Chapter III: Part 3

"That's my brother's canoe. Can you see him?"

"Yes," murmurs Oo-chig-e-asque, her heart beating high with hope.

"Of what, then, is his carrying-strap made?"

"Muncwan," is the quick reply. "It is a piece of rainbow."

"Very good," responds the sister, with a brilliant smile. "You have indeed seen my brother. Let us go home and prepare for him."

So they hasten back to the wigwam, Oo-chig-e-asque's heart palpitating betwixt delight at her success and anxiety lest Tee-am, when he found what an insignificant little creature she really was, might refuse to keep his promise to marry the girl who should first be able to see him. As soon as they reach the tent the sister proceeds to prepare her visitor for the nuptial ceremony, and the young girl gives herself unhesitatingly into her hands. The uncouth birch-bark dress is stripped off and flung into the fire, and a handsome robe, richly adorned with beads, takes its place. Pure spring water is brought, and as the kind sister dashes it over the girl's face, and rubs the scarred features softly with her hands, lo! every scar and spot and blemish vanishes, and the face comes out fair and beautiful as it never was before. Realizing the wondrous change, the young girl utters an exclamation of delight; then checks herself, and puts her hand to her head.

"Ah!" she says sadly, "I have no hair. Tee-am will despise me when he sees I have no hair."

"Never fear, little one," the sister answers reassuringly, and, passing her hands over the singed and frizzled hair, behold another marvel! for it springs out in richer profusion than ever before, and falls in long thick tresses down the back of Oo-chig-e-asque, now too happy to speak. Catching it up, the sister coils it deftly round the young girl's head; and then, just as the toilet is complete, and radiant with joy, hope, and beauty Oo-chig-e-asque stands in the centre of the lodge. Tee-am comes bounding in with his load of game. At sight of the charming girl before him he stops short, and looks inquiringly at his sister. Then the situation dawns upon him.

"Way-jool-koos" (We are discovered at last), he says, with a bright smile, taking the young girl's hand.

"Yes, brother, your wife has come at last," replies the sister, "and is she not a beauty?"

So Tee-am and Oo-chig-e-asque were married, and, like the heroes and heroines of all true fairy tales, lived happily ever after.

*BLUE-NOSE FISHER FOLK.*

Scattered up and down the rocky, foam-fringed shore of Nova Scotia, sometimes standing out bravely upon a promontory that projects into the very midst of the breakers, sometimes nestling away cosily in the curve of a quiet bay, the white cottages of the hardy fisher folk give touches of warmth and life to a scene that would otherwise be one of unredeemed desolation.

They are not very imposing edifices, and viewed from the respectful distance which the dangers of that inhospitable coast compel the passing ship to keep, they seem still smaller than is really the case; but they are all homes, and in their two or three cramped rooms boys and girls have been born and bred, the young people made love and mated, and the old people closed their eyes in the last long sleep, as generation has succeeded generation.

So it is no wonder that the lads who thence go forth into distant parts of the world, as many of them do, find their hearts turning longingly back to the little cottage by the sea, and that they often return to spend their last years in the old place.

Voyaging along the coast some lovely summer afternoon, and from your comfortable chair on the steamer's deck watching these pretty cottages with their black roofs and white sides coming into view as point after point is opened out, and noting how trim and secure they seem, and the glorious prospect they command from the windows which look out from either side the central door, like sleepless eyes, it is easy to imagine that the fishermen's sons must have a fine, free, healthy life of it, and be far better off than the boys in the dusty, noisy, over-crowded cities.

Well, no doubt they are better off in some respects. They have plenty of fresh air and sunshine, and room to grow in, while nothing could be more wholesome than their food of fish and potatoes. But their life is a hard one, nevertheless, and I doubt if many city-bred lads would be eager to exchange with them, could they first have a year's experience of it.

If the mackerel, herring, cod, and haddock upon which the fisher folk depend for their living, were more regular in their habits, ami turned up at the same place at the same time every year, so that the men with the nets and hooks could count upon their harvests as the men with the scythes and hoes can upon theirs, the fisherman's lot would be a fairly comfortable one.

But there is nothing in this world more uncertain than fish. Not the slightest reliance can be placed upon them. They are here to-day, and off somewhere else to-morrow. One season, school after school of mackerel will pour into the little bay where Norman Hays and John Mackesey and George Brown have their fishing "berths," as the area assigned to each man is called, and fill the seines of these lucky fellows to repletion again and again as fast as they can spread them.

Then perhaps one, two, three seasons will pass without enough fish putting in an appearance to make one good haul.

The mackerel catching is the most interesting as it is the most profitable phase of the fisherman's toil, and for both reasons the boys like it the best, although from its being at the same time the most uncertain in its results, they know very well it cannot be depended upon for a living.

The season for these beautiful and delicious fish begins about the end of June, and so soon as it is time for them to appear, the highest points along the coast are taken possession of by men and boys, who stay there all day long watching intently the surface of the sea below them for the first sign of the silver scales which, when caught, can be turned into silver coins.

