A Veteran Skater's Gossip

I MUST confess at the outset that I am not altogether clear in my mind as to what length of service constitutes a “veteran,” the question being somewhat obscured by the modern frequency of the phrase “old veteran,” which would seem necessarily to imply the existence of “young veterans.” In view, however, of the fact that I may with a good measure of accuracy lay claim to almost two score years of familiarity with those wings of flashing steel which when fastened to the feet of man make him a worthy rival of Mercury himself in air-dividing speed, the nice point whether I should be classed as an old or young veteran may perhaps be permitted to remain in abeyance.

I have a vivid recollection of my pupilage in the accomplishment of skating. It was in the days preceding the invention of that ineffable boon, the spring skate; and when, after the long walk over the hard-frozen roads to Steele’s Pond or Ritchie’s Swamp, one had to adjust the clumsy wooden affairs with their perplexing straps, while one’s exposed fingers grew numb and cramped with cold, it certainly seemed as if one had to win his way into the Paradise of enjoyment through a veritable Purgatory.

The proper adjustment of the straps was troublesome enough in all conscience, but the real crux of the affair was the hole in the heel into which the screw fitted. To make this hole accurately required a gimlet of the correct bore, and a steady hand; and it certainly could not be done to advantage at the edge of the ice, when one was impatient to be in full flight over the glistening surface.

Yet if you thoughtfully prepared your heel at home you were morally certain to find on your arrival at the skating place an impertinent pebble ensconced in the hole, and resolutely resisting your frantic efforts at dislodgement. Many and long are the years between, and yet I can remember still, although far worthier things are lost in oblivion, my struggles with such a pebble one particularly fine Saturday, and how with gimlet and jackknife I worked at my heel until at last I dislodged the intruder, incidentally so enlarging the hole that my skate would not stay firm and I had to get a new heel.

From this misery the inventive genius of Forbes and his followers happily delivered us, and thereby, no doubt, vastly multiplied the numbers of those who eagerly repair to the ponds and lakes what time the waters are hid as with a stone, and the face of the deep is frozen.

The Steele’s Pond and Ritchie’s Swamp that were such favorite resorts in my school-days lay beyond the borders of the city, the first being divided from the salt waters of the harbor merely by a narrow strip of beach along whose top ran the road to Point Pleasant Park, and the second being hidden in the heart of a thick wood, and accessible only by devious paths over very rough ground.

Each had its own attractions, the pond commanding a fine view of the peerless harbor, and the swamp having an air of seclusion that would have appealed to Nathaniel Hawthorne when he was wont to spend long hours speeding over the ice-clad bosom of Sebago Lake.

I had an experience at the pond, of the kind that prints a deep impression upon the memory. The day was exceedingly cold, and my numbed fingers found it particularly hard to fasten on my skates. Indeed, if I remember aright, there was a hateful pebble in one of my heels which gave me a lot of trouble. Consequently, when at last I had everything properly adjusted and secured, I dashed off at top speed, and — went plump into a hole in the ice which received me up to the neck!

Helping hands quickly rescued me from my uncomfortable situation (by the way, the first sensation of the plunge was one of warmth, the temperature of the water being higher than that of the air), but my skating was dished for that afternoon, and as I hurried home with my clothes rapidly hardening into a suit of mail, I wondered whether the consequences would be such as to debar me from any more skating that season. But, happily, my sturdy frame stood the test finely, and I was not able to manage even one day’s dispensation from school on the strength of my icy immersion.

The Halifax boys were fortunate in having no lack of provision for outdoor skating. Beside the two places already mentioned, there were Griffin’s Pond and Egg Pond within the confines of the city, and then at varying distances from the city a number of lakes.

There was also salt-water ice, as well as fresh-water, to skate upon. Every winter the lovely North-West Arm, a sort of fiord piercing inland behind the city, would be frozen over, and at rare intervals, twice within my own recollection, the harbor itself would succumb to the persistent wooing of the Frost King, and assume a breastplate of gleaming white which offered famous skating. Indeed we had the notion, the scientific accuracy of which I am not prepared to defend, that salt-water ice was somehow more to be desired than fresh-water ice, and we never thought of patronizing the latter when the former was available.

