After a night of excitement from wild alarms, the Americans left the
Forsyth household at daylight, leaving not one behind, for even the
wounded officer they carried with them in a litter. Utterly worn out
the family sought rest, and it was late in the day when the father
arose, and leaving the others, sleeping, went out to see what of his
property had been left. The more closely he examined the more fully
the unwelcome fact was forced upon him, that he was left destitute,
and when he came upon the black head of his cow, which the soldiers
had slaughtered for beef, he sat down in a despairing mood. “It’s no
for mysel’ I’m troubled,” he exclaimed, “but for my ailin’ wife and
puir Maggie! To face a Canadian winter wi’ a bare loof is awfu.” And
he gave way to a fit of despondency. “This winna do,” he said with a
rueful look at the devastation around him, “a stout heart to a stey
brae, and wi’ God’s help, I’ll mak the best o’t.” When Maggie sometime
afterwards appeared at the door he was industriously laboring to bring
his surroundings into order. “Weel, lass, an’ hoo are ye after oor big
pairty?”
“No so ill; but, father, what are we to do, there’s no a bite in the
house? The cellar is rookit as clean as if a pack of wolves had visited
it.”
The old man approached and taking his daughter by the hand drew her to
the seat by the door-step. “Maggie, I ken ye hae a brave spirit and can
bear the worst. I am a ruined man. The Yankees have eaten us oot o’
house an’ hold. The very boards o’ the byre hae been torn awa’ to licht
their fires. Oor coo, the young beasts, the pigs, hae a’ been eaten.
There’s no even a chuckie left.”
“O but there is,” interrupted Maggie, “see to Jenny Tapknot over
there,” pointing smilingly thro’ tears to a favorite chicken that had
eluded the soldiers and was eyeing them from a branch.
“Weel, weel, we hae one leevin’ thing left us. O’ a’ oor crop there
is naething to the fore but the unthreshed wheat, an’ mickle o’t is
useless from the sojers using it to lie on.”
“Was it right, father, for them to take your property without paying
you?”
“Pay me! The thocht o’ paying a subject o’ the King never entered their
heids. Micht is richt wi’ them. What we are to do is no just clear to
me yet, but we’ll trust in Him wha has never failed to supply oor bite
an’ sup. Only, Maggie, ye maun for yer mither’s sake put a cheerfu’
face on’t an’ mak the best o’t.”
“Hoot, father, what gars ye doot me? We hae aye been provided for an’
sae will we yet, says the auld sang. You take the canoe an’ go down to
Morrison’s an’ see what you can get there to keep us going until the
morn, an’ while you’re away I’ll red the house an’ hae a’ ready for
supper gin mither wakens.”
With brightened face and hopeful step the old man did as asked and
did not return empty-handed. Over the frugal meal the situation was
discussed and both the husband and daughter were glad to see that the
calamity that had overtaken them so far from overwhelming Mrs Forsyth,
roused her, and revived the active and hopeful spirit that had been a
feature in her character before ailments and age had overtaken her.
Long and earnest was the consultation by the fireside that night, and
many a plan proposed to tide over the long months that must intervene
before another harvest could be reaped. As bed-time drew near, the
father lifted down the book, and after they had sung the 23rd psalm,
he read the 17th chapter of First Kings, and poured out his heart in
thanksgiving for the unnumbered blessings bestowed upon him and his,
and, above all, for the departure of the invader.
Two days afterwards, when it had become assured that Hampton was in
leisurely retreat whence he came, those of the militia, at Baker’s
camp, who wished were given leave to go to their homes, and the Forsyth
lads returned. They were much exasperated at the plundered state
of their home, and more provoked than before at the policy which
permitted the enemy to journey back over 24 miles of Canadian territory
without attempt to harass him. Leaving the scanty pay they had received
as soldiers, it was arranged they should go lumbering for the winter,
their wages to be sent home as they got them. The winter proved a hard
one. The presence of so large a body of troops had consumed much of
the produce the settlers needed for themselves, and although they had
been paid what they considered at the time good prices they now found
it difficult to procure what they wanted from Montreal. The result to
the Forsyths was, that their neighbors were unable to give them much
help and had it not been that the miller at the Basin gave credit, they
would have been sometimes in actual want. Despite the bareness of the
cupboard, the winter was a happy one: the very effort to endure and
make the best of their hard lot conducing to cheerfulness. When the
snow began to melt, the sons returned, and the new clearing at which
the father had worked all winter was made ready for seed, so that more
land than before was put under a crop. The pinch was worst in July and
until the potatoes were fit to eat. After that there was rude plenty
and an abundant harvest was reaped.
