The House of Cariboo, and Other Tales from Arcadia

by A. Paul Gardiner

Along The Front the north bank of the river skirting the Arcadian Archipelago is high and terraced up from the water’s edge to the roadway, which follows the indentations of the shore line westward to the county seat of Glengarry. Over this road the country folk from the interior townships make their weekly pilgrimages to market the products of their farms. Facing this road also, and looking out upon the broad river, dotted with wooded islands, are the farm-houses, the small church, and the dilapidated remains of what was once a prosperous boat landing called The Front. In the palmy days of river freighting this little weather-beaten hamlet had some excuse for a hope of life, but now that river navigation all over the world has been paralleled with the modern steel-winged carriers, time and neglect have stamped their impress upon the deserted buildings and docks, which at one time in the long ago had shown fair signs of a prolonged life.

From Castle Island, as we look across the boat channel and over the intervening strips of rush banks to the mainland, the remains of the business part of The Front present a deserted and uninviting appearance.

First we see the dilapidated dock; then a disheveled freight building; near by in a small bay, is a broken-down boat house, sadly twisted by the “ice shoves” in the Spring of the year. Next we can see the old brown, weather-discolored tavern with an extension reaching out toward the east. A dance hall it was, and below, the beaux of old Glengarry stabled their horses, while they danced overhead to the music of the bagpipes until dawn of day. Sad, as he views the scene, must be the thoughts of one of these gallants returning to his native home. In the palmy days of The Front he had proudly escorted the farmer’s comely lassie through the corridors of the tavern and up the broad stairs to the dance hall, pleased with his choice of a partner and happy in the simplicity of his surroundings. To-day, the name on the sign-board over the entrance is no longer readable. The plank steps, once strong and unbending, have rotted away at the ends and the centre, until now, for the use of the laborer’s family who occupy the old shell as their living apartments, broken pieces of plank for steps are held up by stones placed one upon the other. The dance hall in the extension presents the sorriest appearance to the visitor approaching from the water’s side. A woodyard with jagged, uncut logs and little heaps of chips picked up here and there from the chopper’s axe, fills the yard and what was once the stabling-shed for the chafing steeds of the Glengarry lads. The gable end of the hall is all awry; the archways beneath and the supporting posts have leaned over, tired as it were, of the long, weary wait against the time when they will be no longer asked to support their useless burden. Doves, unmolested, fly in and out through the broken panes of the windows, and strut and coo along the weather-checked vane of the roof. Where once the droning of the bagpipes re-echoed through the full length of the building, it is now the buzzing of the bumble-bee and the tenor singing wasps that we hear as they swarm around their hive-nests suspended from the rafters. Gone forever from the old tavern are the good times of yore, and like the business prosperity at the landing, they have followed the noisy rivermen down the stream to return again no more to The Front.

To describe the surviving enterprises at The Front—there are, first, the government post-office; then the buckboard stage line plying between The Front and the station to the railway two miles inland; and, lastly, the boat builder’s plant in the bay. It would seem that the traveling public were charitably inclined toward the ancient buckskin mare and the driver of the mail coach, for daily the old nag is hitched to the buckboard; the canvas mail-sack is rolled up and tucked into the pocket of the driver’s linen-dusterlike coat, and without ever a passenger to tax the strength of the old mare or the comfort of the driver, they jog along together to the station, then back. The return pouch is extracted from the folds of the accommodating coat, handed over to the official postmaster, and the business event of the day at The Front is closed.

Down by the water’s edge, with one corner of its base, as if from a misstep, dipping down into the stream, is the plant of the boat builder. Across at Castle Island each season his couple of boats, the result of his Winter’s employment, are disposed of; then after re-calking the two which he had sold the previous season, and had re-purchased at secondhand prices, he awaits through the long Summer days, the arrival of trade.

Each day as I looked across at The Front, my field glasses refused to change the sameness of the scene or setting by even discovering a venturesome pedestrian sauntering down the dusty road, or a child running an errand for an industrious housewife to the post-office or general store. Curiosity had about decided me to make a visit of investigation, but before an opportunity to act came, I was told a caller wished to see me.

“I am from The Front, aye, sir, just yonder acrost, and three farms up from the post-office is where I live. Jimmie MacPherson—James T. MacPherson is my right name, but they call me Jimmie around here. Of course, I mean,” he added apologetically, “they do over at the cheese factory and the wheelwright shop. You city folks here on the island, from New York, don’t know me, so I’m telling you my full name, but you can call me Jimmie, too, if you like that better.”

“All right, Jimmie,” said I, “that sounds more like getting on together. Have a seat here on the veranda, or we will go down on the dock, just as you say.” I thought the presence of ladies near by might interfere with the free discussion of the subject about which Jimmie had thought it necessary to call.