Chapter 4

A Home in the Woods, St. Irénée

Owing to the fine drives in the neighborhood, carriages are very numerous. Almost every house of ahabitanthas its stable, and whether he be a grocer, a shoemaker or what not, hisvoituremay be seen emerging from its lane by the trim little cottage to meet every steamboat that calls at the wharf.

The life at Murray Bay is very pleasant; and it is sure to be enjoyed by all who like driving, walking, boating, bathing, tennis, golf, etc.; all of which recreations may be followed here to their full in the midst of ideal surroundings.

Cap à l’Aigle may be described as a farm-village resort. It has a pleasant little strip of shale and gravel beach. It has a waterfall, where, although the volume of water passing over it is small, the view is very picturesque. Beach life is not prominent in any of the Murray Bay resorts, unless it is at St. Irénée. This is because of the wonderful attraction the surrounding country has for walks, drives, and other outdoor recreations. A few houses cluster at the top of the road leading up from the wharf at Cap à l’Aigle, and farm houses extend along the tops of the cliffs in the direction of St. Fidèle and St. Simeon.

There are numerous pleasant walks along the breezy heights, and the road to Murray Bay River and village is an enjoyable one. Cap à l’Aigle has a quiet, restful, and simple life that suits it for those who desire to spend the summer not too near to a town; and in addition, it has the advantage of being within reasonable distance of the busy summer centre at Murray Bay.

On the south shore of the St. Lawrence, almost opposite Cap à l’Aigle, lies bright and picturesque Kamouraska, with its white houses lining the river, and its five verdant islands reposing within convenient reach for the enjoyment of boating, bathing and fishing. There are summer cottages here pleasantly placed along the banks, and a number of stopping-places for visitors are found on the quiet streets. Driving, walking, and tennis are the recreations, with the usual social life found in country vacation centres. The village is very prettily laid out; and the enjoyable stretches of beach, with the abundant tree-growth of the neighborhood, make this a favorite spot. Kamouraska is near the Intercolonial Railway station of St. Paschal, from which place it is reached by a carriage drive of about six miles.

MURRAY BAY

Rivière du Loup, some twenty-three miles down the St. Lawrence from Kamouraska, is a growing city of considerable importance. It took its name from the seals, once very numerous by the mouth of the river. It has a pleasant situation on high land, and on that account it has cool air. The long main street stretches continuously to Fraserville, and follows the channel of the river for some distance. It is a natural tourist centre; and the hotel accommodation is good. The hotels at the Fraserville end are particularly suited to those making a stay in the neighborhood; for some are large and roomy, with nice gardens and a fine view of the river from the quiet porches and balconies on the St. Lawrence side. There are pleasant drives to Notre Dame du Portage village, Cacouna, etc.; and enjoyable trips may be made over the lines of the Intercolonial and Temiscouata Railways, as well as on the river in various directions. Lake Temiscouata, or ‘Winding Water,’ the Touladi River and Lake, the Madawaska, or ‘Never-Frozen’ River and the Acadian village of Edmundston are all reached by going over the line of the Temiscouata Railway. These places are all in the heart of a good fishing and hunting country.

At ‘The Point’ on the river, numerous cottages have been built for the enjoyment of cool river breezes, and here, too, good summer hotels are found where gay companies spend happy days in boating and other amusements. The wharf with its promenade 2,500 feet long is a favorite spot at all times, and from this point the steamers of the Trans St. Laurent Company leave for Tadousac and the Saguenay, almost immediately opposite on the north shore some twenty-five miles across.

The celebrated Falls of the Rivière du Loup are still beautiful, although mills, etc., have made sad inroads on their beauty. They are seen to best advantage by crossing the Intercolonial Railway bridge and walking through the fields to a point down stream where a high bank commands a full view of the river bed and the fall above.

Rivière du Loup is the centre of an interesting district; its stores are very attractive, and its streets shady and well kept; while the Fraserville district and the summer resorts of ‘The Point’ affords attractive opportunities for passing many a restful week in the summerdays. From this point, too, may be had one of the best views of the north shore mountains found along the whole river.

The Falls, Rivière du Loup

No more pleasant a way of reaching Tadousac and the world-famous Saguenay River can be imagined than that enjoyed by taking a steamer of the Trans St. Laurent Company from Rivière du Loup wharf. It is a delightful trip of about two hours and a half, and it is doubtful whether any other way of approaching the Saguenay gives the pleasure and breadth of prospect that this commands.

