CHAPTER VIII. THE TOLEDI AND TEMISCOUATA.
None of us awoke next morning till the sun was high and the dew all gonein the open places about the camp. The air was sweet with wild perfumes,and alive with birds and butterflies. It was near noon by the time wefound ourselves afloat on the Toledi River. This is a larger stream thanthe Squatook, and much more violent. The “Toledi Falls” are less thanhalf a mile from the lake, and most travellers “portage” around themrather than risk the difficult passage. Indeed, the mighty, plungingswells, the succession of leaps, the roar and tumult between those rockywalls, render the passage by no means enticing when looked at in coldblood. But we knew the channels, and were resolved to “run it.” It is nouse attempting to tell just how we did it. I only know we all yelledwith fierce delight as we darted into the gorge, and I imagine our eyesstuck out. Our muscles were like steel, and we tingled to thefinger-tips. Then came a few wild moments when every man did his levelbest without knowing exactly how; for the white surges clasheddeafeningly about us, and with cheers we swept into the big eddy belowthe falls—drenched, but safe. What cared we for a wetting in that clearsunshine? The passion of travel was on us, and we could not stay tofish. All the rest of the run down to Temiscouata is like a dream to me.Few rocks, few shoals, a straight channel, and always that tearingcurrent. At four in the afternoon a last mad rapid hurled us out intothe wide expanse of Temiscouata. There was a sharp wind on the lake,which is thirty miles long, and at this point about three miles wide. Inthe heavy seas, with our deep-laden canoes, we had a rough and reallyperilous passage; and it was not far from six o’clock when we reachedthe other shore. There, near the outskirts of the little village ofDétour du Lac, we pitched tent for the night.
After supper we took a run through the village, and had a chat with someof the habitans. We procured, moreover, some native Madawaskatobacco—which we smoked once, and never smoked again.
Around the fire that night we felt a sense of depression because ourtrip was drawing to an end. At last Magnus cried,—
“Shake off this gloom, boys. A story, Stranion!”
“All right; here’s something light and bright,” answered Stranionpromptly. “Let us call it—
‘CHOPPING HIM DOWN.’
“There is nothing that so cheers the heart of the lumberman as to play apractical joke on one whom he calls a ‘greenhorn,’ or, in other words,any one unused to the strange ways and flavor of the lumber-camps. Asmay be imagined, the practical jokes in vogue in such rough company arenot remarkable for gentleness. One of the harshest and most dangerous,as well as most admired, is that known as ‘chopping him down.’
“This means, in a word, that the unsophisticated stranger in the camp isinvited to climb a tall tree to take observations or enjoy a remarkableview. No sooner has he reached the top, than a couple of vigorous axemenattack the tree at its base, while the terrified stranger makes fiercehaste to descend from his too lofty situation. Long before he can reachthe ground the tree begins to topple. The men shout to him to get on theupper side, which he does with appalled alacrity; and with a mightyswish and crash down comes the tree. As a general rule, the heavybranches so break the shock that the victim, to his intenseastonishment, finds himself uninjured; though frequently he isfrightened out of a year’s growth. There are cases on record, however,where men have been crippled for life in this outrageous play; and insome cases the ‘boss’ of the camp forbids it.
“But it is not only the greenhorn who is subject to this discipline ofchopping down. Even veterans sometimes like to climb a tree and take aview beyond the forest; and sometimes, on a holiday or a Sunday, somecontemplative woodsman will take refuge in a tree-top to think of hissweetheart, or else to eat a sheet of stolen gingerbread. If his retreatbe discovered by his comrades, he is promptly chopped down withinextinguishable jeers.
“I have mentioned stolen gingerbread. This bread is a favorite delicacyin the camps; and the cook who can make really good gingerbread isprized indeed. It is made in wide, thin, tough sheets; and while it isbeing served to the hands, some fellow occasionally succeeds in‘hooking’ a whole sheet while the cook’s back is toward him. But in thatsame instant every man’s hand is turned against him. He darts into thewoods, devouring huge mouthfuls as he runs. If he is very swift of foothe may escape, eat his spoils in retirement, and stroll back, an hourlater, with a conscious air of triumph. More often he has to take to atree. Instantly all hands rush to chop him down. He climbs no higherthan is necessary, perches himself on a stout limb, and eats at hisgingerbread for dear life. He knows just what position to take forsafety; and often, ere the tree comes down, there is little gingerbreadleft to reward its captors. The meagre remnant is usually handed overwith an admirable submissiveness, if it is not dropped in the fall, andannihilated in the snow and _débris_.