It is often long and weary work this watching. Day succeeds day without bringing anything: but through scorching sun or soaking rain, fine weather or foggy weather, the look-outs patiently persevere. At last some bright morning, when the sea seems still asleep, Jack Hays' keen young eyes descry a curious ripple on the water far beneath his eyrie.

His heart gives a throb, and his pulses beat like trip-hammers, but he is afraid at first to shout, for fear it is only a morning zephyr. Shading his eyes with his hand, and fairly quivering with excitement, he gazes intently for one moment more, and then shouting, "A school! a school!" at the top of his strong young voice, he goes bounding down the hill-side like a loosened boulder, till he reaches the cluster of cottages far below.

In an instant all is activity and bustle. The men spring into the boats lying ready at the little wharves, the boys tumble in pell-mell after them, the wives and daughters fling their aprons over their heads to keep off the sun, and run out to the end of the wharves, or climb up on the flakes, so that they may see as much as possible.

In a minute more the boats are heading for the mackerel as fast as brawny arms can drive them. Half a mile away the calm blue water is dark and disturbed for a space about the size of an ordinary tennis-court; it looks, in fact, as if it were boiling and bubbling just there, though all around is still and smooth.

Toward this spot the boats are hurried. Presently they reach it. Then they stop. One of the smaller boats goes up to the long flat-bottomed, high-stemmed craft that carries the seine, and takes one end of the net on board. Everything is done quietly, for the fish are easily frightened, and if alarmed will sink right down into the deep water, where they cannot be got at.

As quickly as sinewy arms can send her along, the small boat describes a circle round the fish, that continue to frisk about, all unconscious of their peril.

At length a shout of joy announces that connection has been made. The two ends of the seine are joined, and, if it be a purse-seine, the bottom is drawn together also, and then the tired, excited fishermen can take a little rest, and they try to guess how many barrels this "stop" of mackerel will make. Jack Hays and the rest of the boys can hardly contain themselves with delight, for won't they all have a trip up to the city so soon as the fish are ready to be sold, and these trips are the great events of their life.

Having got the fish nicely caught inside the seine, the next thing is to get them out again. The big net with its precious load is drawn as near the shore as possible, the boats crowd round it, and a busy scene ensues, as the blue-backed, silver-bellied beauties are taken from the meshes, and piled up in the boats until these little craft can hold no more.

In a little while all the fish are safely on shore, and then comes the splitting and salting, in which not only the boys, but the girls and their mothers too, take a hand, for the more quickly it is done the better.

The dexterity shown by the workers is astonishing. Holding a sharp knife in their right hand, they stand before a pile of glistening mackerel. With one motion they seize a fine fat fellow, with another they split him open from head to tail, with a third they despoil him of his entire digestive apparatus, with a fourth they put in its place a handful of salt, with a fifth fling him upon a pile beside them, and the whole operation is done in the twinkling of an eye.

To see the girls at this--and none are more expert than they--takes a good deal of the romance out of one's ideas of fisher-maidens; but it cannot be helped. They cannot afford to be romantic, or look picturesque. Their life is too hard for that kind of amusement.

In the catching of mackerel and herring there is not much danger, and the fishermen need not go far from home. But it is different with the cod and haddock and hake. To get these big fellows you must go out upon the Banks, as those strange, shallow areas in the Atlantic Ocean are called; and going out upon the Banks means being away for long weeks at a time, and exposed to many dangers.

Storms are frequent there, and the waves run mountain high, so that stanch and trim as the fishing craft are, and thoroughly expert their masters, hardly a season passes without the loss of a _Nancy Bell_ or _Cod-Seeker_ with all on board. Often, alas! do

"The women go weeping and wringing their hands,
For those who will never come back to the town."

Another danger ever present, ever indeed growing greater, is that of being run down some foggy night by the great ocean steamers that are thronging past in increasing numbers.

Picture to yourself a dense, dark night, when you can hardly see your hand before your face; a little schooner tossing at anchor on the Banks, all but one of her crew asleep in their bunks. Suddenly there falls upon the solitary watcher's ear a sound that thrills him with terror: it is the throbbing of mighty engines and the onward rush of an ocean greyhound as she spurns the foaming water from her bows.

Springing upon the poop he shouts with all his might, the crew below leap from their berths, and though only half awake join him in the cry.

But it is of no avail. The mast-head light is seen by the steamer's look-out too late to change her course. There is a splintering crash, the iron monster feels a slight shock, hardly enough to waken the lightest sleeper in her staterooms, and the sharp prow cuts through the little schooner as though it were but another wave.

Then the frenzied shrieks of strong men in their agony ring out upon the midnight air; then all is silent again, and the steamer speeds on to her destination, while to another home in Herring Cove comes the dreadful experience of which the poet says,--

"How much of manhood's wasted strength,
Of woman's misery,--
What breaking hearts might swell the cry,
They're dear fish to me."

Yet it is the ambition of every boy at Herring Cove or Shad Bay to have a share in a Banker, or, better still, to own one all by himself; and to this he looks forward, just as city boys do to being bank presidents or judges or editors of newspapers.

Hard work, much danger, a little schooling, and still less playing is the summary of a fisher-boy's life. It makes him very healthy, brown, and strong, but it never makes him rich. The most he can do is to earn enough to build and furnish a cottage when he marries, and provide plain food and coarse clothing for the family that soon springs up around him.

