My Strange Rescue and other stories of Sport and Adventure in Canada

"Time to go, Phil; it's 'most ten o'clock."

Phil pulled out his watch with an incredulous look; but, alas! it told the same story as Bob, and dearly as he would have liked to linger, he knew well enough that the sooner they started now the better. So, with a very regretful adieu to the one whose presence had "made the assembly shine," he joined his brother at the door.

When they got outside, the look of the night and the feel of the air told them that the snow was nearer at hand than they had expected. In fact, a few soft, sly flakes were already dropping noiselessly. The friend at whose house they had left their coats and snow-shoes suggested their staying all night; but although Bob was nothing loath, Phil would not be persuaded.

"Father said he'd wait up for us," he objected, "and he'll get anxious if we're not home by twelve o'clock. – Come along, Bob."

Accordingly, off they went into the darkness of the night. When they reached the shore of the lake, they could just see the glimmer of the village lights by which they were to be guided – their home lying about half-a-mile to the left. Although their pace was far from a loitering one, they did not get over the snow by any means so fast as in the afternoon.

Bob was not only tired and sleepy, but provoked with Phil for refusing to stay all night at their friend's house. Indeed, he hoped his brother would yet repent and return, and so his feet dragged not a little. Noticing this, Phil said briskly, —

"Step out, Bob; we'll have all we can do to get across before the snow comes."

"All well enough to say 'step out,'" answered Bob gruffly. "Why couldn't you stay overnight? I'm too tired to walk fast anyhow, snow or no snow."

"Oh, you're not tired, Bob. You've eaten a little too much supper, that's all," rejoined Phil pleasantly.

Bob vouchsafed no answer, and for some time the brothers tramped along in silence. As they neared the centre of the lake, the snow-flakes, which had at first been few and far between, thickened rapidly, and the wind at the same time rose into gusts that blew them sharply into the boys' faces.

A thrill of alarm shot threw Phil, and grasping Bob's arm he called out, —

"It looks nasty, Bob; let's put on a spurt."

At this appeal Bob roused himself; and quickening their pace to a trot, they hastened onward, their snow-shoes rising and falling in steady, unbroken step. Every minute the snow and wind increased, until at length the storm in full force burst upon the boys and almost blew them off their feet. All around them the air was filled with flakes of white whirling about in bewildering myriads, splashing like fine spray into their faces and stinging like small shot, for the wind was bitterly cold. Presently Phil halted, and, peering hard into the blinding storm, cried anxiously, —

"What's become of the lights, Bob? I can't see them a bit; can you?"

"N-n-no," panted Bob. "Let's turn back."

"No use in that," replied Phil, turning round. "I can't see those behind us either. There's nothing for it but to push ahead."

"O Phil! are we lost?" asked Bob, with quivering lips.

Phil was more than half afraid they were; but to reassure Bob he answered cheerfully, —

"It's all right. I know how to steer. Come along." And grasping Bob's hand he started off again.

On and on they plodded through storm and snow, Phil half dragging Bob, who, between fright and real weariness, found difficulty in making progress at all. For half-an-hour more they struggled thus, until at last Bob dropped his brother's hand and flung himself down in the snow, sobbing out despairingly, —

"It's no use, Phil, I'm dead beat; you'll have to go on without me."

"Nonsense, Bob," said Phil, taking him by the shoulder. "Jump up and go at it again."

Thus helped to his feet, Bob made another attempt, but had not gone more than a quarter of a mile in a way that was staggering rather than walking before down he slipped again; and this time all that Phil could do failed to rouse him from his stupor. The cold and exhaustion had completely overcome him. He had but one thought, and that was – to be allowed to sleep. Phil fully realized the danger, and, tired as he was himself, put forth every exertion to keep his brother awake. He even tried to drag him along by his sash in what he thought was the right direction, but of course soon found this impossible.

Desert his brother he would not, though they died together; so, in order to keep himself from falling into the same state, he made a circle around him, walking slowly. While doing this he encountered a high drift whose lee afforded some shelter from the blast. An idea flashed into his mind which he instantly proceeded to execute.

