“I noticed in the Canadian Pacific time-tables,” put in Fred, “that there is a regular line of steamers running from Vancouver to Japan and China.”
“What kind of trees are these, driver?” asked Randolph.
“Douglas fir and cedar, mostly,” said the driver, who proved to be a Vermont man. “The big ones are cedar.”
Big ones they were, truly; with trunks, or, in some cases, mere stumps, twenty to forty feet in diameter. The driver explained that in the early days of the city these magnificent trees were often ruthlessly destroyed, merely to get them out of the way. At last the city authorities took the matter in hand, and preserved a large tract of forest land, now called Stanley Park, for the permanent enjoyment of the people.
The road was a beautiful one, and in some places the travelers could catch glimpses of the broad Pacific, true to its name, breaking in slow, gentle waves on the beach just below.
At sunset the whole party boarded the steamer Islander, and the six hours’ moonlight sail that followed was more like fairy-land than anything they had yet seen.
The calm waters of the Gulf of Georgia, silvered and peaceful in the midsummer moonlight, stretched away on every side, broken only by wooded islands and the jutting promontories of Vancouver’s; while far away to the southwest Mount Baker’s snowy peak rose, pale and serene, among the clouds.
The young people sang all their “Kamloops” songs over and over, the music adding the one needful touch to the scene.
On arriving at the wharf in Victoria, they were glad to make their way through the noisy crowd of hackmen to the carriages reserved for their party, and take refuge in the Driard, where they were to rest for the next two days.
“Have you a piece of string, pa?”