Part 14

Together with the Magdalen Islands it was tentatively settled by the French in 1663, and was always included as part of Acadia; but its real settlement dates from the time when the Acadians came hither after being expelled from Nova Scotia. Peasants from Bretagne, Picardy and Normandy participated in the settlement; and later, English and Scotch settlers followed. Many hoards of arms, furniture, cooking utensils, etc., have been found hidden in the woods, placed there by the early Acadians.

Some ten thousand descendants of this hunted people are living on the Island, and as they do not readily mix with others, and thus preserve their old manner of living, they are a very interesting part of the population. To some extent they live by themselves in their own villages, speaking the original tongue, wearing the simple dress and keeping alive the old traditions. They are simple and kindly, and give color and charm to the more populous communities that surround them.

In these places the maidens still weave, sew and lay by linen for the expected marriage; and the simple social gatherings for weddings, barn-raisings, etc., still attract their people of all ages. Many of them still believe in “Loups-garous” and other fictions of ghost, and haunting spirits, etc. The principal Acadian settlements are at Rustico, Tignish, Abram’s Village, and Miscouche.

The quaint broken English of the old Acadian is shown in this extract relating to our little friend the grosbeak:

“An’ mebbe you hear de grosbec Sittin’ above de nes’— An’ you see by de way he’s goin’ De ole man’s doin’ his bes’ Makin’ de wife an’ baby Happy as dey can be— An’ proud he was come de fader Such fine leetle familee.”

There are a few hundred Micmac Indians living along the north shore. They are good hunters, and an outing with them for trout and wild birds is a pleasant experience.

The water surrounding the island is shallower than that of the mainland coast, and on that account, and because the temperature is higher, the bathing here is not too cool, and is much enjoyed. It is warmer than New Brunswick or Nova Scotia—Atlantic Nova Scotia being the coolest place of all. The summer temperature of the Island ranges from 65 to 80 degrees, and higher on exceptional occasions.

It has been remarked that, “there will come to the world-weary tourist visions of a beautiful land in the midst of the cool sea—a land fanned by healthful breezes, a land of green hills, purling brooks and fertile fields. The crowded fashionable watering places have lost their charm for him, and he yearns for some place of rest and repose where quiet summer days can be obtained”—and all this is true of Prince Edward Island.

A recent census of the Island shows the largest population per thousand of people over seventy years of age in any province of Canada. In most countries a fourth generation is rare, but Prince Edward can boast of a fifth. This is the Poirier family of Tignish, the men are fishermen who all “pull together” in excellent health. The head of the family, great-great-grandfather Poirier, has 202 living descendants, and at 97 years of age rises at daylight, turns his fish on the “flakes” to dry, and chops and saws his wood.

But we have entered Bedeque Bay, and are at Summerside, bound for Alberton and Tignish at the western end of the Island. A very pleasant harbor indeed is this, and the not too pretentious summer town is nicely laid out with good stores and shady streets. There is good boating for yachts, sail-boats, launches, row-boats and canoes, and the life is that of the seaside resort, with pleasant excursions and an enjoyable social life. The Wilmot and Dunk Rivers empty into the harbor. On the Dunk will be found many pretty views; the fishing, too, is good—trout of large size. It was a view of this river that inspired the couplet:

“Pause here—and look upon a sight as fair, As ever painter limned of poet’s dreams.”

Everyone in Summerside walks down to the wharf to see the steamship come in from Point du Chêne. The usual hour, 7.30 p.m., is convenient for all. The two trains for east and west go down to meet the steamer and then return to the station to start their runs. In summer both steamer wharf and train platform are crowded with the youth and beauty of the town. The scene is always a lively one.

But a start is made for the west, and the country is almost immediately reached. Here plenty of evidence is seen of the great productiveness of these eastern lands, for “stooks” of wheat are standing on end in great quantities. At Wellington the small upper waters of a stream flow northward. It is tributary to the Ellis River, into which other streams flow. This stream soon widens out considerably and runs into Richmond or Malpeque Bay on the north shore. The river and the lakes nearby are all fished, and lobsters and clams are plentifully found. At Port Hill and adjoining places, fine-looking sheep are seen in large numbers, grazing in good pastures, and there are herds of the cleanest cattle in the fresh-appearing meadows. The land hereabouts is like an almost level prairie, and everywhere the harvest of wheat and oats meet the eye in pleasant array; newly gathered and dotting the whole of the surrounding fields with innumerable sheaves, stacked up on end, and ready to gather into the barns that will surely be overtaxed—so rich and plentiful are the crops of this verdant isle.

In the neighborhood of Portage there are extensive tracts of young woods, and in places, for miles around, the country resembles cultivated park lands. In some parts there is plenty of evidence that heavy timber has formerly been cut down, for, the harvest work about done, fierce and glowing fires are seen consuming great tree-stumps to make a perfect clearing.

Mixed trains, usually avoided by all who are not compelled to use them, are really the best for seeing all the pleasant little by-places of the Garden Province; for while freight is being handled at each station, it is possible to alight and ramble a little in nearby luxurious paths that fringe the railroad along its whole extent. This applies not only to the route from Summerside to Tignish, but also to the whole railway system of the Island. As is perhaps generally known, the Prince Edward Island Railway is part of the extensive system known as the Canadian Government Railways.

Little barefoot boys with freckled faces—health showing in every movement of their active limbs—watch the passenger cars as the shunting is being done. They stand on the station platform and gaze wonderingly at the stranger from the outer world. Little girls, too, emboldened by the presence of their older brothers, pluck up courage to pass the car windows and take shy glances at the people from the great cities. To see their fresh young faces and artless simplicity of manner is alone well worth the railway fare from some far-off metropolis.

Extensive dairying farms are seen as Elmsdale is neared. Pleasant knolls of land spread out in every direction, and the belts of trees of various tints, as well as the trim orchards, give an attractive appearance to the whole countryside.

And now Alberton is reached, near to Holland or Cascumpeque Bay:

“The echoes of the surges roar About the bar by Alberton.”

Alberton is quite an interesting village on the north side of the Island. Near to it is the Kildare River, and the pretty district of Montrose. The harbor of Alberton is probably the most available place for shipping along the whole north shore. American vessels often take refuge here from heavy storms. A peculiarity of the St. Lawrence Gulf side of the Island is the absence of good harbors, and the presence of long and narrow sand bars, or dunes, that lie about a mile or less from the land towards the western end of the Island, and continue in an almost unbroken line for a distance of 25 miles or more to the east. The Indian name Cascumpec, or “Floating through Sand,” sufficiently describes the outer waters of many of the rivers that empty on the northern side. These sand bars have narrow inlets in places through which small vessels may pass into the protected inner waters known as lagoons or narrows. The harbor at Alberton has a convenient entrance, with a lighthouse; and vessels of average size may enter at any tide. The sand bars towards the eastern end of the Island are different in character. Instead of being in one long line with narrow breaks, they are found in completely detached sections, generally across the mouth of bay or river, and sometimes making out from the side of a headland to the opposite shore, and thus nearly closing the entrance.

On the outer sides of these sand bars the waves break with magnificent surf—inside all is calm and peaceful. High cliffs are not found on the northern shore, but bold land of romantic appearance is found in places.

The neighborhood of Alberton, Montrose and the Kildare River is an attractive one, and many pleasant walks and drives may here be enjoyed.

A feature of this part of the Island is the numerous “fox farms” that, are springing up, where these animals are raised for the value of their pelts. Large sums have been paid for a pair with which to start a ranch or farm—as much as two and three thousand dollars, it is said.

The climate of Prince Edward Island is well suited for operations of this kind, and much money has already been made by those engaged in the business. Several new fox farms have recently been started in various parts of the island, and as fox breeding appears to be both interesting and profitable, the number of these farms is sure to increase.

But we have left Alberton and are making north. That little hamlet, where we stopped for a few minutes, has houses that may easily be counted upon two hands; and the young girl with pleasant face and engaging brown eyes who has just waved a free and ingenuous ‘good-bye,’ was the same who waited at our hotel table in Summerside, a few days since. A week of town life has satisfied her; and she has gone “back to the farm.” Sensible girl!...... and happy father and mother, whose life in the comfortable and snug little cottage over there is still to be cheered by a bright, youthful face and sunny smile.

And now, Tignish, the French-Scotch fishing village, and quietest of quiet little summer resorts; modest, unpretending, and just what it appears to be on first arrival, a country retreat. A place of unbroken sleep and absolute calm, and where the commotion and tumult of the world frets none. A natural sanitarium to which a man may flee to escape for a season the daily avalanche of letters; the battery of visitors; the quick-fire of telegrams.

A tale of French-Indian life by Jessie Hogg may here be told to show the relations that existed on the Island between the two races long ago. “Belle Marie” was a pretty Indian maiden who had received that name from the French people living near the native village. She was much loved by her father, the chief of the tribe. She had been trained by him in Indian arts and was a surer shot with the arrow than even he. One of the French officers took great interest in her as a child, and told her of the Old World and its wonders. Without knowing it she taught him the lesson of love. Being much older than she, he was able to keep his feelings a secret. For some reason she gradually changed, and her former girlish manner became more demure and maidenly, her eyes became softer and acquired a new light, and she came less frequently to hear the tales she loved so well.

A jealous lover of her tribe had told her the officer was only amusing himself for want of companionship with his own people.

One day the now lonely Frenchman found her in a little rocky nook on the shore. The sky was clear, and the incoming tide was gently drawing near unheeded by the maiden, whose thoughts were far away as she gazed over the water intently, unconscious of the earnest gaze bent on her.

“Belle Marie!” he said softly.

She started, and a wave of color told a tale that surely anyone could have read. Until then her sole lessons had been learned from the songs of the birds, the winds sighing through the trees, the perfume of the flowers, and the murmuring of the waters as they beat upon the shore.

“Mon Maitre!” she replied, as she rose suddenly, pale and startled.

“Where have you been, ma belle?” he asked.

“In the woods; on the shore; with my people,” was the disjointed reply, as she looked down at the sand beneath her feet.

“You have not been to see me for so long—I have missed you very much. Why did you stay away?” He came near.

She turned with the fury of a young tigress, as she told him he only talked to her to pass the time away. But suddenly she broke down, and burst into tears as she covered her face with her hands.

“I love you, Belle Marie!” said the officer, in earnest tones.

“Love me?” she cried—“An Indian maid? A forest girl? Why, your people would scorn you for it.”

“My people are nothing to me now,” he sadly replied—then drawing near, he asked, “Will you marry me, Belle Marie?”

But she bounded off, and disappeared without reply.

One morning, some days after this, she stood at the opening of his tent. “Yes, I will be your wife,” she exclaimed, “if you love me, and me only!”

Another chapter now opens, for the old chief demurred. “Belle Marie must marry a brave of her own race,” he declared.

But finally the love of the Frenchman prevailed, and the old chief consented to the marriage.

In the meantime Belle Marie’s former suitor, the jealous one who had interfered in the early days, seemed to take it all in good part.

One day as the happy girl was walking in the distant woods she came across her affianced, struck down and dying in the snow. With bursting heart she staggered homewards, bearing him in her arms. Senseless and almost gone, she nursed him back to life, assisted by her kind-hearted father. With loving devotion, and with just enough of sleep and food to maintain life, she nursed the wounded man to complete recovery.

The wedding was now decided upon without further delay, and one bright spring morning the ceremony took place in the little church that had been decorated with ferns and wild-flowers.

