Both of them have the colonial step and air, both of them too are beautiful, as Nova Scotia girls generally are. The first is young and delicate, and as blooming as a little blush-rose. She holds out with each hand a portion of her silk dress, as if she was walking a minuet, and it discloses a snow-white petticoat, and such a dear little foot and ankle—lick! Her step is short and mincing. She has a new bonnet on, just imported by the last English steamer. It has a horrid name, it is called a kiss-me-quick. It is so far back on her head, she is afraid people will think she is bare-faced, so she casts her eyes down, as much as to say, “Don’t look at me, please, I am so pretty I am afraid you will stare, and if you do I shall faint, as sure as the world, and if you want to look at my bonnet, do pray go behind me, for what there is of it is all there. It’s a great trial to me to walk alone, when I am so pretty.” So she compresses her sweet lips with such resolution, that her dear little mouth looks so small you’d think it couldn’t take in a sugar-plum. Oh, dear, here are some officers approaching, for though she looks on the pavement she can see ahead for all that. What is to be done. She half turns aside, half is enough, to turn her back would be rude, and she looks up at a print or a necklace, or something or another in a shop window, and it’s a beautiful attitude, and very becoming, and if they will stare, she is so intent on the show glass, she can’t see them, and won’t faint, and her little heart flutters as one of them says as he passes, “Devilish pretty gall, that, Grant, who is she?” and then she resumes her walk, and minces on.
If any man was to take his Bible oath that that little delicate girl, when she gets home, and the hall-door is shut, will scream out at the tip eend of her voice, like a screetching paraquet, “Eliza Euphemia, where in creation have you stowed yourself too?” and that Eliza Euphemia would hear her away up in the third story, and in the same key answer: “I can’t come down, I ain’t fit to be seen, nary way, for I’m all open before, and onfastened behind, and my hair is all in paper,” I wouldn’t believe him; would you?
The other young lady, that follows, is a little too much of Juno, and somewhat too little of Venus. She is a tall, splendid-looking heifer, as fine a gall as you will see in any country, and she takes it for granted you don’t need to inquire who she is. She ain’t bold, and she ain’t diffident; but she can stare as well as you can, and has as good a right too. Her look is scorny, as the snobocracy pass and do homage, by bestowing on her an admiring look. Her step is firm, but elastic; it is a decided step, but the pious lay-brother regards her not, and moves not out of his way for her. So she stops that he may see his error, and when he does look, he perceives that it would lead him into further error if he gazed long, so he moves to the other side of the path, but does it so slowly, she confronts him again. After a moment’s reflection, he tries to turn her flank—a movement that is unfortunately anticipated by her, and there is a collision on the track. The concussion dislocates his hat, and the red silk Bandannah handkerchief, which acted as travelling-bag, and pocket-book, discharges its miscellaneous contents on the pavement. That’s onlucky; for he was a going to shunt off on another line and get away; but he has to stop and pick up the fragmentary freight of his beaver.
Before he can do this, he is asked by Juno how he dares to stop a lady in that indecent manner in the street; and while he is pleading not guilty to the indictment, the gentlemen that stared at the simpering beauty, come to the aid of the fair prosecutrix. She knows them, and they say, “Capital, by Jove—what a rum one he is!” Rum one; why he is a member of a temperance society, walks in procession when to home, with a white apron in front, and the ends of a scarf-like sash behind, and a rosette as large as a soup-plate on his breast—a rum one; what an infamous accusation!
The poor man stands aghast at this; he humbly begs pardon, and Juno is satisfied. She takes one of the beaux by the arm, and says: “Do pray see me home—I am quite nervous;” and to prove it she laughs as loud as any of them. The joke is now being carried too far, and the young sword-knots pick up, amid roars of laughter, his handkerchief, the papers, the horn-comb, the fig of tobacco, the fractured pipe, the jack-knife, and the clean shirt-collar, that was only worn once, and toss them into his hat, which is carefully secured on his head, so low as to cover his eyes, and so tight as nearly to shave off both his ears. The lay-brother thinks, with great truth, that he would sooner take five yoke of oxen, and tail a mast for a frigate through the solid forest to the river, than snake his way through the streets of a garrison-town. After re-adjusting his hat, he resumes his pious gait, and Juno also goes her way, and exhibits her decided step.
Now, the step of Jessie and myself was unlike any of these—it was a natural and easy one; the step of people who had no reason to hurry, and, at the same time, were not in the habit of crawling. In this manner we proceeded to the lake, and sought a point of land which commanded a full view of it on both sides, and embraced nearly its whole length. Here was a clump of trees from which the underwood had been wholly cut away, so as to form a shade for the cattle depasturing in the meadow. As we entered the grove, Jessie exclaimed:
“Oh! Mr Slick, do look! Here is a canoe—can you use a paddle?”
“As well as an oar,” said I, “and perhaps a little grain better; for I haven’t been down all the New Brunswick and Nova Scotia rivers in ’em for nothing, let alone Lake Michigan, George, Madawaska, and Rossignol, and I don’t know how many others. Step in, and let us have at them on the water.”
In a minute the canoe was launched, and away we flew like lightning. Oh, there is nothing like one of those light, elegant, graceful barks; what is a wherry or a whale-boat, or a skull or a gig, to them? They draw no more water than an egg-shell; they require no strength to paddle; they go right up on the beach, and you can carry them about like a basket. With a light hand, a cool head, and a quick eye, you can make them go where a duck can. What has science, and taste, and handicraft ever made to improve on this simple contrivance of the savage? When I was for two years in John Jacob Astor Fur Company’s employment, I knew the play of Jessie’s tribe.
“Can you catch,” said I, “Miss?”