The North-West Arm was a truly ideal locale for outdoor skating. The high land on either side completely sheltered it from the wind, and the shores were indented with many entrancing little coves in which a group of kindred spirits might have a merry time by themselves, building a bonfire on the beach whereat to toast their hands and noses if the frosty air bit too shrewdly.

But of course the freezing of the harbor was the great event, happening as it did hardly more often that; once in a generation. The last occasion that I remember was somewhat more than thirty years ago, so that a repetition of the phenomenon must be about due. Then the circumstances were peculiarly favorable. The long-continued cold spell which wrought the marvel was not accompanied by any fall of snow, and, for Halifax, was singularly free from wind. The happy consequence was that the ice-sheet which completely covered the Basin and the surface of the harbor clear down to the Eastern Passage rivaled a mirror in glistening smoothness. The Haligonians took a holiday almost en masse in order to make the most of this wonderful opportunity. On skates, and in sleighs of all sorts and sizes — for the ice was strong enough to carry a park of artillery — they thronged to the slippery white plain on which the great black hulls of the ships looked so strangely out of place.

It was my good fortune to be on hand when one of the Cunard steamers was forcing her way up to the pier at the north end of the city. The sight was a superb one. The great steel-hulled vessel would charge into the ice-plain at full speed, crushing her way through it until the steady resistance exhausted her impetus, and brought her to a full stop. Then, after pausing for an instant, as if held fast by the splintered ice piled up about her, she would retreat to gather speed for a fresh onset.

There is no limit, I suppose, to be placed to the ingenuity of boys in discovering “dares” whereby to put to the test one another’s courage, and we youngsters had not long been watching with keen interest and admiration the progress of the big steamer when out spoke one and said:

“I dare any of you fellows to skate up and touch the steamer’s bow before she begins to back out again.”

It was surely a brilliant suggestion, and full of fascination for the venturesome spirit. The period of passivity on the part of that huge black hull was so brief as to evade admeasurement, and if one essaying the feat should be a fraction of a second too slow, he would infallibly plunge headlong into the dark, chill water that swirled about the steamer’s retreating bow. Yet there were some of us foolhardy enough to accept the challenge; and, the fates being merciful, we were permitted to survive the issue, however little we may have deserved such good fortune. Curiously enough, our parents, on learning of what had happened, showed a most disappointing lack of appreciation of the daring of their scions.

A passing reference has been made to the lakes wherein the neighborhood abounds. Beyond the North-West Arm were Williams Lake and Chocolate Lake, while farther out, in the picturesque Margaret’s Bay Road, lay the lovely chain of lakes from which the water supply of the city is derived. Then across the harbor Maynard’s Lake, hid among the pines and spruces of the upper slopes; and best of all, the Dartmouth Lakes, First, Second, and Third, with their tiny connecting canal, offered such a stretch of splendid skating in the early part of the winter, before the snow arrived to spoil it, as could not fail to satisfy the most ardent lover of nature and invigorating exercise.

One afternoon at Maynard’s Lake those who made their way thither despite the decidedly nipping and eager air were rewarded by a phenomenon without parallel in their experience. The ice had made under exceptionally favorable conditions — to wit, a sudden and severe drop in the temperature accompanied by a complete absence of wind. The result was a flawless sheet of ice from end to end of the lake. But it was the strangest ice upon which I ever set skate, for it seemed as black as ebony, the deep brown waters of the lake showing darkly through its transparent texture, while at every stroke of the steel it rang like some vast metallic drum.

The first skaters on the scene were, naturally enough, so surprised, not to say startled, by these novel features that they felt timid about venturing away from the shore. But their fears presently vanished, for the ice was safe beyond a peradventure,and soon from all over the lake came the sound of unwonted music, the song of the lake rejoicing in the presence of her guests. No one who had the good fortune to be at Maynard’s that afternoon would be likely to forget the experience. Whether any one was wise enough to have an explanation ready for the remarkable combination of crystalline clarity and sonorous responsiveness, I am sure I do not remember. I was quite content to enjoy what the gods gave me in those days, and not trouble myself about perplexing questions.