“At one time I knew a lumberman who succeeded in hiding his stolengingerbread in his long boot-legs, and slept with the boots under hishead for security. The camp was on the banks of a lake. The time of thecapture of the gingerbread was a Saturday night in spring. Next morningthe spoiler took possession of the one ‘bateau’ belonging to the camp,rowed out into the lake beyond the reach of stones and snowballs, andthen calmly fished the gingerbread out of his boots. Sitting at ease inthe bateau, he devoured his dainty with the utmost deliberation, whilehis chagrined comrades could only guy him from the shore.
“For myself, I was chopped down once, and once only. It happened in thisway. In the midwinter of 1879 I had occasion to visit the chief camp onthe Little Madawaska. Coming from the city, and to a camp where I was astranger to all the men, I was not unnaturally regarded as a pronouncedspecimen of the greenhorn. I took no pains to tell any one what the bossalready well knew; that is, that I had been a frequenter of the campsfrom my boyhood. Many and many a neat trap was laid for my apparently‘tender’ feet, but I avoided them all as if by accident. As for climbinga tree, I always laughed at the idea when it was proposed to me. Ialways suggested that it might spoil my clothes. Before long the men, byputting little things together, came to the conclusion that I was an oldstager; and, rather sheepishly, they gave over their attempts to entrapme. Then I graciously waved my hand, as it were, and was franklyreceived as a veteran, cleared from every suspicion of being green.
“At last the day came when I _did_ wish to climb a tree. The camp was ona high plateau, and not far off towered a magnificent pine-tree, growingout of the summit of a knoll in such a way as to command all thesurrounding country. Its branches were phenomenally thick; its girth oftrunk was magnificent. And this tree I resolved one day to climb, inorder to get a clear idea of the lay of the land. Of course I strolledoff surreptitiously, and, as I thought, unwatched. But there I was muchmistaken. No sooner was I two-thirds of the way up the tree than, withshouts of laughter, the lumbermen rushed out of the surrounding cover,and proceeded to chop me down. The chance was too good for them to lose.
“I concealed my annoyance, and made no attempt to descend. On thecontrary, I thanked them for the little attention, and climbed a fewfeet farther up, to secure a position which I saw would be a safe onefor me when the tree should fall. As I did so, I perceived, with a gaspand a tremor, that I was not alone in the tree.
“There, not ten feet above me, stretched at full length along a largebranch, was a huge panther, glaring with rage and terror. From the menbelow his form was quite concealed. Glancing restlessly from me to mypursuers, the brute seemed uncertain just what to do. As I carefullyrefrained from climbing any farther up, and tried to assume an air ofnot having observed him, he apparently concluded that I was not hisworst enemy. In fact, I dare say he understood what was going on, andrealized that he and I were fellow-sufferers.
“I laughed softly to myself as I thought how my tormentors would betaken aback when that panther should come down among them. I decidedthat, considering their numbers, there would be at least no more dangerfor them than that
to which they were exposing me in their recklessfooling. And, already influenced by that touch of nature which makes usso wondrous kind, I began to hope that the panther would succeed inescaping.
“The trunk of the pine was so thick that I might almost have reached theground before the choppers could cut it through. At last it gave amighty shudder and sagged to one side. I balanced myself nimbly on theupper side, steadying myself by a convenient branch. The great mass offoliage, presenting a wide surface to the air, made the fall acomparatively slow one; but the tremendous sweep of the draught upward,as the tree-top described its gigantic arc, gave me a sickeningsensation. Then came the final dull and thunderous crash, and in aninstant I found myself standing in my place, jarred but unhurt, with thesnow threshed up all about me.
