Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Ungava by R. M. Ballantyne (good non fiction books to read TXT) 📖
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «Ungava by R. M. Ballantyne (good non fiction books to read TXT) 📖». Author R. M. Ballantyne
The object for which this excursion was undertaken was twofold—first, to ascertain if there were any fish in a large lake about ten miles distant from the fort; and, secondly, to give little Edith a drive for the good of her health. Not that her health was bad, but several weeks of bad weather had confined her much to the house, and her mother thought the change would be beneficial and agreeable; and tenderly did that mother’s heart yearn over her little child, for she felt that, although she was all to Edith that a mother could be, nature had implanted in her daughter’s mind a longing desire for the companionship of little ones of her own age, which could not be satisfied by any substitute—not even that of a tender mother, who sought, by all the means in her power, to become a child again for Edith’s sake.
Immediately after breakfast that day Frank took Edith by the hand, and led her round by the back of the fort, towards the kennel where the dogs were kept, intending to release Chimo, who was to have the honour of hauling the sledge of his young mistress. In passing the spring, Edith paused, as she had often done before during the winter, to gaze with wonder on the transformation that had taken place in the appearance of the once green and fertile spot. Not only was it covered with deep snow, but over the spring there was formed a singular dome of ice. This dome was a subject of continual astonishment to every one at Ungava. It had commenced to rise soon after the first hard frosts had sealed up the little fountain from the open air. As time passed by, the covering became thick ice, and was bulged gradually up above the surrounding waste, until it reached an elevation of not much less than twelve or thirteen feet. Inside of this the spring bubbled up as of yore.
“What think you, Edith?” said Frank, as a sudden thought occurred to him; “shall I cut a doorway into that crystal house, and see if the spirit of the spring dwells there?”
Edith clapped her hands with delight at the idea, and urged her companion to begin at once. Then, checking him as he was about to commence the work with his hatchet, she said earnestly—
“Do spirits really dwell in the springs, Frank?”
“Why, Eda, we must send to England for a lot of fairy tales to teach you what I mean. I do but jest when I speak of spirits living there. But many books, have been written about pretended spirits and fairies, which tell us of their wonderful adventures, and what they said and did long ago. I shall tell you some of these stories one of these days. But I daresay there are no spirits in this spring.”
“Faix, an’ it would be a rale misfortune if there was, sir,” remarked Bryan, who came up at this moment, and touched his cap; “for it would be only sperits and wather, which wouldn’t kape in this cowld climate. I’ve finished the ring-bolts for the sled, sir, an’ came to see when ye would have them fixed.”
“Put them in your pocket, Bryan, for a few minutes, and lend a hand here to cut a hole through this dome.”
As Frank spoke, he drew a small axe from his belt, and began to lay about him so vigorously that the icy splinters flew in all directions like a shower of broken crystal. Bryan seconded his efforts, and in less than half an hour a block of solid ice, about four feet high and two broad, was cut out and detached from the side of the dome.
“That’ll do, Bryan,” said Frank, when their work was nearly completed; “I’ll finish it myself now. Go to the carpenter’s house, and François will show you what to do with the sled.”
As Bryan walked away, Frank dealt the mass of ice a blow that split it into several pieces, which he quickly removed, revealing to the astonished and eager gaze of his young companion a cavern of a most beautiful light blue colour. Taking Edith by the hand, he led her into this icy cave. Its walls were quite luminous and delicately blue, except in places where the green moss and earth around the spring had been torn from the ground and lifted up along with the dome. Icicles hung in various places from the roof, and the floor was hard and dry, except in the centre, where the spring bubbled up through it, and cut a channel across towards one side of the icy wall, where it disappeared under the snow.
“Oh, what a beautiful palace!” cried Edith, with delight, after she had gazed around her for a few minutes in silent wonder and admiration. “I shall come and live here, Frank. Oh! do come, and let us get chairs and a small table, and make it our sitting-room. We can come every day when the sun shines and read, or you can tell me the tales about spirits and fairies you spoke of!”
“A good idea, Eda; but I fear we would need a stove to keep us warm. It strikes me it will make a capital ice-house in spring to keep our fresh meat in. It will last long after the snow is melted.”
“Then we shall make a palace of it in winter and a meat-store in spring,” cried Edith, laughing, as she walked round this newly-discovered house, examining its blue walls and peeping into the cold black spring. Meanwhile Frank examined it with a view to the utilitarian purpose, and, after both of them had gone round it several times, they continued on their way towards the dog-kennel.
