music of their knives and forks could testify; butpoetic Rory was leaning his chin upon his hand, and evidently histhoughts were far away.
"I say, boys," he said, at last, "if I had lived in the days of yore--some hundreds of years ago, you know--do you know what I should haveliked to have been?"
"No," said Ralph; "something very bright, I'll wager my gun. Morecoffee, steward."
"I'd have been," continued Rory, "a wandering merchant-minstrel."
"A what!" cried Ralph, looking up from his plate.
"He means a packman," said Allan.
"No," said Ralph; "he means a hawker."
"Oh! bother your hawkers and your packmen!" cried Rory; "sure, you sendall the romance out of the soul of me! You serve me as the colleensserved the piper, who was playing so neat and so pretty, till--
"A lass cut a hole in the bag And the music flew up to the moon, With a fa la la lay."
"Well," persisted Allan, "but tell us about your merchant-minstrel. Ifit isn't a pack-merchant selling German concertinas, I don't know whathe can be."
"Well, then, I'll tell you; but, troth," said Rory, "neither of youdeserve it for chaffing a poor boy as you chaff me. Listen, then. Itis two hundred years ago and more, and a calm summer gloaming. In thegreat tartan parlour of Arrandoon Castle, whose windows overlook all thewild wide glen, are seated the wife of the chief McGregor of that goldenage, and her lovely daughter Helen. The young girl is bending over herharp, playing one of the sweet sad airs of Scotland, while her mothersits before a tall frame quietly embroidering tapestry. And now themusic ceases, and with a gentle sigh the fair musician moves to thewindow. There is the blue sky above, and the green waving birches onthe braes, with distant glimpses of the bonnie loch, and there are sheepbrowsing among the purple. The wail of Peter's pipes comes sounding upthe glen--the Peter of two hundred years ago, you know--but no livingsoul is to be seen. Oh, yes! some one issues even now from the pineforest, and comes slowly up the winding road towards the castle.`Mother, mother!' cries the girl, clapping her hands with joy, `herecomes that dear old merchant-minstrel.' And her mother puts away herwork, and presently the Janet of a bygone age ushers _me_ in, and Iplace my bundle of wares on the floor."
"Your pack," said Allan.
"My bundle of wares," continued Rory, "and kneel beside it as I undo it.How eagerly they watch me, and how Helen's bright eyes sparkle, as Ispread my silks and my furs before her, and my glittering jewels rare!And how rejoiced I feel as I watch their happy faces; and sure I letthem have everything they want, cheaper than anybody else would in allthe wide world, because of their beautiful eyes. And then I tell themall the news of the outer world, and then--yes, then I take my fiddle,and for an hour and more I hold them enthralled."
"What a romancist you'd make?" said Allan. "But stay!" cried Rory,waving his hand, "the two hundred years have rolled away, but I'm stillthe wandering merchant-minstrel. The _Snowbird_ is lying once more,with sails all furled, in the old place in the loch; we're home again,boys--home again, and I've had that big, big box that you've seen Apmaking for me brought up to the castle; and your dear mother and sweetsister, Allan boy, are bending over me as I open it; and don't theireyes sparkle as I spread before them the _curios_ I've been collectingfor months--my best skins and my stuffed birds, my ferns and my mosses,my collection of eggs and my ivory and precious stones!"
"So ho!" said Allan, "and that is what that mighty box is for, is it?"
"Yes, indeed," said Rory; "but don't you like my picture?"
"Will you try this potted tongue?" said Ralph; "it's delicious."
"So are you, bedad," quoth Rory, "with your chaff and your chaff."
"Boys," cried McBain, "it _is_ sweet to dream of home sometimes; it isone of the greatest pleasures of a traveller's life. But we've manymore wild adventures to come through yet, ere the _Snowbird_ sails upthe loch. Who says shore?"
Shore! That was indeed a magic word. Allan and Rory jumped up at once.Ralph had some marmalade to finish, but he soon followed them. Hefound Seth fully equipped, and the bear-hound, as they called the Skyeterrier, all alive and full of fun. The men, too, were ready. Theywere going off for a three days' hunt on the rocky plains, miles andmiles beyond the forest.