“The next instant there was another roar, or rather a sort of screamingyell, overwhelming the riotous laughter of the woodsmen; and out of theconfusion of pine-boughs shot the tawny form of the panther in awhirlwind of fury. One of the choppers was in his path, and was bowledover like a clumsy ninepin. The next bound brought the beast onto thebacks of a yoke of oxen, and his cruel claws severely scratched theirnecks. As the poor animals bellowed and fell on their knees, the pantherpaused, with some idea, apparently, of fighting the whole assembledparty. But as the men, recovered from their first amazement, rushed withtheir axes to the rescue of the oxen, the panther saw that the odds wereall against him. He turned half round, and greeted his enemies with oneterrific and strident snarl, then bounded off into the forest at a pacewhich made it idle to pursue him. The owner of the oxen hurled an axeafter him, but the missile flew wide of its mark.
As the excitement subsided, and I saw that the chopper who had beenknocked over was none the worse for his tumble, I chaffed my tormentorsunmercifully. For their part they had no answer ready. They seemedalmost to think that I had conjured up the panther for the occasion. Ithanked them most fervently for coming to my rescue with suchwhole-hearted good-will, and promised them that if ever again I got intoa tree with a panther I would send for them at once. Then I set myselfto doctoring the unfortunate oxen, whose lacerated necks and shoulderswe soon mended up with impromptu plasters. And the owner of the oxengratefully vowed to me, ‘If ever I see any of the chaps a-laying for yeagin, an’ any of my critters is around, I’ll tip ye the wink, shore!’”
“Here goes for another lumberman’s yarn,” began Sam, when Stranionceased. “It’s brief, so bear with it.
‘A RUDE AWAKENING.’
“In the fir-woods of the Upper Bartibogue the snow was softeningrapidly. The spring thaws had come on several weeks earlier than theywere expected, consequently a great quantity of logs lay in the woodswaiting to be hauled to the landing. The hands at Bober’s Camp wereworking with feverish energy, in the effort to get all their logs outbefore the snow roads should go utterly to pieces. Old Paul Bober, theboss of the camp, had sent out to all the surrounding settlements forextra teams.
“The first result of his efforts was a team of wild young steers, whichseemed hardly more than half-broken to the yoke. They were as long andgaunt as their driver, long Jim Baizley; but they looked equal to anyamount of hard work.
“‘Them critters of yourn ain’t much to look at, Jim,’ remarked the boss,as Baizley came ‘geeing’ and ‘hawing’ them into camp toward sundown.
“The steers swung their hindquarters far apart, and sagged restively onthe yoke, as they came to a halt. The teamster rolled a loving eye uponthem, and replied,—
“‘Jest wait till they git yankin’ onto the logs, an’ then see what youthink of ’em!’
“Jim Baizley was a smart teamster; and on the following morning, withhis heart set on showing off his team to the best advantage, he was thefirst to get to work hauling. The snow was getting softer and softer, awarm wind having blown all night so that there had been no chance for itto stiffen up. This heightened the general anxiety; and there was notime lost in following Baizley to ‘the Ridge,’ a patch of sloping forestwhere a lot of fine timber lay waiting to be hauled out.
“From the Ridge to the Landing it was necessary to take a new road,which had been already roughly chopped out. As Baizley with his leancattle started out for the Landing with a couple of huge timbers chainedtogether behind them, one of the hands shouted to remind him that he wasthe first to go over the new road.
“‘Look out for slumps, Jim!’ cried the chopper. ‘This here snow hain’tgot no kind of a bottom to it now!’
“Baizley rolled his eyes over the stretch of track before him, which hisload was soon to plough into picturesque disorder. With a thoughtfulgesture, and very deliberately, he spit a huge quantity of tobacco-juiceover the dull-white, soggy surface just in front of the oxen, and thensaid,—
“‘I’ll look out. Gimme a peevy!’
“Grasping the long white pole, shod with a steel spike at the largerend, he started his team toward the Landing. Instead of walking besidehis cattle, in the teamster’s customary place, he travelled a few feetin front of their noses; and from time to time he thrust the pike-polesharply into the snow.
“It must be borne in mind that the snow in these north shore woods liesanywhere from two to five feet deep. Under such a covering may lieconcealed, not only the firm forest floor, but dangerous bog-holes, orsteep little dry gullies. Hence the wise precaution which Baizley tookof feeling the way for his oxen. The lack of such precaution has costmany a careless lumberman his team.
“In the present case, however,—so perverse a witch is chance,—Baizley’svery prudence was the well-spring of disaster. His experience was suchas might almost have led him to forswear precautions for the rest of hisnatural life—as a teamster.