The Dartmouth Lakes began not far from the harbor, with which they were connected by a somewhat primitive marine railway, one of the first of its kind in the world, whereby a little steamer was transported from the salt water into fresh, and vice versa. Thence they extended one beyond the other for nearly a score of miles in the aggregate, their shores being lined with farms and forests and open pasture lands. A tiny canal connected them, and it was quite possible to start at the foot of the First Lake and continue on through the Second and Third until one gained a point where the railway could be easily reached, and the return to the city effected by train.

The state of the ice upon these lakes varied, of course, with the conditions under which it made, but when these had been propitious the most captious critic really found his occupation gone so far as they were concerned. The best way to enjoy them to the full was to make up a party in which, of course, both sexes were evenly represented, and, carrying an ample lunch, to devote the whole of a winter’s day, all too short at any rate, to traversing the superb chain from end to end, with pauses at will in the bewitching coves which indent the shore line.

The Second Lake was the scene of a rather remarkable accident that might have had a tragic ending but for the chance of a call for aid reaching my ears over a wide space of ice. A number of us had made up a skating-party which, after the fashion of such parties, resolved itself into congenial couples soon after leaving land. My partner was a particularly strong, swift skater, and we altogether distanced the others, pressing on until we had reached the far end of the Second Lake.

Here we found ourselves alone but for one solitary skater who seemed to be practicing “eights” in one of the coves. I was too much engrossed in my charming companion, who, I might mention parenthetically was Belle by name and belle by nature, to take an interest in the lone learner so diligently acquiring skill; and after we had rested awhile, for it was a taxing strain against the wind, we set about our return without looking at him at all closely.

With the wind aiding us we were now in for a long luxurious spin down the centre of the lake, and had just got well under weigh when, as we glided along, it seemed to me that the sound of some one calling my name was borne to me upon the wind.

“ Did you hear that ?” I asked my companion, “I thought I heard my name called.”

“No, I heard nothing,” she replied; and, satisfied that I had been mistaken, I was quickening my pace, when once more the call came, and this time so distinctly that we both heard it.

I pulled up, and wheeled around. The solitary skater no longer gyrated in uncertain circles, but lay prone upon the ice. Evidently there had been some mishap into which it behooved me to inquire. Asking the young lady to wait for a minute, I dashed across the ice to the prostrate figure, and to my surprise found that it was the Professor of Classics at my Alma Mater, a tall, thin man, who, despite the fact of having only one arm, and of being well into middle life, had become possessed with the ambition of becoming an expert skater.

When I came up to him he said to me in the same even tone that I was wont to hear in the class-room, directing me to translate some passage from Tacitus or Lucian: —

“Ah! Mr. Oxley, I am glad I succeeded in making you hear me. If I’m not mistaken I’ve just broken my leg, and I’m afraid I shall have to look to you for assistance.”

It was true enough. In attempting to achieve the figure eight his long thin legs had somehow tangled, and he had fallen heavily, with the result that the left one was broken just above the ankle.

Here now was a puzzling predicament. The short winter afternoon was drawing to a close, and darkness approached. The temperature was dropping toward zero, and for the Professor to remain long upon the ice meant serious consequences quite independent of his injury. Yet how was I, with no other helper than a young girl, to get the helpless man over the three miles of ice between us and the foot of the lake, where plenty of assistance could be obtained ?

The Professor could not suggest any method, and I was almost in despair when my eyes fell upon a small spruce tree not far away.

“If I could cut that tree down, do you think you could hold on to it, sir, and let me drag you over the ice that way ? ” I asked.

“I think it would be worth trying,” was the quiet response.

Attacking the spruce with my pocket knife, I after some difficulty succeeded in “felling ” it, if the term may be used of an affair no bigger than a Christmas tree. It was certainly an extraordinarily crude sort of litter, but it had to do.

My companion fortunately had two long straps wound about her ankles, although she used Acme spring skates, and, borrowing these, I bound the Professor’s legs as closely together as I could, making the sound one do duty as a splint for the broken one. Then, while he held on to the spruce tree, we joined our strength to drag it over the ice.

