ADIEU TO THE WOODS
Adieu!--adieu!--when quivering lips refuse
The bitter pangs of parting to declare;
And the full bosom feels that it must lose
Friends who were wont its inmost thoughts to share;
When hands are tightly clasp'd, 'mid struggling sighs
And streaming tears, those whisper'd accents rise,
Leaving to God the objects of our care
In that short, simple, comprehensive prayer--
_Adieu!_
Never did eager British children look for the first violets and
primroses of spring with more impatience than my baby boys and girls
watched, day after day, for the first snow-flakes that were to form
the road to convey them to their absent father.
“Winter never means to come this year. It will never snow again?”
exclaimed my eldest boy, turning from the window on Christmas Day,
with the most rueful aspect that ever greeted the broad, gay beams
of the glorious sun. It was like a spring day. The little lake in
front of the window glittered like a mirror of silver, set in its
dark frame of pine woods.
I, too, was wearying for the snow, and was tempted to think that it
did not come as early as usual, in order to disappoint us. But I
kept this to myself, and comforted the expecting child with the
oft-repeated assertion that it would certainly snow upon the morrow.
But the morrow came and passed away, and many other morrows, and the
same mild, open weather prevailed. The last night of the old year
was ushered in with furious storms of wind and snow; the rafters of
our log cabin shook beneath the violence of the gale, which swept
up from the lake like a lion roaring for its prey, driving the
snow-flakes through every open crevice, of which there were not a
few, and powdering the floor until it rivalled in whiteness the
ground without.
“Oh, what a dreadful night!” we cried, as we huddled, shivering,
around the old broken stove. “A person abroad in the woods to-night
would be frozen. Flesh and blood could not long stand this cutting
wind.”
“It reminds me of the commencement of a laughable extempore ditty,”
said I to my young friend, A. C----, who was staying with me,
“composed by my husband, during the first very cold night we spent
in Canada”--
Oh, the cold of Canada nobody knows,
The fire burns our shoes without warming our toes;
Oh, dear, what shall we do?
Our blankets are thin, and our noses are blue--
Our noses are blue, and our blankets are thin,
It's at zero without, and we're freezing within!
(Chorus)--Oh, dear, what shall we do?
“But, joking apart, my dear A----, we ought to be very thankful that
we are not travelling this night to B----.”
“But to-morrow,” said my eldest boy, lifting up his curly head from
my lap. “It will be fine to-morrow, and we shall see dear papa
again.”
In this hope he lay down on his little bed upon the floor, and was
soon fast asleep; perhaps dreaming of that eagerly-anticipated
journey, and of meeting his beloved father.
Sleep was a stranger to my eyes. The tempest raged so furiously
without that I was fearful the roof would be carried off the house,
or that the chimney would take fire. The night was far advanced when
old Jenny and myself retired to bed.
My boy's words were prophetic; that was the last night I ever spent
in the bush--in the dear forest home which I had loved in spite of
all the hardships which we had endured since we pitched our tent in
the backwoods. It was the birthplace of my three boys, the school of
high resolve and energetic action in which we had learned to meet
calmly, and successfully to battle with the ills of life. Nor did I
leave it without many regretful tears, to mingle once more with a
world to whose usages, during my long solitude, I had become almost
a stranger, and to whose praise or blame I felt alike indifferent.
When the day dawned, the whole forest scenery lay glittering in a
mantle of dazzling white; the sun shone brightly, the heavens were
intensely blue, but the cold was so severe that every article of
food had to be thawed before we could get our breakfast. The very
blankets that covered us during the night were stiff with our frozen
breath. “I hope the sleighs won't come to-day,” I cried; “we should
be frozen on the long journey.”
About noon two sleighs turned into our clearing. Old Jenny ran
screaming into the room, “The masther has sent for us at last! The
sleighs are come! Fine large sleighs, and illigant teams of horses!
Och, and its a cowld day for the wee things to lave the bush.”
The snow had been a week in advance of us at B----, and my husband
had sent up the teams to remove us. The children jumped about, and
laughed aloud for joy. Old Jenny did not know whether to laugh or
cry, but she set about helping me to pack up trunks and bedding as
fast as our cold hands would permit.
In the midst of the confusion, my brother arrived, like a good
genius, to our assistance, declaring his determination to take us
down to B---- himself in his large lumber-sleigh. This was indeed
joyful news. In less than three hours he despatched the hired
sleighs with their loads, and we all stood together in the empty
house, striving to warm our hands over the embers of the expiring
fire.