Near where the steamboat lies at the starting wharf, great three-masted merchantmen anchor to discharge and take on freight, and tied up by the wharf itself huge steam barges receive their freight of pulp wood for the U. S. A.

Scenes at CAP À l’AIGLE

As the crossing is made, numerous craft of all kinds come into view. Boats, launches, barges, yachts, schooners, steamships, ocean liners and naval vessels all pass by. The air is delightful and invigorating, and the salt breeze from the ocean is both perceptible and stimulating. The water is smooth, with just a gentle swell. There is hardly a ripple to be seen, save here and there where without apparent reason a tiny wavelet bursts on the surface and spreads its milky froth around for a brief second or two, and then becomes lost to the sight in the general silvery calm that prevails. The sky overhead is clear, while near the horizon beautiful clouds of grey and sun-lit white lend enchantment to the distant mountain range on the north, now drawing nearer and nearer and gradually becoming distinguishable. To the west a barge is crossing south, and its long trail of black smoke reaches down to the Hare Islands where it mingles with the white fleece of the cloud horizon and reflects a glint of sunshine over the island slopes.

To the far west the Allan liner that passed by an hour before is mingling its smoke and vapor with that of the barge, and building strange and fantastic castles in the air. To the east Red Island looks like a long pontoon craft calmly sailing over the waters. Before us the mountain range that erstwhile was dark, and dimly visible, is now clearing and coming within view, and shows light and shade of green fields and darker woodland.

As if by magic, the water has suddenly taken on a deep blue, and the effect is to make the distant hills further off than they seemed before. Now we pass through a river of molten silver, the wake of a vessel that went by long ago. Gliding through, we reach a lake-like expanse, cerulean in hue, and St. Catharines comes into view over the bow of our vessel, with Tadousac beyond on the right.

We are now nearing the famous Saguenay, where the mariners of ten centuries ago tarried after their long voyage to the ‘Ultima Thule’ of those remote days.

That which appeared to be a huge cloud bank over the rent in the mountain range, where pours out the river in a mighty flood, is now assuming form as a second and greater range beyond, dwarfing more and more the high riparian hills into comparative insignificance.

But Tadousac is near, its grand prospect is spread out for our gaze on every side, and we are making fast to a wharf in a romantic, rocky cove—both wharf and cove presenting the appearance of having dropped out of some picture-book in the clouds, so charming and striking is the whole scene.

Tadousac

Tadousac was named by the native Montagnais Indians, the word meaning mounds, or, as in this case, mountains. It has been said that the village is placed like a nest in the midst of granite rocks that surround the mouth of the Saguenay. It is built on a crescent-like terrace, backed and flanked by mountains, and has a fine view over the harbor, river, and distant shore of the St. Lawrence. The whole life of the place is so tranquil and uncommercial that it does not intrude on the visitor’s pleasure. It does not follow from this that there is an absence of life here—quite the contrary, for Tadousac is a favorite resort of thousands; but what is meant is that throngs are rarely seen on the streets or roads. A thousand people may arrive on one of the great steamboats, and for a while a scene of activity prevails at the wharf; but in a short time they disperse for the roads, woods, lakes, park, shore and hotels, and soon the usual tranquility prevails. There is nothing to mar the repose of the slumbering little Chapel of the Jesuits on the heights; and its bell, over three centuries old, still rings true. The Government Piscicultural Station, or salmon hatchery, is beautifully placed and kept, overlooking the wharf and rocky cove. Here the little creek Anse a l’Eau makes out, and thetiny waterfall, the lake, the platform walks, the summer house, and climbing on the rocky slopes, attract many to a quiet enjoyment of their beauties.

Milking Time

Golf, tennis, walks, boating, etc., are the chief amusements, and children find plenty of occupation playing on the fronting sand beach, or in climbing the rocks and hills. There is a pleasant promenade in front of the principal hotel. It faces south-east, commands one of the noblest prospects ever seen, and is immediately above the beach and open to the cool summer breeze. Summer houses or pergolas dot the walk on the top of the cliff, and there is no lack of pleasant walks in many directions. There are places where the first thought on arrival is, “how can I occupy my time?” The thought that immediately comes to mind here is, “how can I see what is to be seen here in a few days—a week—or a month?”

