THE FIRE
Now, Fortune, do thy worst! For many years,
Thou, with relentless and unsparing hand,
Hast sternly pour'd on our devoted heads
The poison'd phials of thy fiercest wrath.
The early part of the winter of 1837, a year never to be forgotten
in the annals of Canadian history, was very severe. During the
month of February, the thermometer often ranged from eighteen to
twenty-seven degrees below zero. Speaking of the coldness of one
particular day, a genuine brother Jonathan remarked, with charming
simplicity, that it was thirty degrees below zero that morning, and
it would have been much colder if the thermometer had been longer.
The morning of the seventh was so intensely cold that everything
liquid froze in the house. The wood that had been drawn for the
fire was green, and it ignited too slowly to satisfy the shivering
impatience of women and children; I vented mine in audibly grumbling
over the wretched fire, at which I in vain endeavoured to thaw
frozen bread, and to dress crying children.
It so happened that an old friend, the maiden lady before alluded
to, had been staying with us for a few days. She had left us for
a visit to my sister, and as some relatives of hers were about to
return to Britain by the way of New York, and had offered to convey
letters to friends at home, I had been busy all the day before
preparing a packet for England.
It was my intention to walk to my sister's with this packet,
directly the important affair of breakfast had been discussed;
but the extreme cold of the morning had occasioned such delay
that it was late before the breakfast-things were cleared away.
After dressing, I found the air so keen that I could not venture
out without some risk to my nose, and my husband kindly volunteered
to go in my stead.
I had hired a young Irish girl the day before. Her friends were only
just located in our vicinity, and she had never seen a stove until
she came to our house. After Moodie left, I suffered the fire to die
away in the Franklin stove in the parlour, and went into the kitchen
to prepare bread for the oven.
The girl, who was a good-natured creature, had heard me complain
bitterly of the cold, and the impossibility of getting the green
wood to burn, and she thought that she would see if she could not
make a good fire for me and the children, against my work was done.
Without saying one word about her intention, she slipped out through
a door that opened from the parlour into the garden, ran round to
the wood-yard, filled her lap with cedar chips, and, not knowing
the nature of the stove, filled it entirely with the light wood.
Before I had the least idea of my danger, I was aroused from the
completion of my task by the crackling and roaring of a large fire,
and a suffocating smell of burning soot. I looked up at the kitchen
cooking-stove. All was right there. I knew I had left no fire in the
parlour stove; but not being able to account for the smoke and the
smell of buring, I opened the door, and to my dismay found the stove
red hot, from the front plate to the topmost pipe that let out the
smoke through the roof.
My first impulse was to plunge a blanket, snatched from the
servant's bed, which stood in the kitchen, into cold water. This I
thrust into the stove, and upon it threw cold water, until all was
cool below. I then ran up to the loft, and by exhausting all the
water in the house, even to that contained in the boilers upon the
fire, contrived to cool down the pipes which passed through the
loft. I then sent the girl out of doors to look at the roof, which,
as a very deep fall of snow had taken place the day before, I hoped
would be completely covered, and safe from all danger of fire.
She quickly returned, stamping and tearing her hair, and making a
variety of uncouth outcries, from which I gathered that the roof
was in flames.
This was terrible news, with my husband absent, no man in the house,
and a mile and a quarter from any other habitation. I ran out to
ascertain the extent of the misfortune, and found a large fire
burning in the roof between the two stove pipes. The heat of the
fires had melted off all the snow, and a spark from the burning pipe
had already ignited the shingles. A ladder, which for several months
had stood against the house, had been moved two days before to the
barn, which was at the top of the hill, near the road; there was no
reaching the fire through that source. I got out the dining-table,
and tried to throw water upon the roof by standing on a chair placed
upon it, but I only expended the little water that remained in the
boiler, without reaching the fire. The girl still continued weeping
and lamenting.
“You must go for help,” I said. “Run as fast as you can to my
sister's, and fetch your master.”