Returning to Bob he dragged him with infinite difficulty to this spot. Then slipping off one of his snow-shoes, he proceeded to cover his body with snow, leaving nothing but his head exposed; the poor boy, now fast asleep, offering no objection to such strange bedclothes. Then sitting down beside him, with the big drift protecting his back, he let the snow gather over himself, hoping he hardly knew for what, and praying for the Lord who sent the snow-storm to have mercy on them both.

In a vague way – for the stupor was fast creeping upon him too – he wondered if his father had begun to miss them yet, and whether he would come out in search of them. He even dimly pictured his father sitting in the parlour at home reading his book, and pausing every now and then to listen for his boys' voices. His mother, he knew, would have gone to bed long ago. He felt relieved that the snow no longer stung his face, and that the wind had gone down completely, and so his thoughts wandered on until he knew no more.

One hour, two hours passed, and the drifting snow had hidden the forms of the two boys from sight, when a long line of men might have been seen coming from the village and scanning carefully every mound and swell of the snow as they hastened onward. In advance of the rest strode Mr. Ross, his face full of grave anxiety, his eyes intent upon the white plain before him that seemed to have so little to tell. Now bounding on ahead and now returning to look up in his face with inquiring eyes was his wise old collie, Oscar, without whom he never went abroad.

"Find them, Oscar, find them, good dog," would Mr. Ross say encouragingly, and the sagacious animal would dart on again. Presently he stopped beside a drift now grown to huge proportions, sniffed sharply at the snow, and then proceeded to dig into it with eager, vigorous paws. Observing his action, Mr. Ross uttered a cry of joy and sprang forward to the dog's side. Going down on his knees he tore at the snow-bank in a frenzy of haste. In another moment a red tassel appeared, then a blue cap, then a white, still face, and, others coming to his aid, the forms of the two boys were exposed to view, Phil still sitting up with his head bent over his knees, and Bob lying comfortably beside him. That they were both alive was clear enough, for they were breathing – very faintly, to be sure, but undoubtedly breathing.

Mr. Ross caught up one after another in a passionate embrace. Then litters were quickly improvised out of blanket-coats stripped from willing backs, and soon the unconscious boys were speeding homeward as fast as stalwart arms could bear them.

The rest of the story is quickly told. Thanks to the sturdy frames and perfect constitutions, the brothers were only temporarily the worse for their experience. They both were frost-bitten, of course, Bob's poor nose and Phil's feet coming in for the worst of it; but a few weeks' good nursing cured everything, and no scars remained to remind them, had they ever been likely to forget it, of the night they were lost.

ICE-SKATING IN CANADA

It is a glorious winter afternoon, and having left the smoke and din and dust of the city far behind, we are standing together at the foot of the first of the Dartmouth lakes. Straight before us, and spreading far out on either hand, lies a glistening expanse, whose polished surface flashes back the cheerful sunshine. Three unbroken miles in length, and more than one in width, this icy plain awaits us in its virgin purity. It were strange, then, did not our fingers tremble with impatience and our acmes snap with feverish haste. They are on at last, and now for the supremest luxury of motion. The crisp, cool air is charged with electricity; every answering nerve tingles delightfully, and the blood leaps responsively through the throbbing pulses. Once out upon the ringing ice, and we seem to have passed from the realm of solid flesh and blood to that of "tricksy, dainty Ariel." We have broken loose from the bonds of gravitation, and as with favouring wind we speed away to the farther shore, every stroke of our steel-shod feet counting good for a quartette of yards, the toiling and moiling of the work-a-day world seem to have found at the margin of the lake a magic barrier beyond which they may not follow us, and with spirits light and free we glide off into a new sphere where care and labour are unknown. Mile after mile flashes past, yet our muscles weary not, nor does the breath grow short. But what is this? Is our flight already ended; and must we turn back so soon? The fir-clad shores, which were a little while ago so far apart, have drawn together, until they seem to meet not far ahead, and put a bar to further progress. A cunning turn, a short, quick dash over the dangerous spot, where the current runs swiftly and the ice bends ominously, and, behold! we are out again upon a second lake, still larger than the first, and dotted here and there with tiny ever-green islets that look like emeralds in a silver setting. For three miles more our way lies before us smooth and clear; and then at last, as having reached the limit of our enterprise we throw ourselves upon a fallen tree, to rest our now tired limbs and catch our diminished breath, I ask which, of wheelman, horseman, yachtsman, sculler, or skater, enjoys the finest exercise?

