cout, it being the highest
encomium the North can pass upon her.

Before leaving the ship for the portage, we backed into the Athabasca,
and, after travelling two or three miles, unloaded a vast deal of
freight at a little tent town on the bank. Here and there, through
this country, you come upon these white encampments, which mean that
the iron furrows of the railway are steadily pushing the frontier
farther and farther north. This was the first load of freight to be
brought down the Athabasca for the building of the Grand Trunk Pacific
Railway. It was only rough hardware truck, but, withal, amiable to my
eyes, standing, as it did, for the end of a long rubber between fur and
wheat. You would like the looks of the young engineers who took charge
of the stuff. They were no muffish sick-a-bed fellows, but brown with
wind and sun, hardy-moulded and masterful. One of them has written
something about life on the right-of-way, which he intends sending me
to touch up a bit for a paper. It augurs well for a country when its
workers love it and want to write about it.

And even so, My Canada, should I forget thee, may my pen fingers become
sapless and like to poplar twigs that are blasted by fire. And may it
happen in like manner to any of thy breed who are drawn away from love
of thee.

CHAPTER XIII.

ON THE PORTAGE

We sing the open road, good friends,
But here's a health to you.--WILLIAM GRIFFITH.

As one watches the efforts of the wagoners to store away the valises
and rolls of blankets without ejecting the passengers, one remembers
that Caesar's word for baggage was impedimenta. But Prosper, our
wagoner, is the best packer on the trail, also he can sing, "I've got
rings on my fingers."

"It is strange there are so many dingy half-breeds in the world," says
the person by my side who objects to her blankets being tied on behind.
"To my thinking there is no colour to compare with white. 'Ishmaels,'
I call these breeds."

Prosper's bearing under her choleric criticism is so superbly apathetic
that I like him swiftly and completely. Any one can see that he is a
man of substantial qualities and not to be excited by fidgety women.

It is fourteen rough miles from Mirror Landing to Soto Landing, along a
black trail that lifts and dips through the tall ranks of the poplars
and pines. The scenery offers no great varieties except those of light
and shade, vista and perspective.

Whenever we pass