The display of the Aurora Borealis is often magnificent in this region. The Indians call this the reflection of the Camp Fires in the Happy Hunting-Grounds. On a night when the sky is cloudless, and brilliant with stars, it is a joyous experience to camp out. Possibly there is just enough of a breeze to fan the flickering flame of the camp fire. The broad expanse of the St. Lawrence is unruffled by a single ripple, and as the gaze follows its surface the glorious stars are mirrored like shining jewels. Looking to the mountains, great rays of white shoot upward from behind their far-away heights. Stupendous arches of purple mount into the blue sky, transient, evanescent; for soon the dream-like fabric crumbles and disappears, to be followed by red orcrimson flames and a suffused glow as of some cosmic conflagration in far-off space.

The white porpoise is hunted with harpoons on the Saguenay and St. Lawrence rivers. A length of fifteen feet for this fish is not uncommon. They are not unlike the whale in appearance and are often mistaken for their more unwieldy brother. Much art is used to draw sufficiently near to make a good ‘strike.’ A boat with a white bottom has been used for this purpose, with a wooden porpoise, or decoy, painted slate-color in imitation of the young fish. Fenced enclosures, formed like a trap, are quite common in many parts of the river. The fish enter, become confused in seeking an outlet, and are easily caught when the tide lowers. Seals are also caught in this locality, and even small whales are harpooned at times.

A broad sand-bank reaches out into the St. Lawrence just a short distance above the Saguenay. It is related that here a whale was pursued by a swordfish. The fish, provided by nature with its sharp weapon of offence, was chasing the unlucky whale, which moved with great rapidity in the direction of the shore, making huge leaps out of the water and giving out loud bellowing sounds as it sped along. The whale was all of forty feet in length, and its enemy was fully grown and must have measured twenty feet over all.

Confused by the near approach of its dread enemy, the whale went too close to the sand-bar and was soon floundering about in only ten feet of water. The swordfish now made off, possibly alarmed by the tremendous splashing and the too-near approach to land. As the tide was rapidly going out—it falls some eighteen feet here—there was danger for the whale in being stranded high and dry. It lashed out with its tail and churned the water with billowing foam. At last after repeated rolls towards deep water it got off, and soon its joyful spouting could be seen in the distance as it escaped and made its way down the Gulf.

Seals are also caught with the harpoon. To get near them unperceived, Indians have made holes in the sands at low tide.Here they hide under a blanket and imitate the cry of the seal. The seals down by the water’s edge are attracted from their native element, and gradually draw near. They make very slow progress on the land, and when too far away to escape back to the water the Indians pounce out and kill dozens with blows from their hatchets.

The Saguenay River is possibly the chief tributary of the St. Lawrence. In every way it is remarkable. Deep, bold, and with headlands of awful height, a trip over its waters from Tadousac to Chicoutimi is an unique experience; for nowhere else can similar scenes be found. The source of the river is in those streams that empty into the head waters of Pikouagami, or Lake St. John, the principal of which are the Peribonka and Mistassini rivers. The Metabetchouan, an important stream, also flows into Lake St. John; and these rivers with the Chicoutimi, Marguerite, Ha-Ha, and numerous smaller rivers, all unite to swell the great flood of the almost bottomless Saguenay. There are numerous lakes north and south of the river, and, almost needless to state, the whole district abounds in mountain, gorge, and waterfall scenery of the wildest kind. Tumultuous rapids are everywhere; and the awful contrast with them of cloud-capped mountain and the silent, still and deep, unfathomable water below is almost overpowering.

It has been said of the Saguenay that it is not properly a river. It is a tremendous chasm like that of the Jordan Valley and the Dead Sea, cleft for sixty miles almost in a straight line through the heart of a mountain wilderness. There is not a part of the river that does not impress one with its grandeur and sublimity. The Indians, in their usual direct nomenclature, called the river Saggishsekuss, ‘a river whose banks are precipitous’; and from that name the more pronounceable Saguenay has been derived. Jacques Cartier and Champlain both sailed on this river, and tradition has it that Roberval penetrated far inland and never returned.

Shallow water in the lower Saguenay must not be expected, and even at the head of navigation a name is found that signifies ‘deep water.’ This is Chicoutimi, a delightful village where Scandinavian vessels come to load up with lumber. Some claim that the name of the village is derived from the Indian word Ishkotimew, meaning ‘up to here the water is deep.’ Be that as it may, it is a picturesque place, where many of the cottages are roofed with birch-bark, and where trim flower gardens, and cottage doors festooned with climbing vines, may be seen. The dashing mountain stream Chicoutimi, which has a wild descent of near 500 feet in seven miles,enters the Saguenay just above the village, and puts on a white bridal-fall in honor of its union with the stern Saguenay.