The task was not an easy one for us, and we had to make many pauses to rest and regain our breath, but — conceive what it meant for the Professor! Not only had he to put forth all his strength in order to maintain his hold upon the little tree, but, as may be readily understood, every movement added an acuter pang to the agony he was enduring, until it seemed a marvel that he could retain consciousness.

Yet not a murmur passed his firm-set lips. When he did speak it was in as steady a tone as if there were nothing abnormal in the situation, and he showed far more concern for us than he did for himself.

The long, weary pull down to the foot of the Second Lake certainly did exhaust us. We could not have continued it farther. But there we found willing helpers in plenty, and the traverse of the First Lake was far more quickly made.

A swift skater dashing on ahead had secured an express wagon on whose bottom a mattress, pillows, and rugs were arranged, and the Professor gently lifted in, and snugly wrapped up. In this comparatively comfortable fashion the remainder of the journey home was effected; and it is pleasant to be able to conclude the story with the statement that, despite all that he had to suffer, the Professor was on his feet again in a few months, and on his skates again the following winter.

One more curious experience connected with these glorious lakes was the playing of a game of cricket there one Saturday afternoon. I forget to whom the bright idea first occurred, but it was heartily adopted by sundry members of our club, and, having routed out our bats and stumps and balls, we journeyed thither, suffering a bombardment of chaff en route from our friends, who could not understand our carrying the apparatus for a midsummer sport in midwinter.

In the way of a farce the game proved a brilliant success. Swift bowling was of course out of the question, only “underhand sneakers” being practicable; and if, in endeavoring to make a ‘ boundary hit,’’the batter missed the ball altogether, he infallibly tumbled over onto the back of his head. But if he did chance to get it fair and full, it went skimming over the flawless ice to an indefinite distance, with the fielders in frantic chase.

It was grand fun, to be sure, but it was not cricket by any means. I have never heard of a parallel performance, although doubtless there have been such.

Nearly thirty years have slipped by since I took a year at the Harvard Law School. The erudite Langdell was then Dean, and associated with him were the stately ex-Chief-Justice Bradley, the genial Thayer, the fluent Gray, and the indefatigable Ames, who now, I think, presides over the greatly enlarged school.

My classmates would have it that I had brought a real Canadian winter along with me. Certain it was that such a season had hardly a parallel in the weather records. For nearly three months without a break the snow lay deep upon the hard-frozen ground, and the famous Mill-Dam road was thronged with fast-trotting horses, whose daily “brushes” were duly noted in the sporting columns of the Boston papers.

Fresh Pond became the Mecca of skaters from all sections of Cambridge, and its shores were lined with envying onlookers. James Russell Lowell, in bowler hat and navy blue “reefer,” would sometimes bend his afternoon constitutional in that direction; and Henry W. Longfellow, his beautiful snow-white beard showing finely upon the speckless broadcloth in which he delighted.

Having paid the price of patient practice and bruised body which any mastery of the intricacies of skating demands, it was in the way of a reward to find one’s self an authority upon and exponent of the graceful accomplishment; and there were many eager pupils of both sexes upon Fresh Pond while the skating lasted, who evinced more gratitude for good counsel than one is wont to receive.

An amusing incident of that winter, in which I innocently played a leading part, may be related. Encouraged by the continuance of the cold, the proprietor of a long-disused skating rink somewhere in North Cambridge announced its re-opening, and that a skater of renown, one Professor Palmer, would give an exhibition of fancy skating. With some difficulty I hunted up the place, and on arrival found a number of skaters upon the ice, going round and round in monotonous fashion, while the sides of the rink were lined with interested spectators.

Knowing no one with whom I could fraternize, I went to the centre of the rink, and proceeded to rehearse some of my “didoes,” as we were wont to call the more difficult figures in my school-boy days. (By the way can any expert in philology present a satisfactory derivation of that curious word ?) Presently I became aware of the fact that the other skaters were withdrawing from the ice, until I was left alone in my glory, as they had all become spectators of my solitary gyrations. Now this was rather embarrassing. I had not come to give an exhibition of my own skill, but to have a little practice, and incidently to get an idea of Professor Palmer’s quality. Consequently I felt moved to retire from the ice myself, whereupon I was accorded a hearty round of applause mingled with cries of “encore.”