How cold and desolate every object appeared! The small windows, half
blocked up with snow, scarcely allowed a glimpse of the declining
sun to cheer us with his serene aspect. In spite of the cold,
several kind friends had waded through the deep snow to say, “God
bless you!--Good-bye;” while a group of silent Indians stood
together, gazing upon our proceedings with an earnestness which
showed that they were not uninterested in the scene. As we passed
out to the sleigh, they pressed forward, and silently held out their
hands, while the squaws kissed me and the little ones with tearful
eyes. They had been true friends to us in our dire necessity, and I
returned their mute farewell from my very heart.
Mr. S---- sprang into the sleigh. One of our party was missing.
“Jenny!” shouted my brother, at the top of his voice, “it is too
cold to keep your mistress and the little children waiting.”
“Och, shure thin, it is I that am comin'!” returned the old body,
as she issued from the house.
Shouts of laughter greeted her appearance. The figure she cut upon
that memorable day I shall never forget. My brother dropped the
reins upon the horses' necks, and fairly roared. Jenny was about to
commence her journey to the front in three hats. Was it to protect
her from the cold? Oh, no; Jenny was not afraid of the cold! She
could have eaten her breakfast on the north side of an iceberg, and
always dispensed with shoes, during the most severe of our Canadian
winters. It was to protect these precious articles from injury.
Our good neighbour, Mrs. W----, had presented her with an old
sky-blue drawn-silk bonnet, as a parting benediction. This, by way
of distinction, for she never had possessed such an article of
luxury as a silk bonnet in her life, Jenny had placed over the
coarse calico cap, with its full furbelow of the same yellow,
ill-washed, homely material, next to her head; over this, as second
in degree, a sun-burnt straw hat, with faded pink ribbons, just
showed its broken rim and tawdry trimmings; and, to crown all, and
serve as a guard to the rest, a really serviceable grey-beaver
bonnet, once mine, towered up as high as the celebrated crown in
which brother Peter figures in Swift's “Tale of a Tub.”
“Mercy, Jenny! Why, old woman, you don't mean to go with us that
figure?”
“Och, my dear heart! I've no band-box to kape the cowld from
desthroying my illigant bonnets,” returned Jenny, laying her
hand upon the side of the sleigh.
“Go back, Jenny; go back,” cried my brother. “For God's sake
take all that tom-foolery from off your head. We shall be the
laughing-stock of every village we pass through.”
“Och, shure now, Mr. S----, who'd think of looking at an owld
crathur like me! It's only yersel' that would notice the like.”
“All the world, everybody would look at you, Jenny. I believe that
you put on those hats to draw the attention of all the young fellows
that we shall happen to meet on the road. Ha, Jenny!”
With an air of offended dignity, the old woman returned to the
house to re-arrange her toilet, and provide for the safety of her
“illigant bonnets,” one of which she suspended to the strings of
her cloak, while she carried the third dangling in her hand; and
no persuasion of mine would induce her to put them out of sight.
Many painful and conflicting emotions agitated my mind, but found no
utterance in words, as we entered the forest path, and I looked my
last upon that humble home consecrated by the memory of a thousand
sorrows. Every object had become endeared to me during my long exile
from civilised life. I loved the lonely lake, with its magnificent
belt of dark pines sighing in the breeze; the cedar-swamp, the
summer home of my dark Indian friends; my own dear little garden,
with its rugged snake-fence which I had helped Jenny to place
with my own hands, and which I had assisted the faithful woman in
cultivating for the last three years, where I had so often braved
the tormenting mosquitoes, black flies, and intense heat, to provide
vegetables for the use of the family. Even the cows, that had given
a breakfast for the last time to my children, were now regarded with
mournful affection. A poor labourer stood in the doorway of the
deserted house, holding my noble water-dog, Rover, in a string.
The poor fellow gave a joyous bark as my eyes fell upon him.
“James J----, take care of my dog.”
“Never fear, ma'am, he shall bide with me as long as he lives.”
“He and the Indians at least feel grieved for our departure,” I
thought. Love is so scarce in this world that we ought to prize it,
however lowly the source from whence it flows.
We accomplished only twelve miles of our journey that night.
