“Good. He’ll do it ample justice,” returned Macnab, taking another pull at his own bowl. “I hope you’re well provisioned, for Big Otter’s an awful consumer of victuals. Well, as I was saying, the surface of the snow got frozen thinly, and the work o’ tramping after the sled and holding on to the tail-line was uncommonly hard, as I could see, for I lay with my head to the front, looping back on the poor man. But it was on the exposed places and going down the slopes that the greatest difficulty lay, for there the dogs were keen to run away. Once or twice they did fairly get off, and gave me some rough as well as long runs before my man could catch them up. At last we came one afternoon to an open plain where the snow had felt the thaw and been frozen again pretty hard. The moment we got on it away went the dogs. Big Otter tried to run, but one of his shoes went through the crust and the other didn’t, so down he came, and had to let go the line. I felt easy enough at first, for the plain was level, but after a time it became lumpy, and I got some ugly bumps. ‘Never mind,’ thought I, ‘they’ll be sure to come to some bushes, and that’ll pull them up.’ Just as I thought so, we came to a slope, and the team went slap over a bank. The sled and I threw a complete somersault. Fortunately we came down on the dogs, which broke our fall, though it half killed them!
“When Big Otter came and turned me right side up, I found that I had sustained no damage whatever, but, woe’s me! our tin kettle was almost knocked flat. The worst of it was that in trying to put it right we drove a big hole in the bottom of it, so we had to bid farewell to hot food, except what we roasted. We could also melt snow by plastering up the hole so as to get enough to drink, but boiling water was quite out of the question.”
“Well, Macnab,” said our chief, rising, “since you have got the soup over at last, come along with me and let’s hear about your Indian friend’s proposals.”
We assisted our visitor into the mess-room, which was also our principal council-chamber, and there left him to talk business with Mr Strang while we returned to Bachelors’ Hall to let off our effervescing spirits by indulging in a running commentary on the unexpected visit, and a minute analysis of the characters of Macnab and Big Otter, which, I must add, was decidedly favourable.
“It seems to me a piece of good luck that he has got here at all,” said Lumley, after we had finished the analysis.
“Why so?” asked Spooner.
“Because there are some unmistakable symptoms that winter is about over, and that snow-shoe and dog-sleigh travelling will soon be impossible.”
That Lumley was right, the change of weather during the next few days clearly proved, for a thaw set in with steady power. The sun became at last warm enough to melt ice and snow visibly. We no longer listened with interest to the sounds of dropping water from eaves and trees, for these had become once more familiar, and soon our ears were greeted with the gurgling of rills away in mysterious depths beneath the snow. The gurgling ere long gave place to gushing, and it seemed as if all nature were dissolving into liquid.
While this pleasant change was going on we awoke with song and laugh and story the echoes of Bachelors’ Hall—at no time very restful echoes, save perhaps in the dead hours of early morning; and even then they were more or less disturbed by snoring. For our sociable Highlander, besides having roused our spirits by his mere presence to the effervescing point, was himself much elated by the mighty change from prolonged solitude to joyous companionship.
“My spirit feels inclined,” he remarked one day, “to jump clean out of my body.”
“You’d better not let it then,” said Lumley, “for you know it might catch cold or freeze.”
“Not in this weather, surely,” retorted Macnab, “and if I did feel coldish in the circumstances, couldn’t I borrow Spooner’s blanket-capote? it might fit me then, for I’d probably be a few sizes smaller.”
“Come, Mac,” said I, “give us a song. You know I’m wildly fond of music; and, most unfortunately, not one of us three can sing a note.”
Our visitor was quite willing, and began at once to sing a wild ditty, in the wilder language of his native land.
He had a sweet, tuneful, sympathetic voice, which was at the same time powerful, so that we listened to him, sometimes with enthusiasm swelling our hearts, at other times with tears dimming our eyes. No one, save he who has been banished to a wilderness and long bereft of music, can understand the nature of our feelings—of mine, at least.
One evening, after our wounded man had charmed us with several songs, and we all of us had done what we could, despite our incapacity, to pay him back in kind, he pulled a sheet of crumpled paper out of his pocket.
“Come,” said he, unfolding it, “I’ve got a poet among the men of Muskrat House, who has produced a song, which, if not marked by sublimity, is at least distinguished by much truth. He said he composed it at the rate of about one line a week during the winter, and his comrades said that it was quite a picture to see him agonising over the rhymes. Before they found out what was the matter with him they thought he was becoming subject to fits of some sort. Now, then, let’s have a good chorus. It’s to the tune of ‘The British Grenadiers.’”
Come listen all good people who dwell at home at ease,
I’ll tell you of the sorrows of them that cross the seas
And penetrate the wilderness,
Where arctic tempests blow—
Where your toes are froze,
An’ the pint o’ your nose,
In the world of Ice and Snow.
You’ve eight long months of winter an’ solitude profound,
The snow at your feet is ten feet deep and frozen hard the ground.
And all the lakes are solid cakes,
And the rivers all cease to flow—
Where your toes are froze,
An’ the pint o’ your nose,
In the world of Ice and Snow.
No comrade to enliven; no friendly foe to fight;
No female near to love or cheer with pure domestic light;
No books to read; no cause to plead;
No music, fun, nor go—
Ne’er a shillin’, nor a stiver,
Nor nothin’ whatsomediver,
In the world of Ice and Snow.
Your feelin’s take to freezin’, so likewise takes your brain;
You go about grump-and-wheezin’, like a wretched dog in pain;
You long for wings, or some such things,
But they’re not to be had—oh! no—
For there you are,
Like a fixéd star,
In the world of Ice and Snow.
If you wished you could—you would not, for the very wish
would die.
If you thought you would—you could not, for you wouldn’t
have heart to try.
Confusion worse confounded,
Would aggravate you so—
That you’d tumble down
On