With returning comfort Mrs Forsyth began to fail. Whether it was the
effects of the lack of usual food, or the strain to help the family
having been beyond her strength, signified little. With the coming of
the snow she began to lose strength and, as her husband saw with deep
sorrow, “to dwine awa.” She accepted her lot uncomplainingly, studying
how to give least trouble, and spending her days between her bed and
the easy chair by the fireside, generally knitting, for she said she
hoped to leave them a pair of stockings apiece. The New Year had passed
and the days were lengthening when it was plain her rest was near.
It was a beautiful day when she asked that her chair be moved so that
she could see out at the window. The brilliant sunlight fell on the
snow that shrouded the winding course of the Chateaugay and flecked the
trees, while a blue haze hung in the distance that prophesied of coming
spring. “A bonnie day,” she remarked.
“Ay,” replied Maggie, “warm enough to be a sugar day.”
“It’s ower fine to last and there will be storms and hard frost afore
the trees can be tapped,” said Mrs Forsyth, “an’ I’ll no be here to
help.”
“Dinna say that, mither; the spring weather will bring you round.”
“Na, na, my bairn. The robin’s lilt will no wauken me, nor will my een
again see the swelling bud, but through the mercy o’ my God I trust
they will be lookin’ on the everlasting spring o’ the bidin’ place o’
his people.”
“Oh, mither: I canna bear the thocht o’ parting wi’ you.”
“It’s natural to feel sae; my ain heart-strings were wrung when my
mither deed, an’ yet I see noo it was for the best. I have become a
cumberer o’ the grund, unable to labor even for an hour a day in the
vineyard, and sae the Maister o’t is goin’ to gie me the rest o’ which,
lang since, I got frae His hand the arles. Ae thing ye maun promise me,
Maggie, and that is ye maun never leev your faither.”
“What makes you think sae o’ me, mother? I hav’na even a thocht o’
leevin’ him.”
“I ken ye hav’na a thocht the noo o’ sic a thing, but the day will come
when you micht--when your love for anither would incline you to forget
your duty. Sweet the drawing o’ heart to heart in the spring o’ youth,
an’ the upspringing, when you least expec’ it, o’ the flow’r o’ love.
The peety is, sae mony are content with the flow’r an’ pu’ it an’ let
the stem wither. Your faither an’ I werna o’ that mind. The flow’r grew
into a bauld stalk in the simmer o’ affection, an’ noo we reap the
harvest. It’s no like Scotch folk to open their mous on sic maitters,
but I may tell you, my lassie, that sweet an’ warm as was oor love when
your faither cam a coortin’, it’s nae mair to be compared to oor love
since syne an’ to this minute, than the licht o’ lightnin’ is to the
sunshine. I thocht to hae tended him in his last days, to hae closed
his een, an’ placed the last kiss on his cauld lips, but it’s no to be,
an’ ye maun promise me to perform what your mither wad hae dune had she
lived.”
“I promise, mother; I promise never to leave him.”
“Weel does he deserve a’ you can dae for him; he’s puir, he’s hamely in
looks, he’s no sae quick in thocht or speech as mony; but he is what
mony great an’ rich an’ smairt men are not--an honest man, wha strives
in a quiet way to do his duty by his fellowman an’ his Maker.”
“What makes you speak so, mother? I am sure I never gave you cause to
think I’d leave the family.”
