The Joys of Camping Out—Important Additions to the Establishment—Serious Matters and Winter Amusements.
At last winter came upon us in earnest. It had been threatening for a considerable time. Sharp frosts had occurred during the nights, and more than once we had on rising found thin ice forming on the lake, though the motion of the running water had as yet prevented our stream from freezing; but towards the end of October there came a day which completely changed the condition and appearance of things.
Every one knows the peculiar, I may say the exhilarating, sensations that are experienced when one looks out from one’s window and beholds the landscape covered completely with the first snows of winter.
Well, those sensations were experienced on the occasion of which I write in somewhat peculiar circumstances. Lumley and I were out hunting at the time: we had been successful; and, having wandered far from the fort, resolved to encamp in the woods, and return home early in the morning.
“I do love to bivouac in the forest,” I said, as we busied ourselves spreading brush-wood on the ground, preparing the kettle, plucking our game, and kindling the fire, “especially at this season of the year, when the sharp nights render the fire so agreeable.”
“Yes,” said Lumley, “and the sharp appetites render food so delightful.”
“To say nothing,” I added, “of the sharp wits that render intercourse so pleasant.”
“Ah, and not to mention,” retorted Lumley, “the dull wits, stirred into unwonted activity, which tone down that intercourse with flashes of weakly humour. Now then, Max, clap on more wood. Don’t spare the firing—there’s plenty of it, so—isn’t it grand to see the thick smoke towering upwards straight and solid like a pillar!”
“Seldom that one experiences a calm so perfect,” said I, glancing upward at the slowly-rising smoke. “Don’t you think it is the proverbial calm before the storm?”
“Don’t know, Max. I’m not weather-wise. Can’t say that I understand much about calms or storms, proverbial or otherwise, and don’t much care.”
“That’s not like your usual philosophical character, Lumley,” said I—“see, the column is still quite perpendicular—”
“Come, Max,” interrupted my friend, “don’t get sentimental till after supper. Go to work, and pluck that bird while I fill the kettle.”
“If anything can drive away sentiment,” I replied, taking up one of the birds which we had shot that day, “the plucking and cleaning of this will do it.”
“On the contrary, man,” returned Lumley, taking up the tin kettle as he spoke, “true sentiment, if you had it, would induce you to moralise on that bird as you plucked it—on the romantic commencement of its career amid the reeds and sedges of the swamps in the great Nor’-west; on the bold flights of its maturer years over the northern wilderness into those mysterious regions round the pole, which man, with all his vaunted power and wisdom, has failed to fathom, and on the sad—I may even say inglorious—termination of its course in a hunter’s pot, to say nothing of a hunter’s stom—”
“Lumley,” said I, interrupting, “do try to hold your tongue, if you can, and go fill your kettle.”
With a laugh he swung off to a spring that bubbled at the foot of a rock hard by, and when he returned I had my bird plucked, singed, split open, and cleaned out. You must understand, reader, that we were not particular. We were wont to grasp the feathers in large handfuls, and such as would not come off easily we singed off.
“You see, Lumley,” said I, when he came back, “I don’t intend that this bird shall end his career in the pot. I’ll roast him.”
“’Tis well, most noble Max, for I wouldn’t let you pot him, even if you wished to. We have only one kettle, and that must be devoted to tea.”
It was not long before the supper was ready. While it was preparing Lumley and I sat chatting by the fire, and gazing in a sort of dreamy delight at the glorious view of land and water which we could see through an opening among the trees in front of us; for, not only was there the rich colouring of autumn everywhere—the greens, yellows, browns, and reds of mosses, grasses, and variegated foliage—but there was a bright golden glow cast over all by the beams of the setting sun.
Ere long all this was forgotten as we lay under the starry sky in profound slumber.
While we slept, the Creator was preparing that wonderful and beautiful change to which I have referred. Clouds gradually overspread the sky—I observed this when, in a half-sleeping state I rose to mend our fire, but thought nothing of it. I did not, however, observe what followed, for sleep had overpowered me again the instant I lay down.
Softly, silently, persistently, and in large flakes, the snow must have fallen during the entire night, for, when we awoke it lay half a foot deep upon us, and when we shook ourselves free and looked forth we found that the whole landscape, far and near, was covered with the same pure white drapery. The uniformity of the scene was broken by the knolls of trees and shrubs and belts of forest which showed powerfully against the white ground, and by the water of the numerous ponds and lakes and streams which, where calm, reflected the bright blue sky, and, where rough, sparkled in the rising sun; while every twig and leaf of bush and tree bore its little fringe or patch of snow, so that we were surrounded by the most beautiful and complicated forms of lacework conceivable of Nature’s own making.
“It is glorious to look at,” said Lumley, after our first burst of enthusiasm, “but it will be troublesome to walk through, I fear.”
We did not, however, find it as troublesome as we had expected; for, although nearly a foot deep, the snow was quite dry, owing to the frost which had set in, and we could drive it aside with comparative ease when we started on our journey homeward.
Arrived at the fort we found our men and the few Indians who had not left us for their hunting-grounds, busy at the nets, or finishing the buildings that were yet incomplete.
We also found that Big Otter had come in, bringing with him his wife, and his niece Waboose, with her mother. The health of the latter had broken down, and Big Otter had brought her to the fort in the hope that the white chief could do something for her.
“I’ll do what I can,” said Lumley, on hearing her case stated, “though I make no pretence to being a medicine-man, but I will do this for you and her:— I will engage you, if you choose, to help Blondin at his fishery, and your wife to make moccasins for us. I’ll also let you have that little hut beside our kitchen to live in. You’ll find it better and warmer than a wigwam, and as there are two rooms in it you won’t be overcrowded.”
Big Otter was delighted with this arrangement, and I took him away at once to show him the hut he was to occupy.
As this was the first time I had met with the unknown Englishman’s widow, and the mother of Waboose, it was with no little interest and curiosity that I regarded her.
She was evidently in very bad health, but I could easily see that when young she must have been a very handsome woman. Besides being tall and well-formed, she had a most expressive countenance and a dignified air, coupled with a look of tender kindness in it, which drew me to her at once. She seemed in many respects much superior—in manners and habits—to the other Indian women of the tribe, though still far below her daughter in that respect, and I could easily perceive that the latter owed her great superiority and refinement of manner to her father, though she might well have derived her gentleness from her mother.
What the illness was that broke that mother down I cannot tell. It resembled consumption in some respects, though without the cough, but she improved in health decidedly at first on getting into her new house, and set to work with zeal to assist in the making of moccasins and other garments. Of course Waboose helped her; and, very soon after this arrival, I began to give her lessons in the English language.
Lumley quizzed me a good deal about this at first, but afterwards he became more serious.
“Now, Max, my boy,” he said to me, one evening when we were alone, in that kindly-serious manner which seemed to come over him whenever he had occasion to find fault with any one, “it is all very well your giving lessons in English to that Indian girl, but what I want to know is, what do you expect to be the upshot of it?”
“Marriage,” said I with prompt decision, “if—if she will have me,” I added with a more modest air.
My friend did not laugh or banter me, as I had expected, but in an earnest tone said:—
“But think, Max, you are only just entering on manhood; you can’t be said to know your own mind yet. Suppose, now, that you were to express an intention to marry Waboose, the Hudson’s Bay Company might object till you had at least finished your apprenticeship.”
“But I would not think of it before that,” said I.
“And then,” continued Lumley, not noticing the interruption, “if you do marry her you can never more return to the civilised world, for she is utterly ignorant of its ways, and would feel so ill at ease there, and look so much out of place, that you would be obliged to take to the woods again, and ............