One Sunday evening at dusk we slip into the Hudson’s Bay post where the Little Red River makes into the Peace, the dear home of Tom Kerr, his Scottish wife, and their four bairns.  Let me try to give the picture.  Tom had been off all day cutting meadowgrass, and now wended his way home with a load of it in a little Old Country cart drawn by a wall-eyed mare.  At her side frisked a foal, and two great stag-hounds ran back and forward between the master and his home by the riverside.  Three children bounded out to greet their father.  “Oh!  Daddy, Daddy, the red coo broke away from the byre and is far awa on the ither side o’ the burn!” Here, in a nutshell, you have the difference between the Mackenzie River of to-day and the Peace River.  On the Mackenzie, swarthy forms are in evidence, Cree and French is spoken on all sides, there are no great fields of waving grain, and the dog is the only domestic animal.  On the Peace is an essentially white race, cows, chickens, trustworthy old nags, porridge for breakfast, “the tongue that Shakespeare spake,” rendered in an accent born far ayont the Tweed.  Right across the mouth of the Little Red River, Tom Kerr has a fishing scine.  We go down with him to lift it, after the cows have been brought back to the narrow path.  The net yields seven fish and they are of five different species,—­trout, ling, sucker, jack-fish, and something else that Tom calls a “Maria.”  Daily this net is set, and for three hundred and sixty-five days every year it furnishes food for the family, in summer in the flowing water, and in winter under the ice.  You couldn’t starve at Little Red River if you wanted to.  This is one of the most beautiful spots in the whole North Countree.  Long after Tom and we and Mrs. Tom are under the gowans, and the little Kerrs possess the land, there will be populous cities along the Peace, and millionaires will plant their summer villas on the beauteous spot where we now stand.

[Illustration:  Our Lobsticks on the Peace]

Bidding the bairns good-bye, we press onward on our way, Tom Kerr accompanying us.  A great honour awaits us round the next corner, when the boatmen announce that they are going to make us each a lobstick.  We land, as pleased as Punch over the suggestion.  We now know what it feels like when the philanthropist of a village takes his after-dinner walk through the square and sees the sparrows drinking from the memorial fountain surmounted with his own bust, done in copper, life-size.  It takes fully two hours to trim the trees into significant shape, but the beauty of this particular kind of Cook’s Tour is that you go down when you like and stop when you want to.  The lobsticks furnished, the men form a circle and discharge their muskets in salute, and on we go.  We learn that the ethics of lobsticks is that each of these men, should Fate take him past this point again, will salute the lobstick just made and send a strong thought across the spruce-tops to us.  There is a reverse to the shield.  Should we, at any time before this journey ends, fail to make good, the men on the return voyage will cut the lobstick down.  We are going to make no impertinent enquiries regarding the ulterior fate of these family trees.  Is it not sufficient glory to say, “On the Peace River we had a lobstick”?