“And lave you, ma'arm, and the childher alone wid the burnin'
house?”
“Yes, yes! Don't stay one moment.”
“I have no shoes, ma'arm, and the snow is so deep.”
“Put on your master's boots; make haste, or we shall be lost before
help comes.”
The girl put on the boots and started, shrieking “Fire!” the whole
way. This was utterly useless, and only impeded her progress by
exhausting her strength. After she had vanished from the head of
the clearing into the wood, and I was left quite alone, with the
house burning over my head, I paused one moment to reflect what
had best be done.
The house was built of cedar logs; in all probability it would be
consumed before any help could arrive. There was a brisk breeze
blowing up from the frozen lake, and the thermometer stood at
eighteen degrees below zero. We were placed between the two extremes
of heat and cold, and there was as much danger to be apprehended
from the one as the other. In the bewilderment of the moment, the
direful extent of the calamity never struck me; we wanted but this
to put the finishing stroke to our misfortunes, to be thrown naked,
houseless, and penniless, upon the world. “What shall I save first?”
was the thought just then uppermost in my mind. Bedding and clothing
appeared the most essentially necessary, and without another
moment's pause, I set to work with a right good will to drag all
that I could from my burning home.
While little Agnes, Dunbar, and baby Donald filled the air with
their cries, Katie, as if fully conscious of the importance of
exertion, assisted me in carrying out sheets and blankets, and
dragging trunks and boxes some way up the hill, to be out of the
way of the burning brands when the roof should fall in.
How many anxious looks I gave to the head of the clearing as the
fire increased, and the large pieces of burning pine began to fall
through the boarded ceiling, about the lower rooms where we were at
work. The children I had kept under a large dresser in the kitchen,
but it now appeared absolutely necessary to remove them to a place
of safety. To expose the young, tender things to the direful cold
was almost as bad as leaving them to the mercy of the fire. At last
I hit upon a plan to keep them from freezing. I emptied all the
clothes out of a large, deep chest of drawers, and dragged the empty
drawers up the hill; these I lined with blankets, and placed a child
in each drawer, covering it well over with the bedding, giving to
little Agnes the charge of the baby to hold between her knees, and
keep well covered until help should arrive. Ah, how long it seemed
coming!
The roof was now burning like a brush-heap, and, unconsciously, the
child and I were working under a shelf, upon which were deposited
several pounds of gunpowder which had been procured for blasting a
well, as all our water had to be brought up hill from the lake. This
gunpowder was in a stone jar, secured by a paper stopper; the shelf
upon which it stood was on fire, but it was utterly forgotten by me
at the time; and even afterwards, when my husband was working on the
burning loft over it.
I found that I should not be able to take many more trips for goods.
As I passed out of the parlour for the last time, Katie looked up at
her father's flute, which was suspended upon two brackets, and
said--
“Oh, dear mamma! do save papa's flute; he will be so sorry to
lose it.”
God bless the dear child for the thought! the flute was saved; and,
as I succeeded in dragging out a heavy chest of cloths, and looked
up once more despairingly to the road, I saw a man running at full
speed. It was my husband. Help was at hand, and my heart uttered a
deep thanksgiving as another and another figure came upon the scene.
I had not felt the intense cold, although without cap, or bonnet,
or shawl; with my hands bare and exposed to the bitter, biting air.
The intense excitement, the anxiety to save all I could, had so
totally diverted my thoughts from myself, that I had felt nothing
of the danger to which I had been exposed; but now that help was
near, my knees trembled under me, I felt giddy and faint, and dark
shadows seemed dancing before my eyes.
The moment my husband and brother-in-law entered the house, the
latter exclaimed,
“Moodie, the house is gone; save what you can of your winter stores
and furniture.”
Moodie thought differently. Prompt and energetic in danger, and
possessing admirable presence of mind and coolness when others yield
to agitation and despair, he sprang upon the burning loft and called
for water. Alas, there was none!
