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

Having filled out his fifty years with entire satisfaction to his employers and no small credit to himself, he had retired on his laurels to spend a hale and hearty old age, in the enjoyment of the comfortable pension awarded him by the company which he had served so well.

It was the delight of his declining days to recount for the benefit of younger ears the many thrilling incidents of his adventurous career, and one of his favourite stories was that which I shall now attempt to tell, as nearly as possible in his own words.

"It was early in the Fifties, when I had charge of old Fort Assiniboine, away out on the Athabasca River, not far from the Rockies. Sir George Simpson, the governor of the colony at Red River, like the thoughtful man he was, had sent out to me by the spring brigade a splendid Scotch stag-hound, one of half-a-dozen he had just brought with him from the dear old land.

"O man, but he was a dog! His back was on a level with my belt, and when he raised himself on his hind legs he could put his fore paws on my shoulders and rub noses with me; yet I stood a good six feet in my stockings in those days.

"His hair was as grizzled as old Ephraim's, and coarse, and curled like what they stuff beds with. His body was long and lean, and so was his head, but he had a noble eye; and then the way he could run, and leap over everything that came in his path, it was a sight to see, I warrant you.

"We soon got very much attached to each other, and wherever I went Bruce went too. He did not seem to take to any one else, and I was just as well pleased that he did not, for I never wanted him out of my sight.

"That same summer a new hand was sent to the fort. He was an Englishman, who gave his name as Heathcote, and he brought with him a pure white female bull-dog that was one of the most dangerous-looking brutes I ever laid eyes on. She minded nobody but her master, of whom, to do her credit, she seemed fond enough.

"I never much cared for that breed of dog, but I must say Vixen was about perfect in her way. As to good-breeding, there certainly wasn't much to choose between her and Bruce.

"I was a little uneasy as to how the two dogs would get on, and at first it did look as if there might be trouble, for Bruce, who utterly despised the rabble of curs hanging about the fort, evidently felt disposed to resent the coming of this possible rival; but almost before I knew it, the two were the best of friends, and would eat their dinner side by side like two well-behaved children.

"After a while they took to going out a-hunting together, and grand times they had. They would work along in company until a herd of deer was started, and then Bruce would make for the fattest doe, his tremendous speed soon bringing him to her throat; while Vixen, following at her best rate, would come up just in time to help him to finish her, and then they would have a fine feast.

"Once the dogs got into these ways neither Heathcote nor I had much more satisfaction out of them. They were never on hand when wanted. They kept growing wilder and wilder, and finally, toward autumn, they disappeared one day, and were never seen at the fort again.

"We hunted for them high and low, sending out the half-breeds as far as Lake La Crosse on the east, and to the foot-hills of the Rockies on the west, but not a sign or trace could we find of them. When winter came and they did not return, we gave them up as lost, thinking that something must have happened to them on one of their hunting forays, or that perchance they had been killed by the Indians.

"Two years went by, and Bruce and Vixen were almost forgotten, when stories began to reach the fort of a strange and fierce kind of wild dog that was being seen now and then by hunters and trappers in the out-of-the-way valleys and ravines of the foot-hills.

"It was not an easy job to get at the bottom of these stories, for they passed from mouth to mouth before reaching us; but at last a trapper turned up who had seen a pack of the dogs himself, and after hearing his description I had no longer any doubt but that these wild dogs which were making such a stir were the offspring of our two former pets which had gone away in company.

"By all accounts they were evidently dangerous brutes to meet. From Bruce they had got wonderful speed and endurance; from Vixen, ferocity and fearlessness. Swift, savage, stubborn, and always going in large packs, there was not an animal on the plains or up among the mountains for which they were not more than a match.

"I felt eager to get a sight of the creatures, even though it should mean some risk; for while, like all wild dogs, willing enough to give men a wide berth, there was no telling what they might do if pressed by hunger. It was therefore good news when, a year later, orders came from Red River for me to make a trip to Fort George on the other side of the Rockies, where there were some matters that needed straightening up, as either going or coming back I would run a good chance of seeing something of the famous dogs.