Now and then--that is, whenever he has fish to sell--he goes up to the city; and this is his only holiday. While still a boy he generally behaves himself well enough on these visits, but, growing older, he does not always grow wiser, I am sorry to say, and I have often seen sad-faced wives rowing the heavy boat wearily home, while their husbands lay in the stern-sheets in a drunken stupor.

*LOST ON THE LIMITS.*

*(A CHRISTMAS STORY.)*

"I wish you had taken my advice and stayed at the shanty, Harry."

The speaker was a stalwart young man, so closely wrapped in a blue blanket capote that only a portion of his face showed itself, and the one addressed was a boy of sixteen, similarly accoutred.

"I felt more than half-afraid of this storm overtaking us," the young man continued; "and now we're in a pretty fix. I can't imagine how we'll ever reach the depot."

There was something so despondent in his tone that one might have expected his words to exercise a dispiriting effect upon his companion; but, instead of that, Harry answered brightly,--

"Reach the depot! Of course we will; and in good time for our Christmas dinner, too! You mustn't worry on my account, Mr. Maynard. If anything should happen, it would be all my own fault, you know. You wouldn't be the least bit to blame."

Mr. Maynard shook his head negatively.

"It's very good of you to say so, Harry, but I can't help feeling responsible all the same. Oh!" he cried, with a gesture of irritated protest against the situation, "what a plague this snow is! Surely we had enough of it already, and didn't need this storm."

John Maynard was the bush superintendent on one of the great timber limits of Booth and Bronson, the millionaire lumbermen of Canada.

The duty devolved upon him of driving about from one "shanty" (as the permanent camps of the log-cutters are called) to another, taking account of the work done, and giving directions as to the bunches of timber next to be attacked.

This was a very arduous occupation, entailing as it did long and lonely drives through forest roads, passable only in winter, across the broad bosoms of frozen lakes, and along the winding courses of ice-bound rivers. For this purpose he had a pair of powerful horses and a low, strong sleigh, made altogether of wood, that had accommodation for just two persons and some baggage.

As a rule he made these journeys alone, but this winter he had been favoured with a companion in Harry Bronson, the eldest son of a member of the firm, who had asked permission to spend the winter at the "shanties."

His request had been readily granted, for he would have to take his father's place in the business in due time, and the more thoroughly he knew its details the better. Consequently Mr. Bronson was very glad to let him go, while Harry rejoiced at getting away from the confinement of the office, and at the prospect of having some exciting experiences before he returned.

So far he had been having a very good time. John Maynard was as pleasant a companion as he was a competent bush superintendent, and, while going the round of the shanties, there were many chances for shots at partridges or rabbits, and always the exciting possibility of encountering a bear.

Then at the shanties their welcome was always so warm, and the French-Canadian shantymen were so amusing with their exhaustless fund of song and dance and story, that Harry never knew what it was to feel dull for a moment.

Christmas week found him at the shanty on the Opeongo--the one that stood farthest away of all from the depot at which Maynard made his headquarters, and to which it was his intention to return in time to celebrate Christmas there.

The superintendent was particularly anxious to get back by that time, because, having completed a round of the shanties, he could leave them unvisited for a fortnight or so, and he proposed to spend Christmas week in Montreal, where he had many friends.

Harry on his part was hardly less anxious to get to the depot; for, although he did not intend going any further, he had been promised lots of fun there by the clerk in charge, and a first-class Christmas dinner into the bargain.

Accordingly, when certain infallible signs of a change for the worse in the weather, which had hitherto been almost perfect, made their appearance, and Maynard, willing to take any risk himself, but reluctant to expose Harry to danger, suggested that the boy should remain at the Opeongo shanty until the threatened storm passed, and then get back to the depot by one of the ordinary teams, Harry would not hear of it.

"No, no, Mr. Maynard," said he stoutly. "If you can stand the storm, I can too. I'm going with you."

Clearly enough the superintendent would have to either allow Harry to accompany him or stay at the shanty himself. He could not accept the latter alternative, so he replied,--

"Very well then, my boy, we'll start; and if bad weather catches us, we'll have to do the best we can."

The distance between the Opeongo shanty and the depot, as the crow flies, was fifty miles; but the circuitous route that was necessary in order to avoid ranges of rocky hills and impassable gullies made it full half as long again, and, in view of the state of the road, Maynard calculated that two days might be required to make their destination. Accordingly they set out in the morning of the second day before Christmas.

It hardly needed the practised eye of a wood-ranger to foretell a coming change in the weather.

The sun's bright face was hidden behind a dense veil of sullen clouds; the air, that had been so crisp and clear, seemed dank and heavy like a dungeon's; and both man and beast moved about in a listless way, as if every movement was an effort.

More than once the superintendent's mind misgave him ere they had gone many miles. He was naturally a cautious, far-seeing man, not disposed to run unnecessary risks, although utterly regardless of personal peril in any matter of duty.

Not that he felt any concern on his own account; but he would have felt much easier in his mind had Harry been persuaded to stay at the shanty.

