"Camp, —— miles northwest of Truro, Jan'y ——, 10 p.m., 1814.
"I thought I would write a little in my diary every day when I commenced, but here, on the very start, I have missed a day already. Perhaps it was because Harold, on account of the wolf's bite, has been with me ever since. To-day it has been terribly cold, and I was afraid he might be worse, but thank heaven he is not. The roads are still good through this mountainous region, and without many drifts either. Bateese pretends to be disgusted. He says they are not worth a 'tam,' for he has been doing his best to find a drift to camp in ever since we started. So we laugh and tell him it is foolish to despair.
"Last night we were on the lookout for wolves again. We sat on logs around the camp fires until quite late listening for them; but there was not a single howl. We did hear something, however, that was at least more amusing. The men had made our little camp comfortable for us, and Harold and I were having a chat by ourselves before turning in for the night. Perhaps I felt moody again in the still air and deep solitude of the woods. It was so new and strange to me—so different from anything I had ever experienced.
"Suddenly we heard singing in the habitants' camp. The drivers were seated around their own fire and listening to Bateese. I wonder if I can remember the words of the quaint little song. It ran something like this:
Ma luffly gal she ees so neat, She be ma femme come by-am-bye; She ope her leetle mouf so sweet An' all de day sing lullaby. Ven she vas baby dress in print, Her petite nose vas vide an' pug, So dat it make her eyes go squint Ven she shut up her leetle mug. Her arms so short, her feet so long, Dey make you tink of kangaroo; Still, mon devoir, I sing ma song An' tell de story all to you. But she so fair, her hair like gold, Her bref is like de rose to smell; An' vat care I for tings I told, I luff dat leetle gal so well. An den who cares vat people say? Mon Dieu! e'en d'ough de night owls sing, It ees no mattare. Ve'll be gay An' Cure'll marry us in spring.
"Then the men laughed and we laughed too. Somehow it roused my spirits, and I liked Bateese all the better for singing his foolish little ditty."
Diary continued.
"Miramichi River, New Brunswick, 240 miles from Halifax, Feb. ——, 1814.
"I intended to write in my diary every day when I started, but, 'The best laid schemes of men and mice gang aft aglee.' Several weary days have gone since I used my pencil last. I was more than half sick and did not feel like writing. But now I am better; so start anew and will try to keep it up. Harold has been very good to me; and so have the Doctor and the Chaplain, and the Colonel and everybody. Still travelling twenty miles a day, no matter how you feel, is no joke, particularly when you have to camp out in improvised shanties every night, no matter how intense the cold. Two of the days it stormed furiously and Bateese had all he could do to keep our sleigh from upsetting in the drifts. Some of the others did go over much to their discomfort, and we began to prize Bateese all the more for his dexterity, even if he does brag a bit. When the blast was the keenest both the women got their noses frozen. That was two days ago, and their driver discovered it just as we stopped to camp for dinner.
"'By gar!' he cried out vehemently, 'de vemen's noses bot' be friz.'