The road lay through the bush, and along the banks of the grand,
rushing, foaming Otonabee river, the wildest and most beautiful of
forest streams. We slept at the house of kind friends, and early in
the morning resumed our long journey, but minus one of our party.
Our old favourite cat, Peppermint, had made her escape from the
basket in which she had been confined, and had scampered off, to
the great grief of the children.
As we passed Mrs. H----'s house, we called for dear Addie. Mr. H----
brought her in his arms to the gate, well wrapped up in a large fur
cape and a warm woollen shawl.
“You are robbing me of my dear little girl,” he said. “Mrs. H---- is
absent; she told me not to part with her if you should call; but I
could not detain her without your consent. Now that you have seen
her, allow me to keep her for a few months longer?”
Addie was in the sleigh. I put my arm about her. I felt I had my
child again, and I secretly rejoiced in the possession of my own.
I sincerely thanked him for his kindness, and Mr. S---- drove on.
At Mr. R----'s, we found a parcel from dear Emilia, containing a
plum-cake and other good things for the children. Her kindness never
flagged.
We crossed the bridge over the Otonabee, in the rising town of
Peterborough, at eight o'clock in the morning. Winter had now set in
fairly. The children were glad to huddle together in the bottom of
the sleigh, under the buffalo skins and blankets; all but my eldest
boy, who, just turned of five years old, was enchanted with all he
heard and saw, and continued to stand up and gaze around him. Born
in the forest, which he had never quitted before, the sight of a
town was such a novelty that he could find no words wherewith to
express his astonishment.
“Are the houses come to see one another?” he asked. “How did they
all meet here?”
The question greatly amused his uncle, who took some pains to
explain to him the difference between town and country. During the
day, we got rid of old Jenny and her bonnets, whom we found a very
refractory travelling companion; as wilful, and far more difficult
to manage than a young child. Fortunately, we overtook the sleighs
with the furniture, and Mr. S---- transferred Jenny to the care of
one of the drivers; an arrangement that proved satisfactory to all
parties.
We had been most fortunate in obtaining comfortable lodgings for the
night. The evening had closed in so intensely cold that although we
were only two miles from C----, Addie was so much affected by it that
the child lay sick and pale in my arms, and, when spoken to, seemed
scarcely conscious of our presence.
My brother jumped from the front seat, and came round to look at
her. “That child is ill with the cold; we must stop somewhere to
warm her, or she will hardly hold out till we get to the inn at
C----.”
We were just entering the little village of A----, in the vicinity of
the court-house, and we stopped at a pretty green cottage, and asked
permission to warm the children. A stout, middle-aged woman came to
the sleigh, and in the kindest manner requested us to alight.
“I think I know that voice,” I said. “Surely it cannot be Mrs. S----,
who once kept the ---- hotel at C----?”
“Mrs. Moodie, you are welcome,” said the excellent woman, bestowing
upon me a most friendly embrace; “you and your children. I am
heartily glad to see you again after so many years. God bless you
all!”
Nothing could exceed the kindness and hospitality of this generous
woman; she would not hear of our leaving her that night, and,
directing my brother to put up his horses in her stable, she made
up an excellent fire in a large bedroom, and helped me to undress
the little ones who were already asleep, and to warm and feed the
rest before we put them to bed.
This meeting gave me real pleasure. In their station of life, I
seldom have found a more worthy couple than this American and his
wife; and, having witnessed so many of their acts of kindness, both
to ourselves and others, I entertained for them a sincere respect
and affection, and truly rejoiced that Providence had once more led
me to the shelter of their roof.
Mr. S---- was absent, but I found little Mary--the sweet child who
used to listen with such delight to Moodie's flute--grown up into a
beautiful girl; and the baby that was, a fine child of eight years
old. The next morning was so intensely cold that my brother would
not resume the journey until past ten o'clock, and even then it was
a hazardous experiment.
We had not proceeded four miles before the horses were covered
with icicles. Our hair was frozen as white as old Time's solitary
forelock, our eyelids stiff, and every limb aching with cold.
“This will never do,” said my brother, turning to me; “the children
will freeze. I never felt the cold more severe than this.”
“Where can we stop?” said I; “we are miles from C----, and I see no
prospect of the weather becoming milder.”