Yet how could he reasonably expect that, when he himself was pushing on to the depot?

Harry's argument, that if the superintendent could stand the storm he could also, was not easy to answer, and it prevailed.

"If this confounded road was only in better shape, we might get there to-night," said Maynard impatiently that afternoon as the sleigh slowly toiled up a steep ascent, the horses sinking above their fetlocks in the fine dry snow at every step.

Had their way been as well broken as a city street they might indeed have accomplished this feat, but under the circumstances the best they could hope for was to reach the depot early on Christmas eve.

Harry, understanding that he was the chief object of the superintendent's concern, felt it incumbent upon him to take as hopeful a view of matters as possible, so he responded in his cheeriest tone,--

"Oh, we'll get there to-morrow afternoon right enough! We're more than half way to Wolf Hollow now, aren't we?"

"Yes, a good bit more; but there's the snow beginning. We must drive ahead as fast as we can. It'll soon be dark."

The horses accordingly were urged to the utmost speed possible, and, by dint of some rather reckless driving, Wolf Hollow was safely reached in the face of a blinding snowstorm ere the darkness fell.

At this place there stood a shanty which had been abandoned some years before, all the timber being cut in the neighbourhood, and here Mr. Maynard proposed to spend the night.

The building was found to be in good condition--quite storm-proof, in fact--and it did not take long to gather an abundant supply of firewood wherewith to expel the cold, damp air that filled it.

The horses could not be left out, of course, exposed to the pitiless storm, so they were allotted the farthest corner of the long, low room. The sleigh, too, was brought inside with all its contents.

A substantial supper was prepared and enjoyed, the horses were given a good feed of oats, and then both the travellers being thoroughly tired, they fitted up one of the bunks with the sleigh robes, and, so as to waste no heat, lay down side by side, and were soon sound asleep.

At daybreak the superintendent got up and hastened to see how matters looked outside. The prospect was anything but cheering.

Snow had been falling heavily all night, and there seemed no sign of its ceasing. All marks of the road were completely obliterated, and it would evidently test to the utmost his knowledge of woodcraft to keep in the right track.

Such was the condition of affairs that called forth the exclamation reported at the beginning of this story.

However, there was nothing to gain by delay, so hardly waiting to snatch a bite of food and to allow their horses to finish their portion of oats, they harnessed up and drove forth into the storm.

Even had the track been easily distinguishable, they could not have made rapid progress, for the snow came in big, blinding flakes that were very bewildering, and had already covered the ground to a depth of nearly a foot.

By the aid of familiar landmarks, Mr. Maynard was able for a time to direct their course accurately enough; but about mid-day they reached a wide lake which they had to cross, and here their real difficulties began.

The broad expanse of Loon Lake had presented a fine playground for the wind, and upon it the snow was heaped in vast drifts, far surpassing anything met with in the woods, where the trees afforded protection.

In these drifts the horses and sleigh soon stuck so fast that their extrication was evidently quite beyond the power of the passengers.

There seemed no alternative but to abandon them to their fate, and to continue the journey on snow-shoes, which, fortunately, were lashed to the back of the sleigh.

Mr. Maynard felt sorely reluctant to desert his faithful horses, but no time could be spared for unavailing regrets.

"There's no help for it, Harry," he said resolutely. "We'll have to leave them where they are. We cannot get them out, and we've enough to do to look after ourselves."

The poor creatures whinnied appealingly as their human companions moved off, and made frantic efforts to follow, but the remorseless snow-drift held them fast.

It was certainly a pity to leave two such fine animals to perish, but yet what could be done?

Striding along on the snow-shoes, in the use of which they were both expert, the superintendent and Harry made better progress than they had been doing in the sleigh, and now the chief anxiety was to hit the right spot on the other side of the lake, where the road continued through the woods.

On a clear day Mr. Maynard would have found little difficulty in doing this, but in the midst of a blinding snowstorm it was no easy task; yet their very lives depended upon its successful accomplishment.

When they reached the middle of the lake they were dismayed to discover that the heavily-falling snow shrouded not only the shore for which they were making, but the one which they had left. They were absolutely without a mark to guide them.

Here was an unexpected peril. Mr. Maynard halted and strove to peer through the ominous obscurity of white, but on every side it was the same.

"What are we to do now, Harry?" he cried in a tone of deep concern. "I can't make out our way at all."

By this time Harry's spirits, which had hitherto been keeping up bravely, were beginning to fall, for he was growing weary of the long struggle with the storm.

"I'm sure I don't know," he responded ruefully. "I suppose there is nothing else to do but to push ahead and take our chances of hitting the shore somewhere."

"That's about all, Harry," was the superintendent's reply. "Just rest a minute to get your breath, and then we'll make a dash for it."

For a little space they stood still and silent, the mind of each absorbed in anxious thought, and then Mr. Maynard called out,--

"Come along now, Harry. Keep right in my tracks, and I'll see if I can't make the shore all right."

For half-an-hour they toiled steadily onward, and well it was for both that they had such skill in the use of snow-shoes. Without them they could not have made a hundred yards' headway, so heavy was the snow. Even as it was, the hard work told upon Harry, and presently he had to call to his companion,--

"Hold on a minute, Mr. Maynard; I'm out of breath."

