Little Rivers [34]
place where the bowsprit ought to be;
behind that it is completely covered by a house, cabin, cottage, or
whatever you choose to call it, with straight sides and a peaked
roof of a very early Gothic pattern. Looking in at the door you
see, first of all, two cots, one on either side of the passage;
then an open space with a dining-table, a stove, and some chairs;
beyond that a pantry with shelves, and a great chest for
provisions. A door at the back opens into the kitchen, and from
that another door opens into a sleeping-room for the boatmen. A
huge wooden tiller curves over the stern of the boat, and the
helmsman stands upon the kitchen-roof. Two canoes are floating
behind, holding back, at the end of their long tow-ropes, as if
reluctant to follow so clumsy a leader. This is an accurate
description of the horse-yacht. If necessary it could be sworn to
before a notary public. But I am perfectly sure that you might
read this page through without skipping a word, and if you had
never seen the creature with your own eyes, you would have no idea
how absurd it looks and how comfortable it is.
While we were stowing away our trunks and bags under the cots, and
making an equitable division of the hooks upon the walls, the
motive power of the yacht stood patiently upon the shore, stamping
a hoof, now and then, or shaking a shaggy head in mild protest
against the flies. Three more pessimistic-looking horses I never
saw. They were harnessed abreast, and fastened by a prodigious
tow-rope to a short post in the middle of the forward deck. Their
driver was a truculent, brigandish, bearded old fellow in long
boots, a blue flannel shirt, and a black sombrero. He sat upon the
middle horse, and some wild instinct of colour had made him tie a
big red handkerchief around his shoulders, so that the eye of the
beholder took delight in him. He posed like a bold, bad robber-
chief. But in point of fact I believe he was the mildest and most
inoffensive of men. We never heard him say anything except at a
distance, to his horses, and we did not inquire what that was.
Well, as I have said, we were haggling courteously over those hooks
in the cabin, when the boat gave a lurch. The bow swung out into
the stream. There was a scrambling and clattering of iron horse-
shoes on the rough shingle of the bank; and when we looked out of
doors, our house was moving up the river with the boat under it.
The Ristigouche is a noble stream, stately and swift and strong.
It rises among the dense forests in the northern part of New
Brunswick--a moist upland region, of never-failing springs and
innumerous lakes--and pours a flood of clear, cold water one
hundred and fifty miles northward and eastward through the hills
into the head of the Bay of Chaleurs. There are no falls in its
course, but rapids everywhere. It is steadfast but not impetuous,
quick but not turbulent, resolute and eager in its desire to get to
the sea, like the life of a man who has a purpose
"Too great for haste, too high for rivalry."
The wonder is where all the water comes from. But the river is fed
by more than six thousand square miles of territory. From both
sides the little brooks come dashing in with their supply. At
intervals a larger stream, reaching away back among the mountains
like a hand with many fingers to gather
"The filtered tribute of the rough woodland,"
delivers its generous offering to the main current.
The names of the chief tributaries of the Ristigouche are curious.
There is the headstrong Metapedia, and the crooked Upsalquitch, and
the Patapedia, and the Quatawamkedgwick. These are words at which
the tongue balks at first, but you soon grow used to them and learn
to take anything of five syllables with a rush, as a hunter takes a
five-barred gate, trusting to fortune that you will come down with
the accent in the right
behind that it is completely covered by a house, cabin, cottage, or
whatever you choose to call it, with straight sides and a peaked
roof of a very early Gothic pattern. Looking in at the door you
see, first of all, two cots, one on either side of the passage;
then an open space with a dining-table, a stove, and some chairs;
beyond that a pantry with shelves, and a great chest for
provisions. A door at the back opens into the kitchen, and from
that another door opens into a sleeping-room for the boatmen. A
huge wooden tiller curves over the stern of the boat, and the
helmsman stands upon the kitchen-roof. Two canoes are floating
behind, holding back, at the end of their long tow-ropes, as if
reluctant to follow so clumsy a leader. This is an accurate
description of the horse-yacht. If necessary it could be sworn to
before a notary public. But I am perfectly sure that you might
read this page through without skipping a word, and if you had
never seen the creature with your own eyes, you would have no idea
how absurd it looks and how comfortable it is.
While we were stowing away our trunks and bags under the cots, and
making an equitable division of the hooks upon the walls, the
motive power of the yacht stood patiently upon the shore, stamping
a hoof, now and then, or shaking a shaggy head in mild protest
against the flies. Three more pessimistic-looking horses I never
saw. They were harnessed abreast, and fastened by a prodigious
tow-rope to a short post in the middle of the forward deck. Their
driver was a truculent, brigandish, bearded old fellow in long
boots, a blue flannel shirt, and a black sombrero. He sat upon the
middle horse, and some wild instinct of colour had made him tie a
big red handkerchief around his shoulders, so that the eye of the
beholder took delight in him. He posed like a bold, bad robber-
chief. But in point of fact I believe he was the mildest and most
inoffensive of men. We never heard him say anything except at a
distance, to his horses, and we did not inquire what that was.
Well, as I have said, we were haggling courteously over those hooks
in the cabin, when the boat gave a lurch. The bow swung out into
the stream. There was a scrambling and clattering of iron horse-
shoes on the rough shingle of the bank; and when we looked out of
doors, our house was moving up the river with the boat under it.
The Ristigouche is a noble stream, stately and swift and strong.
It rises among the dense forests in the northern part of New
Brunswick--a moist upland region, of never-failing springs and
innumerous lakes--and pours a flood of clear, cold water one
hundred and fifty miles northward and eastward through the hills
into the head of the Bay of Chaleurs. There are no falls in its
course, but rapids everywhere. It is steadfast but not impetuous,
quick but not turbulent, resolute and eager in its desire to get to
the sea, like the life of a man who has a purpose
"Too great for haste, too high for rivalry."
The wonder is where all the water comes from. But the river is fed
by more than six thousand square miles of territory. From both
sides the little brooks come dashing in with their supply. At
intervals a larger stream, reaching away back among the mountains
like a hand with many fingers to gather
"The filtered tribute of the rough woodland,"
delivers its generous offering to the main current.
The names of the chief tributaries of the Ristigouche are curious.
There is the headstrong Metapedia, and the crooked Upsalquitch, and
the Patapedia, and the Quatawamkedgwick. These are words at which
the tongue balks at first, but you soon grow used to them and learn
to take anything of five syllables with a rush, as a hunter takes a
five-barred gate, trusting to fortune that you will come down with
the accent in the right