“Close behind Baizley’s team came another, driven by Tamin Landry, alittle Frenchman from down the river. _Tamang_, as the Frenchman wascalled by his comrades, had great confidence in Baizley’s skill as aguide. He felt it safe to take his team wherever Baizley should takehis.
“Presently Baizley’s pike-pole sank deeply into the snow with sudden andsuspicious ease.
“‘Whoa-oa-o!’ he yelled, rolling his eyes back upon the steers.
“The team surged forward till they were almost upon him, and he rappedthem sharply across the muzzles. Then they stopped, with their heads fardown.
“‘W’at ze matter?’ inquired Tamang, skipping forward.
“‘Big hole here!’ responded Baizley. He was prodding the snow near thetrunk of a mighty tree.
“‘Solid ground furder this way, likely!’ he continued; and he gave avicious prod some two feet farther out from the tree.
“The result was something to startle even a backwoodsman. The snowysurface rose up suddenly, with a spluttering, grunting noise, as if aninfant volcano were about breaking into eruption.
“Almost thrown off his feet, Baizley sprang to one side, while theexcitable Tamang jumped into the air with a yell of astonishment. Theyoke of steers swerved wildly to one side, and would have run away butfor their heavy load. Then there emerged from the snow the hugest andhollowest of black bears, his long fur thickly blotched with lumps ofhis white covering.
“Thus painfully and unceremoniously aroused from his winter sleep, thebear was in a thoroughly justifiable rage. Perhaps also the pangs ofunrealized hunger added to his fury. He glanced with small red eyes fromside to side, then flung himself clumsily but swiftly upon the nearestox.
“With mad bellowing the team plunged in among the trees; and in theirterror so great was their strength, that the great timbers they werehauling danced after them like jackstraws. But this was not for long.Ere they had gone ten yards from the road, the ox which the bear hadstruck, blind with panic, caught his long horns in a sapling, and fellforward on his knees. For a moment his yoke-fellow held him up, then hecollapsed in a limp red-and-white heap, with his neck broken. And thebear began tearing at him savagely.
“Paralyzed and helpless, the other steer sank in the snow. By this time,however, Baizley and the Frenchman
had recovered their scattered witsand seized their axes. Baizley’s eyes rolled wildly, with pity for histeam and wrath against the bear. With the full sweep of his long, wiryarms, he swung his heavy axe and brought it down upon the animal’s head.
“At least, that was Baizley’s amiable intention; but any one who hastried to hit a bear over the head with an axe knows how difficult a featit is to accomplish, unless the bear is asleep. This bear was verywide-awake indeed; Baizley’s pike-pole had seen to that!
“Though apparently engrossed with the dead steer, he had been watchinghis assailants out of the corner of his eye. Just as the great axe beganits deadly descent, the beast half rose, and like a flash threw up hismighty forearm. On this the axe-handle struck and glanced, and theweapon flew violently off among the trees.
“With a desperate exclamation Baizley attempted to jump away; and at thesame moment the bear brought down his other paw with a stroke that allBaizley’s tried skill as a boxer would not have availed to parry. Butfortunately for the tall lumberman, his footing gave way. He fellheadlong in the snow, and the stroke of that armed paw passed harmlesslyover him.
“The bear dropped forward upon him, but was at once distracted by afierce blow on the shoulder from Landry’s axe. With a snort he turnedabout, and gave chase to the nimble little Frenchman.
“Tamang came leaping Past with the Bear at His Heels.”—Page 303.]
“Now, this was in all respects a most fortunate diversion. Tamang was solight of foot that the snow easily upbore him. He found himself able,without difficulty, to elude his floundering pursuer. He took a shortcircuit among the trees, and headed back toward the team.
“Baizley was now on his feet, and himself again. He was running to pickup his axe, when Tamang yelled, ‘No! No! Spear him, spear him wid zepeevy, Jeem! Spear him wid ze peevy!’
“It was a good idea, and Baizley realized the force of it. Thesteel-shod pike-pole was indeed a formidable weapon. Grasping it shortin both hands, Baizley sprang upon the logs of his ill-fated load, and asecond later Tamang came leaping past with the bear at his heels.
“In an instant the plucky Frenchman turned and faced his pursuer. Thebear rose on his hind legs to seize him, and Baizley’s opportunity hadarrived. With all his force he drove the point of the pike-pole into thebrute’s body, right under the foreshoulder.
