The Log House by the Lake: A Tale of Canada — Background and Themes

Philip said as they parted.

In a short time the boat was alongside a small wooden pier, which afforded a convenient landing-place.

"The house is some way up the hill; I will steer you between the stumps," said Philip, offering his arm to his mother, while the rest followed in their wake. A few minutes' walk brought them in front of a plank edifice of the Swiss cottage style; the defects of which, whatever they were, were not visible by moonlight. There were four doors, and as many rather diminutive windows. "This is but a summer house, remember," said Philip, as they stood before the long low building. "We had to build our house according to our planks; your room is at one end, then comes the sitting-room, and then ours, and the girls'. Remember, five days ago the foundations were not commenced. We don't take long to raise a house in this country;--but, enter."

All were delighted, for although the cottage was but a long narrow shed, by means of three divisions and a liberal use of canvas and paper, Philip and his assistants had formed a neat sitting-room and two bedrooms, besides a rougher one for himself and his brothers. In the sitting-room was a table covered with a most attractive looking meal, though decked with neither china, glass, nor plate. A bright lamp hanging from the roof lighted up the little room, and gave it much of the appearance of a cabin. "We have only to fancy," said Philip, "that we are on board ship without the danger of shipwreck, or being tumbled about in a storm, and we may congratulate ourselves on the extent of our accommodation. We have twice as many cubic feet of air for each person as the passengers on board an emigrant ship, and can admit as much more as we please. There, make yourselves at home. Father will now do the honours, and Jem is boiling the kettle for tea in the kitchen. I must be off, and hope to be back soon with D'Arcy and your traps."

Away went Philip down to the boat, whence his father with the rest had been bringing up her lading. Who could have recognised in the energetic, high-spirited backwoodsman Philip had become, the refined and somewhat sedate and stiff young student of a year ago. By-the-bye, the kitchen of which he spoke was a lean-to of birch-bark, under which a camp stove had been placed; near it was a shed prepared for the reception of the stores, among which Peter proposed to take up his abode. Philip's plan of fitting up the cottage was much admired. To the walls and roof he had first nailed some common canvas, on this he had pasted newspapers, which he had again covered with a common cheerful-looking paper, such as is used generally for covering walls. The table itself consisted of some rough planks nailed to tressels, and the bedsteads were formed of rough pine poles with canvas stretched across them. Shelves and pegs round the rooms would enable their inmates to keep them as neat as cabins.

The voices of the rest of the party were heard sooner than was expected. "We pressed the third boat on the lake into our service and have brought everything," said Philip, entering with a slight young man, who, in spite of a very rough, much worn costume, looked the gentleman. "I have the pleasure of introducing my friend Mr Lawrence D'Arcy, my fellow labourer, who, let me tell you, made every inch of the furniture of our mansion in a wondrous brief time. He had not begun it yesterday morning, for he was helping me to paper the walls till nearly noon."

"It is the work of a self-taught artist," said Lawrence D'Arcy. "But, really, there is little to boast of in having put together a few rough poles. The plan is the only thing to merit commendation."

Of course everybody thanked Mr D'Arcy, and he at once felt himself perfectly at home. Never did the finest baronial mansion afford more satisfaction to the occupiers than did Philip's quickly-built cottage. It stood on a platform on the side of the hill, looking south over the lake, and sheltered by the ground above it from the icy blast of the north. There was not space on the platform for a larger building; but a little way off was a much wider piece of level ground, and here already logs were laid for a log house.

"The cottage was an after-thought," said Philip, showing the plan of the log house. "I knew that we could not get this fitted up in time, and planking being abundant and cheap, I bethought me of running up a plank cottage which will serve you till you can get into the more substantial mansion. With a stove and additional banking up outside it may be made warm enough even for winter." Never was a family more busy, or one more contented and happy.

"Our present abode will make a magnificent dairy when we get into the big mansion," cried Agnes, as she saw the walls of the log house quickly rising. "How clean and nice the pans will look arranged round the walls and the churn in the middle."