On the way from Tadousac to Chicoutimi, the mouth of the Marguerite River is passed. This river is distant from Tadousac about 14 miles, and it has a beauty of its own claimed by some to compare with that of the larger river, but, of course, on a smaller scale. The scenery is romantic in the extreme. Swirling eddies and foaming rapids turn sharply around the high cliffs, which are water-worn and smooth below from the action of the dashing foam. Here and there are quiet pools, deep and silent; and some are in almost perpetual shade from overhanging cliff and woodland.

Some seventeen miles above stands Cape Eternity, with Eternity Bay between it and the giant twin-brother Cape Trinity. Many have felt that here the ‘climax of the awe-inspiring scenery of the Saguenay is reached.’ A huge wall of limestone here towers up and projects boldly over the river. Those who pass beneath it give a shudder of apprehension as they realize that a fall would mean annihilation for all below. The great column has been likened to a colossal stairway of three enormous treads, fit ascension to the clouds for the giant gods of the early Indian’s dream. Cape Eternity is 1700 feet high, and Cape Trinity 1500 feet. These enormous bulwarks of rock are stern and grand in the awful majesty of their height and power. As the eye soars upward, the pine-trees that have gained a foothold in the fissures serve to accentuate the prodigious heights, for onward and upward they loom until lost as specks of nothingness.

As Chicoutimi is gradually neared, the water of Ha-Ha Bay opens up on the south. It received its odd name from the peals of laughter indulged in by the early French explorers who took it for the main channel of the river, and who found their mistake when they reached the end of the cul-de-sac.

In and about Chicoutimi and the neighboring villages are numerous places of great interest; and doubtless many who visit this district will wish to go part or all the way toLake St. John for the pleasure of returning by canoe, and of enjoying the lively sport of shooting the rapids in care of two skilful Indian guides. At Portage de l’Enfant an Indian child managed to perform a feat that few could be likely to imitate successfully: that of going over the 50-foot fall in a canoe, and escaping uninjured. For lovers of the curious, the church at Chicoutimi contains an ancient bell with an inscription on it that no one has been able to decipher.

If so minded, the traveller who finds himself in this delightful district may go by rail from Chicoutimi to Roberval at the south-western end of Lake St. John. Here, in more open country, another series of excursions may be had, and, not forgetting the pleasure of a stay at Roberval as a centre, those who are fond of steamboat trips, driving, walking, boating and canoeing may go in many directions.

The steamboat trip from Roberval to the Grand Discharge and ‘Thousand Isles of the Saguenay’ is a favorite one. There is nothing similar to it elsewhere. The drives to Ouiatchouan Falls, picturesque and nearly 300 feet high, and the Montagnais village of Pointe Bleue are full of interest and novelty. Many other trips are possible.

Much of the country to the north of the lake is unexplored. The same remark applies to the rivers of the northern district, or rather to their upper waters. Across Lake St. John, therefore, is ground where the experienced huntsman or nature-lover may find ample occupation in new fields.

The happy sojourner in these regions will soon become accustomed to the Indian names, and, if the use of ‘fire-water’ is eschewed, words like Chamouchouan and Ashuapmouchouan will roll trippingly from the tongue.

And now for an Indian legend. Tonadalwa was an Indian maid beautiful to look upon, and desired by every young brave of her tribe. Her eyes were dark and lustrous, her form was lithe, supple and beautifully moulded, words from her lips were sweeter than honey, and her song was like unto that of the bird that soars joyously in the sky at the first flush of the rosy dawn.

Tonadalwa’s heart had never quickened its tender fluttering under the glances of her dusky wooers. One only, Po-kwa-ha, had any place in her affections. He had saved her from drowning, years before, and it filled her memory. In a canoe as light as a feather, that her lover had made for her, and with the stroke she had learned from him, she would take her way over the water, skimming the white-crested waves with a grace and speed beautiful to behold.

One day as the soft summer air played languidly in and out of the quivering tree branches, while the sun poised over the horizon and assumed its dying robe of crimson, Tonadalwa’s canoe glided out from the village shore and took its way down the great river. Taking only an occasional stroke to keep in mid-channel, the maiden floated on. The faint musical ripple of the gliding canoe and the gentle swish of the paddle made a fitting accompaniment for girlish fancies that lightly came and went on the wings of thought, and soon the soul of Tonadalwa was deep in communion with nature, and her paddle rested motionless over the water.