The superintendent stopped short and came back to him.

"Not played out already, are you, Harry?" he asked, peering anxiously into his face.

"Oh, no!" and the boy made a gallant effort at a reassuring smile. "I just want to get my wind; that's all. This abominable storm nearly suffocates me."

As they rested again for a few minutes, the wind suddenly shifted, parting the whirling snow to right and left, and through the rift thus made, Mr. Maynard's keen eyes caught a glimpse of a dark mass rising dimly into the air a little more than a mile away.

With a shout of joy he slapped his companion upon the back, crying,--

"Eagle Rock, Harry. See!" and he pointed with a quivering finger to the spectral appearance. "Once we make that, I can find the road all right enough. Come along!"

Cheered by the sight, which the next moment the snow-curtain again hid from them, they pushed forward with renewed energy.

It was terribly hard walking. Their snow-shoes sank deep into the drifts at every step, and it was an effort each time to release them. The afternoon was also waning fast, and they had not more than an hour of daylight left at best. Truly they were in desperate straits.

On they went over the drifts that seemed to be determined to bar their way, the superintendent straining his eyes for another glimpse of Eagle Rock. At last, as Harry was about once more to cry halt, his companion exclaimed joyfully,--

"There's Eagle Rock, Harry! I see it. We're making straight for it. A few minutes more will take us there."

The cheering announcement revived the boy's failing energies for another effort. He shut his lips upon the request for a rest, and doggedly tramped on after his guide.

Ten minutes more and they were at the foot of the lofty crag called Eagle Rock, in a friendly recess of which they found welcome shelter from the furious wind.

"Thank goodness!" ejaculated Harry, throwing himself wearily down upon a snow-bank, "we've got thus far anyway. How many miles more, Mr. Maynard?"

"About ten, Harry," was the answer, given in quite a matter-of-fact tone.

"Ten!" echoed Harry in dismay. "I hoped it would only be about five. I'll never do it in the world."

"Oh yes, you will, my boy!" replied Mr. Maynard. "I'll help you you know."

To their vast relief the snow now began to abate, and presently ceased falling altogether.

"That's something to be thankful for," said the superintendent. "Are you ready to start again?"

"Go ahead," was the response.

But no sooner had one danger passed than another presented itself. The light began to fail, for night was at hand.

A ten-mile tramp on snow-shoes through a desolate forest was not much to be desired under any circumstances. To accomplish it in the dark, tired as they both felt already, was a feat the achieving of which seemed more than doubtful.

Mr. Maynard had his misgivings, but he carefully concealed them from his companion, and even started whistling a lively march as he led the way along the faintly discernible road.

Never will either of them ever forget that awful tramp.

The night soon enfolded them, leaving only the scant light of the glimmering stars for guidance. Every step they took had to be carefully considered, lest they should stray from the track and be hopelessly lost.

Again and again the silence through which they marched was broken by the blood-curdling cry of the lynx or the dismal howl of the wolf, seeking what they might devour.

The superintendent's rifle hung at his back, and Harry had a good revolver; but they prayed in their hearts that they might have no occasion to use them.

Every little while they had to pause that the boy might take a brief rest. Then on they went again.

Mile after mile of the dreary, toilsome way was slowly yet steadily overcome, each one adding to poor Harry's weariness, until he felt as if he must give up the struggle and throw himself down in the snow to die.

But Mr. Maynard cheered him up and helped him, and kept him going, knowing well that to give up really meant death.

At last the exhausted boy sank down with a piteous wail,--

"It's no use, Mr. Maynard, I can't take another step."

"Oh yes, you can, Harry!" said the superintendent soothingly; "just take a little rest, and then you'll be all right."

While Harry rested he went on ahead a short distance, for it seemed to him that they could not be very far from the depot.

Presently there came from him a glad hurrah, and running back he put his arm around his companion, and helped him to his feet, exclaiming joyfully,--

"I can see a light, Harry. We're safe now. It's the depot."

And he was right. They were within half a mile of their haven. Forgetting all their weariness, they put on a gallant spurt, and in less than ten minutes were in the midst of their friends, telling the story of their thrilling experience.

All's well that ends well. The superintendent kept his appointments in the city; Harry had a royal Christmas time with the clerks in the depot; and, happy to relate, the horses were not lost, for a relief party that went out the following morning with a big sledge found them still alive, and brought them and the sleigh back to the depot, little the worse for the long imprisonment in the snow-drift.

*A STRANGE HELPER.*

"There's nothing for it, Maggie, but to let the place go. I've tried my best to raise the money, but those that are willing to help a fellow haven't it to lend, and those that have it ain't willing to help. It's mighty hard lines, I tell you," and, with a groan of despair, Alec M'Leod buried his head in his hands, as he leaned heavily upon the table.

Hard lines it was, indeed, as no one knew better than Moses Shearer, the money-lender, to whose conduct was due Alec the miller's anguish of mind. He had chosen that particular time for enforcing satisfaction of his claim, because he understood that it could not be done without a sale of the mill property; and this was just what he desired, as he intended to bid it in for himself.

