My benefactor, the farmer, now approached me, and introduced himself by suddenly bawling in my ear, “Now then, young feller, get up, and take hold of t’ other end of this box. Great Scott! what a terror, anyway. What ’ev you got in it, anyhow?”
Mr. Wiman, for that was the gentleman’s name, had never seen me before in his life, but he jumped to the conclusion that I was “his man,” because, as he afterwards explained to me, I looked “so English, you know.” I guessed, too, that a stranger in those parts was rather a rara avis.
We carried the box to his sledge, which he had kindly brought down to drive me up to the farm. Taking a seat beside him, I inquired what distance his place was from the village.
“Well, I guess it’s something over five miles—more or less,” was his reply.
We drove on for a long time in silence, and I began to think that there was a considerable difference between a five-mile drive in the “old country” and a similar distance in Canada. I ventured to hint as much to Mr. Wiman. He burst into a hearty laugh.
“Bless yer! I should jist reckon there is a difference. That’s all! We keep up with the times on this side ’ev the water. This ’ere is a live country, sir—a live country!”
I did not quite understand how the advanced state of the country should so materially alter the mileage, but kept my own counsel. I could not help, however, reflecting that despite the fact that I was now in a land of enlightenment and progress, I had never seen such a dismal, dreary landscape in my life. Nature in her sterner aspects cannot so quell the soul of man as when she presents herself in merely bleak desolation. There was nothing but snow, which almost blinded me with its dazzling whiteness, and certainly added to the depression of my spirits.
At last Mr. Wiman drew rein at a wayside auberge and told me to wait a few minutes until he returned. This was comforting. The atmosphere was not 90° in the shade—it was 20° below zero! I jammed my hard felt hat down over my face, under the impression that by getting my head into it as far as possible I should keep my ears from dropping off. Foolishly enough, I had neglected to purchase a fur cap when in Montreal, and now bitterly repented my want of forethought.
The first quarter of an hour did not seem so very long, as my mind was occupied with hundreds of conflicting thoughts, and those inevitable “first impressions” which chill one’s cherished hopes. But when a “few minutes” slowly dragged itself into a good half-hour, it struck me that the Canadian method of reckoning the flight of time must be conducted on the broad basis which characterized the mileage. I rubbed my hands with snow to keep them warm and prevent them from freezing, and jumping off the sledge I paced rapidly up and down, under the veranda in front of the hostelry, to induce circulation. I had read something and heard more about the climate in this part of the world, and was afraid that unless I was extremely careful I should coagulate into one complete block of ice. At last my patience was exhausted, and I determined to go in quest of my employer. I found him, the centre of a small circle of convives assembled around the stove, discussing in broken French and English, thick with authority and liquor, the question of commercial union.
I nervously asked him when he intended to resume his journey. He replied by pointing to a vacant seat, and asking me to take “something hot.” I was half frozen, and readily accepted the offer.