It was only one of many such they had enjoyed; and there is, in myopinion, no life in the world to compare for genuine enjoyment with thatof the wild hunter, especially if he be lucky enough to find pasturesnew, as did our heroes. For the first few days of roughing it in forestand plain one feels a little strange, and often weary; but the freefresh air, the constant exercise, and the excitement, soon banish suchfeelings as these, and before you are a week out your muscles get hard,your skin gets brown, and your nerves are cords of steel; if onhorseback, you fear not to ride anywhere; if on foot you will follow thelion to his lair, or the panther to his cave in the rocky hillside, andnever think once of danger. It is a glorious life.
On hunting expeditions like that on which we find our friends startingto-day, they went out with no intention of sticking to any one kind ofgame. They made what they called "harlequin bags;" they were armed,prepared for anything, everything, fur or feather, fish or snake. Theyhad fowling-pieces for the smaller game, express rifles for bigger, andbone-smashers for the wild buffalo of the plains. These latter theyshot for their skins. The sport was at all times exciting, and, as ourheroes were on foot, sometimes even dangerous, as when one dayStevenson, who had fired at and only wounded a sturdy bull, was chasedby the infuriated animal and narrowly escaped with his life. Do theseanimals think the flashing and cracking of the rifles some kind of athunderstorm, I wonder? I do not know, but certain it is that often, ona herd being fired into, it will take closer rank and stand in stupidbewilderment, instead of dashing away at once; and thus hundreds may bekilled in an hour or two.
As an experienced trapper, old Seth had the whole management of thesehunting expeditions.
He often made our heroes wonder at the amount of tact and wisdom hedisplayed, as a plainsman and wild hunter.
"I guess we'll have moosie to-night," he said, one evening. It was thefirst day they had fallen among buffalo.
"What kind, Seth?" asked McBain. They were seated round the camp fire,having just finished dinner.
"Wolves," said Seth.
"Have you seen their tracks?" inquired McBain.
"Nary a track," answered Seth. "They don't make much, but they'll comea hundred miles to feast off dead buffalo. They'll be at the crangs[skinned carcasses] afore two hours more is over."
And Seth was right; and night was made musical by their howling andgrowling, fighting and snarling.
On this particular day they had very fine sport indeed; bearsprincipally--not grizzlies--and a few bison. This latter is usually awild and wary animal, with ten times more sense under his horns thanthat "bucolic lout" the buffalo; but never having seen man before, theywere, as Seth said, "a kind o' off their guard." About a dozen wolvesfollowed them at a respectable distance whenever they got trail of abison. When the hunters advanced the wolves advanced, when the huntersstopped they stopped, generally in a row, and licked their chops andyawned, and tried all they possibly could to look quite unconcerned.
"Never mind us," they seemed to say. "Take your time; you'll find thebison by-and-bye, and then we'll have a bit, but don't hurry on ouraccount."
Once or twice Ralph or Allan would take a pot-shot at one of them. ThisSeth declared was a waste of good powder and lead.
"'Cause," he added, "their skins aren't any mortal use for nothin'."
Towards afternoon they approached a woody ravine, in which the streamthey had been following lost itself in a world of green. In here wentMaster Spunkie first, and came quickly back, mad with excitement andjoy. He wagged his tail so quickly you could hardly see it; then histail seemed to wag him, and he quivered all over like a heather besombewitched.
"I guess it's b'ars," said Seth, and in went Seth next, and then therewas a most appalling roaring, th
at seemed to shake the hills.
"Hough-oa-ah-h!" They might roar as they liked, but Seth's rifle wastelling tales. Crack, crack, went both barrels, and soon after crack,crack, again. This was the signal for our heroes to file in. It wasdark, and even cold among the pines--dark, ay, and dangerous. Theyfound that the whole of the little glen, which was of no very greatextent, formed the residence of a colony of black bears. They had notgone far before one sprang from under a spruce-tree full tilt at McBain.The brute seemed to repent of the
The Cruise of the Snowbird: A Story of Arctic Adventure Page 35