The sledge which François had constructed for Edith was made after the model of those used by the Esquimaux. There were two stout runners, or skates, made of wood, for sliding over the snow. These were slightly turned up, or rather rounded up, in front, and attached to each other by means of cross bars and thin planks of wood; all of which were fastened, not by nails (for iron-work snaps like glass in such a cold climate as that of Ungava), but by thongs of undressed sealskin, which, although they held the fabric very loosely together in appearance, were, nevertheless, remarkably strong, and served their purpose very well. Two short upright bars behind served as a back to lean against. But the most curious part of the machine was the substance with which the runners were shod, in order to preserve them. This was a preparation of mud and water, which was plastered smoothly on in a soft condition, and then allowed to freeze. This it did in a few minutes after being exposed to the open air, and thus became a smooth, hard sheathing, which was much more durable and less liable to break than iron, or indeed any other sheathing that could be devised. This substance is, of course, easily repaired, and is always used by the Esquimaux in winter.
Esquimau sledges being heavy, and meant for carrying a number of people, require large teams of dogs. But Edith’s sledge—or sled, as the men called it—was little. Moreover, Edith herself was little and light, therefore Chimo was deemed sufficiently powerful to draw it. So thoroughly correct were they in this supposition, that when Edith was seated in her sledge for a trial trip, and Chimo harnessed, he ran away with her and gave Frank a chase of half a mile over the river ere he condescended to stop in his wild career.
But the intended excursion was suddenly interrupted and postponed, by an event which we shall relate in the next chapter.
The event which prevented the excursion referred to in the last chapter was neither more nor less than a snowstorm. “Was that all?” say you, reader? Nay, that was not all. Independently of the fact that it was a snowstorm the like of which you have never seen, unless you have travelled in northern climes, it was a snow-storm that produced results. Of these, more hereafter.
The storm began with a sigh—a mysterious sigh, that swept over the mountains of Ungava with a soft, mournful wail, and died slowly away in the distant glen of the Caniapuscaw, as if the spirit of the north wind grieved to think of the withering desolation it was about to launch upon the land.
The gathering clouds that preceded and accompanied this sigh induced Frank Morton to countermand his orders for the intended journey. In order to console Edith for the disappointment, he went with her into the hall, and, drawing a low stool towards the blazing stove, placed a draught-board upon it. Then he placed another and a lower stool beside the first, on which he seated Edith. Spreading a deerskin robe upon the ground, he stretched himself thereon at full length, and began to arrange the men.
The hall, which was formerly such a comfortless apartment, was now invested with that degree of comfort which always gathers, more or less, round a place that is continually occupied. The ceiling was composed of a carpet of deerskin stretched tightly upon the beams. The walls were hung all round with the thick heavy coats and robes of leather and fur belonging to the inmates, and without which they never ventured abroad. The iron stove in the centre of the apartment, with its pipe to conduct away the smoke, and its radiant fire of logs, emitted a cheerful glow in its immediate vicinity; which glow, however, was not intense enough to melt the thick ice, or rather hoar-frost, an inch deep, with which the two windows were encrusted, to the almost total exclusion of the view and the serious diminution of the light. The door was padded all round its edges with fur, which tended to check the bitter wind that often blew against it, and tempered the slight draught that did force its way through. Altogether the hall at Fort Chimo was curious and comfortable—rather shaggy in its general appearance, but sound and trustworthy at bottom.
A small rough table, the work of Frank Morton, stood close to the stove; and beside it was seated Mrs Stanley, with a soft yellow deerskin before her, which she was carefully transforming into a hunting coat for her husband. On another and a larger table was spread the tea equipage. Those who would understand this aright must for tea read supper. Among fur-traders the two are combined. Candles—dips made at the fort—had been brought some time ago by La Roche, who entered the hall by a back door which communicated with a passage leading to the kitchen behind.
“What can have become of papa, I wonder?” Mrs Stanley designated her husband by this epithet, in consequence of her desire to keep up the fiction of her being Edith’s little sister or playfellow.
Frank looked up from the board. “I know not,” said he. “I left him giving some orders to the men. We have been getting things made snug about the fort, for we expect a pretty stiff breeze to-night.—Take care, Eda; your crown’s in danger.”
“Oh! so it is,” cried Edith, snatching back her piece, and looking with intense earnestness at the board.
Frank might have observed, had he not been too deeply engaged with his game, that the expected stiff breeze had already come, and was whistling round the fort with considerable vigour.
“You’ll beat me, Eda, if you play so boldly,” said Frank, with a smile. “There, give me another crown.”
“And me too,” said Edith, pushing up her piece. As she spoke, the door burst open, and Stanley sprang into the room.
“Whew! what a night!” he cried, shutting the door with a forcible bang, in order to keep out the snow-drift that sought to enter along with him.
Two moves would have made Frank the conqueror,
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