It did seem a cruel thing for Mr. M'Leod to be sold out of the snug, well-equipped mill that represented his whole fortune; and all for a debt of one hundred pounds, incurred under special circumstances for which he was in no wise to blame.

No wonder that he was sorely cast down, and that gloom reigned in his household, which consisted of a devoted wife and two children--Robert, the elder, a sturdy, enterprising lad of fourteen, and Jessie, a sweet, fair-haired lassie two years younger. They were all in the room when the miller gave voice to his despair, and Rob, full of sympathy, hastened to say something comforting, with all the hopefulness of youth.

"Don't give up yet, father," said he. "The sale is more than a week off, and you may be able to get the money somehow before then."

Mr. M'Leod shook his head without raising it from his hands. He had exhausted every available resource, and saw no way in which help could come. He was not a religious man, although of unblemished integrity of character, and had no faith to sustain him in his grievous trial; nor did his wife know how to lay hold upon God, and claim the fulfilment of his promises.

In this they both had much to learn from their own children, for, thanks to sound teaching in Sunday school, Rob and Jessie believed in the prayer of faith. They believed God was always ready and willing to respond in his wisdom to the petitions of his children, and when they learned of their father's trouble, their thoughts took the same direction.

That night, when Rob went up to his room, he found Jessie there.

"O Rob!" she hastened to say, "I've been waiting for you to come."

"What do you want to do, Jessie?" inquired Rob.

"Why, Rob, you know when father told us of his trouble, I made up my mind to ask God to help him out of it. What is that in the Bible about God doing anything that two of his people agree to ask for?"

Proud of his memory, Rob promptly repeated the verse: "If two of you shall agree on earth as touching anything that they shall ask, it shall be done for them."

"Yes, that's it!" exclaimed Jessie. "Now then, Rob, can't we agree to ask God to help father to pay off that dreadful Mr. Shearer?"

"Of course we can," responded Rob heartily; "and we'll do it right away."

So down on their knees they went, and each in turn presented an earnest, simple petition to God that aid should be granted their father in the present emergency. When they rose their faces were radiant.

"It will be all right now, won't it, Rob?" said Jessie, as she went to her own room.

The following day passed without any sign of an answer, and so did the next. Rob, boy-like, began to grow impatient, but Jessie was more trustful. Each night they renewed their united requests.

On the third night Rob, the window of whose room overlooked the mill-pond, happening to awake about midnight, thought he heard a most unusual splashing noise coming from the pond. Sitting up in bed, and listening attentively, he asked himself:--

"What can it be? Has somebody fallen into the pond? No, it can't be that, or there would be cries for help. Oh! it's only some old cow that's fooling around."

He was about to accept this explanation and settle down to sleep again, when there was added to the frantic splashing a hoarse bellow such as no domestic animal ever uttered.

"I must see what that is," said he to himself. So out of bed he jumped, hurried on his clothes, and slipping quietly out of the house, hastened across the yard to the mill-platform, from which he could command a view of the whole pond.

It was a bright, clear night, with the moon at the full, and the still waters of the pond reflected its silver rays like a huge mirror. At first the boy could see nothing to account for the strange noises he had heard, but presently he discovered a big creature, whose exact nature he could not make out, in the deepest part of the pond, where, surrounded by the floating logs which had rendered futile all its efforts to extricate itself, it was, for the moment, resting quietly as though exhausted.

Rob's appearance upon the platform evidently aroused the creature to fresh exertions, and it proceeded to fling itself about with reckless fury, in the course of which its head emerged from the shadow into a broad band of light, and with a cry of astonishment Rob, who had been bending over the edge of the platform, sprang to his feet.

"Why, it's a moose!" he exclaimed; "and a monster one, too. And I'm going to catch him." Then looking down at the imprisoned animal, he added: "Just stay there, my beauty; I'll be back in a jiffy to look after you."

Darting over to the house he quickly aroused his father, who, as soon as he had assured himself that his son's story was correct, hastened to call up some of the neighbours. He did not stop to think what he would do with the moose when he had him safely secured. He was merely glad of a diversion that would help him to forget his troubles for a while.

But Rob already had a scheme worked out in his mind, of which, however, he intended to say nothing until the capture had been successfully accomplished. Then he would let it be known.

The neighbours responded readily to Mr. M'Leod's summons, and in a quarter of an hour half-a-dozen men were upon the scene, some armed with pitchforks, others with stakes, and all eager to have a share in the honours of the capture.

Many and various were the suggestions as to the best plan for getting the animal out of the pond uninjured, but no sooner had Mr. M'Leod offered his than it was unanimously adopted as the best.

By pushing away the logs a clear space could be made leading to the incline up which the logs were drawn to meet their fate at the saw's teeth, and the miller's idea was to lasso the moose by the antlers, drag the creature through the water to the foot of the incline, then attach the rope to the chain for drawing up the logs, and turn on the water-power.

The strongest animal that ever stood on four legs could not resist the tug of the chain, and thus the moose would be drawn up on the platform, and kept there, a safe prisoner, until he could be removed to the barn.