“Snow, snow; hand me up pailsful of snow!”
Oh! it was bitter work filling those pails with frozen snow; but
Mr. T---- and I worked at it as fast as we were able.
The violence of the fire was greatly checked by covering the boards
of the loft with this snow. More help had now arrived. Young B----
and S---- had brought the ladder down with them from the barn, and
were already cutting away the burning roof, and flinging the flaming
brands into the deep snow.
“Mrs. Moodie, have you any pickled meat?”
“We have just killed one of our cows, and salted it for winter
stores.”
“Well, then, fling the beef into the snow, and let us have the
brine.”
This was an admirable plan. Wherever the brine wetted the shingles,
the fire turned from it, and concentrated into one spot.
But I had not time to watch the brave workers on the roof. I was
fast yielding to the effects of over-excitement and fatigue, when my
brother's team dashed down the clearing, bringing my excellent old
friend, Miss B----, and the servant-girl.
My brother sprang out, carried me back into the house, and wrapped
me up in one of the large blankets scattered about. In a few minutes
I was seated with the dear children in the sleigh, and on the way to
a place of warmth and safety.
Katie alone suffered from the intense cold. The dear little
creature's feet were severely frozen, but were fortunately restored
by her uncle discovering the fact before she approached the fire,
and rubbing them well with snow.
In the meanwhile, the friends we had left so actively employed at
the house succeeded in getting the fire under before it had
destroyed the walls. The only accident that occurred was to a poor
dog, that Moodie had called Snarleyowe. He was struck by a burning
brand thrown from the house, and crept under the barn and died.
Beyond the damage done to the building, the loss of our potatoes and
two sacks of flour, we had escaped in a manner almost miraculous.
This fact shows how much can be done by persons working in union,
without bustle and confusion, or running in each other's way. Here
were six men, who, without the aid of water, succeeded in saving a
building, which, at first sight, almost all of them had deemed past
hope. In after years, when entirely burnt out in a disastrous fire
that consumed almost all we were worth in the world, some four
hundred persons were present, with a fire-engine to second their
endeavours, yet all was lost. Every person seemed in the way; and
though the fire was discovered immediately after it took place,
nothing was done beyond saving some of the furniture.
Our party was too large to be billetted upon one family. Mrs. T----
took compassion upon Moodie, myself, and the baby, while their uncle
received the three children to his hospitable home.
It was some weeks before Moodie succeeded in repairing the roof,
the intense cold preventing any one from working in such an exposed
situation.
The news of our fire travelled far and wide. I was reported to have
done prodigies, and to have saved the greater part of our household
goods before help arrived. Reduced to plain prose, these prodigies
shrink into the simple, and by no means marvellous fact, that
during the excitement I dragged out chests which, under ordinary
circumstances, I could not have moved; and that I was unconscious,
both of the cold and the danger to which I was exposed while working
under a burning roof, which, had it fallen, would have buried both
the children and myself under its ruins.
These circumstances appeared far more alarming, as all real danger
does, after they were past. The fright and over-exertion gave my
health a shock from which I did not recover for several months, and
made me so fearful of fire, that from that hour it haunts me like a
nightmare. Let the night be ever so serene, all stoves must be shut
up, and the hot embers covered with ashes, before I dare retire to
rest; and the sight of a burning edifice, so common a spectacle in
large towns in this country, makes me really ill. This feeling was
greatly increased after a second fire, when, for some torturing
minutes, a lovely boy, since drowned, was supposed to have
perished in the burning house.
Our present fire led to a new train of circumstances, for it was
the means of introducing to Moodie a young Irish gentleman, who was
staying at my brother's house. John E---- was one of the best and
gentlest of human beings. His father, a captain in the army, had
died while his family were quite young, and had left his widow with
scarcely any means beyond the pension she received at her husband's
death, to bring up and educate a family of five children. A
handsome, showy woman, Mrs. E---- soon married again; and the poor
lads were thrown upon the world. The eldest, who had been educated
for the Church, first came to Canada in the hope of getting some
professorship in the college, or of opening a classical school.
