Our proposed tourists, eight in number, being a company with a leaning towards music, bound to be harmonious, desiring to study the Diet-tome as illustrated by the effects of country fare and air, consolidate under the title of the Octave. The chaperone, who we all know is a dear, is naturally called "Do"(e); one, being under age, is dubbed the Minor Third; while the exclamatory, irrepressible, and inexhaustible members from the Hub are known as "La" and "Si."
Having decided upon our objective point, the next thing is to find out how to reach it; and here, at the outset, we are surprised at the comparative ignorance shown regarding a region which, though seemingly distant, is in reality so accessible. We are soon inclined to quote from an old song,—
"Thou art so near and yet so far,"
as our blundering investigations seem more likely to prove how not to get anywhere!
But we set to work to accumulate railroad literature in the shape of maps, schedules, excursion books; and these friendly little pamphlets prove delightful pathfinders, convincing us how readily all tastes can be suited; as some wish to go by water, some by land, and some by "a little of both." Thus, those who are on good terms with old Neptune may take a pleasant voyage of twenty-six hours direct from Boston to the distant village of Annapolis, Nova Scotia, which is our prospective abiding place; while those who prefer can have "all rail route," or, if more variety is desired, may go by land to St. John, New Brunswick, and thence by steamboat across the Bay of Fundy. At last the company departs on its several ways, and in sections, that the dwellers in that remote old town of historic interest may not be struck breathless by such an invasion of foreigners.
The prime mover of the expedition, having already traveled as far east as Bangor, commences the journey at night from that city. Strange to say, no jar or unusual sensation is experienced when the iron horse passes the boundary; nor is anything novel seen when the train known as the "Flying Yankee" halts for a brief breathing spell at MacAdam Station. A drowsy voice volunteers the information: "It is a forsaken region here." Another of our travelers replies, "Appearances certainly indicate that the Colossus of Roads is absent, and it is to be hoped that he is mending his ways elsewhere." Then the speakers, tipping their reclining chairs to a more recumbent posture, drift off to the Land of Nod.
With morning comes examination of travelers' possessions at the custom house, with amusing exhibitions of peculiarly packed boxes and bags, recalling funny episodes of foreign tours, while giving to this one a novel character; then the train speeds on for seven hours more.
THE BAY OF FUNDY.
Ere long singular evidence of proximity to the wonderful tides of the Bay of Fundy is seen, as all the streams show sloping banks, stupendously muddy; mud reddish brown in color, smooth and oily looking, gashed with seams, and with a lazily moving rivulet in the bed of the stream from whence the retreating tide has sucked away the volume of water.
"What a Paradise for bare-footed boys, and children with a predilection for mud pies!" exclaims one of the tourists; while the other—the practical, prosaic—remarks, "It looks like the chocolate frosting of your cakes!" for which speech a shriveling look is received.