‘The glow of a remarkably fine aurora borealis, whose silvery shimmering shafts flickered incessantly all over the heavens in the most fantastic shapes.’
It will be observed that we all agree in the flickering, consequently you may bet it did flicker. But for this fortunate fact it would be hard to recognise the three descriptions as identical, and yet this is the way history is written.
[CHAPTER XVIII.]
SUCCESS AT LAST.
August 14.—
This was a most eventful day in our quiet life, and one fraught with episode. For the first time there was a breeze, so the Skipper went out fishing, and John to practise canoeing in a wind, which is an art requiring considerable dexterity in these Canadian canoes. They are beautiful sea boats, and beat the ‘Rob Roy’ hollow for any purposes where room for baggage is required. In our two, which are only small, we have transported between 800 and 900 lbs.; but their worst feature is decidedly exhibited in a wind, for the broad flat bottom and absence of keel cause them to drift very fast, and make it difficult to keep them straight. It can only be done by paddling from amidships instead of from the stern.
Esau went out stalking, full of hope from the aurora and the favourable wind.
The Skipper was lucky and caught some very good fish, and then returning to camp constructed a most lovely wimberry tart. He had just finished the enclosure of the same in the oven, and was proceeding to remove the flour and ashes and other debris from his hands, while John reclined at his ease under an awning with our latest ‘Field’—three weeks old—when they heard a hail overhead, and behold a swarm of visitors from Rus Vand! Mr. and Mrs. Thomas, Miss A——, and their friend F——, who is the most celebrated deerstalker in the country. He is reported to never miss a shot, and occasionally shoots flying ryper with a rifle.
They tumultuously demanded lunch, and the Skipper with John had a pretty busy time of it for about twenty minutes, and the wimberry tart had to be left to its fate in the sultry climate of the oven. Our larder just now is not well supplied with anything except fish; so that the utmost exertions could only produce a meal which to people who have had reindeer for several days must have seemed poor indeed. Fried trout, Skoggaggany soup, tea, beer, bread, biscuits, and marmalade, was the bill of fare, for there was no time to do anything in the ‘gibier’ line, birds taking some time to pluck and clean. However, to our guests there were some points of this meal decidedly worthy of attention, viz. the beer, marmalade, and bread: they have none of these at Rus Vand, as their attempts at bread have hitherto been failures, while ours has been very first-rate ever since the oven was built, and was much appreciated.
We have been informed that the proper thing in these days, when writing a book, is to recommend some condiment or patent medicine to the notice of the confiding public. As there is no chance of our meeting any Arab sheiks in Memurudalen, we have to fall back on this episode of the bread, and seize the opportunity to sing to the world the praises of ‘Yeatman’s Yeast Powder,’ by far the best that we have tried, and invaluable on an expedition of this kind for bread, pastry, and pancakes. Now let old Yeatman send his hundred guineas, care of Esau, and we will see that they are devoted to a proper use.
To return to our guests. We made an awning on what we call the lawn—size six feet by fourteen feet—out of two rugs and some birch poles, and lunched under that, as the sun was cruelly hot. There was a good deal of the ordinary picnic about the meal, as we have only four plates, cups, knives, &c., and had to eat fish out of the frying-pan, and drink beer out of a jam pot, and a condensed-milk tin with the top cut off and the sharp edge turned down. But all these drawbacks were met in the true picnic spirit, which ‘de minimis non curat’ so long as there is something to eat. Our two last bottles of beer were sacrificed, and it went to our hearts to have to pour away our beloved Skoggaggany soup when the cups were wanted for tea, for our visitors did not ‘go for’ the soup with the same alacrity that distinguishes us. Possibly it occurred to them that the middle of a blazing hot August day was not the most suitable time for highly seasoned, substantial, nearly boiling liquid to be poured down their throats.