Part 7

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.

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.”

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.

1. Bic 2. Bic Falls 3. Woodland Falls, Little Metis Beach

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 the tomahawk 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 the _habitants_, 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. Several _cartiers_ pass 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 sprinkles _l’eau benite_ over 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.

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 amidst ideal surroundings. The hotels are right on the water, with plenty of shade from the generous tree-growth so noticeable in this district.

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 by a 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.

_The Country Across The Base of The Gaspé Peninsula, and Some Superb Fishing Streams_

Saying ‘Good-bye’ to the hospitable shore of the St. Lawrence, and with mind well stored with pleasant memories of happy days and joyous hours, a course across the base of the Gaspé Peninsula is now taken by the line of the Intercolonial Railway, which here makes a south-easterly dip to reach Matapedia at the head of the Baies de Chaleurs.

Regaining Little Métis station a good view of interesting country is obtained on the way to Kempt. Mountain ranges rise on each side, with high table land, bold slopes, and lines of hills running off to the north. The woods are beautiful, the white birches brightening up the various shades of forest green. Beyond Kempt the hills broaden out at times into wide plains marked by gentle undulations of rich green. Rocky cuttings, protected by high snow-fences, are passed, and soon a well-defined valley is reached that is quite narrow in places. At the left, for some distance, runs the river. Other rocky cuttings are entered, beyond which another valley, with the still-flowing river, is reached, After passing the little lumbering village of St. Moise the road again leads through the hills; higher and higher, with dense forest on every hand, and soon it is necessary to cut through their very midst.

At Sayabec the region of beautiful Lake Matapedia is reached, and at Cedar Hall is the most convenient stopping-place for seeing the lake and its scenery. Together with Amqui and Lac au Saumon these places are small lumbering centres. They all have fine surroundings, but the district has not been fully opened up, and only moderate accommodation can be found.