"I left Fort Assiniboine in the autumn, and although a sharp look-out was kept by all the party as we went over to Fort George, not a sight nor sign of the dogs did we stumble upon.

"But on my way back in the spring I had better luck, and I certainly shall never forget my first and last sight of those terrible brutes.

"We had crossed the Rockies, and were descending the eastern slopes, getting down among the foot-hills. One day Heathcote and I pushed on together in advance of the rest, both of us having the dogs on our mind.

"Early in the afternoon we came to a bluff that overlooked a lovely little valley, which we at once decided would be our camping-place for that night. A bright stream ran along the centre of the valley. Having a thought that perhaps a herd of deer might put in an appearance if we kept out of sight, wo stretched ourselves out comfortably on the bluff and awaited developments. They proved to be interesting beyond all our expectations.

"We had been there about an hour, perhaps, when Heathcote, who had been looking over at the opposite bluff, suddenly grasped my arm, saying under his breath. —

"'Look there, M'Tavish! What do you think of that?'"

"A break in the bluff had made a sort of easy descent into the valley, and down this were coming, in single file, one, two, three, four – no less than a dozen bears of the large and dreaded silver-tip kind; splendid fellows most of them, bent on having a good time on the sunny slopes beside the stream.

"We hardly dared to stir or breathe. To have attacked them would have been utter madness. Thankful might we be if we could crawl away without their attacking us.

"While lying there motionless, and wishing to the bottom of our hearts that the rest of the party were on hand to make matters even, a fierce bark came from the bluff a little above where the bears first showed themselves. It was followed by a whole chorus of deep-mouthed baying, and an instant later there rushed into view, fairly tumbling over one another in their impetuous haste, a great pack of dogs that we at once recognized as those we wished to see.

"They were certainly a fearsome lot of creatures. Some were long, lean, and shaggy, like Bruce; others were thick-bodied and smooth of hair, like Vixen, – and all were powerful, ravenous-looking brutes, a dozen of whom might eat a good-sized buffalo for dinner without feeling uncomfortably overloaded after their meal.

"They sighted the bears the moment they reached the edge of the bluff, and at once rushed down to the attack, barking as though they would split their throats. The bears made ready to receive them by massing together at the top of a little knoll near the water, and before we could fully realize what was taking place the fight had begun.

"So far as we could make out the dogs numbered fifty at least, so that, considering their size and strength, the odds were a good deal in their favour; but the bears fought like heroes.

"At first they crowded together in a sort of circle, with heads facing out; while the dogs ran round them, snarling and barking, and watching their chance to spring. A few moments later the circle was broken up into a dozen roaring, writhing, yelping groups, composed of a bear with four or five of the dogs clinging tenaciously to different parts of its body.

"It was the Vixen strain that told now. Again and again would the bear, rising on his hind quarters, hurl the dogs from him with mighty sweeps of his huge fore paws, only to be penned at once, and brought to the ground by a fresh attack.

"At frequent intervals an agonizing death-howl would pierce its way through the horrible clamour, as some unfortunate dog, caught in the grasp of its maddened enemy, would be crushed to death in his resistless embrace.

"The minutes slipped by, and the fight still raged, but there could be no doubt how it would result. The dogs had the best of it as to numbers, and they were the equals of the bears in courage, ferocity, and endurance, if not in sheer strength.

"One by one the big brown bodies rolled over in the stillness of death. At the end of about half-an-hour the fight was over. Not a bear breathed, and around their torn carcasses lay between twenty and thirty of the dogs, as dead as themselves – the best possible proof of how fiercely and obstinately they had fought.

"Not a word had passed between Heathcote and myself while all this went on. We were too much taken up with the extraordinary conflict going on before our eyes even to look at each other: but when it was all over, and the surviving dogs, having satisfied themselves that the bears were really all dead, lay down to lick their many wounds before they began upon the feast their brave victims had provided for them, I touched Heathcote on the shoulder, and whispered, —

"'We've seen the dogs; let's take good care they don't see us.'

