After passing the turn for Millvillage I was cautioned twice to take the left road at the next fork, and did so, to discover too late that I had thereby missed the shore road. However, a hunter informed me that three miles had been saved, and the fog was so dense that the shore road would no doubt have been a mere aggravation, while among the trees the mist afforded some beautiful effects. The camera eagerly grasped at these, but mostly failed in its good intent. The more distant trees were the ghosts of trees, while those at hand, a dark, somber mass of green, stood strong against the misty background. An occasional tall white birch with its crown of gold melted into the unreal atmosphere.
I started two partridges at one point, and at another a big, brown bunny hopped across the road in a leisurely fashion that made it perfectly evident he was aware that I had no gun. It being a holiday the hunters were out. I passed several, and occasionally heard the boom of a distant gun, suggesting that another partridge was on his way to the roasting pan.
And thus passed pleasantly the ten miles to Port Medway.
Port Medway has my heart, as have also its girls—at least, two of them. The traveler comes into the village quite suddenly, to find the houses snuggled down close along little coves, each man his cove. As the village is further penetrated it is to find that the waters have worked long fingers up into the land until many houses back on the water, as well as front on it. An artist might find more to do here in a minute than would keep him busy for a year, it is all so sketchy.
Now for the girls: There are two of them, as plump and bright and pleasant as one could ask. My heart went smash immediately, torn between the two, even if one was married. They allowed me to come out in the kitchen, hang my damp coat over a chair and eat in my shirtsleeves. Both could talk and neither made any undue protestations at being photographed.
If any one desires a choice spot for a vacation let him try the Kempton House, Port Medway, Queens Co., N. S., and forever after be filled with pleasant memories. The board is $5 per week. I asked if they fed all as they were feeding me, and had a laugh and “yes” for answer.
When I began to ask questions concerning the locality Mr. J. N. Wilde was called in to assist, Mr. Jason Kempton, fountain head of all knowledge, being away from home.
My information is to the effect that Port Medway was settled about one hundred and seventy-five years ago by immigrants from Cape Cod. Why they came Mr. Historian does not know, but he surmises that they were the unsuccessful ones at home and, having nothing to lose by the change, could afford to make it. One of the early ones was a Cohoon, whose seed multiplied in the land until about one hundred years ago the family was numerous and prominent. The same is to be said of the Foster and Morine families, but the last century has seen them dwindle until few of these names are left.
I could not learn that the town had ever had any adventures; if it has they have been carefully hidden from Mr. Wylde, who is a reasonably free talker.