When they awoke the valley was filled with a white creamy mist, that arose from the bed of the stream, (now known as Cold Creek,) and gave an indistinctness to the whole landscape, investing it with an appearance perfectly different to that which it had worn by the bright, clear light of the moon. No trace of their footsteps remained to guide them in retracing their path; so hard and dry was the stony ground that it left no impression on its surface. It was with some difficulty they found the creek, which was concealed from sight by a lofty screen of gigantic hawthorns, high-bush cranberries, poplars, and birch-trees. The hawthorn was in blossom, and gave out a sweet perfume, not less fragrant than the “May” which makes the lanes and hedgerows of “merrie old England” so sweet and fair in May and June, as chanted in many a genuine pastoral of our olden time; but when our simple Catharine drew down the flowery branches to wreathe about her hat, she loved the flowers for their own native sweetness and beauty, not because poets had sung of them;—but young minds have a natural poetry in themselves, unfettered by rule or rhyme.
At length their path began to grow more difficult. A tangled mass of cedars, balsams, birch, black ash, alders, and tamarack (Indian name for the larch), with a dense thicket of bushes and shrubs, such as love the cool, damp soil of marshy ground, warned our travellers that they must quit the banks of the friendly stream, or they might become entangled in a trackless swamp. Having taken copious and refreshing draughts from the bright waters, and bathed their hands and faces, they ascended the grassy bank, and again descending, found themselves in one of those long valleys, enclosed between lofty sloping banks, clothed with shrubs and oaks, with here and there a stately pine. Through this second valley they pursued their way, till emerging into a wider space, they came among those singularly picturesque groups of rounded gravel hills, where the Cold Creek once more met their view, winding its way towards a grove of evergreens, where it was again lost to the eye.
This lovely spot is now known as Sackville’s Mill-dike. The hand of man has curbed the free course of the wild forest stream, and made it subservient to his will, but could not destroy the natural beauties of the scene. [FN: This place was originally owned by a man of taste, who resided for some time upon the spot, till finding it convenient to return to his native country, the saw-mill passed into other hands. The old log-house on the green bank above the mill-stream is still standing, though deserted; the garden fence, broken and dilapidated, no longer protects the enclosure, where the wild rose mingles with that of Provence,—the Canadian creeper with the hop.]
Fearing to entangle themselves in the swamp, they kept the hilly ground, winding their way up to the summit of the lofty ridge of the oak hills, the highest ground they had yet attained; and here it was that the silver waters of the Rice Lake in all its beauty burst upon the eyes of the wondering and delighted travellers. There it lay, a sheet of liquid silver just emerging from the blue veil of mist that hung upon its surface, and concealed its wooded shores on either side. All feeling of dread and doubt and danger was lost, for the time, in one rapturous glow of admiration at a scene so unexpected and so beautiful as that which they now gazed upon from the elevation they had gained. From this ridge they looked down the lake, and the eye could take in an extent of many miles, with its verdant wooded islands, which stole into view one by one as the rays of the morning sun drew up the moving curtain of mist that enveloped them; and soon both northern and southern shores became distinctly visible, with all their bays and capes and swelling oak and pine-crowned hills.
And now arose the question, “Where are we? What lake is this? Can it be the Ontario, or is it the Rice Lake? Can yonder shores be those of the Americans, or are they the hunting-grounds of the dreaded Indians?” Hector remembered having often heard his father say that the Ontario was like an inland sea, and the opposite shores not visible unless in some remarkable state of the atmosphere, when they had been occasionally discerned by the naked eye, while here they could distinctly see objects on the other side, the peculiar growth of the trees, and even flights of wild fowl winging their way among the rice and low bushes on its margin. The breadth of the lake from shore to shore could not, they thought, exceed three or four miles; while its length, in an easterly direction, seemed far greater beyond—what the eye could take in. [FN: The length of the Rice Lake, from its headwaters near Black’s Landing to the mouth of the Trent, is said to be twenty-five miles; its breadth from north to south varies from three to six.]
They now quitted the lofty ridge, and bent their steps towards the lake. Wearied with their walk, they seated themselves beneath the shade of a beautiful feathery pine, on a high promontory that commanded a magnificent view down the lake.
“How pleasant it would be to have a house on this delightful bank, overlooking the lake,” said Louis; “only think of the fish we could take, and the ducks and wild fowl we could shoot! and it would be no very hard matter to hollow out a log canoe, such a one as I have heard my father say he has rowed in across many a lake and broad river—below, when he was lumbering.”
“Yes, it would, indeed, be a pleasant spot to live upon,” [FN: Now the site of a pleasant cottage, erected by an enterprising gentleman from Devonshire, who has cleared and cultivated a considerable portion of the ground described above; a spot almost unequalled in the plains for its natural beauties and extent of prospect.] said Hector, “though I am not quite sure that the land is as good just here as it is at Cold Springs; but all these flats and rich valleys would make fine pastures, and produce plenty of grain, too, if cultivated.”
“You always look to the main chance, Hec,” said Louis, laughing; “well, it was worth a few hours’ walking this morning to look upon so lovely a sheet of water as this. I would spend two nights in a wigwam,—would not you, ma belle?—to enjoy such a sight.”
“Yes, Louis,” replied his cousin, hesitating as she spoke; “it is very pretty, and I did not mind sleeping in the little hut; but then I cannot enjoy myself as much as I should have done had my father and mother been aware of my intention of accompanying you. Ah, my dear, dear parents!” she added, as the thought of the anguish the absence of her companions and herself would cause at home came over her. “How I wish I had remained at home! Selfish Catharine! foolish idle girl!”