“Yes, yes; I know, by the very intensity of the cold, that a change
is at hand. We seldom have more than three very severe days running,
and this is the third. At all events, it is much warmer at night in
this country than during the day; the wind drops, and the frost is
more bearable. I know a worthy farmer who lives about a mile ahead;
he will give us house-room for a few hours; and we will resume our
journey in the evening. The moon is at full; and it will be easier
to wrap the children up, and keep them warm when they are asleep.
Shall we stop at Old Woodruff's?”
“With all my heart.” My teeth were chattering with the cold, and the
children were crying over their aching fingers at the bottom of the
sleigh.
A few minutes' ride brought us to a large farm-house, surrounded
by commodious sheds and barns. A fine orchard opposite, and a
yard well-stocked with fat cattle and sheep, sleek geese, and
plethoric-looking swine, gave promise of a land of abundance and
comfort. My brother ran into the house to see if the owner was at
home, and presently returned, accompanied by the staunch Canadian
yeoman and his daughter, who gave us a truly hearty welcome, and
assisted in removing the children from the sleigh to the cheerful
fire, that made all bright and cozy within.
Our host was a shrewd, humorous-looking Yorkshireman. His red,
weather-beaten face, and tall, athletic figure, bent as it was
with hard labour, gave indications of great personal strength;
and a certain knowing twinkle in his small, clear grey eyes, which
had been acquired by long dealing with the world, with a quiet,
sarcastic smile that lurked round the corners of his large mouth,
gave you the idea of a man who could not easily be deceived by his
fellows; one who, though no rogue himself, was quick in detecting
the roguery of others. His manners were frank and easy, and he was
such a hospitable entertainer that you felt at home with him in a
minute.
“Well, how are you, Mr. S----?” cried the farmer, shaking my brother
heartily by the hand. “Toiling in the bush still, eh?”
“Just in the same place.”
“And the wife and children?”
“Hearty. Some half-dozen have been added to the flock since you were
our way.”
“So much the better--so much the better. The more the merrier,
Mr. S----; children are riches in this country.”
“I know not how that may be; I find it hard to clothe and feed
mine.”
“Wait till they grow up; they will be brave helps to you then. The
price of labour--the price of labour, Mr. S----, is the destruction
of the farmer.”
“It does not seem to trouble you much, Woodruff,” said my brother,
glancing round the well-furnished apartment.
“My son and S---- do it all,” cried the old man. “Of course the
girls help in busy times, and take care of the dairy, and we hire
occasionally; but small as the sum is which is expended in wages
during seed-time and harvest, I feel it, I can tell you.”
“You are married again, Woodruff?”
“No, sir,” said the farmer, with a peculiar smile; “not yet;”
which seemed to imply the probability of such an event. “That tall
gal is my eldest daughter; she manages the house, and an excellent
housekeeper she is. But I cannot keep her for ever.” With a knowing
wink, “Gals will think of getting married, and seldom consult the
wishes of their parents upon the subject when once they have taken
the notion into their heads. But 'tis natural, Mr. S----, it is
natural; we did just the same when we were young.”
My brother looked laughingly towards the fine, handsome young woman,
as she placed upon the table hot water, whiskey, and a huge plate of
plum-cake, which did not lack a companion, stored with the finest
apples which the orchard could produce.
The young girl looked down, and blushed.
“Oh, I see how it is, Woodruff! You will soon lose your daughter.
I wonder that you have kept her so long. But who are these young
ladies?” he continued, as three girls very demurely entered the
room.
“The two youngest are my darters, by my last wife, who, I fear, mean
soon to follow the bad example of their sister. The other _lady_,”
said the old man, with a reverential air, “is a _particular_ friend
of my eldest darter's.”
My brother laughed slily, and the old man's cheek took a deeper glow
as he stooped forward to mix the punch.
“You said that these two young ladies, Woodruff, were by your last
wife. Pray how many wives have you had?”
“Only three. It is impossible, they say in my country, to have too
much of a good thing.”
“So I suppose you think,” said my brother, glancing first at the old
man and then towards Miss Smith. “Three wives! You have been a
fortunate man, Woodruff, to survive them all.”
“Ay, have I not, Mr. S----? But to tell you the truth, I have been
both lucky and unlucky in the wife way,” and then he told us the
history of his several ventures in matrimony, with which I shall not
trouble my readers.
When he had concluded, the weather was somewhat milder, the sleigh
was ordered to the door, and we proceeded on our journey, resting
for the night at a small village about twenty miles from B----,
rejoicing that the long distance which separated us from the husband
and father was diminished to a few miles, and that, with the
blessing of Providence, we should meet on the morrow.