Then the significance of it dawned upon me. I had, of course, been mistaken for the performer of the evening; and my feelings may be surmised when a few minutes later the gentleman himself appeared, and proved to be an unmistakable mulatto! Pleasing of countenance, and slight and shapely of figure withal, he glided upon the ice with an easy swing that would hardly have been expected in one of his color. He showed himself to be an excellent skater, too, for although his repertoire was somewhat limited, accuracy and grace distinguished all the feats he did attempt, and the spectators were well satisfied with his performance.

When by the decision of her Gracious Majesty, the best and greatest of British queens, the much-vexed question of the political capital for the Dominion was settled, and, in the famous phrase of Goldwin Smith, an obscure Arctic lumber town was converted into a political cockpit, it meant that the winter sports of Canada should flourish in the picturesque city which grew up beside the Ottawa River as they can do only where leisure is abundant and the sporting spirit is strong.

Ottawa’s winter climate leaves little to be desired by the most ardent devotee of the skate, the snowshoe, the ski, or the toboggan. The Frost King usually appears in force towards the end of November, and holds undisputed sway until St. Patrick’s day at least; sometimes lingering in the lap of spring as late as All Fool’s day. During this long period the ice, having once formed upon river, canal, and pond, remains as firm and sound as the city pavement, the snow deepens and hardens week by week, and the air is ever clear, bright, and dry, not heavy with humidity as it is prone to be in Halifax, so that a zero temperature is simply stimulating, while a drop to ten, twenty, or even thirty degrees below zero does not keep the children at home from school.

The first skating was usually upon the Rideau Canal, which affords a limited yet effective water-way between Ottawa and Kingston; and a curious feature of it was due to the practice of letting the water out of the canal after the ice had formed, the result being that the sloping sides at the broad reaches offered tempting “coasts” wherewith one might vary the straightforward speeding.

But of course the true sport came when the Grand River itself had taken on its winter breastplate, and invited the strenuous skaters to prove their strength and endurance by offering them a stretch of sixty miles straightaway to Grenville, whence the return might be made by train. I cannot pretend to have ever essayed the feat myself, but I did vastly enjoy going some part of the way. Not far below the city began a chain of islands divided from each other by narrow channels, and it was nothing short of entrancing to wind in and out of these, exploring their multitudinous coves, and halting, when weary, to start a fire in some cosy nook where the tall, thick trees afforded ample shelter from the north wind.

Recalling Goldwin Smith’s sarcastic designation of Ottawa as a lumber town (in connection with which one is reminded of the veteran joke that, despite her changed circumstances, “log-rolling” continues to be an important industry), one needs no explanation of the presence of sawdust in vast quantities. Until quite recently the great mills, whose countless saws bite their way through the huge pine logs night and day all summer long, were permitted to dump the sawdust into the river, where it tainted the water, harmed the fish, and choked the current.

One other consequence was the producing of explosions that were always startling, and sometimes dangerous to life. Concerning the precise rationale of these explosions there has always been a divergence of opinion. That they are due to gas created by the action of the water upon the sawdust is plain enough, but just why they occur when they do, and what sets them off are questions still awaiting a satisfactory answer.

They seem to be more frequent in winter than in summer, and when they do come off they burst up the ice, no matter how thick it may be, leaving a gaping hole which is a source of danger until it is once more frozen over. It was such a hole that not long ago was the scene of a heartrending tragedy. A merry party of skaters had gone so far down the river that the early dusk of the winter’s night closed in upon them ere they were half way homeward. They accordingly quickened their pace, and in essaying a short cut some of them encountered a hole caused by a recent explosion. Before warning could be given, two young ladies, one the daughter of a cabinet minister, the other of a supreme court judge, skated into the opening. A gallant young official plunged in to their rescue. He succeeded in rescuing one from her perilous plight, but all his noble efforts on behalf of the other were without avail, and, although he might easily have saved himself, and indeed was besought to do so by the girl, who maintained her self-possession marvelously, he preferred to go down to death with her.