No country in the world presents better facilities for indulgence in the luxury of skating than Canada. Holland may with propriety boast of her smooth canals, Norway of her romantic fiords, Scotland of her poetic lochs; but for variety of lake, river, canal, pond, and frozen sea, from the majestic St. Lawrence to the humblest stream that affords delight to the village red-cheeked lads and lasses, Canada is unsurpassed. It is no wonder, then, that the Canadians are a nation of skaters, and that the skating-rinks should be as indispensable an adjunct to every city, town, and village as the church and the concert-hall. With a season extending over four and often five months, the managers of rinks can count upon receiving profitable returns upon their capital; and so those institutions multiply.

Owing to the great quantity of snow which every winter brings, the season for outdoor skating in Canada is very short, consisting usually of the middle weeks of December, when Jack Frost, by thoughtfully anticipating the snow, allows of a fortnight's skating in the open air before the mantle of winter hides his handiwork from sight and use. As a natural consequence, Canadians are not remarkable for long-distance skating; and two winters ago the swiftest fliers of our land had to lower their banner before Mr. Axel Paulsen, the renowned Norwegian skater, who made a triumphant tour through Canada and the United States.

On the other hand, the long season enjoyed by the rinks enables all who will take the trouble, and do not shrink from a novitiate of bumps and bruises, to become exceedingly expert at fancy skating; and it is hardly debatable that the rinks of Toronto, Montreal, Halifax, and St. John can send forth skaters who, for grace, precision, and intricacy of movement, would find no superiors in the world. When Mr. Paulsen attempted to teach the Canadians fancy skating, he was somewhat chagrined to find himself soon reduced to the position of learner. As an ice-acrobat he did indeed perform one or two feats that were novel, but they had only to be seen to be immediately copied; while some of the Canadians were able to open his eyes to possibilities of "didoes" which he thought it not best to hurriedly attempt. His visit was of permanent value, however, because it awakened a deeper interest in long-distance skating; and one may safely venture to prophesy that, should Mr. Paulsen come this way again, he will find the defeat of his whilom opponents at long distances not quite such a holiday task as on the occasion of his last visit.

What is known in England as "figure-skating," and there very ardently indulged in by well-to-do members of the various clubs, who can afford to acquire the art in Norway or Scotland, is but little practised in Canada. It is not suitable for rinks, as it requires so much room, and can only be done to advantage in large, open spaces, which the "figurists" may have all to themselves.

Figure-skating is undoubtedly very effective and striking when executed by a band of well-disciplined skaters who thoroughly understand one another. But it is so elaborate, and takes so much time both in preparation and performance, that it is not suited to the latitude of a colony where the majority of those who skate have no surplus leisure, and want to make the most of the time at their disposal for recreation.

There is one phase of figure-skating, however, which does flourish throughout Canada – to wit, dancing; and it would delight the heart of Terpsichore herself to watch a well-skilled quartette of couples gliding through the mazes of the lancers or quadrille, or sweeping round in airy circles to the music of the waltz. The evolutions differ somewhat, of course, from the steps taken on the floor, but the identity of the dance is far from being lost, and the pleasure of the dancer is greatly enhanced through the surpassing ease of motion. This dancing on the ice may be seen in its perfection at Halifax, the capital of Nova Scotia, which, being a garrison city, enjoys the unique privilege of military bands; and the officers as a rule becoming enthusiastic skaters, the ladies who grace the fashionable rink by their presence have a grand time of it gliding entrancingly about to the bewitching strains of delightful music, and bringing all the artillery of their thrilling eyes, tempting cheeks, and enslaving lips to bear upon the gallant sons of Mars, who oftentimes find the slippery floor more fatal than the tented field.