“Down came the huge arm, snapping the tough pole like a splinter; butthe steel point had gone home. The bear fell dead, close beside the deadox.
“Whilst Tamang, with voluble excitement, examined the two victims ofBaizley’s wise precautions, the latter with taciturn deliberationproceeded to unyoke the trembling steer from its ill-starred mate. Butfrom the way his eyes rolled in their lean sockets, it was easy to seethat the gaunt lumberman was doing some swift and energetic thinking.”
“Now, then, Magnus,” cried Queerman, “we look to you. Will it be moreabout the lumber-camps?”
“No,” replied Magnus; “I shall introduce a beast of whom none of youhave yet said a word. Yet he is an important beast, and played no smallpart in preparing the land of Canaan for the advent of the children ofIsrael. My story is—
‘SAVED BY A HORNET’S NEST.’
“I got the story just a few weeks ago, when I was out fishing on theRushagornish with Dick Henderson. Near the shore we came upon a hugehornets’ nest suspended beneath a bush. Swayed by the common impulse ofdestructiveness, I suggested that we should set fire to the nest.
“‘No, indeed,’ said Dick. ‘If we attack the nest we deserve to getstung. Mr. Yellow Jacket is a self-respecting citizen, and will nottrouble you unless you wantonly interfere with him. If he resentsaggression fiercely, we cannot blame him for that, can we? Besides, ahornets’ nest is held sacred among us Hendersons.’
“‘You don’t mean to confess,’ I exclaimed, ‘that it symbolizes thespirit and temper of your family?’
“‘Not exactly,’ replied Dick. ‘But it certainly preserved the connectionbetween flesh and spirit for our family at a very critical moment. MyGrandfather Henderson owed his life to a nest of hornets at a time whenhe, a young man of twenty-two, was the sole representative of his line.’
“The trout were not rising, and the rapidly heating air persuaded toindolence. I stood my rod up in a bush, threw myself down in a shadyspot, and remarked to Dick that he might as well tell me about hisgrandfather. This invitation elicited the following curious story:—
“It was during the war of 1812. The battles of Chrysler’s Farm andChateauguay had not yet been fought, and the Canadians were in doubt asto the movements of the two American armies which were preparing toattack Montreal. They knew that General Wilkinson was at Sackett’sHarbor, making ready to descend the St. Lawrence; but in regard toGeneral Hampton, who was advancing by way of Lake Champlain, informationwas much in demand.
“My grandfather, James Henderson, who knew the country between the St.Lawrence and Lake Champlain, volunteered to get the information. He hadmany friends on the American side of the line, most of whom, as he knew,heartily disapproved of this unnecessary struggle between the UnitedStates and England. On these he depended for help if he should getcaught; and he really gave far too little heed to the nature of the riskhe was running. Yet he took wise precautions, and played his part withdiscretion.
“With a ragged-looking horse and a shabby pedler’s wagon, and himselfskilfully made up for the _rôle_ of a country hawker, he wascomparatively secure from recognition. Indeed, I have heard him boastthat he made sales to some of his most intimate acquaintances, who neverfor an instant dreamed that it was Jim Henderson whom they were hagglingwith.
“All went prosperously until the very end of the adventure drew near. Mygrandfather was returning with the important information that Hampton’sobjective point was the mouth of the Chateauguay River, whence he wouldcross the St. Lawrence, and descend upon Montreal from Lachine.
“At Smith’s Corners, a little rudimentary village about ten miles fromthe Canadian border, my grandfather stopped for a bite of dinner.
“Jake Smith, the landlord of the little inn, was a trusted friend; andto him my grandfather revealed himself in obedience to a sudden impulse.It was the first time on the whole journey that he had given theslightest clew to his true personality. Well for him that he yielded tothis impulse, else even the friendly hornets’ nest, to which we arecoming presently, would not have availed to save him.
“Jake Smith was a stirring fellow, who under ordinary circumstanceswould have liked nothing better than running a spy to earth; but whenthat spy was Jim Henderson, the case was different.
“My grandfather had stood his horse and wagon in on the spacious barnfloor, and was having a wash in a little bedroom opening off thekitchen. The bedroom door was partly closed.