But a sound from the shore interrupts her reverie. She listens. Yes, it is her lover’s voice. He calls her, as he has done before. She waits to see if his canoe puts out, but it does not. Again his voice is heard, and, this time quickly immersing her paddle, she speeds for the shore. But it is a cruel ruse of a rejected suitor, for when too late she sees the hated brave dash out in his canoe, and the thing she has dimly dreaded from the evil glance of Ka-wis is about to happen. She screams and turns to flee. The dastard brave drops his paddle, springs to his feet, and, knowing that the maiden will escape in her light canoe, sends an arrow on its deadly errand of revenge. But Tonadalwa’s eye was quick and her action fleet, for she dropped prostrate ere the arrow sped where she had stood a moment before. Alas! she had lost her paddle in the quick movement, and as she drifted down, not daring to look up, she soon heard the roar of the dreaded fall below.

All too soon she realized her peril. A cry now reaches her ear. The cry rings true this time, her heart tells her, and, springing up, she looks to the bank, sees that Ka-wis has fled and that her brave Po-kwa-ha is running rapidly as he tries to overtake her. Ere he can draw near to take the plunge of desperation and love, the whirling eddies have caught the Indian maid in their grasp, the seething rapids toss her canoe from billow to billow, and Death seizes her in his cold embrace as the frail bark is dashed over the foaming cataract.

Po-kwa-ha sees the dreadful catastrophe, as for one brief moment the beloved form of Tonadalwa is outlined clearly against the evening sky; and then, with one last involuntary cry for help, she extends her arms to her lover—and she has gone.

With his loved one torn from his very grasp, with despair in his heart, and all desire for life extinguished at one stroke, the poor lover rushes madly to the brink and plunges over the cataract to his death.

But the Good Manitou is kind to the brave, the good, the pure, and the true; shadowy forms, spirits of dead braves, rise from the foaming depths below, and ere the hungry waters can overwhelm the Indian maid, she is borne up, rescued, and returned to life.

Nor was the lover to meet the death he sought; for the same arm that had rescued the maiden now held up the form of the young brave, and placing her in his arms, Tonadalwa and Po-kwa-ha were united in life; and, bearing her tenderly to her home and safety, they were soon united in happy matrimony amidst the rejoicing of the whole tribe.

Ka-wis was seen no more. When he shot the arrow, he, too, lost his paddle, and was swept over the dreaded falls. As he sank in the terrible abyss below no pitying spirits upbore him, and Death claimed him as its own.

As we make our way back to Chicoutimi and towards the St. Lawrence, we cannot fail to be impressed by some of the amazing features of the Saguenay River. By actual soundings many parts of the river are over one thousand feet in depth, and none are less than one hundred feet. In places it is as deep five feet from the shore as in the middle of the channel. To boat or canoe on such waters and in the midst of such majestic and sublime surroundings is the one thrilling experience of a lifetime. The stoutest heart must pay involuntary homage to nature when gliding beneath boldly over-hanging masses of rock that must weigh millions of tons.

In addition to such scenes, there are softer effects that appeal to all lovers of the beautiful. Picture the scene when on a fine, clear day, with just a gauzy haze on the topmost heights of the cliffs, a boat passes out of the shadows into the full light of the beaming sun. The blue smoke wreathing gently upwards is from an Indian encampment just behind yon hill. Here are fine salmon leaping bodily out of the water; above is a soaring eagle showing like a mere speck against the sun, while on the surface of the water seals are showing their dog-like heads and lazy porpoises are playfully spouting sparkling fountains of spray.

Tadousac, the Harbor

The oldest and purest Indian dialect is that of the Montagnais, or ‘mountaineers.’ They were the original inhabitants of those sky-reaching regions, but of late they have gradually retired in the direction of Hudson’s Bay. Indian dialects, as a rule, are very musical, and the manner in which Indians in general express themselves is full of poetry and imagery. Most of the legends that have survived of these people are grotesque in character—of the Glooscap kind. The romantic tales and fancies will soon be lost unless some effort is made to gather and preserve them.

But the line of the Intercolonial Railway sends a strong call from the opposite St. Lawrence shore, and severing present connection with all the attractions of Tadousac and the Saguenay and Lake St. John district, Rivière du Loup is regained and the journey north-east is resumed.

A drive of between two and three miles from the railway station at Cacouna leads to the pleasant resort of that name.