The finest rinks in Canada are those in Montreal, Halifax, and St. John. The rink at Halifax is really the Crystal Palace of the exhibition grounds, and for size, appearance, and convenience is surpassed by none. One of the most cheerful sights imaginable is this vast building on band-night, when the snow-white arena is almost hidden beneath a throng of happy skaters, youths and maidens, circling round hand in hand – the maiden glowing with pride at her admirer's dexterity, the youth enraptured by his charmer's roseate winsomeness. Here doth Cupid bid defiance to the chilling blasts of winter, and although the poets and painters have conspired to confine him to a garb appropriate to the dog-days, the sly wielder of the fatal bow must in winter enwrap himself in furry garments, and like a tiny Santa Claus perch his chubby form unseen among the rafters, and from that coigne of vantage let fly his shafts thick and fast into the merry company beneath.

One of the chief attractions of skating for the ambitious disciple is that there is practically no limit to its possibilities in the way of invention and combination. It would be extremely difficult to prepare for any skating tournament a hard-and-fast programme which would meet every requirement. Hence in competitions of this kind the custom is to lay down some twenty or thirty of the best-known feats which every competitor is supposed to do, and then leave each contestant to superadd thereto such marvels of skill as he may have picked up or invented. At the same time, of course, there may be almost as many degrees of skill represented in the execution of the set programme as there are competitors, and the judges must take this fully into consideration when making their award, and not allow their judgment to be dazzled by some particularly striking "extra." Skating tournaments, however, are not as frequent as they ought to be. While every other recognized sport has its regularly recurring trials of proficiency, skating has hitherto been inexplicably neglected. Surely nothing could be more interesting or attractive than a gathering of accomplished skaters of both sexes vying with one another in the ease and grace with which they can illustrate the intricacies of the "grape-vine," the difficulty of the "giant swing," or the rapidity of the "locomotive." Trials of speed are common enough at all rinks, and are undoubtedly more popular and exciting than trials of skill, but the more refined and less demoralizing competition should not be entirely neglected.

The speed attained by those who race in rinks, it need hardly be explained, affords no criterion whatever whereby to judge of what fast skaters are competent to accomplish. The incessant turns, the sharp corners, the confined area, all tend to materially reduce the rate of progression; and only out on some broad lake or long-extending reach of river can the skater do his best. I have no records at hand as I write, but my own experience justifies me in venturing the assertion that a champion skater in perfect form, and properly equipped with long-bladed racing skates, would prove no mean antagonist for Maud S – herself over a measured mile, while at longer distances he would have the field to himself.

Like all other amusements, skating in Canada waxes and wanes in popular estimation, according to the mysterious laws of human impulse. One winter skating will be voted "not the thing," and the rinks will be deserted; the next, they will be crowded, and even the heads of families will be fishing out their rusty "acmes" from the lumber-closet, and renewing their youth in the icy arena. As a means of exercise during the long, weary months of winter, when the deep snow renders walking a toil devoid of pleasure, and the muscles are aching for employment, the skating-rink is an unspeakable boon, especially to him whose lot it is to endure much "dry drudgery at the desk's dead wood." An hour's brisk spinning around will clear the befogged brain, brace up the lax frame, and give a keenness to the appetite that nothing else could do. Then the rink has its social as well as its sanitary advantages. During the winter months it affords both sexes a pleasant and convenient rendezvous, where, unhampered by the conventionalities of the ball-room, and aided by the cheerful inspiration of the exercise, they can enjoy one another's society with a frequency otherwise unattainable. On band-days, indeed, the rink becomes converted into a spacious salle d'assemblée, where the numbered programme of musical selections enables Corydon to make engagements in advance with Phyllis, and thus insure the prosperous prosecution of his suit.

A carnival on ice – and every rink has one or more during the season – affords a rarely interesting and brilliant spectacle. For these occasions the building dons its gala dress, the gaunt rafters are hung with banners, the walls are hidden beneath variegated bunting and festooned with spruce embroidery, lights gleam brightly from every nook and corner, and the ice is prepared with special care. Then, as the motley crowd glides swiftly by, one may behold representatives of every clime and nation mingling together in perfect amity. It is true the tawny Spaniard, the dark-eyed Italian, the impassive Turk, the appalling Zulu, the soft and silent Hindu, and others whose home lies beneath the southern skies, betray a familiarity with the ice which seems to cast some doubt upon its genuineness.