If one may pass somewhat abruptly from grave to gay, the sport of skating as enjoyed at Rideau Hall, the residence of the governor-general, suggests itself. The representatives of royalty in this most loyal colony have as a rule shown a lively interest in her winter sports. The Marquis of Lorne and the Princess Louise delighted in skating and tobogganing, so, too, did the Earls of Dufferin, Lansdowne, Stanley, and Aberdeen, while Lord and Lady Minto are not to be outdone by any of their distinguished predecessors.

Throughout the long Ottawa winter, accordingly, Rideau Hall is the scene of successive parties at which the skating ponds and toboggan slides are thronged with gay guests. There are two of these ponds. One lies close beside the low, rambling structure which does duty as a viceregal palace, and is a very ordinary affair. But the other, set deep amongst the pines, is rich in picturesque qualities. A rustic chalet stands close to the edge, affording shelter to the band, and dressingroom for the skaters. The Saturday afternoon receptions are so enjoyable that few of those who are bidden fail to be present; but it is at the moonlight fêtes, of which two at least are given every winter, that the merrymaking reaches its height of brilliance and beauty.

The crisp atmosphere, through which moon and stars transmit their radiance with undimmed splendor, inspires the most languid to surprising liveliness; the al fresco character of the function sanctions an indulgence in variety and color of costume not elsewhere appropriate; the dashing lads and bewitching lassies appear to the best advantage; while the lines of blazing torches set into the snowbanks, the myriads of multi-hued lights gleaming amidst the trees, and the huge bonfires crowning the hillocks with their crackling, up-leaping flames, are all parts of a wonderful picture, hardly to be paralleled, and certainly not to be surpassed, the world over.

The gayety attains its climax with the grand march on the ice, when their Excellencies, having chosen partners of notable skill, head a long procession in a wild game of follow-my-leader, in which each participant carries a handful of Roman candles that discharge their coruscating contents in every direction, not always without damage to the habiliments of their bearers.

At Montreal, the next city of my sojourn in this world of change, there is but little outdoor skating save, of course, in the uncovered rinks, whose number is legion. By going up to Lachine, ten miles or so distant, one may occasionally get very good skating on the broad, still reaches of Lake St. Louis, but this means quite an expedition, which only a few fortunate folk can undertake.

Nor can Toronto, my present abidingplace, claim any advantage in this respect. There is the bay, of course, over whose broad bosom I have sped on skates and in ice-boats with keen enjoyment; and those two rivers of renown, the Don and the Humber, at the eastern and western extremities of the city respectively, are not to be despised — by the small boy, at all events. Yet outdoor skating can hardly be said to flourish here, while the many rinks are crowded with circling patrons every evening in the week throughout the winter.

Thus far I have confined my gossip to skating beneath the wide canopy of heaven, but it must not be forgotten that of recent years there has been far more skating under cover than in the open. The rink has become an established institution whose popularity shows no sign of diminishing.

My first rink was in dear old Halifax — a long, low structure of exceeding plainness, set in a corner of the Public Gardens, with so limited an ice space that a hundred people seemed to crowd it. Yet it was a veritable palace of delight to me, for there one could always have before him the inspiring example of adepts in anvils, brackets, locomotives, grapevines, and giant swings, who were not unwilling to explain to appreciative admirers how these feats might be performed. There, too, did the military band discourse delightful music on certain days each week, and thither trooped one’s friends of both sexes, with whom one could frolic or flirt through the winter afternoon.

Having set myself to master a number of the more difficult figures, I spent many an hour of hard work, and suffered many a bruise in the achievement of my ambition. But the game seemed to me well worth the candle; and my turn came to be teacher when officers of the army and navy, eager to make the most of their opportunities on this station, besought me to teach them things. And very interesting pupils they proved, too, for they went at the learning with true British pluck and resolution, taking their tumbles with imperturbable good humor, and caring nothing for dignity so long as they realized they were making progress.

In conjunction with one of them, I figured in a highly ludicrous performance that was unanimously encored, without, however, being repeated, for reasons which will make themselves clear. He was of such lofty stature that he might have been a captain of the Life Guards, and of this great height more than one half was legs. We had been practicing the wheelbarrow, an ungraceful sort of figure in which you squat down upon one foot with the other outstretched in front of you, and so skim along the ice, after having got a good headway.

