railway-stations. In the
dining-room of a friend, who goes away every autumn into the wilds of
Nova Scotia at the season when the snow falls, hang trophies--enormous
branching antlers of the caribou, and heads of the mighty moose--which I
am assured came from there; and I have no reason to doubt that the noble
creatures who once carried these superb horns were murdered by my friend
at long range. Many people have an insatiate longing to kill, once in
their life, a moose, and would travel far and endure great hardships
to gratify this ambition. In the present state of the world it is more
difficult to do it than it is to be written down as one who loves his
fellow-men.

We received everywhere in the Provinces courtesy and kindness, which
were not based upon any expectation that we would invest in mines or
railways, for the people are honest, kindly, and hearty by nature. What
they will become when the railways are completed that are to bind St.
John to Quebec, and make Nova Scotia, Cape Breton, and Newfoundland only
stepping-stones to Europe, we cannot say. Probably they will become like
the rest of the world, and furnish no material for the kindly persiflage
of the traveler.

Regretting that we could see no more of St. John, that we could scarcely
see our way through its dimly lighted streets, we found the ferry to
Carleton, and a sleeping-car for Bangor. It was in the heart of the
negro porter to cause us alarm by the intelligence that the customs
officer would, search our baggage during the night. A search is a blow
to one's self-respect, especially if one has anything dutiable. But as
the porter might be an agent of our government in disguise, we preserved
an appearance of philosophical indifference in his presence. It takes
a sharp observer to tell innocence from assurance. During the night,
awaking, I saw a great light. A man, crawling along the aisle of the
car, and poking under the seats, had found my traveling-bag and was
"going through" it.

I felt a thrill of pride as I recognized in this crouching figure an
officer of our government, and knew that I was in my native land.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Baddeck and That Sort of Thing
by Charles Dudley Warner

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