He was a handsome, gentlemanly, well-educated young man, but
constitutionally indolent--a natural defect which seemed common to
all the males of the family, and which was sufficiently indicated
by their soft, silky, fair hair and milky complexions. R---- had
the good sense to perceive that Canada was not the country for him.
He spent a week under our roof, and we were much pleased with his
elegant tastes and pursuits; but my husband strongly advised him to
try and get a situation as a tutor in some family at home. This he
afterwards obtained. He became tutor and travelling companion to
the young Lord M----, and has since got an excellent living.
John, who had followed his brother to Canada without the means of
transporting himself back again, was forced to remain, and was
working with Mr. S---- for his board. He proposed to Moodie working
his farm upon shares; and as we were unable to hire a man, Moodie
gladly closed with his offer; and, during the time he remained with
us, we had every reason to be pleased with the arrangement.
It was always a humiliating feeling to our proud minds, that
hirelings should witness our dreadful struggle with poverty, and the
strange shifts we were forced to make in order to obtain even food.
But John E---- had known and experienced all that we had suffered,
in his own person, and was willing to share our home with all its
privations. Warm-hearted, sincere, and truly affectionate--a
gentleman in word, thought, and deed--we found his society and
cheerful help a great comfort. Our odd meals became a subject of
merriment, and the peppermint and sage tea drank with a better
flavour when we had one who sympathised in all our trials, and
shared all our toils, to partake of it with us.
The whole family soon became attached to our young friend; and
after the work of the day was over, greatly we enjoyed an hour's
fishing on the lake. John E---- said that we had no right to murmur,
as long as we had health, a happy home, and plenty of fresh fish,
milk, and potatoes. Early in May, we received an old Irishwoman
into our service, who for four years proved a most faithful and
industrious creature. And what with John E---- to assist my husband
on the farm, and old Jenny to help me to nurse the children, and
manage the house, our affairs, if they were no better in a
pecuniary point of view, at least presented a more pleasing aspect
at home. We were always cheerful, and sometimes contented and even
happy.
How great was the contrast between the character of our new inmate
and that of Mr. Malcolm! The sufferings of the past year had been
greatly increased by the intolerable nuisance of his company, while
many additional debts had been contracted in order to obtain
luxuries for him which we never dreamed of purchasing for ourselves.
Instead of increasing my domestic toils, John did all in his power
to lessen them; and it always grieved him to see me iron a shirt, or
wash the least article of clothing for him. “You have too much to do
already; I cannot bear to give you the least additional work,” he
would say. And he generally expressed the greatest satisfaction at
my method of managing the house, and preparing our simple fare. The
little ones he treated with the most affectionate kindness, and
gathered the whole flock about his knees the moment he came in to
his meals.
On a wet day, when no work could be done abroad, Moodie took up his
flute, or read aloud to us, while John and I sat down to work. The
young emigrant, early cast upon the world and his own resources, was
an excellent hand at the needle. He would make or mend a shirt with
the greatest precision and neatness, and cut out and manufacture his
canvas trousers and loose summer-coats with as much adroitness as
the most experienced tailor; darn his socks, and mend his boots and
shoes, and often volunteered to assist me in knitting the coarse
yarn of the country into socks for the children, while he made them
moccasins from the dressed deer-skins that we obtained from the
Indians.
Scrupulously neat and clean in his person, the only thing which
seemed to ruffle his calm temper was the dirty work of logging;
he hated to come in from the field with his person and clothes
begrimed with charcoal and smoke. Old Jenny used to laugh at him
for not being able to eat his meals without first washing his
hands and face.
“Och! my dear heart, yer too particular intirely; we've no time
in the woods to be clane.” She would say to him, in answer to his
request for soap and a towel, “An' is it soap yer a-wantin'? I
tell yer that that same is not to the fore; bating the throuble
of makin', it's little soap that the misthress can get to wash
the clothes for us and the childher, widout yer wastin' it in makin'
yer purty skin as white as a leddy's. Do, darlint, go down to the
lake and wash there; that basin is big enough, any how.” And John
would laugh, and go down to the lake to wash, in order to appease
the wrath of the old woman. John had a great dislike to cats, and
even regarded with an evil eye our old pet cat, Peppermint, who had
taken a great fancy to share his bed and board.
“If I tolerate our own cat,” he would say, “I will not put up with
such a nuisance as your friend Emilia sends us in the shape of her
ugly Tom. Why, where in the world do you think I found that beast
sleeping last night?”
I expressed my ignorance.
“In our potato-pot. Now, you will agree with me that potatoes
dressed with cat's hair is not a very nice dish. The next time
I catch Master Tom in the potato-pot, I will kill him.”
“John, you are not in earnest. Mrs. ---- would never forgive any
injury done to Tom, who is a great favourite.”
“Let her keep him at home, then. Think of the brute coming a mile
through the woods to steal from us all he can find, and then
sleeping off the effects of his depredations in the potato-pot.”
I could not help laughing, but I begged John by no means to annoy
Emilia by hurting her cat.
The next day, while sitting in the parlour at work, I heard a
dreadful squall, and rushed to the rescue. John was standing, with a
flushed cheek, grasping a large stick in his hand, and Tom was lying
dead at his feet.
“Oh, the poor cat!”
“Yes, I have killed him; but I am sorry for it now. What will
Mrs. ---- say?”
“She must not know it. I have told you the story of the pig that
Jacob killed. You had better bury it with the pig.”
John was really sorry for having yielded, in a fit of passion, to do
so cruel a thing; yet a few days after he got into a fresh scrape
with Mrs. ----'s animals.
The hens were laying, up at the barn. John was very fond of fresh
eggs, but some strange dog came daily and sucked the eggs. John had
vowed to kill the first dog he found in the act. Mr. ---- had a very
fine bull-dog, which he valued very highly; but with Emilia, Chowder
was an especial favourite. Bitterly had she bemoaned the fate of
Tom, and many were the inquiries she made of us as to his sudden
disappearance.
One afternoon John ran into the room. “My dear Mrs. Moodie, what is
Mrs. ----'s dog like?”
“A large bull-dog, brindled black and white.”
“Then, by Jove, I've shot him!”
“John, John! you mean me to quarrel in earnest with my friend.
How could you do it?”
“Why, how the deuce should I know her dog from another? I caught the
big thief in the very act of devouring the eggs from under your
sitting hen, and I shot him dead without another thought. But I will
bury him, and she will never find it out a bit more than she did who
killed the cat.”
Some time after this, Emilia returned from a visit at P----. The
first thing she told me was the loss of the dog. She was so vexed at
it, she had had him advertised, offering a reward for his recovery.
I, of course, was called upon to sympathise with her, which I did
with a very bad grace. “I did not like the beast,” I said; “he was
cross and fierce, and I was afraid to go up to her house while he
was there.”
“Yes; but to lose him so. It is so provoking; and him such a
valuable animal. I could not tell how deeply she felt the loss.
She would give four dollars to find out who had stolen him.”
How near she came to making the grand discovery the sequel will
show.
Instead of burying him with the murdered pig and cat, John had
scratched a shallow grave in the garden, and concealed the dead
brute.
After tea, Emilia requested to look at the garden; and I, perfectly
unconscious that it contained the remains of the murdered Chowder,
led the way. Mrs. ---- whilst gathering a handful of fine green-peas,
suddenly stooped, and looking earnestly at the ground, called to me--
“Come here, Susanna, and tell me what has been buried here. It looks
like the tail of a dog.”