"After such a proof of their powers as we had had, we were in no mind to claim a nearer acquaintance with them on the score of having once owned their ancestors. Accordingly we crawled noiselessly away, and making a long circuit, rejoined our party in time to prevent their turning down into the valley, which we no longer considered a good place to camp in for the night.

"That was my first and last sight of the wild dogs of Athabasca. The following autumn I went east, and never returned to Fort Assiniboine. Whether the dogs have since been all killed off or are still running wild among the far recesses of the Rockies, I don't know; but that wonderful battle in the valley was one of the greatest sights of my life, the like of which no one perhaps will ever again see on this continent."

BIRDS AND BEASTS ON SABLE ISLAND

If you will take your atlas and turn to the map of Canada, you may, by looking very carefully, discover a small spot in the Atlantic Ocean almost due east from Nova Scotia, and close beside the sixtieth parallel of longitude. This little lonely spot is Sable Island, There it lies in the midst of the waves, a long, low bank of gray sand without a single tree upon it from end to end; nay, not so much as a bush behind which a baby might play hide-and-seek. It seems, therefore, at first sight to be one of the most unfavourable places in the world for the study of either birds or beasts. Yet, strange as it may seem, this island, which is now but twenty miles long, and at its greatest breadth but a mile and a half wide – once it was quite double that size – has a wonderfully interesting history of its own, of which not the least entertaining chapter is that relating to its furry and feathered inhabitants.

Although when first viewed from the sea Sable Island appears to be nothing better than a barren sand-bank, on closer acquaintance it reveals inside its sloping beaches vales and meadows that in summer-time seem like bits out of a Western prairie. There are green, grassy knolls, and enchanting dells with placid ponds in their midst; and if you only come at the right time and stay long enough, you may gather pink roses, blue lilies, China asters, wild pea, gay golden-rod, and, what is still better, strawberries, blueberries, and cranberries in bountiful profusion.

Our concern at present, however, is not with the fruits and flowers, but with the fur and feathers of this curious place.

Seeing that Sable Island has no trees on the branches of which nests may be built, it follows naturally that its winged inhabitants are altogether of the water-fowl and sea-bird variety. All over the sides and tops of the sand-hills, which rise to the height of thirty, forty, or fifty feet, the gulls, gannets, terns, and other aquatic birds scrape together their miserable apologies for nests, and hatch out their ugly little squab chicks, making such a to-do about the business that the whole air is filled with their chattering, clanging, and screaming.

They are indeed very disagreeable neighbours; for besides the horrid din they are ceaselessly making, they are the most untidy, not to say filthy, of housekeepers. After they have occupied their bird-barracks, as their nesting-places might appropriately be called, for a few weeks, the odour the wind bears from that direction could never be mistaken for one of those spicy breezes which are reputed to "blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle."

Then they have not the redeeming quality of being fit to eat; for unless one were on the very edge of starvation, one taste of their flesh, rank with suggestions of fish and train-oil, would be sufficient to banish all appetite.

They have one or two good qualities. They are brave; for at the peril of their lives they will dauntlessly attack any rash intruder upon their domains, swooping down upon him with sharp cries and still sharper beaks.

Their movements illustrate the poetry of motion, as they come sailing grandly in from the ocean spaces, and circle about their own particular hillock in glorious dips and curves and mountings upward, that fill the human observer with longing and envy.

Much more satisfactory, however, are the black duck, sheldrake, plover, curlew, and snipe, which nest by uncounted thousands in the dense grass that girts the fresh-water ponds, and afford dainty dishes for the table. It is easy work to make a fine bag on a favourable day, and grand sport may be had by any one who knows how to handle a double-barrel.

Many are the interesting stories connected with bird life on Sable Island, but a single one, and that the oddest of them all, must suffice. I give it upon the unimpeachable authority of Dr. J. Bernard Gilpin.

About forty years or more ago a lot of rabbits were sent there as an experiment. The idea was, if they prospered, to furnish the human inhabitants of the island with a pleasant variety from the salt junk which generally adorned their tables.