“Suddenly, through the crack of the door, he caught sight of a smallparty of American militiamen, at whose heels followed two huge brindledmastiffs, or part mastiffs, probably a cross between mastiff andbloodhound. Henderson, confident in his disguise, was just slipping onhis coat with the idea of going out and speaking to the soldiers, whenthe leader’s voice, addressing the landlord at the kitchen door,arrested him.
“‘Where’s that pedler chap that drove in here a few minutes ago?’inquired the officer, puzzled at seeing no sign of the wagon.
“‘What do you want of him?’ inquired the landlord with an air ofinterest.
“‘We’ll show you presently!’ said the officer. ‘And we’ll want you, too,if we catch you trying to shelter a spy! Where is he?’
“‘I don’t shelter no spies,’ growled Jake Smith ambiguously; ‘and I’dadvise you to keep your jaw for your own men!”
“The officer was about to make an angry reply, but changed his mind.
“‘That pedler,’ said he firmly, ‘is a spy; and it is your duty to assistin his capture. Is he in this house?’
“Now, Smith knew better than to try to persuade the soldiers thatHenderson
had driven away. He saw they had certain knowledge of thespy’s presence. So he exclaimed:—
“‘A spy, is he? Well, I reckon you’ve about got him, then. He’s drovehis team in on the barn floor, out of the sun, and most likely’—but thewhole squad were off for the barn.
“‘To the woods! The cave!’ hissed Smith toward the little bedroom; andat the same instant my grandfather darted from the window, down behindthe tall rows of pole-beans and a leafy bed of artichokes, and gainedthe cover of the woods which touched on the rear edge of the garden.
“He ran with desperate speed, following at first a well-beatencattle-path that led straight into the woods. But he had small hope ofescape. It was the glimpse he had got of those two great dogs thatfilled his soul with dismay.
“For the troops alone he would have cared little. He knew he couldoutrun most men, and the forest afforded innumerable hiding-places. Butthose dogs! With no weapon but his sheath-knife, he could hardly hope toovercome them without being himself disabled; and if he were to takerefuge in a tree, they would just hold him there till their mastersarrived to lead him off to an ignominious death.
“My grandfather concluded, however, that his only chance for escape layin fighting the dogs. If he could kill them before the soldiers came up,he might possibly get away.
“But to make the most of this poor chance he must get deep into thewoods, and lead the dogs a long distance ahead of the troops.
“He understood the sound tactics of dividing the enemy’s forces. Hetightened his belt and ran on, snatching up by the way a stout stickwhich some one had intended for a cane.
“The cave of which Smith had spoken lay about three miles from thevillage. After following the cattle-path for perhaps half a mile, mygrandfather turned a little to the right and plunged into the tracklessforest. His long, nimble legs carried him swiftly over the innumerableobstructions of the forest floor.
“His ears were strained anxiously to catch the first deep baying thatwould tell him the dogs were on his scent. Every minute that thedreadful voices delayed was an addition to his little stock of hopes. Ifonly he could reach the cave, his chances of victory over the dogs wouldbe much increased; for the entrance to it was so small that only one ofhis assailants would be able to get in at a time.
“At last, when he had run about two miles, his breath failed him. Hethrew himself flat on his face on a bit of mossy ground beside a brook.As he lay there gasping, his mouth open, his eyes shut, suddenly alongthe resonant ground were borne to his ears the voices of the dogs.
“When he sprang to his feet he could no longer hear them; but he knew hemust gain more time. Jumping into the brook he ran several hundred yardsup-stream; then, seizing a long, overhanging branch, he swung himselfwell ashore, some ten feet clear of the bank.
“As he once more headed for the cave, he flattered himself, not withoutreason, that the dogs would lose some time before they picked up hisscent again.
“The baying of the pursuers soon came near enough to be distinctlyheard, and then grew in volume rapidly. At last it stopped; and he knewthe dogs had reached the brook, and were hunting for the scent. Beforethat sinister music rose again on the stillness of the wilderness air,Henderson came in sight of the hillside wherein the cave lay hidden.
“Just as he was congratulating himself that he had now a good chance ofescape, a thought occurred to him that dashed his hopes. ‘Why,’ said heto himself, ‘the dogs would most likely refuse to enter the cave!’Seeing the smallness of the entrance, they would no doubt stay bayingoutside, keeping him like a rat in a hole until the soldiers should comeand smoke him out.