“Your brothers will gang their ain gate by-and-by an’ their wives micht
na want to hae the auld man at their ingle; only o’ you may I ask that
whither you go he shall go an’ drink o’ your cup an’ eat o’ your bread.
Dinna marry ony man unless sure he will be kind to your faither an’ let
you do a dochter’s duty by him.”
“I hav’na met ony man, mother, that will hae me, except auld Milne.”
“Dinna mak fun o’ me, Maggie; you ken what I mean. The lad Morton will
come some day--.”
“Wheesht, mother: he’s nothing to me.”
“I ken different: you loe him deep an’ true an’ he loes you. Whether he
will pit pride o’ family an’ station aside to ask you to be his wife
some wad doot, but I div’na. He’ll be back, an’ when he does dinna
forget what I have said.”
The heavy step of the father was here heard outside; the door opened
and he came in. Drawing a chair beside his wife he sat down, and,
without uttering a word, surveyed her wasted and furrowed face with
tender gaze. She returned his affectionate look and placed her hand
in his. As she looked at them, sitting in the afternoon sunshine with
clasped hands, and that radiant expression of mutual love, Maggie’s
heart, already full, was like to burst. She hastened out and falling
beneath a tree wept bitterly.
* * * * *
Next morning when they awoke the sad truth became apparent, that the
mother of the family had had a change for the worse in her sleep. Her
mind wandered and her strength had completely left. The only one she
recognized was her husband, and when he spoke she smiled. The spells
of unconsciousness grew longer as the day wore on and towards evening
it could be seen her last was near. As often happens in the Canadian
winter, a pet day had been followed by a storm. A piercing blast from
the west filled the air with drift and sent the frozen snow rattling
on the window-panes. They were all gathered round her bed, when she
woke, and her eyes wonderingly looked upon them, tried to make out what
it all meant, and gave it up as hopeless. “Eh, sirs, a bonnie day,”
she said, as if speaking to herself, “the westlin win’ blaws saft frae
the sea an’ the bit lammies rin after their mithers on the hill-side.
Sune the kye will be comin’ hame an’ after milkin’ I’ll snod mysel’,
for somebody’s comin’ to see somebody, an’ we’ll daunner doun e’e the
gloamin’ by the burn. Isna he a comely lad! Stracht an’ supple, and
an e’e in his heid that a bairn wad trust. Tak him? I’d gang tae the
warl’s end wi’ him.... What’s that! The kirk bell. I didna think it was
sae late. Sure eneuch, there’s the folk strachlin’ ower the muir an’
the laird riding on his powny.... Surely it’s growin’ mirk. Mither,
tak me in your airms an’ pit me to sleep. What will you sing to me?
The Flowers o’ the Forest, the nicht, mither. Kiss me noo, I’ll be a
better bairn the morn an’ dae what you tell me.... Na, na, pick yer ain
flowers: this poesy is for my baby brither.... Faither, dinna lift your
haun’ to me: I’m sorry. I’ll no dae it again. Whaur am I?... Faither,
dinna you hear me? Oh come quick an’ save me, the tide is lowpin’ fast
ower the rock. There’s the boatie rowin’ to us: it’ll be here enow an’
we’ll be saved.... Did you hear that? It’s Sandy the piper come to
the toun. Let’s rin an’ meet him.... I’m tired o’ daffin’ an wad hae
a rest. Let’s creep into the kirk-yaird an’ sit doun by granfaither’s
grave. Hoo sweet the merle sings, an’ tak tent to the corn-craik ower
yonner.... Weel, weel, I canna understan’ it. His ways are no oor ways,
but I’ll lippen to Him tae the end. Maggie, Maggie, whaur are ye? I’m
gaun awa’, an’ I want you to rin an’ tell the goodman o’ the hoose to
hae a chamber ready for me. What am I saying? God forgie me, my mind
wanders; he’s had ane waitin’ for me this mony a day.... I see you
noo, my bairns. Guid nicht, tae we meet again.”
There was a long silence. The father rose, and closed the drooping
eyelids that would never be lifted and laid down the weary head which
would never move again.