"Your notions are rather too grand, I fear, dear," said her mother. "We have only got one cow, and there will be room here for the milk of fifty."

"Ah! but the day will come when we may have fifty. That beautiful meadow by the side of the stream to the right will feed almost that number," said Agnes.

"I should be content with four or five, so that we may make our own butter and cheese, and have cream and milk in abundance," observed Fanny. "I should like to have time to attend to our garden, and poultry, and pigs; and then, remember, we are not to grow into savages, so we must have reading, and keep up our music and drawing, and then there will be all sorts of household work to attend to."

Sophy sided with Fanny, and Philip put an end to the discussion about the dairy, by telling them that he had calculated on using up the planks of the cottage for the flooring of part of the new house.

That building got on with wonderful rapidity. Day after day Mr Lawrence D'Arcy came over with his man Terry, a faithful fellow, born on his father's estate in Ireland, who had been his servant in the army for several years. Philip had, for the purpose of economising heat and saving roofing, resolved to make the house of two stories. The walls were formed of horizontal logs; the upper part of each log was scooped out so as to admit the round of the one above it to fit in, and the ends were deeply notched for the logs forming the walls at a right angle to it. A height sufficient for the ground floor chambers having been gained, notches were cut and the rafters placed across. Shears were erected to raise the higher logs, and shingles, which are thin split planks of fir, formed the roof. The house stood on a platform to raise it above the snow; the floor being thus some way from the ground. A verandah ran round the whole building, affording a sheltered walk when the inmates might not otherwise be able to get fresh air.

Had not the settlers been so strong handed, the work now accomplished could not have been performed before the winter; but it was the fable of the bundle of sticks exemplified. Such a building would not have been attempted except for the sake of the ladies, as the settlers would have employed all their strength in preparing the ground for cultivation. That necessary proceeding was not however neglected, and six acres were chopped and burnt off before the snow covered up the brushwood.

"Here we are, fairly settled in our log house," said Mr Ashton, as he surveyed the result of his son's architectural skill. "Let us with grateful hearts thank our Heavenly Father who has led us thus far in safety."

There were signs that the winter was about to begin. Snow-storms had appeared from over the hill and swept across the lake. Ice had formed around the edges in shallow pools, but the hot sun had come out and completely thawed it. Often among the pine woods the heat was excessive. Had it not been for the rich growing tints of the trees which fringed the lake and covered its islets, it would have been difficult to suppose that summer had passed away. There were the bright reds and yellows of the maple, the pale straw-colour of the beech, the copper hues of the oaks; and, indeed, Sophy found that she could exhaust all the brightest colours of her paint-box, and yet not give sufficient variety or brilliancy to portray correctly the gorgeous tints of the landscape spread out before the window; nor was there blue to be found equal to the blue of the lake, still less of the sky above it. She was glad that she had finished her drawing in time, for a strong north wind sprang up, and a sharp frost sent every leaf, pinched off, flying away, and the next morning a few only hanging to dead boughs gave a somewhat warm tinge to the otherwise dark green and dark brown appearance of the lake shore.

"Excellent! it would give my dear people at home some idea of the beauties we have out here," exclaimed D'Arcy, who happened to look in the day Sophy had finished her sketch. "I should be so thankful if you could make a copy for me; still more so if I might aspire to possess the original."

"What could have made Sophy blush so just now?" said Charley to Agnes, after D'Arcy had taken his leave. "There the dear thing stands looking at the lake: what a wonder to see her doing nothing."

D'Arcy leaped gaily into his boat, hoisted the main-sail, a large one for her size, cast off the painter, and hauling aft the main-sheet as she paid-off with the fore-sail, waved an adieu to his friends on shore. The lake sparkled brightly as miniature waves curled over its surface; faster and faster the boat flew amid them, seeming to delight in her freedom. The breeze freshened; a black cloud came up along the course of the river from Lake Huron; it rushed across the sky, followed by others, casting a shadow over the lake. A shriek from Sophy made Philip rush out from his workshop, saw in hand, followed by Harry. The white sail of D'Arcy's boat had disappeared, and a dark mass was alone visible on the spot where she had been.

"He is a good swimmer, and will have got upon the bottom," cried Philip; but his heart misgave him, for the cold wind had made D'Arcy put on his thick coat and heavy boots; Harry ran towards their large boat. The sails and oars were on shore. "No, no,--the canoe!" cried Philip. An Indian hunter, a friend of D'Arcy's, had left his canoe on the beach in the morning. The paddles were in her. To launch her and step gingerly in was the work of an instant; and fast as Philip and Harry could ply their paddles, the light canoe flew across the lake.

The rest of the family were soon on the shore; Mr Ashton, who saw the danger to which his sons were exposed in their eagerness to save their friend, watching their progress with the greatest anxiety. He unfortunately did not understand the management of a boat as did his sons; nor did Peter, or he would have gone after them. The canoe tossed up and down, apparently scarcely able to buffet with even the small waves, to the lashing of which she was exposed. Still Philip and Harry bravely pursued their course, their eyes straining a-head, and utterly regardless of the danger they themselves were running.

"Phil, can you see him?" cried Harry. "I think I do. Yes, surely, there's something moving on the boat's keel."

"Yes, I hope so: he's lying his length along it; he could not sit up," answered Philip. "How bitterly cold the wind blows out here."

"Yes, he will be almost frozen, poor fellow; he will lose his boat, too," said Harry. "Shall we carry him on to his place, or back to our own?"

"Certainly, to ours. In his own hut he has no one to look after him properly; while with us he will have no lack of nurses," remarked Philip. "Paddle away, Harry; he sees us."

"Hurrah, D'Arcy!" cried Harry, "we are coming to you, old fellow." A hand was seen to wave in return to Harry's cheer. "All right--all right!" cried Harry, delighted, "he is there and alive!"

D'Arcy had managed to get one of his boots off, but he had great difficulty in clinging to the keel. He did not cry out to his friends to make haste, for he knew that they were doing their utmost to reach him. They encouraged him, however, to hold on; for they judged, by the chilly blast which swept across the lake, that he must be numbed and fainting. At length they got alongside the boat; and now the greatest caution was necessary, lest, in taking him in, the canoe should be capsized. The boat likewise, on being touched, might roll up, and with her mast stave in the fragile side of the canoe. It seemed almost impossible to accomplish their object without upsetting themselves. Those who know what a birch-bark canoe is like will best understand the difficulty.

"Take me in by the head," said D'Arcy; "I'll crawl in."

They accordingly paddled round to the stern of the boat, to which Philip made the bow of the canoe fast, and he was then able to reach over sufficiently to take hold of D'Arcy's hands, and to drag him on till he could place one foot on each gunwale of the canoe, and then, by drawing himself back, he took the weight off the bow and gradually drew his friend on board. D'Arcy's knees, however, very nearly went through the thin bottom. He asked them to continue on to his clearing, that he might get off again and try to save his boat; but Philip would not hear of it.

"No, no," he answered, "she will drift on shore not far off, and we shall easily be able to find her; and you will catch your death of cold if you are not looked after immediately."

"But poor Terry will go out of his mind if he supposes that I am lost," argued D'Arcy.

"We will try to let him know," said Philip. "Besides, at our place, if we go on, they will not know whether we are all lost, or you are saved."

This settled the question. "There, lie down at the bottom, and we will cover you up with our jackets," said Philip. "Give way, Harry."