Mr. M'Leod had little difficulty in getting the rope fastened to the big branching antlers, and not much more in towing his captive around to the foot of the incline. But then came the rub. The monarch of the forest fought frantically against being drawn out of the water, and it seemed as if he might kill himself in his desperate efforts for freedom.

There was no resisting the inexorable strain of the log-chain, however, and foot by foot he was compelled to ascend the incline until he reached the platform. Then the power was shut off, and Mr. M'Leod decided that it was best to allow the great creature to stay where he was until daylight.

The men all went back to their beds, but Rob remained. He did not want to leave the prize which had thus strangely fallen into his hands, and which he hoped to make signally helpful in his father's trouble. So he chose a corner of the platform where he could keep the moose in full view, and composed himself to wait for the morning.

As he sat there his heart went up in gratitude to God, for right before him had he not the answer to the prayer he and Jessie had united in offering?

With the dawn Mr. M'Leod and the other men returned, and by dint of much shouting, flourishing of pitchforks, and tugging of ropes, the moose, after many furious attempts at breaking away, was at length safely conveyed to the barn, and securely fastened up in such a manner that he could do himself no hurt, struggle and kick as he might.

"Hip, hip, hurrah!" shouted Rob as the big door closed with a bang, and he flung himself against it to make sure that it was shut tight. "We've got him all right enough. He can't get out of there until we want him."

"And now that you have got him, Robby," said the miller, laying his hand affectionately on the boy's shoulder. "perhaps you'll tell us what you are going to do with him."

Up to this point Rob had kept his own counsel, because his Scotch shrewdness told him it would be best to do so until the capture was successfully effected. But now there was no longer need for reserve.

"You remember that gentleman who was here hunting last winter, don't you, father?" said he, looking up eagerly into Mr. M'Leod's face.

"You mean Professor Owen from New York."

"Yes. Well, you know he said he'd give a hundred pounds for a full-grown moose alive; and now you must write and tell him you've got a beauty for him, and to come along and get it."

The miller's face became radiant as his son spoke. He now understood what had been in Rob's mind, and why he had shown such intense anxiety to secure the moose uninjured.

"God bless you, my boy!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms around his neck, for the revulsion of feeling broke down his characteristic reserve. "I see what you've been driving at. You always were a bright lad, and now, maybe, you're going to save me from ruin. I won't wait to write Professor Owen; I'll telegraph him. He left me his address so that I might let him know when the hunting was good."

Mounting his best horse, Mr. M'Leod hastened to the village, and sent this despatch to the professor: "Have a splendid live moose in my barn. Do you want him?"

Before many hours the reply came: "Am coming for him by first train."

The following evening Professor Owen appeared. When he saw the moose he fairly shouted with delight.

"A perfect specimen, and in the very prime of life," he cried. "I'll give you a hundred pounds for him on the spot. Will that be right?"

The offer was gladly accepted; and as soon as the necessary arrangements could be made, the moose was taken away to become the chief attraction in a famous zoological garden.

On the day before the sheriff's sale Mr. M'Leod, greatly to the money-lender's chagrin, paid his claim in full, and cleared his property from all encumbrance.

That night they had a praise-meeting at the mill; for when Mr. M'Leod was told about Rob and Jessie praying together for his deliverance from the grasp of Moses Shearer his heart was deeply stirred, and he joined in thanking God who had thus signally answered the children's petitions. Not only so, but both he and his wife were moved to withhold no longer from God's service, and they became active, happy members of the church.

As for Rob and Jessie, their faith was wonderfully strengthened, and often afterwards the recollection of this incident helped them to be trustful in the midst of many difficulties.

*FORTY MILES OF MAELSTROM.*

The Canadian Pacific train, speeding swiftly on toward Winnipeg, had just dashed over an iron bridge which threw its audacious spider-web across a foaming torrent. Pointing down at the tumbling water beneath, one of the men in the smoking compartment of a palace car exclaimed,--

"I'd like to try that rapid in my _Rice Lake_."

"Are you so fond of a wetting as all that?" asked Charlie Hall with a smile.

"Oh, I'd risk the wetting. I've been through worse rapids than that without so much as being sprinkled." He proceeded to support his assertion by relating some of his adventures.

When Jack Fleming came to the end of his tether, the others had their say, for they had not been without experiences of a similar nature. Meanwhile, the fourth member of the group had been listening with interested attention, as if their stories were so novel that he did not wish to lose a word of them. He was merely a chance acquaintance, who had fallen into conversation with his fellow-travellers through the freemasonry of the pipe. They knew his name; Ronald Cameron, but they knew nothing more about him.

It was more for the sake of saying something courteous than with any idea of drawing the stranger out that Fleming turned to him and said, "Perhaps you know something about running rapids too?"

The stranger's bronzed face broke out into a smile, which meant unmistakably, "As well ask Grant if he knew something about fighting battles;" but there was not the faintest trace of boastfulness in his tone as he replied, "I have run a few rapids in my time."

"Well, it's your turn now; tell us your experience," said Fleming, and without much urging Cameron began.