Cacouna has been called the Brighton of Canada, its bathing on smooth beach, tennis, boating, walking and driving attracting many here to spend the whole summer. It is a dangerous place for bachelors, so great is the display of youth and beauty. In the words of the French-Canadian gradually mastering the intricacies of the English language:

“You can pass on de worl’ w’erever you lak,Tak’ de steamboat for go Angleterre,Tak’ car on de State, an’ den you come back,An’ go all de place, I don’t care——Ma frien’ dat’s a fack, I know you will say,Wen you come on dis countree again,Dere’s no girl can touch, w’at we see ev’ry day,De nice little Canadienne.”

“You can pass on de worl’ w’erever you lak,

Tak’ de steamboat for go Angleterre,

Tak’ car on de State, an’ den you come back,

An’ go all de place, I don’t care——

Ma frien’ dat’s a fack, I know you will say,

Wen you come on dis countree again,

Dere’s no girl can touch, w’at we see ev’ry day,

De nice little Canadienne.”

There are many pretty cottages of summer residents along the high and wooded banks, and there is plenty of accommodation at the hotels and boarding places. Pleasant excursions are enjoyed to the nearby lake in the hills, as well as along the country and river roads, and there are enjoyable drives to St. Arsène and St. Modeste. The view of the St. Lawrence from the heights is very beautiful, and the air is cool and pleasant. The sunset views enjoyed here are famous. The quiet and enjoyable social life of Cacouna is its distinct feature.

BIC

Interior of Church, Trois Pistoles

The name of the village is Indian, and signifies ‘the turtle,’ from the shape of the great mass of rock connected to the mainland here by a low isthmus.

Passing Isle Verte, the old village of Trois Pistoles is reached. A very pretty fishing-river, with tributaries, is here; and summer cottages have been built for the enjoyment of the fine scenery and good air. A beautiful church interior may be seen in this quiet village. The church is near the centre of the village and is known as Notre Dame des Neiges, or ‘Our Lady of the Snows.’ To see it is worth a trip of hundreds of miles. The village itself is quaint, and full of old-time atmosphere.

Who was it exclaimed, “I wish I were Queen of Bic!” and in that short sentence expressed a just appreciation of all the beauties in which this district abounds? Along Alpine heights the Intercolonial Railway takes its way, and the approach, far and near, is exquisite for the varied and magnificent panorama of scenery. At one point the train threads a mountain gorge hundreds of feet in the air, and, as it winds along, most charming kaleidoscopic effects are displayed to the admiring gaze.

Long years ago an old inn existed by the wayside, in connection with which gruesome tales are told of travellers and their strange disappearance. The village was originally known as Pic. Jacques Carrier entered and named the harbor Islet St. Jean. At one time it was intended to make it a harbor for French war vessels, and to make it a grand outpost in the general scheme for the defense of Quebec. A long wharf into deep water is now under construction.

Bic is just the place for those who do not care for town life at the shore. The village is very interesting and well situated, and there are many good walks through varied and picturesque country. The land-locked bay is very pleasant at high tide. At the outlet there is a wharf and a cluster of summer cottages. The new wharf for steamers of deep draught leads right under frowning cliffs, the points of which have been blasted away to give room for the new construction. Here the general scene is bold and striking, and the water view is very pleasing. The cottages are well placed for those who would enjoy a quiet vacation amidst pleasant surroundings.

Hattee Bay nearby has a fine stretch of sand, with a few bungalows on the overlooking heights.

A story of massacre has caused one of the Bic islands to be named ‘L’Islet au Massacre,’ or Massacre Island, from a terrible deed of blood that took place in a cave there. It is related by M. Tachê in the ‘Soirées Canadiennes’:—Two hundred Micmac Indians were camping there for the night; the canoes had been beached and a neighboring recess or cavern in the lofty rocks which bound the coast offered an apparently secure asylum to the warriors, their squaws and papooses. Wrapped in sleep, the redskins quietly awaited the return of day to resume their journey; they slept, but not their lynx-eyed enemy, the Iroquois; from afar, he had scented his prey. During the still hours of night, his silent steps had compassed the slumbering foe. Laden with birch-bark fagots and other combustible materials, the Iroquois noiselessly surround the cavern; the fagots are piled around it, the torch applied. Kohe! Kohe! Hark! the fiendish well-known warwhoop! The Micmacs, terror-stricken, seize their arms; they prepare to sell dearly their lives, when the lambent flames and the scorching heat leave them but one alternative, that of rushing from their lurking place.