She might have added, “of my dog.” Murder, it seems, will out.
By some strange chance, the grave that covered the mortal remains
of Chowder had been disturbed, and the black tail of the dog was
sticking out.
“What can it be?” said I, with an air of perfect innocence. “Shall I
call Jenny, and dig it up?”
“Oh, no, my dear; it has a shocking smell, but it does look very
much like Chowder's tail.”
“Impossible! How could it come among my peas?”
“True. Besides, I saw Chowder, with my own eyes, yesterday,
following a team; and George C---- hopes to recover him for me.”
“Indeed! I am glad to hear it. How these mosquitoes sting. Shall we
go back to the house?”
While we returned to the house, John, who had overheard the whole
conversation, hastily disinterred the body of Chowder, and placed
him in the same mysterious grave with Tom and the pig.
Moodie and his friend finished logging-up the eight acres which the
former had cleared the previous winter; besides putting in a crop of
peas and potatoes, and an acre of Indian corn, reserving the fallow
for fall wheat, while we had the promise of a splendid crop of hay
off the sixteen acres that had been cleared in 1834. We were all in
high spirits and everything promised fair, until a very trifling
circumstance again occasioned us much anxiety and trouble, and was
the cause of our losing most of our crop.
Moodie was asked to attend a bee, which was called to construct a
corduroy-bridge over a very bad piece of road. He and J. E---- were
obliged to go that morning with wheat to the mill, but Moodie lent
his yoke of oxen for the work.
The driver selected for them at the bee was the brutal M----y, a man
noted for his ill-treatment of cattle, especially if the animals did
not belong to him. He gave one of the oxen such a severe blow over
the loins with a handspike that the creature came home perfectly
disabled, just as we wanted his services in the hay-field and
harvest.
Moodie had no money to purchase, or even to hire a mate for the
other ox; but he and John hoped that by careful attendance upon the
injured animal he might be restored to health in a few days. They
conveyed him to a deserted clearing, a short distance from the farm,
where he would be safe from injury from the rest of the cattle; and
early every morning we went in the canoe to carry poor Duke a warm
mash, and to watch the progress of his recovery.
Ah, ye who revel in this world's wealth, how little can you realise
the importance which we, in our poverty, attached to the life of
this valuable animal! Yes, it even became the subject of prayer, for
the bread for ourselves and our little ones depended greatly upon
his recovery. We were doomed to disappointment. After nursing him
with the greatest attention and care for some weeks, the animal grew
daily worse, and suffered such intense agony, as he lay groaning
upon the ground, unable to rise, that John shot him to put him out
of pain.
Here, then, were we left without oxen to draw in our hay, or secure
our other crops. A neighbour, who had an odd ox, kindly lent us the
use of him, when he was not employed on his own farm; and John and
Moodie gave their own work for the occasional loan of a yoke of
oxen for a day. But with all these drawbacks, and in spite of the
assistance of old Jenny and myself in the field, a great deal of the
produce was damaged before it could be secured. The whole summer we
had to labour under this disadvantage. Our neighbours were all too
busy to give us any help, and their own teams were employed in
saving their crops. Fortunately, the few acres of wheat we had to
reap were close to the barn, and we carried the sheaves thither by
hand; old Jenny proving an invaluable help, both in the harvest and
hay-field.
