HELEN'S DIARY CONTINUED.
"Restigouche River, Feb. ——.
Four more days' journey without writing a line: and then the long, long nights. The same old story; riding all morning, then helping the women to fix things for dinner in the woods. Then riding all afternoon till nearly sundown, followed by the excitement and turmoil among the men, in building camps for the night. It is a strange life to lead. Three weeks since we left Halifax, and only once inside a house during all that time. Just think of it. Camping in the woods among the hills every night no matter how it snows or how it freezes. Still, as long as it has to be, the woods are better than an open plain; and the denser, the kinder, for they break the cold winds from the icy northland. There is always a big fire before each shanty when we retire for the night; but after you get into bed, the soughing of the winds through the trees of the forest sounds very weird. Down in the valley where the men pitch the tents may be still; but away in the tops of the tall pines, a whole legion of elfs are sounding their harps and scampering through the branches. How often when you lie still with eyes wide open, waiting for sleep that will not come, you can see the glittering stars through the chinks above you, while the fairy imps go by in myriads, blowing their tiny whistles and twanging their lutes in tune to the elfish music of the night. By-and-bye, tired nature whiles you to the silent land; but the dirge goes with you even to the world of dreams.
"Then by the break of day the bugle sounds. Up you start to make a crude toilet. You stow away your little bits of goods and chattels, eat your breakfast of biscuit and bacon and tea, and while men are tearing your bunk to pieces and packing it for the journey, you in turn take your place in the caravan, counting the days of the fathomless past and the inevitable days of the future.
"But how lucky it is that there are incidents to note. It keeps one thinking, so I watch the officers and men in their strange methods. Sunday, Monday and Saturday are alike to them; except that the Chaplain holds a short service after breakfast every Sunday morning. Just as battles are fought more frequently on Sunday than any other day, so soldiers when marching want to cover more ground on that day than any other. I wonder if it is because they want to follow our Saviour's teaching?
"Then all seem to have forgotten the past. They live in the actual present. Even the Chaplain, whom one would expect to find as grave as a judge, is, I verily believe, the jolliest man in the whole party. He doesn't seem to have a single care. One day as we halted for dinner, a big black squirrel got cornered among some logs; and he was the first to jump from his sleigh to try and catch him. Of course others followed to join in the chase. But the squirrel was not to be caught, and he chirped merrily as he scampered up a beech tree. Captain Cummings was for shooting him.
"'Let the poor beggar alone,' cried the Chaplain with a hearty laugh. 'When we run it's our fun, when he runs it's his.'
"Another time when it was his turn to ride in our sleigh, I happened to say as we neared the camping ground that I would dearly love to have venison for supper again.
"'Do you hear that, Bateese?' he cried to the driver, giving him a punch in the back. 'Madam says she won't eat a bite of supper unless you provide her with venison steak.'
"I looked at him in astonishment; but before I could speak, Bateese exclaimed: