Snowflakes and Sunbeams; Or, The Young Fur-traders: A Tale of the Far North, - [best summer reads .txt] 📗

The first day at home—A gallop in the prairie, and its consequences.

Next morning, as the quartette were at breakfast, Mr. Kennedy, senior, took occasion to propound to his son the plans he had laid down for them during the next week.

“In the first place, Charley, my boy,” said he, as well as a large mouthful of buffalo steak and potato would permit, “you must drive up to the fort and report yourself. Harry and I will go with you; and after we have paid our respects to old Grant (another cup of tea, Kate, my darling)—you recollect him, Charley, don’t you?”

“Yes, perfectly.”

“Well, then, after we’ve been to see him, we’ll drive down the river, and call on our friends at the mill. Then we’ll look in on the Thomsons; and give a call, in passing, on old Neverin—he’s always out, so he’ll be pleased to hear we were there, and it won’t detain us. Then—-”

“But, dear father—excuse my interrupting you—Harry and I are very anxious to spend our first day at home entirely with you and Kate. Don’t you think it would be more pleasant? and then, to-morrow—”

“Now, Charley, this is too bad of you,” said Mr. Kennedy, with a look of affected indignation: “no sooner have you come back than you’re at your old tricks, opposing and thwarting your father’s wishes.”

“Indeed, I do not wish to do so, father,” replied Charley, with a smile; “but I thought that you would like my plan better yourself, and that it would afford us an opportunity of having a good long, satisfactory talk about all that concerns us, past, present, and future.”

“What a daring mind you have, Charley,” said Harry, “to speak of cramming a satisfactory talk of the past, the present, and the future all into one day!”

“Harry will take another cup of tea, Kate,” said Charley, with an arch smile, as he went on,—

“Besides, father, Jacques tells me that he means to go off immediately, to visit a number of his old voyageur friends in the settlement, and I cannot part with him till we have had one more canter together over the prairies. I want to show him to Kate, for he’s a great original.”

“Oh, that will be charming!” cried Kate. “I should like of all things to be introduced to the bold hunter.—Another cup of tea, Mr. S-Harry, I mean?”

Harry started on being thus unexpectedly addressed. “Yes, if you please—that is—thank you—no, my cup’s full already, Kate!”

“Well, well,” broke in Mr. Kennedy, senior, “I see you’re all leagued against me, so I give in. But I shall not accompany you on your ride, as my bones are a little stiffer than they used to be” (the old gentleman sighed heavily), “and riding far knocks me up; but I’ve got business to attend to in my glass house which will occupy me till dinner-time.”

“If the business you speak of,” began Charley, “is not incompatible with a cigar, I shall be happy to—”

“Why, as to that, the business itself has special reference to tobacco, and, in fact, to nothing else; so come along, you young dog,” and the old gentleman’s cheek went into violent convulsions as he rose, put on his cap, with the peak very much over one eye, and went out in company with the young men.

An hour afterwards four horses stood saddled and bridled in front of the house. Three belonged to Mr. Kennedy; the fourth had been borrowed from a neighbour as a mount for Jacques Caradoc. In a few minutes more Harry lifted Kate into the saddle, and having arranged her dress with a deal of unnecessary care, mounted his nag. At the same moment Charley and Jacques vaulted into their saddles, and the whole cavalcade galloped down the avenue that led to the prairie, followed by the admiring gaze of Mr. Kennedy, senior, who stood in the doorway of his mansion, his hands in his vest pockets, his head uncovered, and his happy visage smiling through a cloud of smoke that issued from his lips. He seemed the very personification of jovial good-humour, and what one might suppose Cupid would become were he permitted to grow old, dress recklessly, and take to smoking!

The prairies were bright that morning, and surpassingly beautiful. The grass looked greener than usual, the dew-drops more brilliant as they sparkled on leaf and blade and branch in the rays of an unclouded sun. The turf felt springy, and the horses, which were first-rate animals, seemed to dance over it, scarce crushing the wild-flowers beneath their hoofs, as they galloped lightly on, imbued with the same joyous feeling that filled the hearts of their riders. The plains at this place were more picturesque than in other parts, their uniformity being broken up by numerous clumps of small trees and wild shrubbery, intermingled with lakes and ponds of all sizes, which filled the hollows for miles round—temporary sheets of water these, formed by the melting snow, that told of winter now past and gone. Additional animation and life was given to the scene by flocks of water-fowl, whose busy cry and cackle in the water, or whirring motion in the air, gave such an idea of joyousness in the brute creation as could not but strike a chord of sympathy in the heart of a man, and create a feeling of gratitude to the Maker of man and beast. Although brilliant and warm, the sun, at least during the first part of their ride, was by no means oppressive; so that the equestrians stretched out at full gallop for many miles over the prairie, round the lakes and through the bushes, ere their steeds showed the smallest symptoms of warmth.

During the ride Kate took the lead, with Jacques on her left and Harry on her right, while Charley brought up the rear, and conversed in a loud key with all three. At length Kate began to think it was just possible the horses might be growing wearied with the slapping pace, and checked her steed; but this was not an easy matter, as the horse seemed to hold quite a contrary opinion, and showed a desire not only to continue but to increase its gallop—a propensity that induced Harry to lend his aid by grasping the rein and compelling the animal to walk.

“That’s a spirited horse, Kate,” said Charley, as they ambled along; “have you had him long?”

“No,” replied Kate; “our father purchased him just a week before your arrival, thinking that you would likely want a charger now and then. I have only been on him once before.—Would he make a good buffalo-runner, Jacques?”

“Yes, miss; he would make an uncommon good runner,” answered the hunter, as he regarded the animal with a critical glance—“at least if he don’t shy at a gunshot.”

“I never tried his nerves in that way,” said Kate, with a smile; “perhaps he would shy at that. He has a good deal of spirit—oh, I do dislike a lazy horse, and I do delight in a spirited one!” Kate gave her horse a smart cut with the whip, half involuntarily, as she spoke. In a moment it reared almost perpendicularly, and then bounded forward; not, however, before Jacques’s quick eye had observed the danger, and his ever-ready hand arrested its course.

“Have a care, Miss Kate,” he said, in a warning voice, while he gazed in the face of the excited girl with a look of undisguised admiration. “It don’t do to wallop a skittish beast like that.”

“Never fear, Jacques,” she replied, bending forward to pat her charger’s arching neck; “see, he is becoming quite gentle again.”

“If he runs away, Kate, we won’t be able to catch you again, for he’s the best of the four, I think,” said Harry, with an uneasy glance at the animal’s flashing eye and expanded nostrils.

“Ay, it’s as well to keep the whip off him,” said Jacques. “I know’d a young chap once in St. Louis who lost his sweetheart by usin’ his whip too freely.”

“Indeed,” cried Kate, with a merry laugh, as they emerged from one of the numerous thickets and rode out upon the open plain at a foot pace; “how was that, Jacques? Pray tell us the story.”

“As to that, there’s little story about it,” replied the hunter. “You see, Tim Roughead took arter his name, an’ was always doin’ some mischief or other, which more than once nigh cost him his life; for the young trappers that frequent St. Louis are not fellows to stand too much jokin’, I can tell ye. Well, Tim fell in love with a gal there who had jilted about a dozen lads afore; an’ bein’ an oncommon handsome, strappin’ fellow, she encouraged him a good deal. But Tim had a suspicion that Louise was rayther sweet on a young storekeeper’s clerk there; so, bein’ an off-hand sort o’ critter, he went right up to the gal, and says to her, says he, ‘Come, Louise, it’s o’ no use humbuggin’ with me any longer. If you like me, you like me; and if you don’t like me, you don’t. There’s only two ways about it. Now, jist say the word at once, an’ let’s have an end on’t. If you agree, I’ll squat with you in whativer bit o’ the States you like to name; if not, I’ll bid