Canadian Crusoes: A Tale of the Rice Lake Plains. Catharine Parr Strickland Traill
pursued their way, till emerging into a wider space, they came among those singularly picturesque groups of rounded gravel hills, where the Cold Creek once more met their view, winding its way towards a grove of evergreens, where it was again lost to the eye.
This lovely spot is now known as Sackville’s Mill-dike. The hand of man has curbed the free course of the wild forest stream, and made it subservient to his will, but could not destroy the natural beauties of the scene. [FN: This place was originally owned by a man of taste, who resided for some time upon the spot, till finding it convenient to return to his native country, the saw-mill passed into other hands. The old log-house on the green bank above the mill-stream is still standing, though deserted; the garden fence, broken and dilapidated, no longer protects the enclosure, where the wild rose mingles with that of Provence—the Canadian creeper with the hop.]
Fearing to entangle themselves in the swamp, they kept the hilly ground, winding their way up to the summit of the lofty ridge of the oak hills, the highest ground they had yet attained; and here it was that the silver waters of the Rice Lake in all its beauty burst upon the eyes of the wondering and delighted travellers. There it lay, a sheet of liquid silver just emerging from the blue veil of mist that hung upon its surface, and concealed its wooded shores on either side. All feeling of dread and doubt and danger was lost, for the time, in one rapturous glow of admiration at a scene so unexpected and so beautiful as that which they now gazed upon from the elevation they had gained. From this ridge they looked down the lake, and the eye could take in an extent of many miles, with its verdant wooded islands, which stole into view one by one as the rays of the morning sun drew up the moving curtain of mist that enveloped them; and soon both northern and southern shores became distinctly visible, with all their bays and capes and swelling oak and pine-crowned hills.
And now arose the question, “Where are we? What lake is this? Can it be the Ontario, or is it the Rice Lake? Can yonder shores be those of the Americans, or are they the hunting-grounds of the dreaded Indians?” Hector remembered having often heard his father say that the Ontario was like an inland sea, and the opposite shores not visible unless in some remarkable state of the atmosphere, when they had been occasionally discerned by the naked eye, while here they could distinctly see objects on the other side, the peculiar growth of the trees, and even flights of wild fowl winging their way among the rice and low bushes on its margin. The breadth of the lake from shore to shore could not, they thought, exceed three or four miles; while its length, in an easterly direction, seemed far greater beyond—what the eye could take in. [FN: The length of the Rice Lake, from its headwaters near Black’s Landing to the mouth of the Trent, is said to be twenty-five miles; its breadth from north to south varies from three to six.]
They now quitted the lofty ridge, and bent their steps towards the lake. Wearied with their walk, they seated themselves beneath the shade of a beautiful feathery pine, on a high promontory that commanded a magnificent view down the lake.
“How pleasant it would be to have a house on this delightful bank, overlooking the lake,” said Louis; “only think of the fish we could take, and the ducks and wild fowl we could shoot! and it would be no very hard matter to hollow out a log canoe, such a one as I have heard my father say he has rowed in across many a lake and broad river—below, when he was lumbering.”
“Yes, it would, indeed, be a pleasant spot to live upon,” [FN: Now the site of a pleasant cottage, erected by an enterprising gentleman from Devonshire, who has cleared and cultivated a considerable portion of the ground described above; a spot almost unequalled in the plains for its natural beauties and extent of prospect.] said Hector, “though I am not quite sure that the land is as good just here as it is at Cold Springs; but all these flats and rich valleys would make fine pastures, and produce plenty of grain, too, if cultivated.”
“You always look to the main chance, Hec,” said Louis, laughing; “well, it was worth a few hours’ walking this morning to look upon so lovely a sheet of water as this. I would spend two nights in a wigwam—would not you, ma belle?—to enjoy such a sight.”
“Yes, Louis,” replied his cousin, hesitating as she spoke; “it is very pretty, and I did not mind sleeping in the little hut; but then I cannot enjoy myself as much as I should have done had my father and mother been aware of my intention of accompanying you. Ah, my dear, dear parents!” she added, as the thought of the anguish the absence of her companions and herself would cause at home came over her. “How I wish I had remained at home! Selfish Catharine! foolish idle girl!”
Poor Louis was overwhelmed with grief at the sight of his cousin’s tears, and as the kind-hearted but thoughtless boy bent over her to soothe and console her, his own tears fell upon the fair locks of the weeping girl, and bedewed the hand he held between his own.
“If you cry thus, cousin,” he whispered, “you will break poor Louis’s heart, already sore enough with thinking of his foolish conduct.” “Be not cast down, Catharine,” said her brother, cheeringly: “we may not be so far from home as you think. As soon as you are rested we will set out again, and we may find something to eat; there must be strawberries on these sunny banks.”
Catharine soon yielded to the voice of her brother, and drying her eyes, proceeded to descend the sides of the steep valley that lay to one side of the high ground where they had been sitting.
Suddenly darting down the bank, she exclaimed, “Come, Hector; come, Louis: here indeed is provision to keep us from starving:”—for her eye had caught the bright red strawberries among the flowers and herbage on the slope; large ripe strawberries, the very finest she had ever seen.
“There is indeed, ma belle,” said Louis, stooping as he spoke to gather up, not the fruit, but a dozen fresh partridge eggs from the inner shade of a thick tuft of grass and herbs that grew beside a fallen tree. Catharine’s voice and sudden movements had startled the partridge [FN: The Canadian partridge is a species of grouse, larger than the English or French partridge. We refer our young readers to the finely arranged specimens in the British Museum, (open to the public,) where they may discover “Louis’s partridge.”] from her nest, and the eggs were soon transferred to Louis’s straw hat, while a stone flung by the steady hand of Hector stunned the parent bird. The boys laughed exultingly as they displayed their prizes to the astonished Catharine, who, in spite of hunger, could not help regretting the death of the mother bird. Girls and women rarely sympathise with men and boys in their field sports, and Hector laughed at his sister’s doleful looks as he handed over the bird to her.
“It was a lucky chance,” said he, “and the stone was well aimed, but it is not the first partridge that I have killed in this way. They are so stupid you may even run them down at times; I hope to get another before the day is over. Well, there is no fear of starving to-day, at all events,” he added, as he inspected the contents of his cousin’s hat; “twelve nice fresh eggs, a bird, and plenty of fruit.”
“But how shall we cook the bird and the eggs? We have no means of getting a fire made,” said Catharine.
“As to the eggs,” said Louis, “we can eat them raw; it is not for hungry wanderers like us to be over nice about our food.”
“They would satisfy us much better were they boiled, or roasted in the ashes,” observed Hector.
“True. Well, a fire, I think, can be got with a little trouble.”
“But how?” asked Hector. “Oh, there are many ways, but the readiest would be a flint with the help of my knife.”
“A flint?”
“Yes, if we could get one—but I see nothing but granite, which crumbles and shivers when struck—we could not get a spark. However, I think it’s very likely that one of the round pebbles I see on the beach yonder may be found hard enough for the purpose.”
To the shore they bent their steps as soon as the little basket had been well filled with strawberries, and descending the precipitous bank, fringed with young saplings, birch, ash, and poplars, they quickly found themselves beside the bright waters of the lake. A flint was soon found among the water-worn stones that lay thickly strewn upon the shore, and a