Under a bower of leafy branches and fragrant bloom the happy pair stood. Dozens of canoes lined the shore, and the wedding festivities were well underway. The low sobbing heard from the assembled tribe as Belle Marie stood at the altar by the side of the man of her choice told how much the darling of her tribe would be missed.

Scarce was the ceremony ended, and the two turned away from the altar, when with a cry that resounded far and near—a cry that pierced the hearts of all who heard it—and one that sent a thrill of terror to all, Marie threw herself before her husband, shielding him from view, but not before an arrow, sped with the sure aim that hatred and revenge could prompt, had found its resting place in her heart instead of his.

He caught her as she fell, clasped her close to him with a moan of agony, and in all a strong man’s anguish, called her every endearing name that love could bring to mind.

But she looked up at him with those eyes that had always contained such an unutterable love in their depths, and said slowly as the life-blood ebbed over altar steps and floor:—“I ...... saved ...... you. I ..... saw ..... it ...... coming. My ...... own ...... love.”

Returning east to Summerside, and passing Kensington, with its pretty, stone station-building, the quiet village of Bradalbane is reached. This makes a good centre from which to visit the districts of New London, Mill River, Stanley Bridge, Trout River, New Glasgow, Hunter River outlet and Rustico. This whole district is about as pleasant and picturesque as could well be imagined, and days spent in driving and walking will bring much enjoyment.

From New London harbor in the bay to the north the fishing boats may be seen putting out to sea:

“The wind is blowing freshly up from far-off ocean caves, And sending sparkling kisses o’er the brows of virgin waves, While routed dawn-mists shiver as fast and far they flee, Pierced by the shafts of sunrise and the glitter of the sea.”

The pretty scenery of Mill Vale, the Trout River and Stanley Bridge is sure to enchant. A noticeable feature of this and other districts is the number of lovely streams of diminutive character, and the nearby, always picturesque, mill ponds. A story illustrating the method of the bear when he “trees” a man, and showing, also, the intelligence of a little dog is related of the Stanley Bridge district.

“Before bridges were built throughout the Island the rivers were crossed by ferries, and the ferry was generally named after the individual who ran it. Where Stanley Bridge now is, Fyfe’s ferry formerly plied. Mr. Fyfe was the owner of a little white dog, of which he was very proud, and with reason, for it once saved his life.

“One day walking in the woods near his home he was suddenly set upon by a huge bear that was evidently very hungry and was out foraging.

“The ferryman managed to elude his pursuer for a short time, but the bear was not to be cheated of his prey without making a good fight. Hard pressed, the now desperate man brought all his wits to bear on the situation, and he decided to climb a tree which was the only refuge anywhere near. He lost no time in putting his plan into execution, but he had forgotten that bears can climb and Bruin must have thought that he had his victim in the right place, also. Immediately the animal started up the tree after the disappearing ferryman, and quickly came within reach. He had only taken hold of the man’s boot-heel when he felt a stinging sensation at his own pedal extremities. He immediately dropped to the ground where he recognized in his antagonist the little white dog. The dog suddenly disappeared, but not out of sight of its master, whom it was bent on saving from a horrible death. Accordingly, every time the bear attempted to climb the tree, the dog took hold of his heel, and finding the pain so severe from the bites, Bruin had to come down again and again; until, finally, tired out he sat down to watch his victim whom he had treed. The bear was not to enjoy this situation long, for the barking of the dog had aroused the fears of Fyfe’s neighbors, who thought something must be wrong, and started for the scene armed with rifles.

“Taking in the situation at a glance they quickly dispatched Mr. Bruin, and, the danger past, the ferryman came down. Almost needless to state no kindness was ever too much for the little dog after that.”

A change has now come over the scene, for the forests have fallen before the woodman’s axe, and Bruin has also disappeared.