"I must explain that I am in the employ of the Hudson Bay Company, and have spent many years in the North-west districts. My duties have required frequent long trips by York boat and bark canoe, in the course of which I have had my full share of tussles with rapids of all kinds. I could tell you half-a-dozen rather exciting little episodes, but I'll give you only one just now, namely, my passage of the Long Canon of the Liard in a canvas boat."

"In a canvas boat?" broke out Fleming, half incredulously.

"Yes, in a canvas boat," repeated Cameron. "Not a particularly seaworthy craft, I must confess. But it was a notion of my own in order to get over the difficulty in which I was placed. I had been over in British Columbia, and was on my way back to Athabasca. The season was growing late, and I had only two men with me--an Indian and a half-breed. The Indian was a splendid canoe-man, but the half-breed was not of much account. The first part of the journey could be made by boat easily enough, but for us three men to drag a heavy boat over Grizzly Portage, which is about six miles long, and has a portage-path that climbs a thousand feet up the mountain side, was quite out of the question.

"So before I started I had a boat made out of tent canvas, which would be no trouble to carry. The wooden boat was to be left at the head of Grizzly Portage to take care of itself.

"Well, we got on smoothly until we passed the portage, and the Long Canon opened out before us. As I looked at its wild rush of water, and realized that this was only the beginning, and far from the worst of it, I confess I felt tempted to turn back. But my pride soon banished that thought, and I set about getting my frail craft ready for the trip. Dennazee, the Indian, did not show the slightest concern; but Machard, the half-breed, was evidently much frightened.

"Assuming a cheery indifference I by no means felt, I went about the work in the most matter-of-fact way, and, with Dennazee helping heartily, the canvas boat was put together and set afloat.

"But it became evident immediately that she was not minded to stay afloat long. Although I had taken the precaution to give the canvas a good coat of oil, no sooner were we on board than, the treacherous stuff leaked through every pore. Clearly this must be remedied before we could attempt the passage.

"Bidding the men gather all the gum and balsam they could find, I put the whole of our bacon, some ten pounds at least, half-a-dozen candles, and the gum and balsam into our pot, set it over a brisk fire, and produced the most extraordinary compound you can imagine.

"With this we thickly daubed the outside of the boat from stem to stern, and then left her for the night. The next morning she was as tight as a drum, and we started off, the poor half-breed muttering prayers in full expectation of a watery grave, the Indian as stolid as a statue, and myself much more anxious at heart than I cared to have either man know.

"The canon is about forty miles long, and in that distance the river falls quite five hundred feet. Old Lepine, who has piloted boats up and down the Liard for thirty years or more, asserts that once, when the water was unusually high, he went through the whole length of the canon in a York boat in two hours. The old man may be a few minutes short of the record, but there is no doubt that in the spring, when the snow is melting on the mountain slopes, the river runs at a fearful rate. I had hoped for low water, but, as luck would have it, a sudden spell of intensely hot weather had set the snow going, and the Liard was just high enough to be a very ugly customer.

"Well, we paddled out into the current, and then there was nothing to do but steer. I had the stern, and Dennazee the bow, while Machard clung tightly to the centre thwart, and was useful only as ballast. Like an arrow our little boat sped down stream, darting this way and that, dipping and dancing about like a cork, doing exactly what the water willed.

"At the very first swirl I found out something that gave me an additional shiver. This was that the boat could bear very little pressure from the paddle. If the water pulled one way and the paddle the other, the frail thing squirmed and twisted like a snake instead of obeying the steersman, so that it was quite impossible to make her respond readily or to effect a sharp turn. No doubt Dennazee discovered this as soon as I did, but he gave no hint of it, as with intent face and skilful arm he did his part of the work to perfection.

"The first few miles were not very bad, but we soon came to a place where whirlpool followed whirlpool in fearfully quick succession, and I no sooner caught my breath after escaping one than we were struggling with another. Our canvas cockle-shell appeared to undulate over the frothing waves rather than cut through them. I seemed to feel every motion of the water through her thin skin. In the very thick of it I could not help admiring the wonderful skill of the Indian in the bow. Again and again he saved us from dashing against a rock, or whirling around broadside to the current.

"For mile after mile we were tumbled about, and tossed from wave to wave like a chip of bark. My heart was in my mouth. I could scarcely breathe. My knees quaked, though my hand was firm, as, with eyes fixed upon Dennazee, I instantly obeyed every motion of his paddle.

"In this fashion, one hairbreadth escape succeeding another, we did half the distance unscathed, and made the shore by the aid of an eddy at the head of the Rapids of the Drowned. These rapids got their forbidding name from the fate of eight voyagers, who lost their lives while attempting to run them in a large canoe. Being studded with rocks, these rapids are extremely dangerous. As the canon widens out sufficiently to leave a narrow beach at this point, we preferred portaging our canvas boat to impaling her on one of the rocks.

"It was a strange thing that our sudden appearance should have so startled two moose who were standing on the shore that, instead of retreating up the hill, they plunged boldly into the river, of whose pitiless power they evidently knew nothing, and were borne helplessly away to destruction. A little later we saw their bodies stranded on a shoal, and the sight gave me a chill as I thought that that perhaps would be our fate, too, before we escaped from the Long Canon.