Still, with all these misfortunes, Providence watched over us in a
signal manner. We were never left entirely without food. Like the
widow's cruise of oil, our means, though small, were never suffered
to cease entirely. We had been for some days without meat, when
Moodie came running in for his gun. A great she-bear was in the
wheat-field at the edge of the wood, very busily employed in helping
to harvest the crop. There was but one bullet, and a charge or two
of buckshot, in the house; but Moodie started to the wood with the
single bullet in his gun, followed by a little terrier dog that
belonged to John E----. Old Jenny was busy at the wash-tub, but the
moment she saw her master running up the clearing, and knew the
cause, she left her work, and snatching up the carving-knife, ran
after him, that in case the bear should have the best of the fight,
she would be there to help “the masther.” Finding her shoes
incommode her, she flung them off, in order to run faster. A few
minutes after, came the report of the gun, and I heard Moodie halloo
to E----, who was cutting stakes for a fence in the wood. I hardly
thought it possible that he could have killed the bear, but I ran to
the door to listen. The children were all excitement, which the
sight of the black monster, borne down the clearing upon two poles,
increased to the wildest demonstrations of joy. Moodie and John were
carrying the prize, and old Jenny, brandishing her carving-knife,
followed in the rear.
The rest of the evening was spent in skinning, and cutting up,
and salting the ugly creature, whose flesh filled a barrel with
excellent meat, in flavour resembling beef, while the short grain
and juicy nature of the flesh gave to it the tenderness of mutton.
This was quite a Godsend, and lasted us until we were able to kill
two large, fat hogs, in the fall.
A few nights after, Moodie and I encountered the mate of Mrs. Bruin,
while returning from a visit to Emilia, in the very depth of the
wood.
We had been invited to meet our friend's father and mother, who had
come up on a short visit to the woods; and the evening passed away
so pleasantly that it was near midnight before the little party of
friends separated. The moon was down. The wood, through which we had
to return, was very dark; the ground being low and swampy, and the
trees thick and tall. There was, in particular, one very ugly spot,
where a small creek crossed the road. This creek could only be
passed by foot-passengers scrambling over a fallen tree, which,
in a dark night, was not very easy to find.
I begged a torch of Mr. ----; but no torch could be found. Emilia
laughed at my fears; still, knowing what a coward I was in the bush
of a night, she found up about an inch of candle, which was all that
remained from the evening's entertainment. This she put into an old
lanthorn.
“It will not last you long; but it will carry you over the creek.”
This was something gained, and off we set.
It was so dark in the bush, that our dim candle looked like a
solitary red spark in the intense surrounding darkness, and
scarcely served to show us the path.
We went chatting along, talking over the news of the evening,
Hector running on before us, when I saw a pair of eyes glare upon
us from the edge of the swamp, with the green, bright light emitted
by the eyes of a cat.
“Did you see those terrible eyes, Moodie?” and I clung, trembling,
to his arm.
“What eyes?” said he, feigning ignorance. “It's too dark to see
anything. The light is nearly gone, and, if you don't quicken your
pace, and cross the tree before it goes out, you will, perhaps,
get your feet wet by falling into the creek.”
“Good Heavens! I saw them again; and do just look at the dog.”
Hector stopped suddenly, and, stretching himself along the ground,
his nose resting between his forepaws, began to whine and tremble.
Presently he ran back to us, and crept under our feet. The cracking
of branches, and the heavy tread of some large animal, sounded close
beside us.
Moodie turned the open lanthorn in the direction from whence the
sounds came, and shouted as loud as he could, at the same time
endeavouring to urge forward the fear-stricken dog, whose cowardice
was only equalled by my own.
Just at that critical moment the wick of the candle flickered a
moment in the socket, and expired. We were left, in perfect
darkness, alone with the bear--for such we supposed the animal
to be.
My heart beat audibly; a cold perspiration was streaming down my
face, but I neither shrieked nor attempted to run. I don't know how
Moodie got me over the creek. One of my feet slipped into the water,
but, expecting, as I did every moment, to be devoured by master
Bruin, that was a thing of no consequence. My husband was laughing
at my fears, and every now and then he turned towards our companion,
who continued following us at no great distance, and gave him an
encouraging shout. Glad enough was I when I saw the gleam of the
light from our little cabin window shine out among the trees; and,
the moment I got within the clearing I ran, without stopping until
I was safely within the house. John was sitting up for us, nursing
Donald. He listened with great interest to our adventure with the
bear, and thought that Bruin was very good to let us escape without
one affectionate hug.