One egress alone remains; wild despair steels their hearts; men, women and children crowd through the narrow passage amidst the flames; at the same instant a shower of poisoned arrows decimates them; the human hyena is on his prey. A few flourishes of thetomahawk from the Iroquois, and the silence of death soon invades the narrow abode.

Now for the trophies; the scalping, it seems, took some time to be done effectually.

History mentions but five, out of the two hundred victims, who escaped with their lives.

The blanched bones of the Micmac braves strewed the cavern, and could be seen until some years back.

Those who escaped travelled day and night to reach a large Huron camp some distance away. A rapid march was then made by the whole Huron force to the track by which the Iroquois would return. Not expecting an attack the Iroquois were in turn taken by surprise, and tradition has it that they were slaughtered to a man.

The pleasures of Bic are not exhausted by the recounting of its water-joys, air, scenery and social life. The walks and drives are a grand feature of summer existence, and moreover they are full of variety. How delightful to take a river drive in either direction. Possibly a walk is preferred, and, with a swinging step adapted to a six or seven mile excursion, a start is made in the direction of the bridge over the South-West River. Passing up the long main street, the varied character of the buildings is noticeable; and the quaint and foreign appearance causes the walk to be arrested at many a spot. Towering woodland heights on the left, beautiful islands on the right and haze-capped sugar-loaf mountains before, it is not long before street merges into country lane. Soon are passed the clustering cottages and gardens, and neat-appearing farms are at hand. Here where the Intercolonial Railway is high up on an observation terrace cut in the side of the mountain, the country road leads down hill, and, with many a pleasurable incident on the further way, and an occasional English-French chat with thehabitants, the bridge is reached.

But dark clouds begin to build up moist tire-laden pyramids, and low rumblings of distant thunder are beginning to be heard. A St. Lawrence thunderstorm in this mountainous locality is a thunderstorm, and when it rains, it rains. Right-about-face—Quick, March! and off we go. A few miles are covered, but the storm is imminent. Severalcartierspass uttering their monotonous and plaintive cry,“Marche donc”—a sort of querulous question, ‘why don’t you go on?’ addressed to their patient horses. You decline the oft-repeated proffer of a ride—and a wetting—and execute a double-quick run for the shelter of a friendly cottage. Your energetic knock is quickly answered by a young girl of seventeen summers who has in her engaging face all the sweet characteristics of the daughters of France.

“May I shelter here until the storm has passed,” you ask, stepping in. “Pardon, Monsieur?” comes the reply, as the door is hastily closed against the pelting rain.

Your linguistic powers are varied, yet limited; having been acquired by brief residences in four or five different countries. You manage to remark, “Un jour de pluie,” and as the young girl smiles indulgently over this very obvious fact, while rain dashes against the window,—lightning flashing and thunder rolling—you manage to explain “un abri.” “Avec plaisir, Monsieur,” is the reply in liquid and sweet intonation.

Removing your rain-coat you gratefully repose in the solid arm-chair, and examine with keen interest all the fittings, ornaments and family souvenirs of what you plainly see is an old-time French interior. Your amiable hostess has gone for a moment, but soon reappears, followed by father, mother, grandfather, brother and sister. You rise, bow politely, and shake hands all round, not forgetting your ‘good angel of the storm,’ whose ingenuous eyes reflect the pleasure of having a visitor from the outer world. “C’est un grand plaisir,” you remark; and then indicating her, you add, “Ma bonne ange de l’orage.”

At this all laugh heartily, and none more so than‘la bonne ange’herself. “I hev bin in de State,” the oldest, a son, remarks, as all the family smile proudly over his knowledge of English. The elder daughter now invites you to sit near her on the settee while she leafs over the album of family portraits for your entertainment. You are immediately surrounded by the others; all leaning over, pointing out the portraits and relating choice bits of family history. Everyone talks at once, and your frail linguistic bark founders in the deep sea of voluble conversation.