The Hunter River, Rustico Bay and Wheatly River districts are all well worthy of exploration in drives and walks. The principal north shore resorts are Rustico, Tracadie, Stanhope, and Brackley Point. From nearly all of these places summer visitors may put out with the fishermen and join in the cod and mackerel fishing.

The city of Charlottetown has a fine and most unusual situation. It is on the East or Hillsborough River, the York or North River is on its south side, the West or Elliott River joins the York just a little to the south of the city, and thus all three streams mingle their waters and pass out into Hillsborough Bay, the Bay being also near, and almost in front of the Island Capital.

Charlottetown has wide, leafy and pleasant streets, covers considerable ground, has a delightful atmosphere, and is altogether one of the most homelike and attractive little cities to be found anywhere. It suggests the capital of some neat European principality, with its substantial Queen Square and public buildings grouped or arranged with such good taste in the park-like heart of the city. In the square is a monument to the memory of the Prince Edward Island Volunteers who fell in the South African War. The flower beds in the open space are neatly laid out and refreshing to the eye. Here are shady seats where on summer nights one may sit and hear the music of the band. The principal stores of the city are grouped along the sides of the square.

The Provincial Building with its Legislative Halls and excellent library is a delightful place to visit. The obliging librarian is ever willing to extend courtesies to the visitor. There is an air of solidity and quiet dignity as well as an individuality about the building that is very agreeable. It makes a strong appeal to those who would cherish all that is good in the old order of things, and seems a standing rebuke to the present day of big things—to hurry, crush, noise, confusion, modern “rush,” and overcrowded and congested cities—and while every loyal inhabitant of Charlottetown devoutly hopes for and believes in the great future growth of the city, let an admiring stranger, who has tasted its hospitality, express the fervent wish that it may not grow too large; that for many years to come it may remain just about as it is—perfect.

In olden days French sailors who first entered the harbor of Charlottetown were so pleased with what they saw that they named it Port la Joie. The surrounding scenery is pleasing, but not impressive. A general characterization of the Island scenery would be that of pastoral tranquility, well-tilled fields, verdant pastures and quiet rivers; with a medium temperature, cool night air and an ever-present sense of peace, rest and repose over all.

Drives and walks for pleasant air may be taken in many directions, and there are steamer trips to the Indian encampment at Rocky Point, where relics of the old French occupation may be seen; to Southport, to Orwell, to Mount Stewart and Hampton and other more distant places, as well as to Victoria on the South Shore. Longer steamboat journeys are those to Quebec and Montreal, and to Boston by way of Hawkesbury and Halifax. Keppoch, a summer resort outside of the city, is within easy reach by carriage.

Victoria Park by the waterside is a favorite recreation spot, for it has winding roadways that are well shaded, and fine views of the surrounding waters. There are public cricket grounds here, and tennis courts as well. The Golf Links at Belvidere are well laid out, and afford much enjoyment for lovers of this fine exercise; and an excellent view of the East River may be had from here.

A visit to the Farmer’s Market will prove especially interesting to city people.

Boating of all kinds may be had in the rivers and harbor, and motor-boats and yachts have a wide field for pleasant excursions on the nearby waters. A fine motor-boat excursion is that to Bonshaw, up the West River.

In one of the rivers near the city mackerel were once so abundant that an ox-cart was driven through, and a full load was obtained with a scoop-net in crossing.

A division of the Prince Edward Island Railway runs from Charlottetown to Souris and Georgetown, on the east coast, branching at the attractive little village of Mount Stewart. Following the northern branch, Tracadie is reached. It is on the north shore, where bathing is most enjoyed on the numerous sandy beaches. Here are marshes and ponds where springs rise out of the ground, and where wild fowl make their homes in the reeds and long grass; often shut in by wooded banks, and only separated from the sea by sand dunes with wreckage and projecting drift. Everything is fresh, bright and clean; and such scenes, so difficult to describe, must be seen to understand the impression they make on the mind.