The experiment succeeded admirably. Bunny found the firm, dry sands just the thing for his burrows, while the abundant wild pea and other herbage furnished unstinted food for his prolific brood. But one fateful day in spring – a dark day in the annals of rabbitdom – a big snowy owl, that had somehow lost his bearings and been driven out to sea by a westerly gale, dropped wearily upon the island to rest his tired pinions.

While sitting on a sand-heap, thankful at his escape from a watery grave, he looked about him, and to his amazed delight beheld – of all sights the most welcome in the world to a hungry owl —rabbits! Rabbits young and rabbits old, rabbits plump and rabbits lean, rabbits in sixes and rabbits in sevens, were frisking about in the long grass and over the sand, merrily innocent of their peril.

At first Sir Owl could scarcely believe his eyes, for it was a bright, sunny day, and owls cannot see very well when the sun is shining; but presently, as he still squatted on the sand, perfectly motionless except his eyelids blinking solemnly, a thoughtless little rabbit, which had grown too much excited over a game of chase with his brother to look where he was going, ran up against the bewildered bird.

This awoke the owl thoroughly. With a quick spring that sent all the other little cotton-tails scampering off to their burrows in wild affright, he fastened his long claws in the back of his unfortunate disturber, and, without even stopping to say grace, made a dinner off him on the spot.

That was a red-letter day in the owl's calendar. Thenceforth he revelled in rabbit for breakfast, dinner, and supper, and, had he been a very greedy owl, might have kept his discovery of a rabbit bonanza all to himself; but he didn't. With a splendid unselfishness which some bipeds without feathers might advantageously imitate, he had no sooner recruited his strength than off he posted to the mainland to spread the good news.

Four days later he came back, but not alone this time. Bearing him company were his brothers, his sisters, his cousins, his uncles, and his aunts, in such numbers that ere the summer ended there was not a solitary bunny left upon the island!

Since then the place has been restocked, and there having been no return of the owls, the rabbits, despite the fact that great numbers of them are killed for food, have so multiplied as to become a positive nuisance, and the experience of Australia being in view, the advisability of their extermination is seriously considered.

Besides the rabbits, there have been, at different times, the following animals upon Sable Island – namely, the black fox, white bear, walrus, and seals; wild horses, cattle, and swine; rats, cats, and dogs. That makes quite a long list. Of course so small and bare an island could never have held them all at once.

Now they are all gone except the rabbits, the horses, of which several hundreds still scamper wild over the sand dunes, and the seals, which come every year to introduce their shiny little whelps into the world, and to grow fat on the fish hurled continually upon the beach by the tireless breakers.

It is a great many years since the black fox, white bear, and walrus were last seen upon the island. Too much money could be made out of them when dead for the fishermen, who knew of their presence, to let them live long; and so with powder and shot and steel they were ruthlessly exterminated. The beautiful skins of the black fox, worth one hundred golden crowns each, went principally to France, where they were made up into splendid robes for royalty.

Just how the wild horses and cattle found their way to Sable Island is not positively known.

They were first heard of in those early days when ships loaded with cattle, grain, and farming utensils were coming over in little fleets from Europe to help to settle America. In all likelihood some of these vessels got cast away on the island – for it has ever been a dreadful place for wrecks – and in some way the animals managed to scramble safe ashore, and thus the place became populated.

The wild cattle disappeared early in the century; but the horses, or rather ponies, are still there, and very interesting creatures they are.

Winter and summer they are out on the sand in all weathers. Indeed, they scorn to go under cover even in the wildest storms; and although shelters have been built for them, they will not deign to enter them. Another curious thing about them is that they are never seen to lie down, and apparently go to sleep standing.

There are now about four hundred of these ponies, divided into troops, each under the charge and control of an old stallion, whose shaggy, unkempt mane and tail sweep the ground as he stands sentinel over his numerous family.

They belong to the Dominion Government, and it has been usual to cull out some forty or fifty of the best of them each year and send them up to Halifax, where they command good prices.

They are stanch, sturdy little animals, and very serviceable when properly broken. In my boyhood days I rejoiced in the possession of a fine bay that, barring a provoking habit of pitching an unwary rider over his head, was a great source of enjoyment.