Presently it occurred to my friend that he was adapted by nature to play the part of the Colossus of Rhodes, and he suggested that he stand astride while I do the wheelbarrow through the arch thus formed. The idea commended itself to me, and, while the other skaters gathered around to see the performance, he got into position, and I charged down at good speed, — of course we should have made some test of the thing first, but we had not, — and the result was that, instead of gliding through the open space, I collided with those long, thin legs, and carried them away from under the slender trunk they bore, bringing the latter down upon me with the force of a pile-driver, the breath being knocked out of my body, and the senses out of the officer’s head at the same time.

“It was the most glorious spill I ever saw in my life,” panted one of the spectators, when he had recovered sufficiently from his paroxysm of laughter to speak, “ and I’d gladly give five dollars to see it done over again.” But not even fifty dollars would have sufficed to tempt us to a repetition of the performance.

The playing of the band added immensely to the pleasure of the patrons of that shabby old rink. There are bands of all sorts, to be sure, but, taking them by and large, there are none so good as the regimental bands. There is a combination of strength, spirit, and precision in their work that is eminently satisfying.

These bands gave a regular programme each afternoon, and engagements were made for the numbers by the belles and beaux just as they would be in a ballroom. There was dancing, too, and very good dancing indeed. The Lancers and the waltz lent themselves readily to adaptation for the ice, and were executed with charming grace by a score of couples to whom the centre of the rink was given up, while the other skaters went round and round outside them.

It was an established custom that on Saturday afternoons the last band number should be that old-fashioned composition known as “Money-Musk,” which was begun in slow time, and then gradually quickened, the skaters keeping pace with the music until at last both were going at the top of their speed, and the sudden finale found both players and skaters completely out of breath. For this wild flurry partners who were strong upon their skates were, of course, most to be desired, and there was keen rivalry between the more expert ones, who strove to take the lead of each other as they whirled around the rink.

On one of these occasions I had an experience the recollection of which still gives me a shudder. At the very climax of the gyrations, when the speed had reached its height, and I was straining every nerve and muscle to swing my partner into the front rank, a young girl tripped and fell just before me, turning in such a way that she lay face upward on the ice. I was so hemmed in that I could not swerve to either side, while to go ahead meant to fall upon the girl with all the force of my great speed. There was no time to consider what might be best. Putting forth a supreme effort, I sprang into the air, and just cleared the girl, one of my skates shearing the end off her feather as it struck the ice again. But if I had landed a few inches short —!

I have skated in many rinks since those salad days: the spacious Rideau Rink at Ottawa, in which for the first time wooden “bents” of unprecedented size were used to carry the roof, proving so successful that they came into general use for such structures; the famous old Victoria Rink at Montreal, in which King Edward VII, when Prince of Wales, had taken part in a masquerade of unexampled splendor; and the vast Arena, also in Montreal, built especially for hockey-matches, and affording accommodation for six thousand spectators; but of none of them do I bear such happy and tender recollections as of the humble little Halifax rink, because there I — but that is quite another story.

Rink skating under the best of circumstances cannot be compared with outdoor skating when conditions are at all favorable, but it has this advantage — only in the rink can the accomplishment of fancy skating be successfully acquired. There were some very skillful skaters in Halifax and Ottawa. Naturally enough, however, the highest art was to be found in Montreal, where Louis Rubenstein reigned supreme for many years, as well he might, seeing that, after winning the Canadian and American championships until it became monotonous, he crossed the ocean to Europe, and there proved himself peerless even in the royal city of St. Petersburg. A man of medium height, and by no means slender build, his movements were characterized by wonderful ease and accuracy. He performed the most difficult evolutions with no more apparent effort than the simpler ones, and he could skate “to pattern” with a nice precision that filled the hearts of us clumsier ones with admiration and envy. He never met his superior, and retired from the field some years ago while still at the height of his fame and facility.

In speed skating, also, Canadians have been well to the fore, although it is long since they have been represented on the far side of the Atlantic. McCormick and Whelpley of New Brunswick were perhaps the first to establish reputations beyond their own bailiwick, and the line has been continued through such flyers as Dowd of Montreal, McCullogh of Winnipeg, and others, to the present day.