“Perhaps it would have been otherwise had he known, Moodie, that you
had not only killed his good lady, but were dining sumptuously off
her carcass every day.”
The bear was determined to have something in return for the loss of
his wife. Several nights after this, our slumbers were disturbed,
about midnight, by an awful yell, and old Jenny shook violently at
our chamber door.
“Masther, masther, dear! Get up wid you this moment, or the bear
will desthroy the cattle intirely.”
Half asleep, Moodie sprang from his bed, seized his gun, and ran
out. I threw my large cloak round me, struck a light, and followed
him to the door. The moment the latter was unclosed, some calves
that we were rearing rushed into the kitchen, closely followed
by the larger beasts, who came bellowing headlong down the hill,
pursued by the bear.
It was a laughable scene, as shown by that paltry tallow-candle.
Moodie, in his night-shirt, taking aim at something in the darkness,
surrounded by the terrified animals; old Jenny, with a large knife
in her hand, holding on to the white skirts of her master's garment,
making outcry loud enough to frighten away all the wild beasts in
the bush--herself almost in a state of nudity.
“Och, masther, dear! don't timpt the ill-conditioned crathur wid
charging too near; think of the wife and the childher. Let me come
at the rampaging baste, an' I'll stick the knife into the heart of
him.”
Moodie fired. The bear retreated up the clearing, with a low growl.
Moodie and Jenny pursued him some way, but it was too dark to
discern any object at a distance. I, for my part, stood at the open
door, laughing until the tears ran down my cheeks, at the glaring
eyes of the oxen, their ears erect, and their tails carried
gracefully on a level with their backs, as they stared at me and the
light, in blank astonishment. The noise of the gun had just roused
John E---- from his slumbers. He was no less amused than myself,
until he saw that a fine yearling heifer was bleeding, and found,
upon examination, that the poor animal, having been in the claws
of the bear, was dangerously, if not mortally hurt.
“I hope,” he cried, “that the brute has not touched my foal!”
I pointed to the black face of the filly peeping over the back
of an elderly cow.
“You see, John, that Bruin preferred veal; there's your 'horsey,'
as Dunbar calls her, safe, and laughing at you.”
Moodie and Jenny now returned from the pursuit of the bear. E----
fastened all the cattle into the back yard, close to the house. By
daylight he and Moodie had started in chase of Bruin, whom they
tracked by his blood some way into the bush; but here he entirely
escaped their search.
THE BEARS OF CANADA
Oh! _bear_ me from this savage land of _bears_,
For 'tis indeed _unbearable_ to me:
I'd rather cope with vilest worldly cares,
Or writhe with cruel sickness of the sea.
Oh! _bear_ me to my own _bear_ land of hills,[1]
Where I'd be sure brave _bear_-legg'd lads to see--
_bear_ cakes, _bear_ rocks, and whiskey stills,
And _bear_-legg'd nymphs, to smile once more on me.
I'd _bear_ the heat, I'd _bear_ the freezing air
Of equatorial realm or Arctic sea,
I'd sit all _bear_ at night, and watch the Northern _bear_,
And bless my soul that he was far from me.
I'd _bear_ the poor-rates, tithes, and all the ills
John Bull must _bear_, (who takes them all, poor sinner!
As patients do, when forced to gulp down pills,
And water-gruel drink in lieu of dinner).
I'd _bear_ the _bareness_ of all barren lands
Before I'd _bear_ the _bearishness_ of this;
_bear_ head, _bear_ feet, _bear_ legs, _bear_ hands,
_bear_ everything, but want of social bliss.
But should I die in this drear land of _bears_,
Oh! ship me off, my friends, discharge the sable wearers,
For if you don't, in spite of priests and prayers,
The _bear_ will come, and eat up corpse and _bearers_.
J.W.D.M.
[1] The Orkney Isles.