Le Petit Nord | Page 3

mosquito veiling, and
to stand for a moment outside without this protection was to risk
disfigurement for life. So I humbly yielded to adverse circumstances
and returned to try and read, the previous bumping having made this
out of the question. But the interior was by this time a veritable
Gehenna, and no ventilation could be obtained, as the Company had
not thought it necessary to provide their windows with screens. For
twenty-five hours we remained in durance vile, until at last the relief
train lumbered to our rescue and conveyed us to Run-by-Guess, our
destination.

Northward Bound. On board June 25

If you could have been present during the return journey from
Run-by-Guess your worst prophecies would have seemed to you
justified. The railroad is of the genus known as narrow-gauge; the
roadbed was not constructed on the principles laid down by the
Romans. In a country where the bones of Mother Earth protrude so
insistently, it is beating the devil round the stump to mend the bed with
fir branches tucked even ever so solicitously under the ties. That,
nevertheless, was an attempt at "safety first" which I saw.
Towards morning a furious rain and wind storm broke over us. Before
many minutes I noticed that my berth was becoming both cold and
damp. Looking up I made out in the dim dawn a small but persistent
stream pouring down upon me. I had had the upper berth pushed up so
as to get the air! Again the train came to an unscheduled stop. By this
time assorted heads were emerging from behind the curtains, and from
each came forcible protests against the weather. There was nothing to
be done but to sit with my feet tucked up and my arms around my
knees, occupying thus the smallest possible space for one of my
proportions, and wait developments. Ten minutes later, after much
shouting outside my window, a ladder was planted against the car, and
two trainmen in yellow oilskins climbed to the roof. I noted with
satisfaction that they carried hammers, tacks, and strips of tin. A series
of resounding blows and the almost immediate cessation of the
descending floods told how effective their methods had proved.
Directly afterwards the startled squeak of the engine whistle, as if some
one had trodden on its toe, warned us that we were off once more.
We landed (you will note that the nautical phraseology of the country
has already gripped me) in the same storm at Come-by-Chance
Junction. But the next morning broke bright and shining, as if rain and
wind were inhabitants of another planet. It is quite obvious that this
land is a lineal descendant of Albion's Isle. Now I am aboard the
coastal steamer and we are nosing our way gingerly through the packed
floe ice, as we steam slowly north for Cape St. John. Yes, I know it is
Midsummer's Day, but as the captain tersely put it, "the slob is a bit
late."

The storm of two days ago blowing in from the broad Atlantic drove
the great field of leftover pans before it, and packed them tight against
the cliffs. If we had not had that sudden change in the weather's mind
yesterday, we should not be even as far along as we now find ourselves.
You can form no idea of one's sensations as the steamer pushes her way
through an ice jam. For miles around, as far as the eye can reach, the
sea is covered with huge, glistening blocks. Sometimes the deep-blue
water shows between, and sometimes they are so tightly massed
together that they look like a hummocky white field. How any one can
get a steamer along through it is a never-ending source of amazement,
and my admiration for the captain is unstinted. I stand on the bridge by
the hour, and watch him and listen to the reports of the man on the
cross-trees as to the prospects of "leads" of open water ahead. Every
few minutes we back astern, and then butt the ice. If one stays below
decks the noise of the grinding on the ship's side is so persistent and so
menacing that I prefer the deck in spite of its barrels and crates and
boxes and smells. Here at least one would not feel like a rat in a hole if
a long, gleaming, icy, giant finger should rip the ship's side open down
the length of her. As we grate and scrape painfully along I look back
and see that the ice-pan channel we leave behind is lined with scarlet. It
is the paint off our hull. The spectacle is all too suggestive for one who
has always regarded the most attractive aspect of the sea to be viewed
from the landwash.
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