To paddle back in the teeth of the freezing wind was no easy work, and more than once Philip wished that, for his friend's sake, he had gone on to his clearing; still, he guessed rightly, that every means to prevent injurious effects would be got ready. Manfully they paddled on, but the spray from the small but quick-coming waves dashed in their faces, and the slightest cessation of exertion allowed the light canoe to be blown back again like a feather before the breeze. Nobly they persevered. Once under the lee of the land, they knew that their progress would be more rapid. At last they caught sight of their own landing-place. Philip gave a flourish with his paddle, and pointed to the bottom of the canoe. The communication was understood, and a door, with blankets, were ready to carry D'Arcy up to the house. He begged, however, to be allowed to walk up, declaring that he was well able to do so, though he did not object to having a couple of blankets thrown over his shoulders. He found, however, that he had miscalculated his strength, and without help he could scarcely move. The next morning the effects of the wetting and exposure were more conspicuous, and all the skill of Nurse Summers was required to bring him round. For several days he was kept in bed, and even when he was able to get up, the Ashtons would not let him leave them. "You are utterly unfit for work, my dear fellow," said Philip. "You will get well here much faster than sitting over the fire in your own shanty, and leave Terry more at liberty to go on with your house. He is contented enough now he knows we have you in safe keeping."

It was wonderful with what equanimity Mr D'Arcy consented to remain the guest of the Ashtons. He was not idle, for he read while the ladies worked, taught Charley to net, and took Philip's place as his schoolmaster in the evening, and imparted a large stock of backwoodsman's lore to all the family. Philip and Harry had, directly they returned after rescuing him, set off in their big boat, and arrived at his clearing in time to prevent poor Terry from going out of his mind, which he was nearly doing at seeing his master's boat drift by, and believing he was lost. They found him wringing his hands, and uttering a truly Irish lament as he contemplated the boat which had driven on shore a short distance from the cottage shanty. So occupied had he been in watching the upset boat that he had not observed their approach.

"Och! sad's the day; and I'll never more be after seeing him again, the dear young masther, barrin' it's his corpse is sent up by the cruel waves on the shore, and I'll be left all alone in this desart counthry to bury him, the last hope of the D'Arcys, instead of in the tomb of his ancestors in ould Ireland. And what'll the poor misthress be doing when she hears the news? sorrow a bit could my hand write the words; I couldn't do it even if I had the 'art, nor my tongue tell it, I'd sooner cut it out of my mouth; and sweet Misthress Katharine and Misthress Lily, they'll cry their pretty eyes out, they will." Again he set up a long, melancholy howl, not unlike that of a dog baying at the moon. The sound of the Ashtons' boat touching the shore made him look up, with an expression of hope in his countenance, as if he expected to see his master, but it suddenly changed to one of still greater sorrow when he discovered that he was not of the party.

Philip, eager to soothe his anxiety, shouted out, as he stepped on shore, "Come up, Terry, we have him all safe on shore, only rather wet and cold."

"Is it the thruth ye are spaking, Masther Philip? Arrah, an' I'm shure it is," cried Terry, rushing towards him with frantic gestures of delight. "Just say that word again, he's safe, an' blessins on yer honest face, for I'm shure ye could not desave a poor gossoon like myself." Philip repeated his assertion, and was not a little astonished to find himself seized in Terry's arms, and hugged till the breath was nearly out of his body. The honest fellow's feelings then gave way in a burst of tears, which flowed while he apologised for the liberty he became conscious he had taken.

D'Arcy's stay with his friends was prolonged over several days, and it was not till he was perfectly recovered that they would allow him to go back to his clearing. He found several subjects to ponder on when he got there.

The south wind blew softly, the air was pure and balmy, the sun shone brightly, and the waters of the lake vied with the sky in the clearness of its azure tints. The birds too were warbling forth a happy song; not, however, with the full swelling chorus of spring, but yet sufficiently to give cheerfulness to the otherwise silent woods. It is a calumny on the feathered tribes of Canada to assert that they have no song; the blackbird can sing when he is inclined, as sweetly as his brother in England, and the Canadian robin's notes are as full of glee as those of his smaller namesake in the old country.