About noon we reached the distant town, and were met at the inn by
him whom one and all so ardently longed to see. He conducted us to a
pretty, neat cottage, which he had prepared for our reception, and
where we found old Jenny already arrived. With great pride the old
woman conducted me over the premises, and showed me the furniture
“the masther” had bought; especially recommending to my notice a
china tea-service, which she considered the most wonderful
acquisition of the whole.
“Och! who would have thought, a year ago, misthress dear, that we
should be living in a mansion like this, and ating off raal chaney?
It is but yestherday that we were hoeing praties in the field.”
“Yes, Jenny, God has been very good to us, and I hope that we shall
never learn to regard with indifference the many benefits which we
have received at His hands.”
Reader! it is not my intention to trouble you with the sequel of our
history. I have given you a faithful picture of a life in the
backwoods of Canada, and I leave you to draw from it your own
conclusions. To the poor, industrious working man it presents many
advantages; to the poor gentleman, none! The former works hard,
puts up with coarse, scanty fare, and submits, with a good grace,
to hardships that would kill a domesticated animal at home. Thus
he becomes independent, inasmuch as the land that he has cleared
finds him in the common necessaries of life; but it seldom, if ever,
in remote situations, accomplishes more than this. The gentleman
can neither work so hard, live so coarsely, nor endure so many
privations as his poorer but more fortunate neighbour. Unaccustomed
to manual labour, his services in the field are not of a nature to
secure for him a profitable return. The task is new to him, he knows
not how to perform it well; and, conscious of his deficiency, he
expends his little means in hiring labour, which his bush-farm
can never repay. Difficulties increase, debts grow upon him, he
struggles in vain to extricate himself, and finally sees his family
sink into hopeless ruin.
If these sketches should prove the means of deterring one family
from sinking their property, and shipwrecking all their hopes, by
going to reside in the backwoods of Canada, I shall consider myself
amply repaid for revealing the secrets of the prison-house, and feel
that I have not toiled and suffered in the wilderness in vain.
THE MAPLE-TREE
A CANADIAN SONG
Hail to the pride of the forest--hail
To the maple, tall and green;
It yields a treasure which ne'er shall fail
While leaves on its boughs are seen.
When the moon shines bright,
On the wintry night,
And silvers the frozen snow;
And echo dwells
On the jingling bells
As the sleighs dart to and fro;
Then it brightens the mirth
Of the social hearth
With its red and cheery glow.
Afar, 'mid the bosky forest shades,
It lifts its tall head on high;
When the crimson-tinted evening fades
From the glowing saffron sky;
When the sun's last beams
Light up woods and streams,
And brighten the gloom below;
And the deer springs by
With his flashing eye,
And the shy, swift-footed doe;
And the sad winds chide
In the branches wide,
With a tender plaint of woe.
The Indian leans on its rugged trunk,
With the bow in his red right-hand,
And mourns that his race, like a stream, has sunk
From the glorious forest land.
But, blythe and free,
The maple-tree
Still tosses to sun and air
Its thousand arms,
While in countless swarms
The wild bee revels there;
But soon not a trace
Of the red man's race
Shall be found in the landscape fair.
When the snows of winter are melting fast,
And the sap begins to rise,
And the biting breath of the frozen blast
Yields to the spring's soft sighs,
Then away to the wood,
For the maple, good,
Shall unlock its honied store;
And boys and girls,
With their sunny curls,
Bring their vessels brimming o'er
With the luscious flood
Of the brave tree's blood,
Into cauldrons deep to pour.
The blaze from the sugar-bush gleams red;
Far down in the forest dark,
A ruddy glow on the trees is shed,
That lights up their rugged bark;
And with merry shout,
The busy rout
Watch the sap as it bubbles high;
And they talk of the cheer
Of the coming year,
And the jest and the song pass by;
And brave tales of old
Round the fire are told,
That kindle youth's beaming eye.
Hurrah! For the sturdy maple-tree!
Long may its green branch wave;
In native strength sublime and free,
Meet emblem for the brave.
May the nation's peace
With its growth increase,
And its worth be widely spread;
For it lifts not in vain
To the sun and rain
Its tall, majestic head.
May it grace our soil,
And reward our toil,
Till the nation's heart is dead.