The most notable competitions have been held upon the immense outdoor rink of the Montreal Amateur Athletic Association, and I have watched with throbbing pulses the fleetest-footed of Europe confessing defeat to Johnnie Johnson or Johnnie Neilson from the Republic, or Jake McCullogh from the Dominion.

There is surely no test of human skill and strength more pleasing or exciting to watch than a race between skaters of renown. After the initial flurry, which lasts but a moment, they settle down into their long smooth swift stride with their heads bent well forward, and their hands clasped behind their backs, this position presenting the least possible resistance to the atmosphere. So they continue for round after round, varied by an occasional brush which sets one’s nerves a-tingle, until the bell rings for the final lap. Then the hands unclasp, the arms swing rapidly, the heads are bent still lower, the legs change their steady motion into short quick clattering strokes, and, while the spectators make the welkin ring with their cries of encouragement, the contestants swing into the home stretch, and expend their last remains of breath and brawn in one supreme effort to breast the tape.

It was my good fortune to be present at the historic holding of the World’s Championships in Montreal in the year 1897, when, under ideal conditions, — to wit, mercury about ten above zero, subdued sunshine, flawless ice, and not a breath of wind, — new records were established for many of the distances: Naess from Europe doing the 500 metres (547 yards) in 48 4/5 seconds; J. K. McCullogh of Canada the 1500 metres (1625 yards) in 2 minutes 40 4/5 seconds, and also the 5000 metres (3 miles 188 yards) in 9 minutes and 26 2/5 seconds. At the same meeting Johnnie Neilson of Minnesota set the world’s record for the even mile at 2 minutes and 41 seconds, from which it is clear that, wonderful as the skater’s speed may seem to one watching him skim over the icy track, he is yet a long way slower than the trotting horse, and cannot hope ever to close the gap that separates them.

The most notable feature of the recent history of ice sport has been the development of the game of hockey, with every stage of which I have been familiar, although my own experience as a player was limited to a single season.

If handsome, stalwart, speedy Jack Hutton, one of the heroes of my schoolboy days, could revisit the glimpses of the moon on a night when the two best hockey teams in Canada are battling for the Stanley Cup, the emblem of the world’s amateur championship, how filled with admiration and wonder he would be at the fruit the merry old game of “ shinny,” in which he was so facile princeps, has borne!

That human ingenuity will ever be equal to inventing a game surpassing hockey in intensity of excitement for both players and spectators one cannot readily conceive. The comparatively confined area within which it is played, the solid mass of spectators rising bank above bank from the edge of the ice to the roof of the building, the waves of sound that wax and wane with the variations and vicissitudes of the play, the brightly uniformed players darting hither and thither over the snow-white ice under the glare of the electric lights, and the marvelous rapidity with which the puck — a small solid disc of black rubber — goes from end to end of the rink at the bidding of the hockey sticks, carry one to the very highest point of nerve tension.

Brilliant as football and lacrosse may be, they are but deliberate, decorous proceedings in comparison with hockey. To witness a hockey-player pick the puck out of a scrimmage in dangerous proximity to his own goal, and then take it down the whole length of the rink, evading every opponent by dexterous dodges, leaping over sticks thrust in his way, caroming the rubber against the boards, and catching it on the rebound, and finally, withadeft “lift,” sending it flying through the air past the goal keeper into the net, while the vast crowd, springing to their feet, bellow their joy like veritable bulls of Bashan, — this is to taste to the very fullest the rare delight of a supremely thrilling experience.

Hockey bids fair to contest with lacrosse the claim to be the national game of Canada. There certainly are more of her sons playing the former than the latter game at present, and the interest is broadening year by year. One result of this hockey fever which can only be regretted is that it has given the death-blow to fancy skating. In order to play hockey long flat-bladed skates are required, but for fancy skating short rounded skates must be used. As the majority of young men do not care to go to the expense of having two pairs of skates, they naturally give hockey skates the preference, and so the graceful art of fancy skating is rapidly becoming obsolete.

Here endeth my gossip, not through exhaustion of the subject, but through fear of wearying the gentle reader with whom I have in my own poor way sought to share the joys of many years’pleasuring upon the wings of steel.