The manner of catching the ponies is for a number of mounted men to surround a band and drive it into a corral in which a tame pony has been placed as a decoy. This is often a very exciting experience: the cracking of whips, shouting of men, neighing of ponies, combine with the plunging of the frightened captives and the gallant charges of the enraged stallions to make up a scene not readily forgotten.

Once safely corraled, the best males are picked out and lassoed, and the rest turned loose to breathe the salt air of freedom once more.

As the breed has been observed to be degenerating greatly of late years, means have been taken to improve it, and it is probable that ere long Sable Island ponies will be more desirable than ever.

A very amusing thing in connection with animal life on Sable Island is the story of the rats, cats, and dogs.

First of all were the rats, who are reputed to be very clever about deserting sinking ships, and who here found plenty of opportunity to show their cleverness, for wrecks are always happening. They thus became so plentiful that they threatened to eat the human inhabitants out of house and home. Indeed, they did make them do without bread for three whole months upon one occasion.

This state of things, of course, could not be tolerated. A large number of cats were accordingly imported, and they soon cleared the premises of the rapacious rodents. But it was not long ere the pussies in their turn grew so numerous, wild, and fierce as to become a source of serious trouble. A small army of dogs was therefore brought upon the scene, and they made short work of the cats, thus rounding out a very curious cycle.

Did space permit I could tell something about the seals, and their very quaint and attractive ways and manners. But perhaps enough has been already written to convince readers that however lonely, barren, and insignificant Sable Island may seem, it has an interesting story of its own which is well worth the telling.

THE BORE OF MINAS BASIN

Upon the side of one of the rounded hills that rise up gently from the wonderful sea of verdure which Longfellow, without ever looking upon it for himself, immortalized in his "Evangeline," Acacia Villa nestled cozily in the midst of many trees. Long lines of poplars stood sentinel-like up and down the house front, and marked out the garden boundaries, furnishing abundant supplies of "peppers" for the boys in spring-time; and, better still, a whole regiment of apple and pear trees marshalled itself at the back, filling the hearts (and mouths) of both young and old with delight in the autumn, when the boughs bent so temptingly beneath their burden of fruitage. There could hardly be a more attractive location for a boarding-school; and seeing what comfortable quarters Mr. Thomson provided, and how thoroughly he understood the business of teaching, it was no wonder that boys came not only from all parts of Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, but even from the United States, to be grounded in classics, mathematics, and literature under his direction.

The last boarder left Acacia Villa long ago, but twenty years back its dormitories were filled to their utmost capacity with lads of all ages and sizes, and the whole neighbourhood felt the stirring influence of twoscore lively, hearty, noisy boys in its midst. For nearly ten months out of the year the school was like a hive of bees in honey-time – the term beginning in September and finishing in June. It was coming on toward midsummer now, and excitement ran high throughout the school; for while the drones were looking forward longingly to the holidays which would release them from all horrid lesson-learning for a couple of months, the workers were even more eagerly expecting the final examinations, when books, bats, balls, knives, and other things dear to the schoolboy's heart, were offered by wise Mr. Thomson to the boys who came out ahead in the different branches of study. The two boys strolling down toward the river this fine summer afternoon were good representatives of the two classes – Frank Hamilton being one of the brightest and most ambitious, as Tom Peters, or "Buntie" in the saucy slang of his schoolmates, was one of the dullest and least aspiring in the school. Yet, somehow or other, they had been great chums ever since they came by the same coach to the Villa two years before. One could easily understand that lazy, good-natured "Buntie" should find much to admire and love in handsome, manly, clever Frank, who was indeed a born leader; but just what Frank found in Tom to make him so fond of him puzzled everybody, from Mr. Thomson down. In whatever lay the secret, the fact was clear that the boys loved each other like brothers; and the master, who delighted in classical allusions, used to greet them as Damon and Pythias when he encountered them together. They were discussing the approaching examinations, and speculating as to the prizes Mr. Thomson would offer this year.