But when his Satanic Majesty himself, with barbed tail and cloven hoof, confesses to an intimacy with the mazy evolutions of the "Philadelphia grape-vine," the incongruity attaching to visitors from cooler climes appears less striking, and they may go on their way unchallenged. Sometimes masks are de rigueur at these carnivals, and then the inevitable clown and harlequin have unlimited license, till even Quakers and friars, infected by their bad example, vie with them in mad pranks, and the fun soon waxes furious. Masked or unmasked, the carnival skaters have a joyous time, and the hours steal away with cruel haste.

Such are some of the phases of ice-skating in Canada. If this article has seemed to be devoted principally to indoor skating, it is because that can be pursued through so much greater a portion of the winter than the outdoor kind. Skating in its perfection is of course only to be had in the open air, and my most delightful recollections are associated with the Dartmouth lakes, of happy memory. Connected with the same lakes, however, there is a recollection too thrilling to be delightful, and which, in view of what might have been, brings a shudder even now while I rehearse it.

It happened in my college days. I had been skating all the afternoon, and, as the dusk grew on apace, found myself away down at the head of the second lake, full six miles from the point where I had got on the ice; so, girding up my loins, I set my face towards home, and struck out lustily. After going about one hundred yards, I thought I heard the sound of my name come faintly to me over the ice.

Wheeling sharply about I saw nothing, except a dark form some distance away, which through the gathering gloom resembled a log or tree-branch; and I was just about to start off again, when once more my name was called, this time so clearly as to leave no chance for doubt, the sound evidently coming from the seeming log. Hastening over to it with all speed, I was startled to find the professor of classics at my college – who did not allow the loss of an arm to debar him from the pleasure of skating – lying on the ice, with his left leg broken sharp and clear a few inches above the ankle, the result of a sudden and heavy fall. Here, indeed, was a trying situation for a mere lad to cope with. We were alone in a wilderness of ice, and six miles away from the nearest house. The shadows of night were fast closing around us. Those six miles had to be gotten over in some way, and there was not a moment to be lost. Hurrying to the shore I cut down a small spruce tree. Upon this the helpless sufferer was laid as gently as possible, and bound to it with straps. Then upon this rude ambulance I slowly dragged him down the lake, while he, with splendid self-control, instead of murmuring at his terrible agony, charmed away my weariness by his unconquerable heroism. It was a toilsome task, but help came when we reached the first lake, and once the shore was gained, a long express waggon filled with mattresses made the homeward journey comparatively painless. "All is well that ends well." The broken leg soon mended, and the following winter found the professor skating as briskly as ever.

Yet I cannot help wondering sometimes with a shudder how it would have fared with the interpreter of Greece and Rome had not that first faint call reached my ears. A bitter cold night, a wide expanse of polished ice, a solitary man lying prone upon it with one arm missing at the shoulder, and one leg broken at the ankle – it were little less than a miracle if ice-skating in Canada had not been clouded by one more catastrophe that winter night.

THE WILD DOGS OF ATHABASCA

Old Donald M'Tavish was a wonderfully interesting character. In the service of the Hudson Bay Company, which for nearly two hundred years held regal sway over the vast unknown north-west of Canada, he had spent half a century of arduous and exciting service, living far away from civilization, one of a mere handful of white men in the midst of a wilderness sparsely inhabited by the Indian and the half-breed, but abounding in deer, buffaloes, bears, wolves, and the smaller wild animals.

He had risen rapidly in the service, for he was a fearless, stanch, trustworthy man, and for the latter half of two terms had filled the important post of chief factor at different forts; for it was his somewhat undesirable if honourable lot to be sent to those stations that gave the most trouble and the least returns to the company. Such was his reputation for shrewdness, courage, and fidelity, that it was felt by the authorities that no other man could so soon set matters straight as Donald M'Tavish.