as the sun’s rays 
stole over the treetops, he cast a wriggling angler 
lightly into the largest hole of a winding little brook 
that gave every promise of an ample breakfast beneath 
its rippling surface. 
There is no need to tell about the sport of such fish- 
ing, for depending as we did upon nature for our food, 
the old-fashioned pole, string and hook were quite 
enough to yank them out. Of course, it was not at alh 
poetical, but it was businesslike, and served the purpose 
well. In less than ten minutes the Scribe had thrown 
away his green pole, and was dressing six large 
speckled beauties. The sun was just lighting up the 
camp beneath a hillside, when the noise made in getting 
a frying pan out of the pack aroused the Baby, who 
shouted merrily to the Angel. Both were much sur- 
prised to discover that they had passed a comfortable 
night in undisturbed slumber, and also that the exer- 
cise of the previous day had not made them lame. A 
good rubbing of their faces and hands with a wet towel 
which the Scribe had wrung out of the brook, com- 
pleted their toilets in a shorter time than they had 
ever done it in the city, where all conveniences were at 
hand. Then the remains of the evening’s repast, with 
the trout on the side, put us all on the road to the lake 
in high spirits. 
The end of the level land had been reached by that 
time, and the five-mile climb that would land us at the 
summit was begun. We were far more noisy than on 
the day before, and the Angel stopped every few min- 
utes to gather a lichen or wild flower, but as the rest 
of the procession showed no inclination to wait for her, 
she caught up, with many exclamations of delight at the 
beauties that each step revealed. We did not hurry, but 
often stopped to rest and admire the denizens of the 
woodland, so that it was past ii o’clock, when, high up 
in a little hollow of the hills. Trout Lake lay before us. 
Completely enraptured by the beauty, the peace and 
the grandeur of the scene that lay stretched like some 
fairyland before their wide open eyes, the two girls, 
and even the Scribe, who was supposed to be used to 
such things, stood minute after minute, until a dozen 
had passed away, silently blessing the thought that had 
brought them there. About a mile and a half in length 
by three-fourths wide, it shimmered in the glistening 
rays of the sun, a clear crystal, rock-lined, limpid depth 
of absolute purity. In some places the jagged rocks 
rose to a height of twenty or more feet, while in others 
the shore sloped gently to a grassy water’s edge. 
At the northern end of this beautiful bit of fresh 
water, and some three rods from a rolling greensward 
shore, stood a little log cabin, quaint in its rough, 
homely outlines. It had been built several years be- 
fore by a trapper, who made it his home, but abandoned 
it some three summers before our advent. It had not 
been occupied in all that time, except by rovers like 
ourselves, who, from the city, perchance, wandered into 
the wilderness, and for- a week or so lived close to 
nature’s heart. . 
We immediately took possession of the cabin, and 
with some weary sighs, unloaded our none too light 
burdens. The cabin was furnished with two bunks, a 
table and two stools, and had a wide stone fireplace in 
the side opposite the opening which once had contained 
a door, long since sacrificed by some one needing dry 
firewood It was a verv plain little structure, modest to 
an extreme, perhaps fifteen feet high and as many feet 
square. From the open doorway, we stood in a group 
and gazed, fascinated by the scene that lay before us, 
the bright green woods circling the edge of the glisten- 
ing gem from whose surface the big, bright orb of day 
reflected his rays but none of his heat. The Baby’s 
benediction of “Peace be within thy walls” seemed 
unnecessary, for it looked as if nothing but peace could 
find a dwelling in such a chosen spot._ 
There was no time then to admire the bountiful 
splendor of the Almighty, which that day held m 