“However, he decided to risk it. He could, at least, block the entrancewith stones, and make some sort of fight at the last; or even theremight be some other exit,—some fissure in the hill which he had neverexplored. At any rate, he was too much exhausted to run any farther.
“As he approached the low opening in the hillside a lot of hornetsdarted past his ears. Having a dread of hornets he glanced aboutnervously, and imagined at first they were denizens of his cave. But ina moment he saw the nest.
“It was an immense gray globular structure, hanging from the branch of asmall fir-tree, at a height of about two feet from the ground. It wasnot more than five or six feet from the cave, and almost directly infront of it.
“Henderson was a man of resources; and he appreciated the fightingprowess of a well-stirred colony of hornets. He decided to enlist thecolony in his defence.
“The hornets were taking no notice of him whatever, being intent onbusiness of their own. Henderson took a long piece of string from histrousers pocket, and in the most delicate fashion possible made one endfast to the branch which supported the nest. Then, lying down flat onhis face, he squirmed softly past without getting into collision withthe insects, and crawled into the cave, carrying with him the other endof the string.
“Once safely inside, his first care was to grope around for a big stoneor two. These he soon procured, and with their aid the entrance wasblocked. Then he took off his coat.
“He laid his ear to the crevices in his barricade. The dogs were gettingso near that he could hear now the crashing of their heavy forms as theybounded through the underbrush.
“Holding his coat ready to stop up, if necessary, the small openings hehad left for observation, he began jerking sharply on the string whichconnected him with the hornets’ nest.
“He could hear the furious buzzing which instantly arose as the hornetsswarmed forth to resent the disturbance. He could see how the air grewyellow all about the nest. But it did not occur to the angry insects toseek for their disturber in the cave.
“Henderson jerked again and yet again, and the enraged swarm grewthicker.
“At this moment the dogs came into view. Very deadly and inexorable theylooked as they bounded along, heads low down, their dark, muscularbodies dashing the branches aside and bearing down the undergrowth.
“Now, realizing perhaps that they had run their prey to earth, theyraised their heads and barked, in a tone very different from that oftheir baying. Unfalteringly they dashed straight upon the barricade; andone of them, as he sprang past, struck the nest a ruder shock than anythat my grandfather’s string had been able to give it.
Saved by a Hornets’ Nest.—Page 313.]
“In that same instant the exasperated hornets were upon the dogs. Asharp chorus arose of angry and frightened yelpings. Yet for a fewseconds the brave brutes persisted in their efforts to force an entranceto my grandfather’s retreat. This gave the hornets a fair chance.
“They settled upon the animals’ eyes and ears and jaws, till flesh andblood—even dog flesh and blood—could endure the fiery anguish no longer.Both dogs rolled over and over, burrowing their noses in the moss, andtrying with their paws to scrape off their bitter assailants. But thecontest was too unequal.
“Presently both dogs stuck their tails between their legs, and dartedoff in mad panic through the woods. Gradually their yelpings died away.
“My grandfather then and there registered a vow that he would neveragain break up a hornets’ nest. He slackened the string till it layloose and inconspicuous amid the moss, but he did not exactly care to goout and detach it from the branch.
“Then he lay down and rested, feeling pretty confident that the soldierswould not find their way to his retreat now that they were deprived ofthe assistance of the dogs. As for the dogs, he knew that their noseswere pretty well spoiled for a day or two.
“That night, when he felt quite sure the hornets had gone to bed, mygrandfather crept out of his refuge, stole softly past his littleprotectors without disturbing them to say farewell, and struck acrossthe forest in the direction of the Canadian border. A little later themoon got up, and by her light he made good progress.
“Soon after daybreak he reached the banks of the Chateauguay, and aboutan hour later he fell in with a scouting-party of the GlengarryFencibles, who took him to the headquarters of De Salaberry, theCana
dian commander. As for the ragged old horse and the pedler’s wagon,they remained at Smith’s Corners, a keepsake for Jake Smith.”
“I think,” said Ranolf, “that’s a good enough yarn to go to bed on. I’mas sleepy as a June-bug.”
Upon this we all discovered that we were in the same condition asRanolf. The exhilaration of the run down the Toledi, and the hard strainof the passage across Temiscouata, had tired us through and through. Howdelicious were our blankets that night at Détour du Lac!