And now a blinding flash of lightning is followed immediately by a tremendous crash of thunder. The house is shaken by the concussion. ‘La Bonne Ange’ quickly runs to the old-fashioned cupboard in the corner, takes out a bottle and sprinklesl’eau beniteover the door lintel and window frame. Her sister having run out of the room after the alarming thunder-peal, ‘La Bonne Ange’shares your settee and explains that the little ceremony she has just performed is to keep lightning out of the room. She goes out and brings back a French-English conversation lexicon. She turns to one of the sentences arranged in parallel columns, speaks the French and asks you to pronounce the English. This done, you exchange; she speaks the English and you speak the French—each correcting the pronunciation of the other until both are right. The others look on eagerly, and smile encouragement over your progress. Every time you speak without the necessity for correction, all cry out delightedly, “Oui, Oui, Monsieur.”

At last ‘La Bonne Ange’ closes the book, and makes you understand that without looking at it you are to address her in French.

The thunder has ceased, the clouds have passed, and the returning light illumines the room and the kindly faces about you. A golden sunbeam casts an aureole around the head of ‘La Bonne Ange,’ and turning to her you say, “Vous etes tres jolie, mademoiselle!” A peal of happy laughter from the family greets your remark, followed by a clapping of hands; and as she looks down demurely, ‘La Bonne Ange’ replies, “Vous parlez français tres bien, Monsieur;” at which we all laugh more heartily than before.

You rise to go, expressing your thanks for shelter the while. A kind and hearty invitation to remain and sup is given; but this you reluctantly decline, explaining that duty calls you away by the evening train. All press around to bid you good-bye, and as you leave and turn the bend of the road all the members of the family salute you from the porch with waving hands, while in their midst, fluttering her handkerchief, stands ‘La Bonne Ange de l’Orage.’

Proceeding down the St. Lawrence, St. Germain de Rimouske, or Rimouski, is reached, a thriving town and pleasant summer resort, with good hotels, a fine river and attractive scenery. The beach at Sacré Coeur, a few miles away, is a good one. There is a fine Government wharf here. Father Point, a ‘Wireless’ station and place of call for large ocean-going vessels, may be reached from here, or from the next station, St. Anaclet,on the Intercolonial Railway. Passing Ste. Flavie, from which a short connecting railroad runs to Métis Beach, Matane and Matane-Sur-Mer, and going by St. Octave with its fine fall on the Grand Métis River, the station of Little Métis is reached, from which a drive of about six miles terminates at the well-known St. Lawrence resort, Métis Beach.

On the Links, Metis Beach

This delightful watering-place with its combined charm of country and shore is a favorite summer place for all who love quiet and restful surroundings, with walks and drives in a country that is full of interest. It has been termed the ‘Bride’s Mecca’ or nearest mundane approach to the groves of paradise. It is one of those nice spots favored by people of quiet tastes and avoided by lovers of glare and noise.

Boating, bathing, golf, tennis, walking and driving, are the chief amusements. There is also an enjoyable social life. The summer cottages are delightfully situated, being almost hidden in the trees: each has its own outlook over the broad St. Lawrence, here some forty miles wide. The Golf Links are most beautifully situated amidstideal surroundings. The hotels are right on the water, with plenty of shade from the generous tree-growth so noticeable in this district.

On the River, Matane

The beach, one of the best along the St. Lawrence shore, is not used as much as it should be. It is of pebble and sand, with clusters of rock that have fallen from the bold cliff. A very romantic waterfall cascades through a rocky defile and falls on to the beach near one of the principal hotels of the resort; and this waterfall—so accessible, so enticing—is surely one of the most charming pictures that could possibly be imagined. After it reaches the beach it courses down over the pebbles in miniature rapids and foaming rills. No greater fun for children could be found than that of wading in the dashing and sparkling streams that make their way down the beach and out into the salt St. Lawrence.

Rambling along the beach here, under the shade of the trees, is very enjoyable; and rocky knolls with nooks and shelters are conveniently near.

About eighteen miles down the river, Matane-Sur-Mer is reached, a very pleasant spot that has recently been opened up bya short railroad that connects with the Intercolonial Railway at Ste. Flavie. Near the lighthouse, and the lighthouse-keeper’s cheerful home adjoining, bungalows and cottages are being built on a nicely-wooded elevation that overlooks a long strip of pebble beach. It commands a fine view of the broad St. Lawrence, and is a good situation for those who like perfect rest and quiet.

A very enjoyable walk leads to the river Matane, at the mouth of which the bright and busy village of Matane is placed. Large lumber shipments are made here, and the place promises to grow steadily as the St. Lawrence lower coast trade develops. Matane stands on a well-chosen site, and it has good facilities for bathing, boating, etc. There are many fine views from the surrounding heights, and the walks in and about the village, as well as in the adjacent country, are very enjoyable.

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